#and often times I am reminded of the hunger of topping whenever I eat a good fruit

[bastardcherub]

the best way to enjoy a lover is like a ripe fruit.

with hands and mouth and teeth.

spreading and sucking and scraping, loud slurping, juices around the mouth and dripping down the hands and chin

devouring them, like a wonderful ripe treat.

[plutonianrising]

the waiting game n.k.

pairing: nanami kento x f!reader

wc: 2.9k

description: reader has a knack for weaseling her way out of trouble but today nanami's knots are tied tight

a/n: this is incredibly self-indulgent im not sorry though

cw: f!reader, dom!namami, bratty reader, kink exploration, shibari, edgeplay, subspace, degradation, red/yellow/green light system, pwp

MINORS DNI PLS

“Your lack of impulse control is still pretty astonishing though,” Nanami cocks an eyebrow at you. “I doubt you could actually handle holding an orgasm off for 10 minutes let alone 45.”

You work to manage the urge to argue over him and prove his point. Calmly, with the most pleasant smile you could muster, you say “that’s what you’re here for. I promise to tell you when I’m close. Every time. Promise.”

He’s still skeptical of how seriously you’d take this. It’s hard to believe in you when you’re playing with your fingers behind your back and have a familiar wicked glint in your eyes. You had a knack for saying you’d listen well and then changing your mind halfway, opting to get your way just a little bit even if it meant punishment. Still, the sight of you begging for mercy is always a welcome one and the thought of it already makes his pulse jump.

“Alright. But I’m putting some precautions in place.” Nanami tells you. You purse your lips, already feeling like he’s set the game on hard mode.

“Whaaat kind of precautions?” You inquire, squinting.

“I’m restraining you so you can’t touch. This is a good time to start breaking that bad habit. Don’t you think so?” He smiles conspiratorially. It dawns on you now that you shouldn’t have come in so hot, boldly suggesting 45 minutes during your first real attempt at it. “Go ahead and sit on the bed and wait for me. I’m going to freshen up and get everything ready.”

Nanami sends you off with a searing kiss and a smack on your ass that leaves you giggling as you head to his bedroom. It’s small moments like these that you can’t help but wish for more of. The speed in which you pack your bags to sleep over whenever he has even a little bit of time off would be embarrassing if he were anyone else. But he’s Nanami and here, for your eyes only, Kento gets to fully be himself. Goofier than he’ll ever let on and a very specific brand of annoying that means he’s incredibly dependable but also eats your desserts while commenting on how they were much too sweet for him.

When he’s back in the room you’re already undressed and sitting at the edge of the bed. The perfect picture of obedience with your hands clasped in your lap as you patiently waited for his return. He’s half dressed in a tight shirt and boxer briefs that show off his toned leg muscles. In his hands is a smooth black rope. His eyes seem to glow with hunger as he takes you in.

This isn't the first time he’s used these ties on you. You can still remember the tingle of excitement that shot through you after finding out that bondage was one of his favorite kinds of play. Even outside of the sexual aspect of it, he’s making it one of yours. It’s a loving act. One full of devotion and precise calculation. There’s always complete and utter focus in his eyes as he slides the rope against your skin. His work is neat and even, with your safety at top priority. With a rope wound tight enough to bite your flesh and steal your breath if you fought too hard, you give Nanami your full trust. And once he has it, he has the power to make you feel like a masterpiece. You’re reminded of this power as he caresses his work. Rope winds around your torso with a slight emphasis on your arms. Soon enough your arms are crossed and caged against your chest. Nanami tugs the final knot at the center of it and stares into your eyes as you try to keep your composure.

“How does it feel?” He whispers and you think that he must know that it feels perfect. You curse the way he wets his lips and smirks slightly.

He must have a book hiding somewhere.

“It feels good Kento.” You whisper, wriggling around a bit as he then spreads your knees apart. Nanami hums in satisfaction.

“Relax for me.” He says, reminding you to keep you still as he presses down on your thigh, strong hands deftly moving to immobilize your left leg with the black rope in a frogtie.

“How am I supposed to do that?” You complain, still squirming as his touch warms your skin. Have his hands always been so large, his touch so insistent?

“Or don’t. But it’ll be your skin rubbed raw after. Not mine.” Nanami warns. “My best work only comes from your cooperation. Remember?”

You huff but keep your thoughts to yourself. Instead you focus on the tight muscles of Nanami’s arms rippling under his shirt. He knots your right leg, and you flush at how stretched apart you are. Your only source of modesty comes from your hands covering your chest and they flex and unflex as your head starts to catch up with what happens next. You kick yourself for agreeing to being tied up, wanting nothing more than to touch him. You take your lips between your teeth slightly as you catch his gaze raking down your figure. Nanami slowly runs a few fingers over you. He travels upward from your bare thighs past your hips and traces feather soft patterns on your stomach. You can’t help the way your legs twitch when he finally dips his fingers lower and presses against your pussy, stroking you.

“Give me a color sweetheart.”

“Green.” You whimper. “Please kiss me.” Nanami seems to consider it for a moment but removes his touch completely from you instead.

“Be good for me and you’ll get as much of me as you want.”

“Don’t you think you should start the clock before you get me all riled up?” You protest as he places the bullet vibrator and a spare pillow in between your legs, the toy nuzzled snug right against your clit. “I deserve a fair chance.”

“Oh so now you’re the only one allowed to cheat and bend rules?” He quips with a teasing smile. You have no retort for that but mostly because Kento has turned on the vibrator. Your hips buck against the toy and pillow on impulse at the abruptness and you glare at Nanami who shushes you and begins to speak over the quiet buzz.

“Since it’s your first time edging we’ll start with 25 minutes, starting now. Whenever you get close you need to tell me. And if you cum before you’ve gotten permission then that’ll just have to be it until my next off weekend.”

“Your… next weekend off?” You would’ve screamed if half of your attention wasn’t on the powerful vibrations sending pleasure ricocheting through your body. “We don’t even.. Know.. when that is.”

“I know right? I would hate to leave my love desperate for so long with no clear end in sight just because she couldn’t commit to something she asked for in the first place.” Nanami fakes a pout and you want to bite him. It was bad enough he was threatening to really make you wait so long to touch him without bringing your pride into it.

Nanami watches the way your lips part and pupils dilate as you struggle to remain in control of your reactions. Your hips jump every so often, the rope biting into the soft flesh of your legs. When your soft moans begin escalating and you look to him desperately, trying to decide for yourself if you can handle anymore, it takes more strength than he’d like to admit to not touch himself at the sight of you. He makes the decision for you, and your head lolls a bit as you try to catch your break.

The waves of your demise creep up on you quicker after that. Again and again Kento brings you right to the edge, turning up the intensity of the vibrator after each break he allows you in between.

“I can’t- Kento I’m-” You moan, your voice crescendoing and your eyes screwing shut. You can’t help the way you rock against the pillow even after the vibrator stops and the orgasm that had built within you started to fade.

“Who told you that you could hump the pillow? That’s a pretty pathetic attempt at trying to get what you want.” Nanami chides from his seat.

Your face heats in embarrassment and you avert your eyes a bit. “It wasn’t on purpose.”

“Doesn’t that make it worse?” He laughs cruelly and lets his eyes rake over your body. “Filthy little slut can’t even control her own body?”

Kento gets up and comes closer, placing a gentle hand on your thigh. His touch was soft, but it was a reminder of the kind of damage he could inflict.

“Stop. Moving.” He warns you coolly, dark eyes narrowing. His ever-deepening well of patience was scary at times but right now you’re grateful for the mercy, needing chance after chance to prove you could make it.

It’s gotten to the point that the lightest of touches make you feel like you’ll succumb and let all your hard work go to waste. You’re almost thankful your nipples are off the table for this play.

“Kento- Kento please I really am gonna-” You whimper, your chest heaving. You feel like any more of this and you’ll start drooling.

“You won’t.” Kento answers.

The commanding bass of his voice makes your senses jump and you panic, barely managing to yelp out another “Kento please” and feel the toy shut off before you’re sent careening off the edge. Your muscles feel tight and your skin sweaty by this point. You can’t tell if Kento is more focused on the heaving of your chest or the way your fingers flex and unflex to try and alleviate the strain of keeping your focus.

“God..how long has it-” You try to speak once it feels like you can breathe a bit again. Nanami smirks at the way your head lolls to one side and your eyes lazily work to focus on him.

“You’ve officially hit 20 minutes, sweetheart. Only 5 more to go.”

“Do you realize how fucking drenched you are baby?” He smirks, pulling your pussy apart slightly to get a better look. “Makes me want to forget all about this and make you fall apart with my tongue a few times. You’d like that, wouldn't you?”

“Don’t.. Don’t say that. The rule is I can’t for another 5.” You force yourself to remember and steel your resolve. You know he’s really just testing you at this point, seeing if you’ll break under his pressure.

“Good girl” He purrs, soothing the small pout off your lips with distracting kisses on your thighs. “The more you control yourself the more I know I can trust you.”

You so badly want him to trust you. Looking down at Kento spoil you while teetering on the edge makes you dizzy. He could tell you to do anything at this point and you’d probably listen if it meant he would indulge you more. Your head swims with the possibility that he’ll treat you like this again if you do well.

Nanami moves aside the pillow and vibrator, replacing the toy with his own hand before you can get upset with him. The gasp that escapes you fills him with pride. All it takes is a slight touch to make your body completely tremble. You can’t actually tell that the alarm has gone off until he whispers how well you’ve done for him.

“See? Didn’t I tell you good girls get everything they want? Now you get to cum all over my fingers all you want.”

Your body is almost afraid to finally let go, so used to feeling coiled up tight that you feel like you might not be able to. Kento senses the struggle within you and softens his touch to bring down the intensity for you just a bit.

“You did it, you deserve this sweetheart.” He presses open-mouthed kisses up your neck, knowing full well the onslaught of praise would send you over. Sure enough, a noise from deep inside of you wells up in your throat as you’re sent crashing over the edge. You throw your head back and try to close your legs only to be stopped by Nanami’s hands, hell-bent on making you ride it out. Your hands clench borderline painfully, your arms testing your restraints. You can’t even plead with him. The pleasure erupting from you, for once, has stolen your voice.

Testing the water, Kento lets a bit of spit fall from his lips. You catch it on your tongue, staring at him lovingly with hazy, unfocused eyes and he almost loses his mind.

“There’s my sweet girl.” He purrs. Nanami knows you’ll be completely compliant now, dredging through subspace. You won’t be giving any coherent remarks outside of anything he commands of you now, all resistance and witty one-liners fading to static in your mind. “Been so good for me today that I actually get to reward you.”

You whine in appreciation. Chest swelling with pride, you bask in his praise. You initially thought it was more fun to see his eyes turn icy when you spent a half a session acting up in order to get punished into this headspace but you could get used to having Nanami painstakingly coax it out of you.

“Tell me your color, my love.” Nanami kisses your forehead, to remind you, first and foremost, that he doesn’t want anything if it doesn’t mean you and he are sharing the pleasure, even if you could only think about how good you wanted to make him feel.

“Green.. hehe..definitelyygreen.” Your words slightly slurred together as you tried to prove your focus.

“So, sweetheart, what do you want me to give you in return?” He leans down and whispers in your ear, rubbing your thighs soothingly. You have to think for a moment to actually get the words out, trying to get your brain to be more specific than Kento, Kento, Kento.

“Wantt… want to touch you.. And I… want you inside.” You strain against your ties, not even minding the slight bite of the ropes at this point if it meant he would free you faster.

Nanami lets you place ardent kisses against his skin as he undoes the restraints on your arms and you're thankful to finally, finally, get some contact with him. His skin burns with desire as you pull him onto you. He has half a mind to really pry another orgasm from you with his head between your thighs but the growing ache between his expels the thought. He hastily twists out of his clothes and back onto you. You’ve waited long enough for what’s yours.

Nanami enters you slowly, softly pulling your still-tied legs further apart. You will your eyes not to screw shut, trying to put forth some effort to meet his searing gaze. Neither of you really register the way your nails slightly dig into his forearms from the pressure. The pace Kento sets is torturous. He makes you savor every roll of his hips into yours. It almost feels like he’s squeezing the pleasure out of you. There’s nowhere to run. There’s only him.

There’s no warning when you cum again, your body completely bypassing your brain in the decision. It’s a rush of heat and an uncontrollable tremble. You can barely even recognize your own voice calling out his name. As you squeeze tighter around him, Nanami grunts and wills himself not to bend your legs forward and fuck hard into you until you’re a teary mess. There will be other times for that. Today he just wants to spoil his sweet girl for her efforts to please.

“Where do you want me to cum?” He asks, like he’s not literally fucking the words right out of your brain. If you still had the energy for it you’d bite him.

“Kento please. In...inside… ” Obviously. You keep that snide bit to yourself. There’s no real desire to sass him when he’s making your body shake this badly.

Kento grabs onto your wrists like he’s anchoring himself to you. Through the haze dusting your mind you register his pace getting sloppier and the soft moans that fall from his lips as he finishes inside of you.

It took a bit for Kento’s strength to return to him and a little while longer to pry his eyes off of your blissed out expression. He whispered for you to let go of him so he could take care of you. Shushing your whines, he pries your fingers off of him so he can untie you. He still needs to run the bath and start some tea for you and if he spends any more time in your arms he would fall asleep right next to you without properly performing his duties.

Once he’s back from prepping, Nanami lifts you from the bed and begins to carry you to the bathroom, kissing your forehead and whispering sweet nothings in your ear. With your head clearing slightly, you can fully feel the effects of your win on your ego.

With hooded lids and a proud smirk plastered on your lips you say, “is it too late to add a shopping trip to my rewards?”

[wri0thesley]

Favourite - Diavolo x Reader (Kinktober Day #11: Collaring)

NSFW. 18+ ONLY. AFAB reader. Neutral pronouns. VERY MUCH DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT. Yandere warning. Non-Con warning. Mentions of past injury, forced oral sex, use of King Crimson for Bad Things, forced orgasm, collaring - captive reader. 2.5k

Diavolo has a surprise for you. If you’re good.

Diavolo’s training was a process you would prefer not to relive. 

When he’d brought you here, you’d fought. You’d bitten and scratched at him tooth and nail, heedless of the fact that he was your employer and emperor and master in all things. You had bitten him hard enough to draw blood, once - though the ache of your jaw whispered that perhaps it had been more than once, in time that does not exist - and he had backhanded you so hard that you had seen stars. 

“I am not averse to hurting you,” he had sneered. “You are useful to me alive. You do not need to be whole.”

You had cursed yourself and the stand power that you’d been gifted; any measure of power, you think, is not worth this. Perhaps in another life the idea of being mistress to the Don of Passione would have been better - romantic, even. You’re sure you would have imagined silk robes and expensive dinners and luxury, your hand around his arm, diamonds around your throat. 

You would not have imagined the squalor of a cheap hotel room with the cameras ripped out of it. You would not have imagined the rough hands, the coos of how useful you will be to him, the way that his painted nails dig into your wrists so hard they leave crescent-moon shaped welts. 

You had thought yourself brave. 

You had been a member of Passione - perhaps not the most senior member, and perhaps you had little room for moving up the food chain, but you had been feared. People knew who you were and what you could do, and men looked respectfully away. You had cloaked yourself in the power of being Passione and forgotten that there was one man who could take it away whenever he wanted. Any position under a man is a precarious one. 

Hell, you had seen Polpo’s test as a good thing. 

If you had known then what you know now . . . 

Your entire life changed in a matter of hours, once your stand had become common knowledge to your capo and then those higher than you. Diavolo tells you that those who knew of you - who care about you - are dead or gone, or paid handsomely to shut their mouths. 

“And doesn’t that make them lucky?” He muses, fingers dragging along your skin, mapping the places your body is curved. His thumb skirts across your cheekbone, and you wince as he finds old bruises and presses down enough to make the flesh sing with pain. “Almost as lucky as you, tesoro.”

Lucky. 

Lucky is his hand knit in your hair, the knee to your mid-section, the knife against your skin and the reminders of what he can do to you. His fingers brushing your eyelids, your mouth. The feel of his boot on your fingers. Legs tied apart with rough rope and a gag wedged in your mouth until it’s stained and wet with your own drool and tears. 

And through it all, his reminder echoes in your mind - he does not need you whole. He simply needs you alive. When he steps on your wrist and you hear the crack. When he carves intricate markings into your other arm with a knife, mirroring his own tattoos.

“I could hurt you so much more,” he breathes against your ear, and you stiffen as the point of the knife travels down your body. “Be good, and I won’t.”

So you’d behaved. You had stopped fighting. You had stopped biting and scratching and sobbing, and been rewarded with Diavolo’s voice, softer this time. His fingers, pinching and plucking and stroking until you felt ecstasy at his hand and cried about it. 

“See?” He murmurs, fingers inside you, his cock hard and straining against your thigh. “If you’re good for me? How I can make you feel?”

You lose your thoughts, your consciousness, part of your mind. You let them go somewhere far away from you and hope it is in a better place than you are. You are rewarded, Diavolo says, and you could laugh in his face and tear him into pieces if you weren’t so afraid of him. 

“I have a surprise for you, tonight,” Diavolo tells you. “If you are good for me.”

Your voice is hollow. 

“You know I live to serve, Imperatore.”

