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psychreviews2 · 6 months

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Mindfulness: Nirvana

Preliminaries

When people are called to a goal, including something rarified like Nirvana, it's often a curiosity that is humbly set aside as too unrealistic. Living in cities with modern access to addictive substances, or entertainment on tap, is a challenging environment to be practicing meditation in. Yet the people who yearn for more peace are most often the ones who are drowning in these modern environments. There's a temptation to dabble in meditation practices to take control of one's stress when it seems to be uncontrollable. Yet, nirvana is waaaaaay over there, and preliminary practices of concentration leading to Jhanic flow-states and insights leading to that early feeling of control, provide low hanging fruit that convinces that there is something to these practices.

As people get better at the Three characteristics (3Cs) of Buddhism, the mind can begin to enjoy staying in the present moment. Paying attention to the 1st characteristic, vibrating impermanence, especially looking back at past situations you worried about, how sometimes those strong emotions evaporated, and how periods of zeal and interest turned into boredom and stress, can hit home that anything you pursue will have a predictable outcome of dissatisfaction at some point or another. Much of these Buddhist contemplations originally took place at a time when people had shorter lifespans, non-existent healthcare, as we understand it, so death was much more of a present atmosphere for people even in their 20s. When impermanence hits home it can throw you into a vantage point of someone who is looking over their life and trivial things get put in their place and are easier to let go of.

The 2nd characteristic of dissatisfaction is seeing how draining a lot of our thinking and intentions are. Meditation is primarily a way to scan emotional and physical pain to see how optional a lot of it is. Thinking habits can be looked into and interrupted with attention to the breath. Paying attention to the breath with as few gaps as possible helps to squeeze out and highlight what slips through. One can see "I'm doing that to myself. I should stop." Strong concentration feels good and the mind becomes stronger with it. Past desires can now bring a sense of dullness instead of the interest and passion they used to have. This is because the mind is becoming more sensitive and is not looking away from drawbacks. Therefore, we can infer that insensitivity is the ignoring of drawbacks to prevent pleasure from being spoiled; a kind of self-hype.

The 3rd characteristic of not-self is seeing how impersonal impermanence can make anything in our experience. Desire has a sense of ownership because of the clinging to keep what we like is located in our bodies. Contemplating impermanence teaches people how much stress they will have if they extend their sense of self, clinging, to vast numbers of objects and relationships. Think of it this way. Even a rich person may do a typical thing which is to buy an expensive boat or a house. The upkeep is expensive and stressful in that high income must continue to maintain it. Many find they can only enjoy these luxuries for a period of time, and in reality, for all people, we can only enjoy our possessions and relationships for so long. We either have to die and let go of them or many of them will be taken away before we even get to death. Part of what Martin Heidegger saw in his studies of Authenticity is that people often look for escapes from authenticity because facing reality, priorities, and such, have a pang in the chest anticipating death because life is just one thing after another until death. You're facing death and not trying to escape, and this repeats every time we get our life together. We can oscillate between the urgency to get things done and escapism when it's too stressful. When the sense of not-self hits strongly, people usually make an inventory of what they have and find that they are weighed down. They may sell, discard objects, and discontinue from relationships that have lost meaning. Life becomes lighter. One can become a minimalist.

A day in the life of a Minimalist - Matt D'Avella: https://youtu.be/tG2GJZcBKOE

Avoid the trap of materialism if you want to succeed - Gary Vaynerchuk: https://youtu.be/-ZKQ5XYtHpA

Being and Time - Martin Heidegger: https://www.isbns.net/isbn/9781438432762/

In agreement with looking at drawbacks, Jeffrey Hopkins's Meditation on Emptiness reminds us that there are a lot of distractions to help us ignore the pain, especially in the modern world, and "one must turn the mind away from these through contemplating their faults and reflecting on impermanence." Both looking at drawbacks and seeing that what we like can be taken away from us is a great beginning that leads one on a path that is counter-intuitive happiness. Most distractions fill up your time making it near impossible to develop a meditation practice until they are let go of. There's also more time to clean things you still have, repair and take care of them, and choices become more narrow or pre-decided. Choices can become healthier without needing someone to police you. The prior practices have narrowed your choices based on drawbacks so what's left is most often healthier. If people look at desires and can't see any drawbacks, it's very unlikely they can enter nirvana because lower levels of practice require at least that.