(Is it better than ‘Master’? Better than ‘signore’? Certainly, you know it’s better than; “don’t touch me you sick bastard, what’s wrong with you?”. You’d learnt that with the lash of his belt.) 

“Good,” he murmurs, stepping towards you. The sound of his expensive shoes on the cheap, stained carpet makes you wince as a hundred memories of other times he has approached you surface. How long have you been here? 

You hate the shoes, coincidentally. You stare at them, aware that you have nothing in this room but the torn blanket that has seen better days after months of your captivity. You wonder how much money Diavolo has thrown at the hotel proprietors to make you his prisoner here - whether they care. The state of the mattress tells you that they do not. When he isn’t here . . . when he isn’t here, you know that he must cloak himself in luxury. His shoes tell that story. And you hate him for it, though you bury the hate deep in the back of your mind. 

You hate him, but you dampen it down because it is safer not to. It burns low in the back of your brain like a candle that cannot be snuffed out, and you’re able to ignore it enough that when he comes to stand in front of you and touches the top of your head like you’re a cherished pet instead of a prisoner, you strain upwards for his attention. 

“Get on your knees, il mio prediletto.”

(You’re his favourite. He is always saying it. You hasten to obey.)

You fancy his fingers like claws, as they rake through your hair. His eyes follow the lines of your body with hunger, and you dampen down the urge to twitch your lip in disgust as you see his cock stir in his hideously ugly trousers. He breathes out, soft and low. 

“Do you want it?” He asks you, and revulsion rises in the back of your throat. You do not show it. Your eyes are wide and your mouth is open, ignoring the signs your mind is telling you. 

“Of course, Imperatore. I’m grateful for anything you give me.”

There it is. You shape the word ‘imperatore’ and his eyes ravenously trace the shape of your lips, and the bulge twitches, hardens. The reminder of his place - that he is king and you are servant, slave, subject - gets him going like nothing else. You have learnt such things, in your time here. 

“Good,” he says, arousal thick in his throat. “Unzip me, then.”

You are no longer rope-bound and chained. You have been granted your freedom for the price of your silence and your willingness to submit, though the door does not budge and the window does not break and your screaming goes unheard. You reach forward and undo the zip of his trousers, hands delicate as they reach for his cock. He lets out a fluid hiss of pleasure, the hand in your hair briefly tightening - and, like clockwork, a dull throb of arousal makes itself known low in your stomach. 

You have tried to fight it, but your body learns. It learns that no matter how much you hate him, he can still make you feel good - and certain cadences of his tone, brushes of his skin, ways he tugs on your hair . . . they light a fire within you that can only be quelled by his hand. This is Diavolo’s training, and you are nothing if not proof of how effective it is. 

You pump the shaft once, twice - he is thick and pulsing in your hand, heat radiating off of him in waves. He lets out a shuddering breath through his teeth, looking down at you through half-lidded eyes. 

He does not see you as you are, shivering and pathetic and bruised. He sees you as he wants you, as he’s making you - subservient, but powerful. An asset to him in every way. And you open your mouth and lean in, your tongue tracing the head of his cock, and let him see you exactly like that as you bob your head and swallow him down to the hilt. 

He groans aloud, and once more you feel the hot sparks of need low between your legs and you press your thighs together for friction, whimpering around the hardness in your mouth. His fingers let go of the strands he’s holding onto, stroking you instead in an echo of closeness - the hand on the top of your head, though, just reminds you. Do what you’re doing and do it well, or I will force you to do it. 

You lathe your tongue over the skin, trying to ignore the taste of him. You lap at the underside of his cock, bobbing your head, trying to make sure that he sees you are as eager a participant in your own despoiling as he is. Your tongue strokes the place where his head meets his shaft and he sighs, bucking forward. 

The low moan that comes from his throats has you whimpering around it again, your thighs squeezing against your will. He looks down at you and sees the way you’re reacting - you wonder if your chest is heaving, your face flushed. You have often wondered if perhaps he can scent you in the air - if he is that attuned to tiny noises and the lightest change of your demeanour that you are shamed in that way too. 

You feel the ghost of something behind you and feel fingers on your breasts and you know he has taken out his stand. 

The first time he did this, he told you that you were privileged beyond all reason to see King Crimson - that nobody else but him knows exactly what the Stand is capable of. You are afraid of it, but it has touched you just as much as Diavolo has, and your back arches as it pinches nipples between forefinger and thumb and you feel them harden, little sparks of desire raining from the stimulation into the heated place nestled between your legs. 

“You are so lucky,” he murmurs. You cannot thank your Imperatore with his cock stuffed down your throat, but you hope the ‘enthusiastic’ licking at the vein on his cock does it, the way you let the head bump against the back of your throat. Your gag reflex has long since been pounded into submission. “That I do this for you . . .”

The slam of his lips. Your jaw, aching. The taste of him invading every one of your senses. 

You lose track of time as King Crimson’s fingers slide down your body, over your stomach - as you part your thighs for him and the stand finds your sex slick with arousal and needy to be touched. Diavolo’s laugh at that discovery is breathless. 

“How you’ve changed,” he tells you, the pride dripping from his voice settling around you like a mantle of your own ignominy. “How well you know your place, now.” 

You do. You know your place as you spread your knees further and two of King Crimson’s fingers stroke your folds, teasing at your entrance. As his thumb swipes across your clit. As those same two fingers plunge inside you without warning and your body welcomes them with open arms and a moan that makes Diavolo’s hand on your hair become a vice once more. 

You know he can feel the way you clench and pulse around King Crimson’s fingers, and you know from how he begins to fuck your face with eager strokes that he’s pleased with you. All you can do is kneel there, legs spread wide, as the fingers inside you scissor and fuck and tease and the cock in your mouth fucks that same cavern quick and brutally. 

He’s close. He always is, when he gets like this - pretends at gentility now that your fire has been extinguished and shows himself as animal when his peak creeps up on him. Your tongue teases at his cockhead, once, twice - and then, he’s pulled his cock out of your mouth and he’s pumping it with the hand not in your hair. 

The wetness of the ropes of pearls spilling onto your face are no longer a humiliation as they once were.  Not as the fingers inside you crook just so and the tight ball of tension inside you is allowed to be released and you come on King Crimson’s fingers, the bulbous green protrusions at his knuckle rubbing against your heated sex. 

No, now they are a welcome reminder that you have done what he wants of you. A medal given to a participant of a race. 

Almost. 

“Good,” Diavolo breathes, as he tucks himself away, wiping what little of his come is left on his cock across the unsullied side of your face. “You did well, tesoro. You shall have your reward.”

Your back stiffens. King Crimson fades away, his purpose completed, and you are reminded of how cold the room is on the scars and bruises of your back. You’re unable to tear your eyes away as Diavolo reaches into a pocket and pulls out something small and dark.

He unfurls it in his hand. It’s a band of soft leather, embedded with silver-set green gemstones that wink even in the flickering fluorescent light of the hotel room. A buckle rests at the back in the same silver - and you realise, with a sickening lurch, what it is as he leans forward to fasten it around your neck. 

His hands are quick and deft as the leather is pulled taut against you, not so tight it digs but tight enough that you are able to feel it. The click of the buckle, sliding into place is frighteningly final. 

“Just a reminder of who you belong to,” Diavolo murmurs, pulling back, enjoying his handiwork. “It looks very pretty on you. Like it’s meant to be there. Pet.”

You have been collared. It burns; a reminder of what you have become. No doubt you could remove it - but at what cost? What revenge would Diavolo take out on you if you were to reject him so fiercely, after he thinks you’ve finally ‘learnt your place’?

No. You leave it be. You do not even bring your hands up to touch it.

And though that part of you buried deep in your subconscious is screaming and longing to be let out, you are helpless to do anything but pretend to be thrilled - to breathe deep and whisper, as if you have never received a greater gift in your life;

“Thank you, Imperatore.”

The indulgent smile he gives you tells you that he knows he owns you, in every way that’s important.

[blu-joons]

You’re A Writer ~ Jeon Jungkook

The house was dark, unsurprising to Jungkook at this time of night, the evening had ran away with him at the studio, but as he reached your home, he knew you would be far too lost in a world of imagination to pay any attention to him now.

He walked up the stairs, a small spotlight fell on the landing bringing a wry smile to his face. He tried to make as little noise as possible, following the glow into your study, the crack in the door revealed your body, resting on your desk, laptop open.

The sound of you typing was the perfect noise, watching you closely for a few minutes he could tell you were on a good run, waiting until you had finished to slowly creep in.

The noise was minimal, but often to slightly disturb you, as you reached the end of your sentence, you turned around, meeting his eyes as he came up behind your chair.

“How’s the chapter going? Looked like you had a good idea then,” he smiled, resting his arms around your shoulders, chin resting firmly on one of them.

“I’m actually on the next chapter now, it’s going really well.”

You were in the middle of your latest novel, yet another romance that was guaranteed to fly off the shelves. Your career had flourished, your ability to tell such incredible stories had sent your work all over the globe for people to enjoy.

Jungkook couldn’t be any prouder, he loved spending his evenings curled up on the bed, watching as beautiful ideas came to you. The sound of delight when you knew where you wanted to take the story would always make him chuckle.

His eyes glanced over your work, he hated spoilers, but often couldn’t help himself. “Can I get you anything>”

“I think I’m alright to be honest Kook, I’ll eat when I’m done, but there’s some in the oven for you,” you smiled, turning your head to press a kiss to his cheek. “Actually, it would be nice to have you here for a bit, I don’t feel like we’ve been together enough recently.”

He nodded, unwrapping his arms from around you, perching on the end of the bed. His phone came out of his back pocket, grabbing one of his song writing books from his drawers.

“What about food?”

“I’ll wait until you’re done and get it,” he replied.

“I might be a while, it’s getting to a crucial bit, and I want to get it right,” you warned.

“I don’t mind, I’ll wait all night if I have to, I’ve got nowhere to be.” He kicked his shoes off, laying back further on the bed, propping his head up with a pillow.

You glanced back at him, his dimpled smile made you giggle, turning back to your laptop. “Jeon Jungkook you have given me an excellent idea.”

“I haven’t done anything.”

He didn’t think he had, but by the look in his eyes you found incredible inspiration. Your piece looked closely at the conflict of fame, something you could relate to all too well. The dreamboat, Jungkook, the attention, fame and the troubles of it all.

You didn’t want to tell him how personal the story was, he never cared about what you wrote about, any story you wrote he adored, but you couldn’t help but worry that maybe he’d fear oversharing so much of your own lives in a story.

Coming up with ideas was often hard for you, hours, even days, could be spent brainstorming before that one money maker came to you.

Jungkook would sit with you, firing all the right questions to inspire, plots, characters, development, drawings, he helped with it all. At times, he failed to realise how helpful he was, even his presence, like tonight, was enough to make you feel better, just turning to look at him would always remind you of where you wanted to go with your story.

“You just help me,” you whispered, flashing him a grin, “Give me five minutes, I really need to write this down before I forget what I just thought about.”

“Take all the time you need, make sure it’s a good one.”

You quickly began typing, the silence in the room Jungkook gave you was perfect to portray your idea perfectly, as his eyes watched you bright and happily.

“One day I’m going to start demanding credit in your books for all my ideas.”

Whenever he read through your work, he’d read over pieces of information he knew he gave you the inspiration for. He was only ever joking; he could never make his ideas as wonderful as you did. The two of you bonded perfectly over your love for writing, the sessions you’d have together creating magic with just a few words.

“If you have credit in my books, I should have credit on your albums, that’s only fair.”

His shoulders shrugged, turning the page of his book, marking the lyrics he’d got to, moving up the bed to sit closer to you. “You’re far more talented then I am, it would be an honour to have you on one of our albums as a writer.”

“You don’t mean that,” you blushed, “you boys don’t need my help at all.”

With your work at a good place to stop, you wheeled across the floor closer towards him, resting your hands on his thighs. He leant forward, pecking several kisses to your lips, tucking your hair behind your ears that had fallen whilst you wrote.

“You are incredibly talented, and smart, My Time wouldn’t have been the same if you hadn’t of helped me. Your work is incredible, I only wish more people knew how good your works are, the whole world should be able to read your books.”

“Stop talking, you’re making me blush.”

“It’s like Betsy and Arthur, they’re still my favourite love story, nothing will ever compare.”

“That was my first book.”

It was his greatest memory, the publishing of your first book, the one you’d worked so hard towards, the blood, sweat and tears that went into that book were immeasurable and to see it pay off was the best feeling for him, and for you.

You giggled, standing up from the chair, pulling him up too. “I think we should go and eat now.”

“The hunger is making me soppy,” he teased, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

You went to leave the room, but Jungkook was quick to pull you back, lifting you in his arms, twirling you around. Your hands gripped tightly onto his biceps, kicking your legs out until he placed you safely back to the floor with a wide smile on his face.

“Damn, you’re the sexiest writer I’ve ever seen,” he teased.

“Just be quiet and go and get me food.”

---

Masterlist

[mightpunchgodlateridk]

It's 3AM and I have to be awake in five hours for class

Embedded in the notes app of my iPhone is a message typed out in the haze of an early late night morning. It sits long forgotten, a product of my brain that shall likely never be found. The note reads, “The most important stage in a negative cycle is false recovery. If you feel as though you’ve come out on top then you needn’t fear slipping back under, and so you do not care when you do.” I remember going to the store yesterday. I bought the essentials: bread, milk, tea, and a miniature pumpkin they had on display for the holiday. I thought it was cute, so I paid the $5 asked for it and placed it out on my front step to be enjoyed by any neighbor who happened to walk by or glance at my house. But… was that yesterday? I stepped outside this morning to watch the sunrise, and as I crossed the threshold onto my front porch, I saw a rotted hunk of pumpkin flesh there at my feet. It looked as though it had been sat there for weeks, maybe even months, although I swear I just bought it yesterday.

My bed is comfortable. It’s where I spend most of my time nowadays, so it has to be. I lie on my pile of plush pillows and soft blankets for hours, staring at the walls and humming to myself a tune that does not exist, one I will forget as soon as it ends, or looking at something on my phone that will leave me just as quickly. I glance up at my window, my red curtain casting warm light throughout my room as the morning sun shines through. I look away, the tune I hum is short and sweet, a fleeting song that makes me feel good while it lasts. I look back to my window. The sky is dark and I can no longer see the red of my curtain through the thick shadows. The clock on my phone reads 1:40 A.M.. The kitchen and a dinner that is eaten hours after what is socially acceptable feels like a safer place to be than my room tonight.

I’ve been wearing the same pair of pants for three days. It’s just that every time I get out of the shower I search my room for fresh clothes to wear, and I always find the pile of dirty laundry hidden in my closet. I always say I’ll do it tomorrow, but I wake up in the morning and what was supposed to be tomorrow is two weeks from now. Jeans are not comfortable for the days I spend inside alone, so I just lay down still wearing the same pair of sweatpants. I think about how I always feel slightly dirty, even after a shower. My bedsheets have not been changed, my clothes removed and put back on without a wash, my room in shambles, books and papers strewn every which way. I think about how my environment is not conducive to a healthy and happy lifestyle, how it is definitely making me feel worse. I think about all this as I lie in my bed, close to dreaming but not quite. When I wake up two weeks after, the mess is gone from my mind, and I am instead focused on what I need to do to get through the day, how I can most easily reach the time where I can crawl back into my not quite clean bed, and become as comfortable as I can be in my not quite clean skin.  

I do not remember the last time I ate. I follow my body, it tells me when I’m hungry and when I’m not. Sometimes the hunger leaves for days, and I do not realize it until it begins clawing at my insides and shrieking for attention. Then it demands to be heard, and I crawl my way to the kitchen and do not think about what I am putting in my body to appease it. I do what I can so I am able to move on, ignore it until the next time I feel like I should return to the kitchen. I think I was in there an hour ago, or maybe it was three, or an entire day gone by without stepping foot on the cold linoleum floor. The dishes I never have energy to clean stare at me whenever I enter, reminding me that I was there, even if I do not remember for what, or when. 

In between eating I make tea. My tea is herbal, it tastes like flowers and the sunshine I never get to see anymore. I bring countless cups into my room and set them on my bedside table. They are too hot to drink immediately, so I waste time seeking those things that bring me sparks of joy, as many as I can in quick succession so I do not have a moment to feel empty. By the time I remember my tea, it has gone cold. Nobody likes cold tea, so I get up and dump it out. I feel bad wasting good tea, we don’t have the money to toss whole cups of tea, but my mom does not know. If she isn’t angry about it then it is easier to push my guilt to the back of my mind and brew another cup of hot tea. This one I’ll drink, I tell myself. An hour later I am back in the kitchen, pouring a cold cup of herbal tea into the sink. I set my mug down, maybe it’s better to give up on tea for the time being. 

There is a mirror in my room that I try not to look at. It is hidden behind a curtain, I often forget it is there as I try to forget I have a physical form that can be viewed by my eyes. The tack holding the curtain up falls. I turn on my lights and go to fix it, accidentally catching a glimpse of myself in the process. I forget about fixing the curtain and sit down in front of my mirror. I take in the sight I have not seen in far too long. My gaze catches on my eyes, I look into them and know that I am looking at myself. I see all the emotion that I try not to think about, the loneliness that I cover up by taking solace in being alone, the anger at everyone else for not dragging me out of hiding despite my proclamations that I don’t want them to, the sadness, the fear, my detached existence that can never quite seem to ground itself. I sit in front of this mirror and confront everything I’ve been avoiding during those sleepless nights and timeless days. Behind me the light shifts rapidly between light and dark. I can feel the passage of time in the ache of my body, but the mirror keeps me stuck and unable to move. My phone pings at me, trying to let me know that I’ve been gone longer than is normal, my friends and family are getting concerned. I am stuck. There is a weight on my shoulders that pins me to the floor and forces me to stare at myself in this godforsaken mirror. I scream at myself, cry and plead with my own mind, asking it to allow me to do something, anything that is not sitting here and looking at myself. I want to escape, seek a spark of happiness, hum a tune, take a shower, eat something, anything, everything, brew a cup of tea - but I am held here. The world calls to me as desperately as I call to it, but we cannot reach each other. 

I am freed by loss of consciousness and wake up in my bed. My mirror is covered by the curtain again, and there is a fresh cup of hot tea at my bedside. I drink the tea before it gets cold, placing the empty cup back on the table. I stand and take my laundry down to the basement, starting a load. I get changed and go to the store, I buy the essentials and return home, minus the miniature pumpkin I bought yesterday. I do not lie in bed, I do not forget where I am or when I ate. I do not look in the mirror, for there is nothing to see. I am safe, I am grounded, I am clean. My eyes sparkle with energy and confidence, they definitely do not have any hidden emotion in them. I have no secrets to face now that I have conquered them all.

A voice gnaws at the back of my mind. It laughs at me. I’ll see you in two weeks, it says. Just go to sleep. 

[tazzytypes]

Apocalypse: Sanctuary - Chapter 2

Read on AO3

Just because your roommates are horrible doesn't mean you all can't have a good time now and again... just don't tell Venable.

Hey guys. this scene is pretty short in comparison with my other chapters thus far. It didn't blend well with the other things I have planned, but I thought it was important to show the good times at Outpost 3 as well as the bad. Consider it a palette cleanser for what is to come. Michael will be here by Chapter 4...

The excitement over the idea of salvation by the cooperative was a short-lived joy. After months of listening to “The Morning After” by McGovern over and over and over was enough to make the residents of Outpost 3 question their sanity as well as their conviction.

Em walked into the salon, her hands wrapped around a collection of pens she had been able to scavenge from her room. She pulled at the obnoxiously high collar of her white shirt. Whenever evening wear wasn’t an obligation, she liked to dress in as few layers as she could — Victorian underwear and a dress that made her look like some governess of orphaned children in a period drama. 

Swinging the door open, she stopped in her tracks. The room was usually devoid of life except for the 6 o’clock “cocktails.” Andre sat there on the couch, his back to her as he stared into the fire.

The brunette debated turning on her heels, but by the time she took a step back, it was too late. Andre’s head turned, hair raising on the back of his neck as he sensed her green eyes boring into his back. He wondered if she would go away if he ignored her long enough, but curiosity got the better of him His head turned ever slightly and Em pretended like she had meant to be seen by the man.

Heels clicked against the wood flooring, only a few steps before pausing at the edge of the large black coffee table between the two large dark sofas.

Two months after Stu’s death and his cheeks were still damp with tears. His red eyes burned her, anger unyielding. She was deserving of his hate... even more so than the others. Just as she couldn’t reassure him of Stu’s safety she could not tell him of her guilt. At least the others showed remorse and disgust at their own actions.

Em tried to speak with Andre on multiple occasions, but her words came out hollow. Anything she said was just to chase off her own guilt. At one point she had mistakenly reminded Andre that he had also eaten from the stew... it didn’t end well. 

Needless to say, these days, the only person he spoke to was Dinah.

There was so much anger and grief twisting inside him. He wanted to scream and throttle Venable damn the consequences. At least then he’d be reunited with the man he loves... loved. One meal and the bonds made in good faith and mutual tragedy were fractured with the crack of a whip. 

Em wished he would just verbally eviscerate her like he did Evie. His silence was suffocating. Instead, they stood in awkward silence. She really wasn’t good at this.

“So…” Em trailed, leaning back on her heels and biting her lips as she thought of what to say. Another apology would sound insincere and they both knew it would end them right back where they began. 

“So,” Andre mocked, scoffing as he turned back to the fire. 

Em rose a hand as if to reach out to him, mouth opened before closing it once more. Her hand reached out to him before drawing back, hand running through her hair then returning to her side. 

 “What’s it like having Dinah Stevens as a mother?”

Another scoff, followed by his gaze flickering up and down her with disdain.

She finally settled on the couch opposite him, “Sore subject… fair.”

“Also literally asked by every person I’ve ever met.”

Mc nodded, “basic.”

“Yup,” Andre said, popping the “p.”

Fiddling with the pens in her hand, Em racked her brain for something to say. It was a curse, anxiety. It made everything seem much worse than it was and was often accompanied by an overwhelming desire to be liked by everyone… well… almost everyone. Involuntary cannibalism would have been considered some of the worst, but it pales in comparison to nuclear winter. 

Her leg bounced up and down and her eyes flickered from the fire to the ceiling to Andre and back again. Usually, in these moments she’d take out her phone, pens could only distract one for so long.

“God, I wish we had alcohol,” She sighed.

“Amen to that.”

The door creaked open. Em jumped to her feet, holding back the urge to run towards Emily as she quietly closed the door behind her. It felt like an eternity before she turned around. A smile lit up Emily’s face and she waved a collection of paper she had been able to find.

“Ready?”

Relief rolled off Em, tension leaving her shoulders as they can to settle around the coffee table. There was plenty of room, but Em still found it more comfortable to sit on the floor, skirt billowing around her like a puddle of purple. She took a pen and piece of paper and leaned over the table.

“You start. Give me a band.”

Emily’s lips twisted and her nose scrunched as she thought, “… The Beatles.”

Em scribbled down the name and tore it from the rest of the paper, placing it in a small wooden box Emily had brought with her. She grabbed a paper and pen of her own and turned to Em. “Now you.”

“Panic at the Disco.”

“Why am I not surprised.”

Em couldn’t help the laugh that left her, “shut up. You said The Beetles.”

“What? It’s a classic.”

Andre’s attention turned from the fire to the pair sitting across from him. He would have left, but after months and months of doing nothing but waking up and waiting to sleep again he was dying for something different.

“Lady Gaga,” Em said.

“Madonna.” Emily countered.

“Justin Bieber.”

“Justin Timberlake.”

“What are you doing?” He finally asked after a few more rounds of them shooting random words back and forth. 

“Pictionary,” Emily answered him with a smile, cheeks flushed from laughing, “Em had the idea.”

“Pictionary?” Andre asked, slowly scooting closer, “Is that a game?”

“Yeah!” Em answered, “My siblings and I used to play it all the time. Right now we’re coming up with random things to go in a hat.”

She motioned to the box slowly gathering more and more strips of paper, “The game is to pick one of these and try to draw it while your teammates guess what it is.”

“So like art charades?”

“Pretty much!”

A small smile flickered to Andre’s lips as he stood up and came to sit beside Emily. 

“Okay. I have one: Dinah Stevens.”

“Oooh,” Em awed, pointing a pen at Emily and Andre, “that’s a good one. Should we do one for each resident?”

Emily shrugged, “I don’t see why not.”

“How angry do you think Coco would be if we put her in there?” Andre asked, grabbing a pen and paper of his own.

Em looked like the Cheshire Cat, smiling ear to ear, “Furious,”

“Let’s do it.”

As the hours passed, more and more residents joined. A few Greys even whispered ideas into Em’s ear as they passed and she would scribble them in and throw them in the box. Em finally took a seat on one of the couches, Timothy and Emily on her right and Coco to her left.

“Okay!Okay!” Em exclaimed as people yelled things at her all at once, “One at a time! Give me stuff. Movies, books, albums, famous people, sayings. Coco! Go!”

“Michel Jackson!”

Em scribbled down the name and tossed it into the pile of paper that threatened to spill from the small box, “Alright! Now… Emily!”

“To Kill a Mocking Bird!”

She nodded as she scribbled it down, “… and since I’m Emily squared I get to go next.”

Gallant groaned, “oh, c’mon!”

“Hey!” Em snipped, smiling as she swung a pen at the man who could only smile and laugh at her antics, “I’m the one with the pen. My pen, my rules!”

Coco leaned over Em, “What are you writing?”

“Stevie Nicks!”

Leaning back in his seat, Gallant draped an arm across the back of his chair, perplexed, “Isn’t that the woman that sings Jolene?”

“NO!” At least five people yelled in unison, quickly falling into a collection of giggles.

Em feigned insult, “how can you mistake Dolly Parton with Stevie Nicks.”

Gallant waved a dismissive hand, “We aren’t all from the countryside of Georgia.”

“I was raised near Atlanta, thank you very much,” Em jested, “I’m only a quarter country girl.”

“Do you have those shirts that say: ‘don’t talk to me until I’ve had my sweet tea?’” Coco asked, hands spreading out like she was hanging up a banner. 

Em couldn’t keep her smile down, “That was one time!”

“Uh-huh,” Gallant laughed, “Suuure it was.”

The brunette grabbed an extra pen and chucked it at the man. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d laughed like this. God knows none of them had even been in a room together without mandatory attendance.

Timothy sat at the edge of the group. He shuffled through the cards they had made, sorting them so they’d fit in the box. “I think we’ve filled out the last one.”

Coco looked around at everyone, “So… we get to play now?”

“Not today,” Emily declared, smiling at Timothy as he held out the box for her to place the top on it. Coco, Andre, and Gallant booed them.

“Look,” Em defended Emily, hands wringing at her wrists “I know y’all were just spitting out words, but I had to write them all down. My poor wrist needs a break.”

“Oh boo-hoo,” Coco said.

“Half the fun is not knowing what’s coming,” Timothy reminded, his eyes not leaving Emily. Em could tell he was smitten with her. Poor boy didn’t know how to hide anything.

“Well I don't know about y’all,” Andre spoke, mocking Em’s slight accent as he rose from the couch, “But I’m going to take a nap.”

“I agree, y’all,” Gallant jumped on, dodging another pen Em threw in his direction. 

“Words are an illusion created by humanity,” She jested, earning a dismissive wave from the hairdresser as he walked out the door, “It’s conventional!!”

Coco sighed and laid back on the couch, closing her eyes as she began to whine “I wouldn’t mind the constant hunger if it didn’t come with the constant tiredness.”

Em looked to Timothy and Emily. The latter rolled her eyes.

“I feel like I’m back in college,” Em said, leaning back on Emily, “Eating sleep for dinner.”

She could feel Emily’s shoulders shake as she laughed. Timothy took a seat on the other side of the coffee table, resting on the arm of the chair, “C’mon. It couldn’t have been that bad.”

“I spent finals week eating only spoonfuls of peanut butter. Then the next year I bought a Costco-sized thing of ramen noodles.”

Emily leaned back her head and groaned, “Don’t talk about food. Even ramen noodles make my mouth water.”

Somehow, Em had made her way from leaning on Emily’s shoulder to having her head in the other girl’s lap. Emily’s hands absentmindedly ran through the brunette’s short bob which was growing longer by the day. 

“Oh!” A memory struck Em like a lightning bolt, “my friend took me to an authentic ramen place before the bombs.”

She hummed at the mere thought of the food, “Best. Thing. Ever. They had special ramen eggs and topped it off with a slab of pork that just fell apart—”

Coco jumped from her seat with a huff, “You’re all sadistic!”

The three of them watched as the blonde stormed across the room, door slamming behind her with a loud bang which made their bones shake. Then they looked to each other, biting their lips but ultimately falling into laughter.

“If I knew it was that easy I would have done it months ago,” Emily laughed.

“C’mon,” Timothy tried to be the voice of reason, trying to keep a straight face but ultimately failing, “That’s just mean.”

“So is Coco,” Em scoffed, reaching for a glass of water, “it’s not like we threatened to kill her.”

“You did,” Emily reminded. 

The other girl paused in her movement and pointed up at her, “Mead said ‘murder’, not me. I said I’d come for her… I didn’t specify how.”

Timothy sighed and shook his head while Emily only looked at him with a smile. 

“At least we have each other,” Emily noted.

Em smiled at that, finally sitting up, “The Three Musketeers!”

“All for one and one for all,” Timothy said.

Emily sighed, “God knows Venable won’t do it.” 

[oflovetruth]

Sehun’s first love,

A semblance of hope had washed over the otherwise hopeless romantic. The taste of bitter espresso taking over his senses, and his bleary vision had barely made up his surroundings. Blinking out his sleepiness, he forced himself to grab whatever bits of food that he had from last night. Takeout. Ah. Great. No wonder, he cannot seem to achieve the body of his dreams. Hand tapping on the centre of his stomach, and blindly blaming himself for wasting such effort on junk food. He grabbed the folded box, and he had unraveled the cold noodles that lied inside. Groaning, quietly, to himself, he threw the soggy noodles into a microwave safe bowl, and threw it inside to heat. Whilst he would wait for it, he had hurried his way to change out of his sleeping attire; which consisted of a thin shirt and sweats.. topped with Bambi socks. Not the most intimidating person to consider. Rummaging through his closet, eyes staring daggers for something new to wear, and he had hit jackpot. A pair of dress pants topped with a button down? Ah, what else is possible? He took the clothing, and laid it first on the bed. Swiftly yet cautiously as to not ruin the recently ironed shirt, he had changed into it, and he could hear the ringing of his microwave—muffled by the subtle shut of his bedroom door. Jumping up and down, trying to shovel his way into it. Has he gained weight? He does not particularly remember the last he had weighed himself. Hurrying his way to eat his makeshift breakfast, and nearly burning his tongue in the process. He will definitely buy himself on the way back from campus. Ah. Yes. His social life had barely lived up to the expectations of his parents. His stomach had felt sick, and he was certain it was more so his worries than the hours old food. At last, taking a leap onto changing his socks, and switching them with a new pair of plain ones to match his mundane outfit. Eyeing himself in the mirror, he fixed the few unorthodox strands of hair back into place. Grabbing his bag from the floor, he had already fixed his schedule into it, and he smiled upon the start of a new day. Luckily, his apartment had only been a few minutes walk from campus, and never had to worry too much about sleeping in; he had always been an early bird. Smelling the fresh scent of rain mixed with the city fumes—it was quite the odd mixture, although Sehun was quite fond of it. It reminded him of home, and nothing brings him great happiness than home. Seeing familiar faces as he had gotten closer to campus, he could almost pick up on a few gossips, and he was not too fond of that. He hated it when people would speak behind others’ back, and have great pleasure in doing so. Perhaps, it is the mere fact of majoring in Psychology that opened up his eyes to the reality of the human mind, and how crooked it can be—in the search of endorphins. He would hear the cacophony only accumulate as his way towards the university buildings lessened. The incessant gossiping had only irked him, at this point. In the midst of his wavering state, he could pick up a familiar face in the distance, and his former stoic face began to slowly merge up into a warm smile. Jongin. His best friend. What a sight for sore eyes, no? He would often pretend to duck his head down, and scan the newsfeed that clogged up his phone’s screen. His eyes would dilate upon the numerous scholars that piled up, and his excitement to devour all the new information and knowledge; his heart could only handle so much—bump. He had accidentally bumped himself against his friend, instead of actually saying hello. A giggle had erupted out of the gentle and soothing one. “My bad!” He spoke, his hand patting over his friend’s chest, and he locked eyes with him for a brief second. “You need to give your eyes a bit of a break...I’m surprised you don’t need glasses yes, Tokki..” His friend voiced with concern, ushering for him to follow. Sehun nodded his head ever so slowly; humming in response before his excitement piled up before his very eyes. “Well! You see.. I just cannot seem to ignore the new scholars I could use in order to build the perfect research,” He mused, his tongue tapping the roof of his mouth, and it sure was reminiscent of that black coffee from earlier. “You know? I often think you’re too dedicated that you just lost your energy..” His friend voiced with concern, his brows furrowed, and his lip jutted out in a subtle pout. Sehun could see where he had been voicing those concerns, and he heedlessly brushed it off as something trivial. “I am on top of everything, nonetheless,” He said with a bold tone—his eyes squinting into a soft smile. “Anyway, I will see you after class!” He quietly spoke, his hands waving towards him friend—nearly dropping his book, and he squeaked. Sighing at himself; due to his idiosyncratic behaviour. Walking up the stairs, preferably, he enjoyed the architecture that was put into this school. It was quite old, which he liked, and it reminded him of numerous books he had read about this particular university. It feels utterly rewarding to be inside of it. Staring at his phone, he was making his way to his ethics class. He did not particularly believe this class to be hard, albeit the material was a lot to remember. The ninety minutes period had passed quicker than expected. Sehun was quite intrigued by how fixated and attentive, he was. Jotting down notes, inquiring his curiosities and doubts, and thanking his lecturer before leaving the class hall. He was the embodiment of a slacker’s nightmare. He did not bother, though. He was feeling the brink of hunger eat at him; it was not a pleasant feeling. Surely, he would hold his bag over the centre of his stomach—trying to compensate for the pain that lingered a little further than anticipated. Well, that is not precisely the perfect way to phrase it. “Something... easy to digest and quick..” His mind had immediately rushed to the convenience store just outside of campus. Right, right. He could never forget the late nights, whenever he would visit the shop, and the lady would recognise his face. He was a regular, if one had to be precise. That was the initial plan after his class; although he was fast-walking his way down the hall. Making a beeline for the exit of the building—till his eyes had captured a sight he was not expecting. It is almost as if time was still. It stopped. His eyes were once slanted downwards due to his lethargic state, yet now they grew wider—the background had became a blur. She became the centre of his attention; the cynosure. Her beauty is immaculate. She had a smile that stretched across her angelic features, and his heart nearly drummed out his lungs out of his rib cage. He must have looked absolutely insane. No, no, he probably is lost. He could not take his eyes off her. The way she had headed her way towards the exit, and the way her digits held onto the hem of her translucent sleeves; chiffon. The gentle colour of warmth, the clementine perfume—the saccharine sense of it all. Sehun had to make a move, and he had to make it quick.

Little did he know that angel was nothing but the nightmarish devil; awaiting the very purity of men to come forth, and reap them off all their innocence. His perceptions were meddling—they were messy. His eyes felt as if they were being gorged out with a frigid spoon. He could feel his head pounding, his body trembling with tremors ceasing to pause, and his voice had been caught in his throat. There she was. Stood high. A lavish dress that she draped over her curvaceous figure, and a wine-red lipstick encapsulated her very full lips. Sehun could not take his eyes off her. She was his, yet he felt as if she owned him. Sitting upright, he rubbed his eyes, and as he was about to inquire the woman about her sleep—she had placed the tip of her index finger over his lips. “Shh..” Her honeyed voice would speak; his heart shaken with the urge to only obey her. Her hands would traverse over his physique, his eyes following her, and once clothed—now bare. He felt as if it was moving far too quickly for his liking. “No—Aerinnie... not now,” He would say with an apologetic smile spread across his face. “I feel tired, yeah?” He felt as if he had to surge his excuses out. She was a fine lady, there was no denying that. All it took was a scintilla of doubt to wash over their relationship, and cause it to lose its once stable foundation. Once she would stay over, now he could barely catch her phone not busy. It felt odd. It felt wrong. He could not force himself to divulge into her business, although he felt that it is only fair that he knew—he was not asking for much, right? Soon, Sehun’s doubts began to accumulate by the second, and understandably, they were welcomed with facts that broke his heart atom by atom. He had never seen the angel claw at his skin, scream to his face, and eye him with disdain in her heart. It did not feel right. This is not the woman he had fallen for. Something must be wrong.. not till he had been faced with the mere factor; she voiced it. It took all of him to not cry on the spot. Three months into the honeymoon phase, the true colours began to finally appear—display itself before the man. Sehun had an idea of something such as this to happen, yet he did not expect it too soon. She would look at him across the table, boredom risen in her expressions, and Sehun tried his best to build any sort of excitement into the conversation. She felt far away. She would take a sip of her wine before he could finish his sentences. Futile. He almost felt as if he was not supposed to be here, and that tore at his heartstrings. The date felt mundane. Idle. Wrong. He had never eaten as quickly as he did, and neither had he paid as quickly as he did. Watching her stand, and hurry towards the exit. Her heels cracking down the marble floors of the - ridiculously - expensive restaurant that he had reserved for the both of them; a failure. He had to step up his pace in order to keep up with her, and he had to finally confront her. It felt as if he was talking to a wall. Where was the love that she had showed him? Was it all a plan to simply come for him? Sehun had a lot rushing through his mind, his lips momentarily quivering, and he stood before the woman who had taken his heart... and clearly, had the black intent of stomping on it with her stilettos; tearing it apart with a cold smile across her face. “Sehunnie~” She would say, her hands finding solace onto the man’s shoulders, and her eyes—they batted their lashes—lips morphed into a smile that Sehun could not recognise. Her voice felt as if the entire world had stopped, whenever she would speak. Sehun, only gulped, and looked back at the ethereal woman. “You’re a smart man... you know?” She would muse. Hands taking business in playing with his collar—ever the hairs at the back of his head. Sehun reacted to it all. He was ridden with anxiety, and this had only increased it; she knew. “But you’re so credulous,” She would shove at the fabric, nearly ruining the ironed suit. Causing Sehun to gasp in reciprocal—unbeknownst to him, just how much he would resent this holy ground they stood before. “You make me want to hit you—you’re so fuckin lame,” Her tone was not honeyed, anymore. Honey had turned into poison. Sehun could barely keep his breathing in a stable state; labouring. “I don’t fucking love you, did you really for that, petit prince~?” The woman said; eyes full of malice. Sehun, during this, could barely manoeuvre his body. He felt as if he was caught in her web, and there was no escape—to be exact—she gave him no escape. “I only want you for your dick. You’re nothing to me,” She would cackle between her words, causing eavesdropping people to chuckle under their breaths; humiliating the man before her. “You—you’re messing with me,” Sehun managed to crack out. He could feel the heartstrings being pulled at every corner of his body. It cannot be right. She must have drank too much. “Ah~ right, right.. I do love you.” She would press a chaste kiss to his lips. It felt bitter. It felt wrong. Sehun hardly managed to reciprocate the kiss; yet he did. Walking back home with her had felt odd. Unheard of. Raw. Wrong. It all felt too wrong.. almost as if there was truth to that joke. It left him ruminating during that night. He could not sleep properly, and his eyes only bared the tiredness of the sleep deprived state; coffee could not hinder him from nearly collapsing on the hard floors of the classroom hall. What a shame. He had seen her face during class. She looked peaceful, but far too occupied with her phone.. she was... smiling. She had not shown that smile to him in quite awhile—two months—and it was only fair to contemplate, right? Luxurious gifts, her hair tied with high end fashion houses, and her attire had began to completely differ from before. His angel was not his angel, anymore. Sehun felt a bile form in his throat, and it felt as if it was tightening. He knew it was only purely caused by his mental state, but he could not stomach seeing her act so differently—hostile—to him; yet watch others with the same smile that she used to give him. What did he do wrong? He had been with her during her pregnancy scare—before they had dated—he had been there with her, when her parents quarrelled about whom should stay in their place. He had always been that ear that listened, yet he was oscillating with his emotions trying to rationalise the entirety of this situation. Had he been short on something? He had always sent her long messages about how much he appreciates her, and she would only send him a heart. It did hurt—seeing his efforts disappear—and hers nonexistent. Trying to walk his way towards her, nevertheless she had disappeared like a ghost. It slowly had became the typical for him. He had pulled himself away from his excessive emotional messages, his attempts at calling her to ensure that she was okay, and finally, he had stopped looking for her in the crowd of students in the halls—it made no sense. Why search for somebody that could not even bat an eye your direction? Their dates had started to get more boring and fruitless. Their meetings at his place had been nothing but watching a movie—with her texting on her phone—and him just forcing a smile to look at her. When will this nightmare end? When will she stop hiding away from him? What had happened? Despite her cold behaviour, Sehun had still understood. He did not want to hurt her more than she was already hurting.. right? He was too selfless for his own well being. Had he not realised how she had always been disappearing for a few days, and only coming to him to kiss and make out? As far things go, that was as far as Sehun could go. Intimacy was something he considered sacred. Intense. Emotional. He could not perform any act, when she had displayed such detachment from him. It did not feel right, and he most certainly was not going to allow her to do anything. Taking a sip from his mug, he watched as she smiled down on her phone. She was always full of euphoria with that device in her hands, although so sullen and sulky whenever it was away. Was he that boring? He was beginning to question himself; nothing will fancy his thoughts other than a little music. Playing a precise track on his vinyl player; smiling as the music filled the room, and created a less tense atmosphere. He jumped his way beside her, his arms hugging around her waist, and his chin perched over her collarbones. For once, she had laughed due to his actions, and he felt as if he had won the world—at that current moment—till it came tumbling down the very second it had risen. His chest had felt so heavy. He had briefly captured a sight of whom she was texting, and his heart began to tear itself apart. He tried to pretend he did not see it.. he tried.. He could not stomach it. No. His stomach felt far too sick. Getting off the couch, he had to hurry his way to the bathroom, and the sounds of his throat coaxing the bile of his disgust to - at last - leave his body in the form of nothing but vomit. His eyes soaked with tears, his body shuddered with the force, and he had felt absolutely dizzy. Flushing the toilet, he was shrouded with his own countless fears circling around him. As if he was a joke.

As if he was nothing. As if she had won, and broke his heart. He was shocked to see her still on the couch, and did not even lift a muscle to come check on him. He could not bear it, anymore. This had gotten out of control, and Sehun needed to set the record straight. He felt a sense of power yet weakness merged into one as he slammed his hands on the table. He thought the sound was loud, thus jumping himself. The woman had only - barely - turned her eyes his direction. Boredom encasing her features, and he wanted to be swallowed whole by the earth. “Aerin,” He spoke, a hoarse voice, and he surely looked pitiful. Aerin, on the other hand, did not dare to even react with a semblance of sympathy. “What?” She inquired; voice low as if she was irked to be called during her fun hours with whomever she was texting. Sehun could not keep this relationship going, if he had do to all the work to keep it stable. “What are you doing—? Why don’t you ever smile at me, anymore? What have I ever done to cause you so much harm?” Sehun’s words had rued the day they spoke. The lady opposing him had sat upright, and clasped her hands together. Crossing her legs, and staring at him with her sharp eyes. She knew how to flip him under her will, and she was aware of it. “What are you talking about, Sehunnie~?” “When have I ever changed?” “What do you mean like before?” She had cornered him with questions that had him doubting, if he should have ever started this conversation with her. She knew how to play her cards, and she played them right. She would stand up, propel to him, and that prompted that same vicious smile during that date night. He knew what this had meant, and her hands had only reached to his throat. Her long nails grazing over his jugular vein. Words so cold that they left him shivering. “Would you die for me?” She would whisper, beside the shell of his ear. Straddling his thighs, she sat, and she proceeded to reprimand him for ever opening his mouth. “You.. you don’t get it,” Sehun uttered out with lips shut tight by a kiss so violent. He had pushed her off him with an instinctive reaction. His eyes shooting wide—hurrying towards her, and apologising, if he had hurt her. His shove was not violent, yet he was more concerned about her than the well of himself. “I’m fine, fucker,” She cursed out. Her anger had began to increment, and Sehun was growing afraid. He had not known what to do, stepping aside—back—he felt weak. “You’re so fucking pathetic. How do you even live life like this?” Sehun shuddered. He was not weak. He was weak for her. He allowed himself to open his heart for her, but— “in case your stupid eyes didn’t notice, yes, I’m having a fucking affair since you won’t ever fuck me,” There it was. His heart had been stabbed. Penetrated. Protruding blood. Tears trickling down his visage, and the woman had only smiled wider. Walking towards him till he was pressed against the wall. “You’re not a real man. You don’t know how to treat a lady right, either~I bet you’re fucking gay.” Was the last thing before she had left him in his apartment. Hurt. Lost. Confused. Emotional turmoil. The emptied bottles of various alcohols had spread across the coffee table, and Sehun knew better than to cope with substances. He did not know what to do. He could not call his best friend. He felt absolutely useless, and nothing had made sense to him. Was he truly less of a man for not wanting to make love so quickly into a relationship? He was doubting his well state—he had to call Jongin, before he succumb to worse tactics of dealing with the heartbreak. “Hello?” A kind voice came through the speakers of his phone. Sehun could not reply. He could barely see anything, without it doubling in size or silhouette. His head pounded, he stenches of alcohol, and his hair was a mess that could not be tamed. “Hello?!” The voice had grown concern. Jongin had been clearly affected by the silence coming from Sehun’s end, and whatever it is—there was a shuffling sound on Jongin’s end. Sehun could not tell what it was. “I’m coming over, Tokki. Stay still.” The call had ended. Sehun sunk himself against the counter, and his knees grew wobbly. He could barely stand, and he was ruminating over what Aerin said. She is openly saying that she was cheating on him. Openly. She had no heart or care for how he would react about it. He saw that text that mocked his inexperience, and how his kisses must have been like kissing a wall. Those comments have hurt a little more than they should. Every time that he remembers her face when she said that, he would want to down another glass—but he was stopped by the sound of the door unlocking. It must be Jongin. It must be the only person that could understand how he had felt—without peer pressuring him into anything. Almost as if light had cascaded itself down into his rather dark and grim status. Sehun’s eyes were heavy, the doubling of Jongin’s figure had confused him, and he had to lean his body against the counters—trying to balance himself. “Sehun!” A voice called out. It did not feel close. It felt far. Was he perceiving the world a little too late? What was happening to him? “Y..Yes,” He managed to say with tears shuffling down his already damp face—a touch had supported his body. His eyes blinking out the blur, and his breath stenches of alcohol. He hated how pathetic and pitiful he must have looked. “Here, here,” The same voice had said; more clear now with the close proximity. Sehun tried to clear his conscience, yet it only whispered to him about the lost fragments of his love for that woman. The woman who revealed her filthy behaviours, yet had the very same audacity to leave him. He did not understand—but he was drunk. Too drunk to make sense of the world. “Jongin..?” Sehun quietly said. His body now laid down on the couch, his hand reaching to gently caress the man’s face—staring at him—he could not make up his features. His eyes were squinted and puffy—bloodshot—he swallowed thickly. “I.. I feel like.. I died...and..” He could not continue. The pounding headache had completely taken over him. Jongin had frowned. It was not easy to see Sehun like this. Getting off the edge of the couch, he had fished for a glass to pour water into. Perhaps, that could clear the man’s mind a little bit more. “Take your time, love... it will be okay,” Jongin said with a serious tone cowering his usual kind one into the backseat. Sehun’s hand had laid over his temple; feeling the sweat form tremendously. He only felt weaker. Prone to breakage, and slowly accepting that fact; the quicker he would recover from this pain. Jongin did not want to fall victim to his anger. He was aware of how much it does take to break Sehun like this. What had happened? He was growing so insanely worried, and his anger fuelled up his desire to break something—but he resisted. Placing the glass down on the coffee table, he slipped his hand under Sehun’s nape, and slowly eased him to sit up. Smiling briefly, trying to bring some warmth into the man’s stoic expression—hollow eyes—even. “Here. Drink some water, I will keep your pill by your bed, okay? I am staying over,” Jongin said as he handed Sehun the glass of water, and did not let go of it; the tremors that rushed through Sehun’s body were quite violent. Sehun’s eyes would stare back at the man’s, his body reacting to the cold glass in a frenzy—and he was glad that Jongin had kept his grip on the glass. Inhaling through his nose, he slowly began to take a sip—it turned into a gulp—and he was chugging it down in no less than a nanosecond. Feeling that rush of cold liquid rush through his body, and give him a new sense of refreshment—Sehun was certain that he needed that a little more than anything. “Thank you,” He endeavoured a small smile towards his friend, his hand reaching to pat on his shoulders, and he shortly sunk into the couch. How did home feel so suffocating? Why did he feel as if he did not belong, here—? He lived here. It did not feel real to him. Being pulled out of his daze, he did not particularly appreciate it. “Sehun. What happened? You called me, and said absolutely nothing,” Jongin’s voice had broken the unsettling silence between the pair, and Sehun nearly was startled into a flinch—yet he remained still. Almost as if his body could not react, anymore. He felt as if was not here—anymore. “She.. cheated,” The taste of alcohol has enticed the nausea into his body, once more, and he could not handle it. “She ... voluntarily did it, unapologetically... she ..” It became too real. It was not a stupid nightmare, anymore. It was reality, and his friend deserved to know. “She.. left me after patronising me about it..” His throat dried up. He would try to fiddle with the empty glass, and his eyes would wander. He did not want to think about this, yet thinking about it is all that he did. Lost in a paradox, and caught in a dilemma. He loves her. Well, he must learn to unlove her. He cannot love somebody who had strife in their heart. “I.. I cannot—“ Tears sprout out of his ducts, and they felt so painful. He cried so much that his eyes could - languidly - handle the torment it brought to them. “Sehun—take your time, I’m listening,” Jongin had seated himself beside him. Scooting closer, and pulling his body against him. His palms would rub the length of his spine, and his eyes would watch his friend’s reactions. Jongin had so much hate in his heart for Sehun’s girlfriend, yet he was halted in his thoughts by Sehun’s words.

“I cannot hate her,” He uttered. “She was good to me.. for the most of it, I think..” He was perplexed. “She ... she was mine at the wrong time. I wanted her heart.. her deepest secrets... what makes her laugh.. what she liked to eat the most,” He knew it all. He even knew what time of the day is her favourite, yet she remembered nothing about him. “Yet she only loved me for my body—resorting me to nothing. Nothing but flesh and bones. Nothing but a walking reminder that she is dating a decently looking guy, and that breaks me. I loved her for her, but she loved what I could not offer,” Sehun tried to hold back, but Jongin encouraged him to let it all out. “And she can not afford to talk to me, anymore. It’s final.” And with that, Sehun had closed off the windows to his heart. A strong, concrete, thick wall had gathered around his heart in his slumber, and he knew what to do in the morning. Submerged under the thick waters of anxiety and blinded by love, he had forgotten how the pull was drowning him, further. He was magnetised by her. She was a force. She took him. Her effect on him was astronomical. She was the pinnacle of perfection, and immaculate heart—but things do not prove to be what they are. Perfection is not... perfect. Flaws brought him to open his eyes. Catharsis had found its way to him. He had cleansed himself off her pain. No. He was not weak for being more careful. No. He is not weak for closing the doors of love on the potential lovers in the near future—he wanted to be ready. Clawing their way into his reveries, he was lost. Unable to fixate himself during the lectures, and he caught a sight of her. A sickening smile on her face, and her voice absolutely deafening; heedless, he was longing for one more conversation. He noticed her fleeing, he noticed the fleeting glances, and he noticed the notifications on his phone going off. As if she had thought that she could pull onto his heartstrings, and leave with closure. Sehun had been always a compassionate man, and he would not resort to anything that could - possibly - hurt another. There was no footing to be lost. He stood high, before her, his energy utterly different than the night before. “Ms. Go,” The dapper one had said. His voice holding a hefty, potent, and confident flair to it. Understandably, Aerin was taken off guard. Her doe eyes widening, and she chewed on the tips of her acrylic nails—meekly, she answered. “Yes..?” Oh, how the tables have turned. Sehun did not entertain the conversation too much. He wanted it - over - the second it had commenced. “It is over,” He said. Watching as she swiftly responded. “As if that was not obvious, fucker,” Trying to regain her status as the superior in the conversation—but it was in vain. Sehun’s visage remained stoic. Cold. Almost as if all the light that was erupting onto his moonlit skin had dissipated into nothingness. “Keep your filthy language, I will not participate in that low level,” The man riposted. His eyes falling to the necklace that he had bought her, her donned in it, and he grew that bitter taste on his tongue. Not now. “Yeah, yeah, whatever you say, virgin—what the fuck do you want from me?” The lady had grew angrier by the second. Sehun’s reactions remained stagnant. “I want you to understand that I loved you for you. I never cared about your social status, your looks, or your actions—I never wanted it to be superficial. I wanted to love every inch of you, yet you tore every inch of me,” Sehun’s words had appeared to have had an effect on her; resulting in her silence. “I thought of our future together—I loved you. I wanted to go on more dates, I wanted to know more about you—yet you suddenly lost all your interest in me the very moment I had rejected you; that night you stayed over,” Sehun stepped a little closer, his towering height had finally inflicted its effect. “And I accepted that. I thought... maybe, she needed more time to adjust to me not being very comfortable with intimacy so quickly—you said how much you loved my mind, but your hands have always been adjacent to my hips—you do not even know what my favourite drink is, you do not even know what my last name is—do you?” Aerin looked puzzled. The Sehun before her was not the same subservient man that she used to stomp on. She had tried numerous tactics to guilt him, yet he had never been this way. She emotionally blackened him. He had completely changed, and she was scared. All it took was infidelity? Her cherubic lips were tucked into her mouth. She chewed, chewed, and chewed. Slowly, blood seeped out, and she could not speak. “Look.. what you made me do..” His former lover had said; rummaging for her tissues, and trying to escape this confrontation. Sehun did not let her. She needed to hear it all. Sehun needed her to know exactly what damages she had caused, and he quickly said. “I made you do nothing,” He quickly responded. His eyes pitying the red that matched her already smudged lipstick. “What about the time you shoved me? What about the time you emotionally blackmailed me in order to bruise your skin..? Thinking that I was too weak to give you hickeys.. thinking I was nothing, if I did not perform any carnal activities with you—does it not count?” She shook her head—she could not accept the fact that she had hurt him. She did it on purpose, yet she could not deal with not being the victim. “You made me bleed! Look at my lips!” Sehun’s eyes, for the first time, they rolled to the back of his skull. “Aerin. Thank you for being the reason of the birth of my resilience. Farewell.” Sehun had turned on his heel, and ignored the grip that tightened onto the sleeve of his suit jacket. Not looking back. He continued forward, and his eyes never scanned that beautiful face with those doe eyes, ever again. Love has been a topic long forgotten since that day. He had dreamt of the idea of love, but the mere mention of succumbing himself into the abyss of being controlled, manipulated, and questioning his worth did not seem appealing. He wanted to ready himself for the one. For the one that will light fire in his heart, and for the one that would hold him tight. Let him see what it truly felt like for his efforts to be reciprocated. Love is blind—and his heart desired for that connection. That experience had taught Sehun a lot. He never resorted to alcohol ever again. He had learnt to keep himself positive, and to reconcile his emotions better. He had wanted to give the world kindness, and offer the world a hand that will hold. An ear that listens, and a heart that understood. Taking the path to become a therapist appeared immaculate, and the insatiable appetite for knowledge had proceeded his studies. Thank you, Go Aerin... I, now, understand myself better.

[bearly-writing]

Your bingo fills are amazing and I love all of them! I think the one with Shiro and self surgery is my favourite. Or maybe the one with Pidge and water torture. Could I request Shiro and denied food as punishment? Perhaps with Pidge and/or Keith trying to help or being supportive or something like that?

Thank you very much! I’m not sure if any of the people who request these actually get around to reading them by the time I post them, but if you do - I’m so sorry for how long this took! Also I’m not sure if this is really what you were looking for but I hope you enjoy it anyway! :)

All of my prompts have now been requested! Thank you everyone who’s requested something - I know I’m getting through these painfully slowly, but I promise I am getting through them! :)

Eat Your Heart Out

Fandom: Voltron: Legendary Defender

Prompt: Denied Food As Punishment

Characters: Shiro, Keith, Pidge, Hunk, Allura

Warnings: Starvation, Dehydration, Torture, Flashbacks, PTSD

Summary: It wouldn’t be so bad, Shiro thinks, if he could drink a little more water.

Read it on AO3 here!

“Please,” Shiro begs, a little desperately, because this has spiralled so completely out of his control. “They were acting on my orders. I will serve any punishment you deem necessary, but let the other paladins go.”

The aliens stare back at him impassively. It’s difficult to read the expressions on their faces when their anatomy is so different from a human’s, but Shiro can’t discern any pity there. His stomach tightens.

This was supposed to be an easy mission, a few weeks of scientific exchange, some diplomacy – something Pidge and Shiro could have handled in their sleep. Keith had only come with them as a precaution. It had all gone downhill so quickly that Shiro hadn’t even realised anything was wrong until it was too late, and Allura wouldn’t know anything for at least a few days, either. Their chances of rescue were slim. Even once Allura figures out what happens, their alliance will hinder her efforts to get them free. If Shiro doesn’t get the other paladins out of this now, they could all be trapped here for the foreseeable future.

“The other paladins must serve their sentence just as you must, Black Paladin. Following orders is no excuse.”

Shiro grits his teeth against the angry retort straining to escape. It’s hard to tamp down on the frustration though. The coalition is the important thing here, he tries to remind himself, and they’re well within their rights to demand punishment for a breach in their laws. Shiro has done worse things than jail time to keep an alliance member happy. It wouldn’t even be that bad, except Keith and Pidge are being punished right alongside him – and they can afford to be down Shiro, but all three of them will leave them without Voltron indefinitely.

“Please reconsider. Without the other paladins Voltron will be unable to form. You’ll be leaving countless alliance members vulnerable to the Galra. You must understand that Princess Allura cannot allow this to happen. I will take the punishment if you let my teammates go.”

Another imperious look. “We are unconcerned with Voltron. You have broken our laws, so you will face our punishment.”

That has Shiro’s heart sinking all the way down to his toes. No Voltron. And Keith and Pidge forced to suffer the punishment for a call Shiro had made.

“In light of the fact that the Red and Green Paladins were following your orders, we will allow you to take the worst of the punishment, Black Paladin.”

A little trickle of relief slides through Shiro’s chest. In truth, the sentencing had been a little vague - Shiro isn’t entirely sure what to expect. But if it means that Keith and Pidge will escape the worst of the punishment, he’ll happily take anything.

***

It wouldn’t be so bad, Shiro thinks, if he could drink a little more water. Humans are pretty resilient – Shiro knows that first hand, as well as from his survival training at the Garrison. A healthy person can last as long as forty days without food, if they have adequate hydration, sometimes longer.

Shiro doesn’t know how long he had lasted during his year with the Galra, although he knows it wasn’t as long as that. The Galra hadn’t been kind enough to postpone his arena battles whilst they slowly starved him. This is better, Shiro tells himself, in so many ways, because at least he doesn’t have to fight this time, doesn’t have to drag energy out of the dark void of his stomach, doesn’t have to worry about the fog in his head clouding his concentration whilst an enemy bears down relentlessly upon him. All he has to do is lie on the cold metal floor of the cell and try not to worry the other paladins too much.

Still, the Galra had given him water each time he had won – and he had won often, even if he wouldn’t kill for them. The memory sends a strange, cold shiver over his skin. His hands feel damp, as if they’re remembering the cool liquid against his palms. His throat works, spasming dryly around the memory. It’s the same desperate thirst he had felt in the arena, when he had thrown himself against the sand and sunk his hands, his face, whatever he could reach into the trough lined along the high metal wall. The water was always filthy, rank with blood and sweat and sand, but Shiro hadn’t cared then. He wouldn’t care now, he thinks, although the gritty, copper taste of it lingers uncomfortably on his tongue.

They allow him a few mouthfuls each day – enough to keep him alive for now, although there’s a small, dark part of him that acknowledges that it won’t be for long. Sometimes he considers not drinking it. Maybe it would be easier if he just let himself fade away.

But he can’t do that – not with Keith and Pidge in the cell right beside him, pale and concerned and angry on his behalf. He’s still the Black Paladin, even small and starved in some alien prison cell. He’s still their leader. If Shiro hadn’t given up through that long, awful year with the Galra, he’s not about to give up now.

Still, it’s difficult to hold onto that resolve when the door slides open and one of the aliens glides in, pushing a wheeled, metal food cart in front of them. There are three bowls balanced on top of it, along with three bottles of water. Shiro clamps down hard on the spark of hope that flickers to life in his chest. He isn’t stupid. He’s seen this tactic used too many times to actually believe that the third bowl is for him. The alien stops at the door to Keith and Pidge’s cell, eyeing them with obvious dislike.

“Move to the back of the cell,” he orders, voice cool and uninterested. There’s no movement – both Keith and Pidge stay standing where they are, as if frozen. Shiro feels his heart sink.

“Give Shiro his first.” It’s not a request – not that Keith can really order anyone around. He crosses his arms, eyes narrowed, and Shiro feels a strange mix of fondness and irritation creep through his chest.

“Keith,” he starts. “Just do what he says.”

“No. I’m not moving until he gives it to you.” There’s a stubborn set to Keith’s jaw. Pidge nods, as if Keith is being perfectly reasonable, tilting her own chin up defiantly. The alien doesn’t seem concerned. If anything, he looks bored.

“Then none of you will eat.”

The fondness in Shiro’s chest fades, and he knows that it’s the hunger clawing irritation behind his ribs, but he can’t stop it rising up his throat like bile. It’s the same every time, the pointless defiance, the self-sacrificing anger. There’s no point in it – whenever Keith and Pidge hold their ground, the aliens keep their word, and all of them go hungry. When they do give in, Keith is always furious at himself, even though it’s pointless. The first few times, Pidge had looked desperately for a way to pass some of her food to Shiro, but the wall of energy is an impenetrable barrier between them. It’s just another cruelty – the fact that the barrier is clear enough to seem as though they could just reach right through.

“Keith, this is pointless. You need to eat.” And Shiro doesn’t particularly like the desperation in his voice, but it’s better than the irritation he can feel pressing behind his teeth, and Keith acquiesces at the sound, shooting Shiro a wounded look, but dropping his arms to his side.

“Against the wall, then,” the alien says, still sounding bored, as if this is all some annoying inconvenience.

Keith’s eyes narrow further, but he moves dutifully to the back of the cell, and, after a moment’s hesitation, Pidge follows. The alien presses something beside their cell and the barrier at the front warps, allowing him to push the cart into the narrow space. Steam rises enticingly from each bowl as he places them on the floor, setting a bottle of water beside each of them, before stepping back out into the hall and letting the barrier slide back into place behind him. When he turns towards Shiro, the Black Paladin’s stomach clenches, tight and flat, too empty to even rumble.

“Move to the back of your cell.”

As if Shiro hasn’t just watched the same song and dance happen in the cell right next to his. Shiro moves without argument. But as he gets to his feet, his head spins. A strange dizziness rushes over him like a wave, as if all of the blood in his body has just sunk to his feet. Black spots burst across his vision, darkness descending over him like a shroud being pulled across his face, and Shiro stumbles, lightheaded. Catches himself awkwardly against the barrier between the two cells. Distantly, he can hear Pidge crying out as he crashes into the wall. Feels, rather than sees Keith jerk towards him. There’s a sharp burst of electricity as Shiro makes contact and he falls back with his own cry, landing heavily on the metal floor. For a long moment, he just lies there, panting, listening to his pulse rushing in his ears and the worried babbling of the other paladins. When his vision clears, he pulls himself carefully into a sitting position, blinking quickly to keep the darkness at bay. The alien regards him with cool indifference.

“Against the wall,” it says, again, as if Shiro is being purposefully obtuse.

“He’s sick,” Pidge snaps from her own cell as Shiro shuffles backwards on his ass. “He needs food. You’re killing him.”

The alien doesn’t pay her any attention and Shiro doesn’t have the energy to warn her against antagonising him. His head is still spinning lightly, as if he can feel the rotation of the planet underneath him, and it’s rolling an uncomfortable nausea through his stomach, even though there’s nothing in there for him to throw up. He clenches his teeth against the sensation, slides all the way to the back of the cell, carefully not touching the wall behind him even though all he wants to do is lean back against it.

The alien touches the same spot outside the cell and the barrier warps, allowing him access. The smell hits Shiro immediately, rich and meaty, and Shiro’s stomach turns. Saliva floods his dry mouth and Shiro has to swallow thickly. It’s difficult to tell whether he actually wants to eat. His stomach is so empty that it rebels against the idea of being filled. Not that there’s actually any chance of that happening.

The alien picks up the remaining water bottle with one tentacle-like arm, rattling it enticingly before unscrewing the lid. A small paper cup sits next to the food bowl on the cart, and Shiro watches with a creeping feeling of despair as the alien pours a mouthful of water into the cup, then places that on the floor. Shiro shuts his eyes and lets his head drop against his chest. There’s no reason to watch the alien retreat. Shiro had known he wouldn’t be offered any food even before the alien had arrived. He never is.

“This is bull,” Keith snarls as soon as the alien has retreated to wherever they take the leftover food once they’ve finished taunting Shiro with it. Probably, they just dump it in the garbage. Shiro has to clench his teeth against the anger bubbling up his throat at that thought. “They can’t do this.”

“Yes, they can,” Shiro sighs, and the words come out strangely thick. “Just eat, Keith. Please.”

There’s a beat of strained silence. Shiro imagines he can hear Keith’s teeth grinding together.

“Keith…” Pidge murmurs, gently touching his arm, and Shiro’s chest throbs. He wants so suddenly that it takes his breath away. Not just for the steaming bowls of food sitting innocuously on the floor before them, but for the casual intimacy of that touch. It feels like forever since anyone has touched him, and Shiro isn’t a stranger to isolation, but it still sends a flash of hurt spiking through his chest. Keith huffs but some of the tension drains out of his body and he drops to the floor, crossing his legs underneath him, and pulls the bowl into his lap.

“This is still bull,” he growls, but he scoops a handful of what looks like stew into his mouth and chews carefully.

Shiro picks up his own meagre cup and takes a miniscule sip. The liquid is heaven in his dry mouth. His throat works around the little trickle of water. He can’t help taking another sip, even though he should ration it as much as he can. It’s not enough to satisfy him, but it unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth. Washes a little of the awful gritty dryness away. His stomach cramps unhappily, and Shiro sets the cup down before he can spill any of it. Then he drops his hand to his belly, pressing it flat against the taut skin, trying to quell the painful clench. It works about as well as it always does.

“Are you OK?’ Pidge asks, sharp, and Shiro has to work hard to keep his face carefully blank. It’s not as if there’s anything they can do for him anyway.

“I’m fine,” he manages and his voice is surprisingly steady. He presses his fingers hard against his stomach. They’re bright points of pain, sharp against the dull, aching cramp of his gut. With his other hand, he takes another trembling sip of water. There’s less than a mouthful left, just sad little trickles running down the side of the cup, wet against his lips, soaking into his dry skin. Shiro has to tighten his aching throat against the groan that tries to slip out.

“Just eat.”

Pidge’s jaw flexes, but she acquiesces, taking a tentative bite of her own stew and Shiro shuts his eyes to block out the sight and tries very hard not to think about exactly how hungry he is.

***

The crowd roars, a raucous swell of sound, crashing over Shiro like a wave. Shiro barely hears them over the rush of blood in his ears, his ragged pants. There’s always shouting. Shiro learned to tune it out a long time ago.

That isn’t difficult today, Shiro feels as though a thick blanket has been pulled over his head. He can hear his own panted breaths, his thrumming pulse, the shift of sand beneath his feet, but the rest of the world seems strangely muted, as if he’s straining to hear it through cotton wool. Black spots flash across his eyes, mottled shadows flickering in his peripheral vision. He blinks rapidly to clear them. It doesn’t work as well as he had hoped.

Champion, champion, champion.

Shiro sways. Tightens his grip on the weapon in his hands. It slides against his palms, slick with sweat. It’s hot out on the sand, but Shiro feels chilled to the bone, a constant tremor shivering over his skin.

Champion, champion, champion.

His stomach is pressed flat. His throat aches, so dry it feels cracked open. He’s desperate for a little water. Just a mouthful. He would kill for it. He would…No…

The door on the other side of the arena opens and a figure stumbles out onto the sand. They’re small: it’s hard to judge from so far away, but Shiro guesses they only reach his waist. The thin sword grasped in one hand is trailing across the floor, as if they don’t have the strength to lift even that thin weapon.

It’s a sacrifice. It’s a test.

Sharp claws press into the meat of Shiro’s shoulder, prick holes in the thin material of his prison suit, draw blood.

“Kill them and you can eat, Champion.”

And Shiro aches.

“Shiro?”

Shiro startles into consciousness. Blinks. Struggles to orient himself. There’s no roaring crowd. No sacrificial opponent. The tight ache of his stomach is the same. So is the dry agony in his throat. But there’s hard metal at his back rather than sand and the skin of his shoulder is smooth and whole – no sharp claws buried in his flesh. Shiro drags himself upright, holding himself steady with his prosthetic arm when the world spins dizzyingly around him.

“Shiro?” Keith asks again, and Shiro swallows hard. He’s not entirely sure what that was and it’s a sharp, unsettled sensation in his chest. Was it a memory? A nightmare? A flashback? It’s difficult to untangle his thoughts, to see past the hazy fog of hunger in his head. It hurts.

Shiro can deal with the low, cramping pain in his gut. Can deal with the headache pounding behind his eyes, the weakness, the constant, aching cold. What he is struggling with are the flashbacks, the nightmares, the strange half-formed thoughts and sensations. It’s hard to avoid them. The starvation has drawn a cold, fuzzy blanket over his head, as if he’s draped in thin cotton. It’s difficult to think. Difficult to distinguish what he’s experiencing now, with what he experienced then.

“Are you OK?” Pidge asks, and Shiro has to fight against the memory of Matt’s voice, of that same concern and fear and anger. He nods and his head feels strangely loose on his neck, as if he isn’t totally in control of it.

“I’m fine.” His mouth is so dry that his tongue sticks to the roof and the words come out slurred and almost unintelligible. Shiro blinks and Pidge’s face wavers in front of him, pale and concerned. “Did you guys get to eat?”

“Not yet.” Keith appears at her shoulder and Shiro starts. He had almost forgotten the red paladin was here. A little trickle of unease burns through the fog in his head. How could he forget about Matt? His friend could be injured. He could be hurt. He could be starving to death just as Shiro is in some awful Galra prison camp.

No. That’s not – it’s not Matt Shiro had forgotten, it’s Keith. Matt is right in front of him, frowning, glasses shining in the harsh light. Except that’s not right either.

“You should eat,” he tries, because that seems safe. Because he was worried about that – his own stomach is too tight to eat anything but Matt should – no, not Matt.

“We will,” Pidge says, softly. And, oh – Matt isn’t here, it’s Pidge and Keith trapped here with him. It’s Pidge and Keith who are suffering with him. He runs a shaky hand over his face and is surprised by the dry catch of his own palm.

“Are you sure you’re OK?” Keith asks, and his voice is sharper, harsher, than Pidge’s.

Shiro frowns, irritation swelling in his throat. “I told you I am. Please, just eat.”

“They haven’t brought any food yet, we’ll eat when they get here. Shiro, I’m worried about you – you can’t keep going like this. They’re killing you.”

That’s probably true. Shiro isn’t sure how much longer he can last with less than a mouthful of water a day. His head throbs and his whole body throbs along with it, as if the pain is in his blood. Soon he won’t even have the energy to sit up.

“Shiro? Answer me.”

Shiro blinks. Was there a question? Has he missed something? He struggles to focus on the other paladins, fighting against the blurry haze of his vision. Both Keith and Pidge are clustered as close to the barrier as they can get without touching it, fear slashed across their faces. Full bowls of food have somehow materialised on the floor beside them. When Shiro turns his head, confused, one of the aliens is standing at the barrier to Shiro’s own cell. Did Shiro pass out? A cold shiver of fear slides over his skin. How much time did he lose?

“Move to the back of your cell,” the alien orders, with the tone of someone who’s had to ask more than once.

“How?” Keith snaps, and Shiro wants to tell him not antagonise them, but he can’t work the words out of his dry mouth. “He’s sick. He can’t move.”

“Then he will go hungry.”

As if Shiro isn’t already hungry. As if they’ve given him anything to eat since they imprisoned him. But the water – Shiro is desperate for even a few drops. His throat aches with it. His lips are so dry that Shiro thinks they would be bleeding if he had any liquid left in his body. If he can just summon the energy to move, he can wet his mouth a little, he can last a little longer. A groan slides out of his throat before he can stop it.

Keith crowds even closer to the barrier, frantic. “Shiro?”

Shiro tries to lift his head, but he doesn’t even have the strength to do that. His heart punches against his jaw, against thin, dry skin, too quick, too frantic. Black spots bloom across his vision, even though he’s still lying on the floor. Even though there’s no reason to feel faint, to -

***

A hand touches his arm. Shiro starts. It can’t be time for another fight – not yet. Hadn’t he just got back from the last one? His body hurts, his head throbs. He must have taken a beating. It isn’t time. But his mouth is as dry as the arena sand so maybe it has been a while – or maybe he just hadn’t won.

“No,” Shiro tries to say, but the words stick in his mouth, thick and tacky like tar, like blood. It doesn’t matter anyway, Shiro’s pleas have always fallen on deaf ears. The Galra don’t care whether he wants to fight or not.

“It’s OK,” someone says, close by his ear. And Shiro recognises that voice, distantly. He tries to force the memory of its owner through the fog in his head, but it’s buried too deep.

The hand shifts. There are no claws, no fur. The arm that wraps around his back and heaves him off of the ground is definitely human.

“I’ve got you, hold on, we’re getting out of here.”

Hunk. That’s Hunk. Shiro blinks and the Yellow Paladin wavers into view, his face tight and angry. From somewhere behind him, Allura’s voice snaps out like a whip, sharp with fury.

“This is utterly unacceptable! If I had known, I can assure you -”

Shiro misses the rest of her words because Keith and Pidge are suddenly crowding into the cell with him, Keith ducking under the arm that isn’t already supported by Hunk’s broad shoulder. The world spins dizzyingly around Shiro as they right him. If there was anything left in his stomach, Shiro might be afraid of throwing up. Instead, his stomach just clenches angrily, splashing acid up his throat, burning sharp and harsh against dry flesh. His head lolls loosely against his shoulders.

Hunk’s arm tightens around his back. Then cool hands touch his face, brushing his bangs away from his eyes, and Shiro would flinch but his muscles won’t obey his commands.

“How long have they denied him food and water?” Allura asks, and her face is very close to his, her brows furrowed in concern. Her palms are dry against his skin.

“The whole time.” Keith’s voice is tight, practically vibrating and Allura’s face contracts at the words. If that anger were directed at Shiro, he would be quaking under her glare, but her touch stays gentle and when she speaks again her voice is very soft. “I’m sorry we took so long to get to you, Shiro. We were not aware…” Her voice cracks. “You do not need to suffer here a moment longer.”

It’s OK, Shiro wants to say. The words die before they even reach his throat.

It was worse with the Galra, he wants to say, although that probably won’t make them feel much better. At least this time he had known they would come for him. At least this time he wasn’t alone.

“Come on, Shiro,” Allura says, gently. “Lets get you home.”

[beerecordings]

Between Two Houses

Part 16 of My Brother’s Keeper (Part 1 l Previous l Next)

My taglist is a separate post so let me know if you would like to be added or removed. Wow guys I am so damn happy to be posting again :) Let’s do this!!

They’ve all made choices. Jameson, for his part, has had a lot of choices made for him. Maybe even some of the choices he will make are already made for him. He doesn’t know. This is all so much. He thinks he’d like to choose for himself, but he might not get a chance. There’s an itching at the back of his head.

Jameson trembles.

Jameson trembles.

Jameson trembles.

He doesn't know when the shaking first started. He doesn't think he always shook like this, but, then again, sometimes memories go missing in his head. Reflecting, he knows it must have happened somewhere between the day Anti stole him and the day Anti gave him his knives as a present, because by then the only steadiness he could find was with a blade in his hands.

And he was good with a blade in his hands. He was good. He felt a little safer.

He used his knives on Anti, once.

He had been tortured that morning – he remembers the causal offense precisely; he had spent too long outside, a whole three hours instead of two – and he was hiding beneath his cot, frailly coughing blood.

There was an illness in his chest and thick cuts in his ribs and the pain throughout his body was fresh and hot and stinging. He had not eaten in two days. There were times when that great agony became a desperate love for Anti, a desperate attempt to justify the suffering he was in by promising himself that this brotherhood was worth it, but on that night, there was nothing but hatred.

There was nothing but hatred.

Anything is better than this, Jameson decided hollowly, dragging himself out from under his bed and picking up a pair of his knives. Let him kill me. Please, God, let him kill me.

He didn't bother trying to sneak up on him. There was never any point. Anti always knew where he was, what he was doing, what he could do, and often he seemed to see his very thoughts. Jameson's breath rattled thin through his body and he left his room, turned in the empty doorway, and came to stand before Anti at the top of the stairs.

“Hi, Dapper,” said Anti, smiling far too wide.

Jameson threw himself at him like he was insane, frothing blood and saliva, and Anti was corporeal enough to be shoved to the ground. They fought, and for the first few seconds, Jameson felt that they were caught in a fight to the death, the final culmination of all that he had been through discovered in the violent thrashing of his knife and the strength of his hands, but then – but then.

Anti laughed.

Jameson, confused and terrified, tried harder and harder, struck him again and again, brought his knife into his glitching stomach and wailed without sound to see that it did not hurt him, it did not hurt him, it did not even make him flinch; he only laughed, and laughed, and laughed.

They tussled for a long time, Anti smiling and giggling just the same as he did whenever they mock-fought, pushing playfully at him, tugging at his hair, occasionally biting at his wrists or his ears, while Jameson continued trying to stab him. Eventually the younger brother wore himself out. Weeping, wheezing, choking on and slicked in blood, Jameson collapsed into Anti's lap.

And Anti held him, amused, and stroked his hair for a long time while he screamed.

There was never even any punishment. There was never the slightest punishment for that.

Because his fury meant nothing.

His pain meant nothing.

His decision – his choice – his fury – meant nothing.

He fell asleep. Dreamed vaguely of a smiling boy in a red hood.

The next morning, he convinced himself he loved Anti again.

And he trembled.

And trembled.

And trembled.

“Do you always shake like this?” asks Henrik.

He feels like a dead thing. His mouth tastes like dust. He makes no move to answer. Makes no move to sign. Makes no move to look at Henrik.

He's been clammed up for hours now and the doctor is becoming afraid.

“Jameson, can you meet my eyes?” he asks.

Jamie's gaze is fixed on the white door of the spare room like he expects it to catch fire and then charge at him. The overhead light is on, but the blinds of the window behind them are closed, leaving them both streaked with feeble slats of golden light.

“Can you even hear me?” adds Henrik, concerned. “Maybe it's your ears, not your mouth, where the problem is?”

At this, Jameson's mouth curves down ever-so-slightly at the edges and his eyes, just for a moment, flicker over to Henrik's. He reaches up to touch his trembling hand to his bruised throat and gives no reply.

Chase opens the door and Jameson jolts so hard Henrik wonders if he hasn't been shot. He didn't know it was possible for the littlest brother to get any more stiff, but here he is, staring at Chase as though the apocalypse has come wearing a snap-back and a PMA hoodie.

“Poor buddy, still shaking so much,” Chase frowns, closing the door behind him. He carries clean clothes and a glass of water, not that they've been able to get him to drink or eat anything for the past 12 hours. “Do you think this room's making him nervous?”

“What, does this room make you nervous?”

“I don't know. For a spare bedroom, Marvin was kind of territorial about it.”

“Yeah, I think have practiced shit in here. Don't know what. Probably don't want to know what.”

Marvin. The name registers distractedly through the back of Jameson's head. That must be the cat's name. Anti never told him. He was only ever “kitten” or “witch,” and Anti did not entertain questions about him or any of the others.

The drunk – the actor, the gunman – sits down beside him on the black sheets of the bed, and guilt nearly makes Jameson cry.

“How you doing, buddy?” Chase reaches out to wrap a warm arm around Jameson's shoulders and rubs his arm. “How about something to drink, huh? Must be thirsty. Let's get some water in you.”

Jameson's mouth has gone very dry, but not from the mention of water. He is choking on Chase's kindness, on his sweet vanilla and whiskey smell, on the memory of hot black blood pouring out of his heart as he looked up with eyes impossibly forgiving, the memory – oh, oh, is he bleeding now? Jameson swears he feels warm wet blood blossoming against his shoulder, where Chase, kind and loving, is pressed against him –

“Chase, let him go. Chase, you're scaring him. Chase – ”

“Sorry,” cries Chase's panicked voice, and then his arm is gone, and Jameson realizes that he is breathing very hard, his chest moving in rapid, ragged gasps. Chase and Henrik are speaking again, but their voices are far off in the distance, and anyway, he doesn't care what they have to say. He doesn't care about anything anymore. He is frail as the glass that remains when the window is already once-shattered, as stable as a leaf in a hurricane; a thousand emotions have long since overwhelmed him and his heart is very, very broken.

Chase slicked in blood, Henrik chained to a rebar pole, the bright slit in Jackie's arm, and, in the middle of it all, Jameson himself, my fault, my fault, and for all that I have done and failed to do, I still wasn't enough to make him want me at all –

He cannot breathe.

Fury! He's angry and he strikes the bed with his fist. His speaking hands have known blood and the strangled emotion of murder. Guilt! He's ashamed and he cries, reaching up to hide his face from these strangers who have already named him as their own and given him care and protection. Sorrowful! Sorrowful, sorrowful, he has lived every day of his life with a sorrow and a desperation crying inside his chest, and none of it is fair, and none of it is right, and he needs it all to be over.

“Jameson, breathe!” Henrik gives instruction through gritted teeth, standing before his little brother and holding his shoulders. Jameson has stopped responding completely. His hands are on his heart and his blue eyes stare up at the ceiling as he hyperventilates. “Jameson, Jameson, here I am, okay? Chase, maybe you should go – here I am, it's okay. Anti's not here, Liebling. Anti's not here. You're safe. You're safe.”

Anti's not here. Anti's not here. Anti's not here. Jameson hates him, Jameson loves him. Jameson  doesn't know what to feel or say or do. It's one of the first times in his life that the choice – that any choice – has been his to make.

His throat sends throbbing pain up into his head and mouth and down into his back and shoulders. He's growing dizzy from hunger, but Anti wouldn't want him to eat their food. And always, for hours, there has been a scratching at the back of his head, a scratching at the back of his head, a reminder of something he has forgotten – it was important, what was it? It was something Anti told him. It was important. It was an order. It was important. It itches.

“Please,” he says, and it is the softest sign, it is a frailty, his fingers touched to his chin and then drawn quietly away again, and still he cannot meet Henrik's eyes. “Please.”

Please, end this. Please, let me die. Let him kill me. I can't take this. I've done my suffering. Haven't I, doc? Haven't we suffered together? I need this to stop. Get Anti and let him take it all away. Get your syringe and let me drown back into sleep. Get the mask or the cat and let them kill me, and then, if I'm damned, at least I will know where I belong. Let this moment pass. Let this moment pass. Let this moment pa

The moment passes.

And the next, and the next, and the next, and Jameson, wide-eyed and choking, is in the silver river once again, as time, at the call of his shaking hands, rushes faster and faster past him.

Henrik is gone. Chase is gone. Anti, Jackie, Marvin, all washed away.

The water flows over his head and about his body. He stares around him, wide-eyed and knee-deep in something other-worldly.

It's real then, he realizes. Nothing has felt real for hours, the world far away and in dissonance with his panicked harmony, but this – this place feels real, feels right. He lets a hand drift through the cool water. It does not wet his fingers. The pressure is painless. Everything is silent and gentle. Everything is his. It's real, this power. It's real.

For a long time, he only watches, watches, watches, and the river is obedient, and the moment passes. It's strange, how easy it is. He feels, in a way that he has never felt before, that this is something that he was created for, or maybe that it was created for him. Eventually, he sits down on the rocky floor of the riverbed.

Images move past him.

A boy with a red hood. A boy with a cat mask. A boy with a wound in his throat, but not Anti. He can tell from the way he moves. He puts his head in his hands and his elbows on his knees and he watches. Is this someone's memory? The people who have lived in the house where he stays now? Or is it just time?

He sees Henrik and Chase side-by-side, sat next to a bed, their heads turned warmly to each other and their hands close together as they talk, low and easy, until it is late at night. Chase's arms are bandaged. Henrik is pale. Jameson recognizes a survival struggle in their eyes, but he also thinks that's probably what friendship looks like. They smile at each other.

He sees the mask, though his face is not yet scarred, standing in river of his own, picking up rocks from the shore and skipping them skillfully across the water. Every now and then, he looks to the side, where Jameson cannot see, and he laughs, hard and earnest, and answers a voice Jameson cannot hear.

He sees Mr. Jack – no, it is Anti, not Jack. He sees Anti stood in front of a mirror, leaning over a sink, retching. He spasms hard, and for a second, when he looks up, there is terror in his eyes, and Jameson reads on his mouth the words “Who am I?”

He sees the house where he lived with Anti. He sees the house that Marvin made for his brothers. He sees the doctor and the mask and the cat and the gunsman and the demon and Mr. Jack.

He sees himself.

Smiling and earnest.

Shaking and scared.

And he wonders, in all this, between two houses, between the two dogs that have always torn him apart like a wishbone, in all that he has and all that has been stolen from him, just where it is that he's supposed to fit in.

Maybe that's something I'm supposed to figure out for myself.

He realizes he's breathing easy again.

In and out. In and out. In and out.

Maybe that's something... I get to choose?

He feels a little calmer.

A knife in his hands has always made him feel calmer, and though he likes to watch, passively, as the images go by, what he sees first of all in the silver river is the ways it could be wielded to protect himself.

To protect himself and to hurt others.

This is what Anti trained him to do, after all. To be dangerous. To see violence. To use weapons.

And to find Jack, Jameson.

Find Jack.

And lead me to him.

His head really, really itches.

He thinks he probably needs to go back to the world as it was.

He reaches for the watch in his pocket and breathes in deep, his fingers tightening around the stop button, and as he presses it, he catches one more glimpse of time in the water of the silver river.

“Hi,” signs a boy who looks like him, but who is not him, a boy who is not Anti or Jackie or Marvin or Henrik or Chase. He smiles bright. His eyes are very blue.

“Hi,” signs Jack. “Hi, JJ.”

And then they are both gone away.

[www-suzannerichardsonwrites]

On Connection, Disconnection, Memento Mori, and “In The Pines”

In my creative writing classes I use a text by Janet Burroway, Imaginative Writing. In this text there’s an entire section about fiction, and plot, but specifically stories being told through the concepts of connections and disconnection. Though I’ve taught this portion of the text many times, I’ve often confessed to my students that I was never fully convinced by the idea that connections and disconnections make for good stories or plots--or at least not in the way Burroway describes. She claims each moment in a story is a moment of connection or disconnection building towards a climax. She charts out Cinderella with certainty and quotes Claudia Johnson, “The conflict and surface events are like waves, but underneath is an emotional tide--the ebb and flow of human connection” (Burroway). Each time I’ve taught this section I have re-read it and tried to more deeply understand how periods of connection and disconnection make good stories and it hasn’t really made sense, until now.

It is safe to say I have been disconnected. I find myself single again at thirty-four and while it feels somewhat hopeful, it also feels like an overwhelming task. Each break-up I go through takes me back to the original break-up of my twenties, the place where all that pain lives pressed like dead flowers on display. I struggle with feeling like a failure. Feeling like a lonely failure. Feeling like I fought tooth and nail for something that I should have let go years ago. It feels a bit like being underwater while people breathe deeply and splash around on the surface. It feels a bit like being the party guest who wants to go home within five minutes of entering the party. It also feels like being a newborn--all this focus on me, my needs, my wants, what matters to me, is almost like I’ve grown a new set of eyes and I am seeing the world anew. I take long walks, I stop whenever I want. I get up in the middle of the night and eat citrus fruit or drink down gulps of grapefruit juice over the sink (some of my old single girl behavior). I shower in the dark sometimes--a fun game. Entering a gas station is like landing on a new planet--the thrum of the neon lights, the low growl of the refrigerators; rows and rows of cold beverages and I can drink any, or all of them. I have lots of choices; which is both freeing and scary. I wake up with answers to some of my own questions that I ask myself at night; it’s like my life is now one long, deep conversation with myself that I occasionally invite people to. I started dreaming again--something I was too stressed out and depressed to do for almost two years. I dream first about myself, looking in a mirror and I’m so interested in what I see, I take my shirt off and examine my naked breasts (like I’ve never seen them before). Next the women come rushing back; I dream about girlfriends I’ve been disconnected from. Stress dreams of one who just had a baby, two others who are both pregnant appear in a dream inviting me to sit down in the kitchen of our old apartment we shared in Greenpoint, Brooklyn. I dream about circles and wonder what the universe is trying to tell me. Turn? Keep going? Roll? This is a cycle? I try to pay attention.

I find inspiration everywhere--tree bark, jewelry I haven’t worn for many years, parts of books I love that I revisit when I can’t sleep. I’m reminded of the fiction about vampires, how they grow fangs and begin to know a hunger they’ve never experienced before--I too am hungry. I think many emerge from heartbreak a little undead, a little closer to the coffin, a little more evil, a little more interested in feeding themselves than those around them.

But it isn’t just me. For months others are telling me their own stories of disconnection. This semester almost every person in an office left of me has disconnected, struggled, tried desperately to stay connected to the people they love, made sacrifices they never thought they’d have to make. I love them all, the way they have bent, twisting, contorting, drooping, so as not to break--the ones who break (like me) I love them even more. I love them for risking everything--risking all connection-- to burst into pieces alone. The ones who are about to break--I can see it in them, their eyes pooling.  Is it a kind of insanity to want to break? During snowstorms in March, Rosie would wake me at 3,4,5 am to go out--so quiet then. Snow flakes the size of quarters traveled to the ground. The tulip tree in the front yard was doubled over. I kept waiting for it  to break, every day, more, wet heavy snow, more pressure, the boughs and branches brought all the way to the ground. I walked around it looking for a breaking point. A shame to lose this much of a tree; I kept thinking. The nubs of its fuzzy buds glowed gray-green in the dark. The winter wouldn’t let up--unforgiving and snowing until the first week of May. But slowly spring came. First, I noticed the perfect circle of a bird’s nest; then I realized it was nestled in the part of the tree that had spent months on the ground and was now in the air; elastic; resilient; it gave; it gives. I want to learn more from this tree. It is teaching me. I am now drowning and drunk off the perfume of its blossoms. Passing the tree makes my circuits jump; the pink soft folds of the blooms; a deeply sensuous reward for such a bitter broken disconnected winter. I want to show my colleagues this tree-- proof of connection and disconnection making a good story so that in moments of pure doubt, when they ask themselves why they are bending, and breaking, they’ll know there’s an end to the suffering.

                                                   *        *        *

In April, on a trip to Rhode Island with students, I was lucky enough to view a pilgrim’s compass on display in a glass case. The tour guide had leaned over and casually pointed out the menento mori etched into the top of the compass.

“Sickos” he’d chuckled.

“Maybe it’s a comfort,” I’d retorted, standing up straight to meet his gaze.

“Ah, so you’re a sicko too,” he winked.

I thought about fear, all the fear I had inside me about being alone again. I thought about fear, all the fear a pilgrim might have in the woods not knowing if they should go north, or south, or east, or west, and how no matter what, death in every direction; always. How it makes the choice easier.

                                                *         *         *

In Rhode Island we visit houses Edgar Allan Poe wrote in, lived in, loved in. In some of my darkest moments I always turn back to him. Later in life he was interested in philosophical dialogues between fictitious characters about the process of death and dying. In his piece, “The Colloquy of Monos and Una” he describes the end of bodily attachment and the deep sensual state of death where all who are dead gain a 6th sense, and all touch, and pleasure is enhanced ten-fold with no dull, dirty, body to process it. Both Monos and Una describe to one another the story of the end of the world (disconnection) and their deaths one by one (disconnection) then Una’s coffin is lowered onto Monos’ and the space around his body becomes the body--the idea of “being” is replaced with location, “perpetual place and time” --things with no form (disconnection). “For that which was not--for that which had no form--for that which was soulless, yet of which matter formed no portion--for all this nothingness, yet for all this immortality, the grave was still a home, and the corrosive hours, co-mates” (Poe). Ah, nothingness, still somehow a trap according to Poe (disconnection). I start to realize I have a habit of staying in relationships longer than I should for bodily comforts even though I start to spiritually suffer. Only when I reach a spiritual breaking point do I leave--

Back in school I lecture to my students about the haunting American folk song “In The Pines,” or “Black Girl,” or “The Longest Train,” or “Where Did You Sleep Last Night?” We are reading Rob Sheffield’s book Love is a Mixtape and he is lamenting that the only artist who is writing about and singing about marriage and its strange cultural link with death is Kurt Cobain. Sheffield talks about the strange and scary vows, how marriage is a death pact. He unpacks Cobain’s version of “In The Pines,” a wailing and warbling version that builds into a sorrowful howl. Before he plays, Kurt attributes his version as inspired by Leadbelly’s recording. All covers of this song seem to stem from two early recordings though the song has been dated back to the 1870′s. Either Leadbelly’s or Bill Monroe’s versions are inspiration for newer ones. It should be no surprise the country covers follow Bill, and the more emotionally charged blues versions follow Leadbelly. The song’s lyrics change slightly in every version I’ve heard--each singer adding to the narrative, or trying to make sense of what has remained true and real about the song. Sheffield is convinced it’s about a married couple; their married troubles. I don’t buy his interpretation--it feels very clouded by his own worldview. There’s something else that bothers me about interpretations of this song: it’s the fact there’s clearly a call and response, or a female voice that gets crunched into the main narrative--her story, her words are not separate from the man who is angry, wounded, and accusatory in both versions. My college boyfriend used to play Nirvana’s version for me. We would talk about the lyrics together.

If your lover isn’t sleeping with you, where are they? A chilling question for the ages. Is she dead? do “the pines” become a metaphor for a burial place? Is sleep death? Does she know she might as well be dead if she didn’t come home to her husband last night? Is her lover about to kill her? When did the song become one voice telling the story? This becomes the ghostly part for me--her answers become squelched into the story her lover is telling about her betrayal. Why can’t she tell it? What happened to her? She “would” shiver, as in, she can’t? In Leadbelly’s version a murder does take place, but it seems it’s possibly the man who is asking where his girl went. Someone is decapitated, their body never found...but how can that be if he’s telling the story?

This song is a story of disconnection; death, anger, questions unanswered.

Even in the country version it’s sad, though it opens with descriptions of trains from Georgia. By the end of the country version the singer is heartbroken, wants to know why a woman treated him so badly.

After a while, all the versions start to blend together; Nirvana, Leadbelly, Bill Monroe, Dolly Parton, Loretta Lynn, The Carter Sisters--whose version haunts Youtube. They sit, still as dolls with long crazy dresses adorned in bows and curls like they’re trapped in a cult reporting about it live on a country TV variety show. Their harmonies so sad it breaks you.

Both versions are love gone bad. One murderously bad. One just plain old ass out on the street, bad.

My recent ex climbs his anger like stairs, I want you to feel pain. Feel the pain you’ve made me feel. I want you to hurt. I rearrange these words: I want to hurt you. You want I to hurt. I think about a dream I had once where I was shaking a friend hard by the shoulders, but then halfway through, realized I was choking her and couldn’t stop. I. Hurt. You.

He rages at me. I almost want to laugh in his face--this idea that I’m not suffering at all. That I will never suffer like he does. Like his suffering should eclipse mine, show up and beat the shit out of me. That because he’s certain I’m not in pain, or not in enough pain it’s now his responsibility to make me feel it, a kind of justice in his mind to see me suffering. Is someone with you? Is someone there? Are you seeing someone else? (Where did you sleep last night?)

I don’t answer.

(Disconnection).

[dropsofletters]

the start of november

Title: the start of november Pairing: Wu Yifan/Reader Summary: Each month with Yifan brought something new and refreshed memories of what made her love him. This time, she is reminded that there is not a specific thing…she just adores everything about him.

The month of October had been unbearable.

As a couple, they had always stated that their lives weren’t based on the other –yes, they gave each other their entire hearts and stories, but he had dreams of his own as a musician and actor and she also wanted to pursue her own dreams, so the passion of their love was absolutely different from the passion they felt for their jobs and while both were important, they knew they could wait for one another. There were nights in said month that Yifan wouldn’t be there because of gigs and recordings, as well as there were moments when he arrived home and she was laying on bed sleeping the night away or simply doing some project she needed to deliver the next day. Dates were forgotten for that month as well, like a fleeting memory of what they used to be and everything they did was quick –kissing, hugging, talking, there was not a moment for them to be together as a proper couple. When the first day of November arrives, she is more than happy that the company she worked for gave her a free day and she lets out a loud sigh, sending a text to Yifan to inform him that her afternoon was free and if he had time, the two could hang out. It felt as if they had restarted because she had never asked him out on a date ever since they started to see one another in a different light, so she laughs a bit to herself as she enters the apartment she shares with her boyfriend and she lets out a huge sigh once she approaches the couch.

How does one go on a date again?

She knows the basics, of course, getting ready and also taking the opportunity to plan where they were going, but it had been so long to the point she thinks that she was off her game. Her limbs were tired, glued to the couch as she waited for some energy to fill her body to get her to stand up and take a shower, but she really wanted to close her eyes and have the longest and most fulfilling nap ever. Love, however, is difficult and non understandable and with the thought of finally getting to see her boyfriend, she stands up. She could picture his plump lips curving on a smile when he saw her, his eyes moving down to her lips when she talked closely to him, the connection the two felt when he embraced her and how often she would think about the scent that represents him, manly and obviously a cologne, but not overbearing to the point she grows sick of the smell. Once she reaches the bathroom, she takes off the work uniform that had become her armor and she finally feels free once the water hits her skin.

Yet, she had forgotten how pleasing it was to get ready sometimes. It was obviously not the best thing ever when she had five hours of sleep and she had to wake up early to go to work, trying her best not to make any sound for Yifan because he always woke up later because of his schedule, but she would forget to even put on makeup and the uniform was there, so she didn’t have to think of an outfit. Every flick of her hand to apply another product felt different, as if it was the most interesting thing in the world, yet, she didn’t want to go overboard because her muscles still ached for that very well deserved nap. A off the shoulder top and jeans covered her body when she heard the sound of the door opening and even when she still needed to comb her hair, she was walking out of the room to peak to see who it was –the answer was obvious to her but once she saw him in his tall form dropping his keys over the table in the living room and taking off his shoes, she rushed towards him, her arms instantly wrapping around his waist as she looked up at him with the biggest smile on her face.

Indeed, she had missed him.

The short laughter that escapes his lips is beautiful, as chill and lightweight as always and he struggles to take off his shoes as she clings to his body, but he couldn’t bring himself to pull away either, placing his hands over her arms once his shoes are off. His long fingers trace soothing circles over the uncovered flesh and he looked up and down her body, seeing how she was wearing clothes to go out and he would have loved to do so, but he was absolutely tired. He had been recording a new song and between music video recordings and interviews, the only thing he wanted was to cuddle with his girlfriend and eat something to calm his hunger. He leans forward to press his lips to hers in a quick kiss and then his hands trail to her waist, pulling her closer until their chests were flushed together.

“Why are you so dressed up?” He asked in that deep voice of his and she remembered how much she missed his voice. Absolutely, she heard it every day at least once, but she still wanted to hear his voice until the end of times. Yifan was that person that she never thought she would have in her life, the one that would make her feel eager to feel love. Unlike everyone else, he makes her feel comfortable and his workaholic self connects with her in so many ways. “I mean, not that I don’t like it…” Yifan trails as he bites his bottom lip and once again, he looks at her up and down because he doesn’t consider himself great enough to have a woman like her, but he did and he was more than pleased to take care of his girlfriend. “But I was guessing we were going to stay inside and cuddle, you know.” For being such a tall man, his words sounded cute to her and she pulled away the slightest, nodding her head quickly.

“I thought you would want to go out on a date, but I think staying in sounds amazing.” Her voice is soft and Yifan feels his heart bursting with love as he looks into her shining eyes. They showed happiness, one that he loved giving to her, even if it was the five minutes that they had shared the entire month of October –at this point Yifan is exaggerating his own thoughts, but he had never been this needy for someone. “But I took my precious time getting ready only for you to say this…” He knows the teasing tone of her voice was to get him to react, but the only thing he does is kiss her cheek quickly and swing the two from side to side.

“I will make it up to you.” One of her eyebrows are raised when he says those words and she smirks, speaking against his lips.

“I wonder how…” She trails her voice and Yifan smiles at her before patting her shoulder.

“As much as I would like to do whatever has been on your head, I brought some food for us and I am hungry.” She nods her head as she looks around and then Yifan points towards the kitchen, walking ahead of her to show her what he had brought. “But I mean…I could always eat you…” Yifan adds sneakily and she smacks the side of his waist, smiling a bit at his voice as she mouths food first. “But you were the one who started it-!” Yifan says and then she looks over the table, seeing two boxes of juice and some of his favorite sandwiches around town. He had taken the time to go there before getting home and she was more than happy that they didn’t have to cook when they were both so tired.

“Juice?” She asks in a whisper and then she looks up at Yifan, seeing him nod his head with a serious expression. “People think you are this badass rapper who probably drinks beer and has super fancy meals and then you bring juice and sandwiches?” A blush appears over his face and he nods once again, taking the sandwiches out of the bag to unwrap them and she takes a seat, smelling the niceness that he had brought her. As always he had remembered and she doesn’t think he could get any cuter. Yifan is a contradicting analogy and he changes his persona without knowing so, his scowling eyebrows and handsome features showed a version of himself that people would fear, but she knows that her boyfriend is sweet and caring under all that façade. “You are a kid.” Her mouth opens to bite on her sandwich and Yifan drinks a sip of his drink before speaking.

“It is a metaphor,” His mocking voice tries to show fake intelligence and she shakes her head.

“Don’t tell me,” One of her hands raises up in the air and she pats his thigh as she speaks. “You were gonna take a sip of that juice and say can’t lose, I got juice and they know I do.” Yifan stares at her as he blinks quickly and he munches on his food, hearing her laugh soon after. “You were going to!”

“But you ruined the joke.” He finishes for her and then he rolls his eyes as a way of teasing her. “Thank you for nothing.”

“It’s my job as your girlfriend!”  

Warmth is spread through her body, running through her veins like a memory that she never wanted to forget when Yifan has one arm draped over her waist and she is leaning on his side on the couch as his laptop was settled over his long legs. His eyes would occasionally dart towards her to see what she was thinking as she saw the unreleased music video to his new song but she remained expressionless and there is nothing more than he likes about her. She wasn’t like some of the people he dated, who said yes to everything that escaped their mouth, she was actually outstanding and whenever Yifan said something, she was more than happy to say her own opinion on it. Surely, one days that lead to arguments because both of them could be hot headed when it came to arguments, but they had never shouted at one another, keeping their words through mumbled words and eye rolls that are soon forgotten when they realize that the only person who really understands them is the other. A soft smile spreads across her face when she finishes watching the video and she pecks his cheek lovingly, almost as if she was congratulating him.

“The beat is fire, starting from that.” She points out as she raises one finger in the air and then she lets it drop until it trails over his bottom lip, biting hers as she looks down at his pink lips. “But you know, I don’t know how I feel about you almost kissing some models…” Her tone is teasing and Yifan opens his mouth slightly and bites her finger the slightest bit, making her pull her finger away and wipe it on his freshly changed oversized t-shirt that he uses to sleep on. “Ew, you bit my finger!”

“Oh come on, we have both tasted worse things and we don’t seem to mind.” Yifan pokes her ribcage as she rolls her eyes. The same annoyingly teasing boyfriend. “And you know…about the video…” This time, he leans in closer and his breath is ghosting over her lips right after he closed the laptop and placed it on the coffee table. His long fingers are playing with her hair and his other hand is tightening over her waist, not enough to be overbearing but to let her know that he was there. “You don’t even have to think of being jealous because you are my goddess, no one can compete with you.”

“Same,” She reassures him and then she wraps her arms around his waist before leaning back on the couch, his figure hovering over hers as she smiles at him beautifully. There was an epoch that Yifan didn’t have her in his life and he doesn’t know that there was such a gift that life would give him. “I mean, there is no other guy that can win me over like you do, I think it’s the Angry Birds eyebrows.” Yifan licks his lips before letting out a laugh and then he kisses her lips lovingly.

“I love you.”

Those words had such power that they brought a smile to her face, repeating them as she leaned in closer to capture his lips in a kiss. Perhaps, she had heard before that after some time, you forget that you even loved the person that was with you, how much you craved and needed to be there for them and vice versa, but she knows now that it won’t happen to them. They were both in love and it’s almost dreamy to say it.

November was a new start for the two of them.

[insanereddragon]

11 Questions (x4!)

1. always post the rules. 2. answer the questions given by the person who tagged you. 3. write 11 questions of your own and tag 11 (or however many) people to answer them.

Apparently, you guys are thirsty to know more about me. I was tagged by @hisreindeerjumper @thisbirdhadflown​ @corabe​ and @elletromil​! So 44 answers incoming, under the cut.

(from hisreindeerjumper)

1. What fandom have you been involved in that’s your favorite to date?

Are you seriously going to make me choose between Hannibal and Kingsman? I’ve met so many wonderful people in both fandoms, and while every fandom has their occasional drama and discourse, I’ve found both of these ones are generally such positive and welcoming places, full of top notch creators and consumers alike.

*sighs* Okay, I guess if push came to shove, I’d choose Kingsman, if for no other reason that it is where I met @elletromil, and I’m sure you all know how much I absolutely adore that woman.

2. What did you want to grow up to be when you were little?

Paleontologist, then a cop, and then a forensic psychologist. I figured out at the end of my first year uni that psychology wasn’t for me, but ended up getting a degree in it anyways.

3. Favorite places to shop online?

I don’t shop much online anymore, but when I do it’s mostly on Society6 and Redbubble because I adore supporting all the wonderful artists in our fandoms.

4. first kiss! tell me all about it! and i you haven’t been kissed yet, how do you want it to go down? do you want to be kissed at all?

It was kindergarten (about 6 years old), and I dragged a boy behind the toy cubbies. 

5. who was the first author that you read with a voracious hunger?

Brian Jacques and the Redwall series. It was my first ‘fandom’, and it lead to me doing email RPs for a few years.

6. what color looks best on you?

Black or green, but I can pull off certain shades of red on occasion.

7. do you read your horoscope?

Nope.

8. what are you most proud of in your life?

I guess maybe starting a long running anime convention.

9. favorite food & why!

It’s a toss up between my family potato soup or biscuits and gravy. Both remind me of feeling warm and loved during times that were sometimes less in both of those things.

10. what scent do you have the strongest memory association with?

There is one scent, and I don’t even know what it is -- I can’t even describe it -- but whenever I smell it I vividly remember this one summer when I was a child. I don’t smell it often at all, but it always hits me like a punch to the gut just how vividly I remember everything from that summer.

11. favorite tea flavor!

Chamomile, but I like white and other herbal teas too.

(from thisbirdhadflown)

1. We all did embarrassing things as teenagers. Share a story!

I tried to dye my hair blue while I was at boarding school, and instead it failed miserably and I ended up with this sea foam green hair. It was awful. For my birthday that year my mom paid for a stylist to dye it back to my normal brown color because it was so embarrassing I didn’t want to wait for it to grow out.

2. What is a headcanon for one of your OTPs?

Thanks to @deepdarkwaters I will always think that Harry and Merlin communicate secretly to each other (morse code or sign language, or the one time that Harry actually had to use flag semaphore XD)

3. One book that had a huge influence on you?

Hrm, I’m not sure that I have a single book that was a ‘huge influence’ on me. I certainly have favourites, and I’m sure that I’ve taken lessons or ideas from many of the books that I’ve read, but never one that sticks out like a beacon of light.

4. Who is one misunderstood character?

No Face from Spirited Away

5. What are your pet peeves?

Sheets that aren’t laying flat. People flushing with the lid to the toilet open. People who refuse to move to the back of the bus. Wet socks.

6. One thing you wish you knew as a child/teen that you know now?

That the anger and resentment wasn’t worth it, and that forgiveness would be something that I'd be able to find.

7. Would you like to be famous? In what way?

God no, I could never stand my life ending up under the scrutiny that seems to inevitably come from fame.

8. Best part about getting older?

The freedom to do what you want, once you realize that it’s okay to let yourself do those things.

9. One thing you really enjoy and one thing you really dislike about fandom?

I love the sheer creative output - so many unique ‘verses and ideas all starting with the (sometimes very) limited source material. Just an endless amount of ideas that I never would have thought of, but are amazing and wonderful all the same (even if I don’t like them personally).

I hate that sometimes expressing non-popular viewpoints, even politely and in the confines of one's own personal blog, can spiral out of control into massive discourse and drama. The downfall of connecting to fandom on a site like tumblr and the internet in general really.

10. What makes and breaks a fic for you?

The moment I can’t believe in what’s happening. A well considered crack fic is guaranteed to keep my interest, but I poorly thought out canon one is going to have me clicking the back button.

Also, formatting. Sorry guys, I try so hard not to let formatting keep me from reading a fic, but I recognize that I’m very picky about aesthetics. If it’s not laid out with proper spacing and standard book-like formatting, I’m probably not going to stick it out.

(from corbe)

1. What are you top five fandoms right now?

Hannibal, Kingsman, Fantastic Beasts and Where To Find Them... I don’t really do any other fandoms with any consistency.

2. What are your top five go to books right now?

I haven’t read a proper novel in a long time, so my top go to books right now are all origami books XD

3. What are your top five go to movies right now?

Kingsman, Victor Frankenstein, Mad Max Fury Road, Fantastic Beasts and Where To Find Them, Deadpool

4. Do you have pets?

2 cats, Spork and Fruit

5.  If you could have dinner with one person from history dead or amongst the living who would you have dinner with?

I know you’re looking for someone famous or important, but if I could actually do this, I’d have one final dinner with my grandmother, before the dementia had taken over.

6. Do you like pumpkin spice?  Is it a problem for you that I absolutely adore pumpkin spice and will willing cut someone for a pumpkin spice latte?

Haha, I don’t go gaga over pumpkin spice specialty items (you could gladly have my latte, I wouldn’t drink it), but I do love the abundance of actual pumpkin items in the fall. I tend to overindulge on pumpkin pie, pumpkin muffins, and pumpkin cookies XD

7. Do you have a favorite holiday?

It’ll always be Halloween. I was a costume maker up until my kids were born. I’d start my costumes in April, and I’d spend a lot of time and money on them. Now I just do my best to give the kids decent costumes that won’t break the bank, and eat lots of chocolate.

8. Do you have a favorite rare fandom pairing, a pairing that’s hard to find fic for or not as popular?

Meeklo Braca / Scorpius (with or without the addition of Sikozu) from Farscape. I’ve reread the 33 total fic on AO3 at least a dozen times, and even keep the tags saved in the hopes something new may pop up some day, but the fandom is well and truly dead :(

9. Do you like pickles?

Yes, but only if they are dill.

10. Do you sleep with a stuffed animal? Just to make you feel better I do, I sleep with the bear my husband bought me when my Dad passed away.

I don’t - most of mine have been divided amongst my boys.

11.  Do you like doing crafty hobbies like sewing, knitting, metal working, or do you enjoy hobbies that involve collecting?

Haha, crafty hobbies are my thing. I sew, crochet, do origami, and make chain maille and jewelry.

(from elletromil)

1. Who was your first celebrity crush?

Jensen Ackles XD

2. For what meal do you prefer going to a restaurant? Breakfast, brunch, lunch, dinner? Only a quick coffee/tea/dessert?

Breakfast, or rather breakfast food. Give me an omelette or benedicte or skillet any time, but they are always infinitely better coming from a well seasoned grill or pan. I can’t replicate that at home.

3. Would you rather clean the dishes or dry them?

DRY THEM. I hate washing dishes so very much. Thankfully Mr. Red agreed for that to be his chore around the house.

4. Are you the kind of person who puts a song on repeat until you’re tired of listening to it or do you have to always change songs?

Repeat. I’ll listen to a single song on repeat for days at a time XD

5. What supernatural/fantastic creatures would you like to be and why?

Phoenix, because I relate to the idea of rebirth from the ashes. I have one planned in one of my tattoos I hope to get.

6. Are you more afraid of what is at the bottom of the oceans or what we could find while travelling in space?

Space, because there are going to be things that we just can’t comprehend or understand.

7. You’re favourite kind of weather and why?

Bright, warm sun with a cool breeze, so I can just sit outside all day at the perfect temperature.

8. You can live anywhere you want, where would it be?

Honestly, I’m pretty happy where I am. We’ve been here for 10 years, just bought our first house. I don’t really want to be anywhere else :)

9. If you use the tumblr app on your phone, did you prefer when the bar was at the top or do you like now that it’s at the bottom? (am i still bitter about this sudden change? why yes i am XD)

Top, stupid update.

10. Did you ever watch a movie/tv show just for an actor/actress and you were sure it would be horrible, but it ended up actually being good? What was it?

I was sure I was going to hate Men & Chicken, but I was compelled by Mads and the Fannibals, and I was surprised how much I liked it. It is bizarre and definitely not for everyone, but turns it was just the right amount of strange for me.

11. You can decide on a tv show that would get a new season, a movie or a book that would get a sequel, what would it be? In a hypothetical world where the sequel/new season would be fantastic and all that you’ve ever wanted.

Hannibal Season 4. HANNIBAL SEASON 4. HANNIBAL SEASON 4. HANNIBAL SEASON 4. 

(Also Sense8, Leverage, and Dominion)

Darlings, this was too many questions. So no tags or new questions of my own. Sorry, I’m burnt!

[alliance-recruitment-agency-blog]

Headhunters Mumbai - Head Hunting Services in Town

Answering local newspaper ads -- for you to jobs for about 8 out of 1. (The higher the degree of job you seek, the less effective this method can be.) You do not find brain surgeon or senior management positions posted.

Image Source:

Headhunters In Mumbai - Little Known Ways to Mumbai

The way a Recruiter manages had been managed . to maximize placements is simply by mastering a few Recruiting information. Employers and candidates alike want to trust their Recruiter. Those who establish trust get honest answers and cooperation during the process. When there are bumps the actual world road you will employ your Recruiter skills to assist all parties to efficient outcome. Employers and candidates EXPECT their Recruiter to take the lead creating a deal happen. But they also want to feel they are available in control right away!

Image Source: 

Headhunting��Services In Mumbai - How Not Knowing Mumbai Makes You a Rookie 

Create a number of these mission statements and display them around your house. These will serve as motivators, and remind you why definitely loss a few pounds. Again, the key is to identify what are your hot control buttons. Use them to motivate you.

Video Source:

Mumbai Headhunter - The Hunger Games Guide to Mumbai 

You should not rely positioned on the internet for task search. Dissatisfaction to deny the abundance of information that is on the market on the online market place either. Based on your skills and an individual want being working next, see should the target employers and their headhunters mumbai are hanging outside in Print Classifieds or Job boards.

Hire Headhunters In Mumbai - Here's A Quick Way To Solve A Problem with Mumbai

Secondly, purchase opportunities your own can help your organisation grow its business reducing costs. For example, an individual work in production, this may come in handy to get together with a colleague in marketing to see how you can help them better present your tool. Now, you might say, "Well, comes about already". Experience shows generally there is often a gap in communication between functions on some of the often overlooked, but important issues such as the nature of repeated customer complaints, customer enquiries on product usage, feedback from suppliers and so forth 

2) Eat breakfast slowly and thoughtfully while making a plan on what to schedule your day of the week. It is helpful to achieve out to industry improved Best Headhunters In Mumbai lenses. Or this might include of a perfect time for do something (work-wise) you've always thought to do. A great hairdresser friend of mine who has two children in college paid for by her working, decided they would go to Nursing School, something she'd wanted since her children were small. She goes 72 hours a week and reduce on her work schedule a little bit. She's in her second semester and loves this kind of. But make sure your resume is updated, just in case. 

Get a personal website, or if you like to write, a webpage. Better still get a website including a blog (I have three). For a very small investment you will have a very professional image in cyberspace. 

So as you can observe these are just 3 Friendster alternatives, but I would go with whatever network appeals for the Top Headhunters In Mumbai most. Because everyone is different ages and different stages in there life there is not a right answer to do this one. Theses basically some alternatives where you can do if you are hoping to make a decision on which network to join over another one. 

You've decided well-developed to be a Recruiter and congratulations, you must begin. Where do you initiate? In this article 'Recruiter' is defined to be a contingency fee or full cycle Recruiter. 

Now Linkin is the social network for professionals and has lots of good good things about joining the network. With Linked inside you have for you to become invited therefore is really a professional social network than whenever compared with Myspace and Facebook. A very important thing about linked in is basically that you can get a job inside your area of interest simply by belonging to link throughout the. Many headhunters mumbai and recruiters exclusively hire people just from linked in to ensure that ranks right up there as on the list of best web-sites today.

Second: Staffing firms ignore the truth that it takes 6 weeks for payment to be received in their first situation. On average. Consider this: Help to make a placement in the initial one to 2 weeks. Then your candidate gives 2 weeks notice due to their current interviewer. After they start the new job the client may need to days and nights to allow you to get the assess 

The plan? Take charge of your career. Recruiting is a strong career along with a great deal of fun once skip over WHAT YOU'RE DOING. Additionally you have capability to make vast sums of financial wealth.

I am so associated with hearing men telling me that these are intimidated by me. What sort of a thing is that to believe? Is it safe for me to visualize that happen to be less than secure man and is preferable to handle working with a woman in your daily life that consider care of herself and her requirements? How should I perceive a remark like that experts claim? It surely has never been complimentary to all of us. In fact I've been quite taken aback every I hear a comment like that, which lately has been rather on a regular basis 

God is aware that I do not have ANYMORE heartache in my (sought after) drama free life. I am a very accountable woman there is nothing take proper my business RELIABLY 24-7. I think I do myself a great injustice very easily accept qualities in my mate which usually less when compared to the standards and capabilities i have imposed upon no one. Will the real men FINALLY persist????

The most powerful question in sales and, especially, HR system sales is: "What's the next step." Throughout the process, you need to actually are moving within a forward direction to shut the sale. I provided a summary at the end of each meeting as to what my and the contact's deliverables have been. The first thing to do at another meeting is evaluation those items. At this end of that meeting the "What's next" question is available again. If you discover you have deals sitting in your pipeline for very long stretches of time, attempt this approach to see what happens. 

Author Name:- Shreya Mehta

Address:- 104 Esplanade ave 120, 

             Pacifica, CA

Mobile No:- +1 917-668-8461