Decluttering for messy people - Matt D'Avella: https://youtu.be/LAtHvlPViJo

Trading Up - Thanissaro Bhikkhu: https://www.dhammatalks.org/Archive/shorttalks/y2020/201017(short)_Trading_Up.mp3

Addictions can be the usual, like the ones mentioned in my Letting Go review, but there are also counterintuitive ones where people realize, for example, they are addicted to validation from other people. Like with Freud's transference, we are looking for parental figures in the wrong place. Even when looking for love, our mind can be so deluded that we feel that we have found a great soul-mate only to realize we knew so little. For example, you could be married to a psychologist, a social worker, or a life coach. You might think, "this is a people person. They must be great people to live with," only to find that the person is a narcissist or a psychopath. Then the mind has trouble connecting the dots between the earlier person you fell in love with and the person you see now with all their drawbacks: A Hannibal Psychologist.

The Advaita master Rupert Spira talks about this conundrum in a general sense of our beliefs about happiness. Many of these goals we have taken in by parents, advertising, and role-models we worship. Each new attainment leads to disillusionment because our self-esteem is tied to external unstable sources, sources that may require more skill than we have, and positive self-narratives that can quickly turn negative with any new obstacle.

"If you knew that your next intimate relationship would cause you misery, would you still want it? If you knew that having more money would make you miserable would you still desire it? If you knew that enlightenment would make you miserable, would you desire it? Everyone would, of course, say no...What we really want is not an intimate relationship, better health, more money, knowledge of God, or Enlightenment. What we truly seek is the happiness we believe will be derived from them...See that the one thing everyone truly longs for is happiness...In each of these cases, the experience of happiness itself was always the same experience...Whatever makes us happy doesn't always make us happy. It sometimes makes us miserable. If that were not the case, we would all be happily married to the 1st person we ever fell in love with. The same relationship can produce the greatest happiness and the greatest misery we have ever experienced. If the happiness was really caused by the object, the activity, or the relationship, then as long as that relationship was present happiness would be present. Simply the fact an object, an activity, a relationship can make us happy one day, and miserable the next should be all the information we need to be able for us to see clearly that happiness can never be derived from an object, a substance, an activity, or a relationship...If we say yes to it we experience happiness and if we say no to it we experience misery. The happiness has got nothing to do with the object, activity or the relationship. It has everything to do with what takes place in our mind and our heart...It might seem that happiness is an intermittent experience that fluctuates with all other experiences and as such, it is something that is experienced from time to time. That is like imagining that a little patch of blue sky that opens up in the cloud cover is a localized, temporary appearance of the sky. The patch of blue sky is not a local temporary appearance of the sky. It is simply an opening in the clouds onto the ever-present reality of the sky. Happiness is like that. Every moment of happiness is a little window in our experience of the ever-present background of our essential being whose nature is happiness itself. What is it that causes this opening of the cloud cover? Simply our saying yes to the current situation. If we say no to the current situation, that is the closing of the clouds and the obscuring of the ever-present background of happiness." The Advaita underlying awareness is a major improvement from regular consciousness, though, from a Buddhist perspective, they would take the blue sky simile and mention that it's good but one can find an outer space beyond it. Also, Rupert has to remind audiences that there are always some concessions with these practices. I'm sure readers can think of situations where saying no to certain experiences might actually be happier than saying yes. Or more sophisticated, saying yes to your responsibility to say no.

This is especially true for those of you who already mastered what I reviewed in Letting Go. Despite all the non-dual rhetoric of meditation practices, if you've mastered how to dualistically contemplate drawbacks then you're addiction free. It's okay to take credit for that. You did that! If you're addiction-free for one day, 1 week, 1 month, etc., you've laid a foundation where letting go is not so scary and all the below practices will become much easier to achieve. Congratulations! Also congratulations on being brave with other people. Where there are addictions there are enablers that are jealous of your new potential and bright future. If you got rid of an addiction, most likely you had to move a lot of people and social networks curbside to achieve it. That's not easy. Also, don't feel bad if you're in a hole, it gets better and better as you maintain what you have already achieved. Remember what kind of parenting you had, the schools you went to, the advertising you consumed, and all the influences you took in before you learned any meditation skills or psychology. It's like an imitated karma. You're free to imitate in a different way though. There's no rule that you have to do the same thing for the rest of your life.

Letting Go: https://rumble.com/v1grbjr-mindfulness-letting-go.html

Where your mind gravitates - Thanissaro Bhikkhu: https://www.dhammatalks.org/Archive/y2020/201019_Where_Your_Mind_Gravitates.mp3

Sir Anthony Hopkins listens to thrash metal: https://youtu.be/3g_xTAwxaKQ

Anthony Hopkins Reveals Why He Didn't Blink While Playing Hannibal | The Dick Cavett Show: https://youtu.be/rkh-bOujn40

Meditation: Nothing can make you happy - Rupert Spira: https://youtu.be/tYGK_sFIqdI

Cycle of Hurt - Doves: https://youtu.be/g-eW37F8-2o

Broken Eyes - Doves: https://youtu.be/ia97itNNyCY

Prisoners - Doves: https://youtu.be/Q02PXRTMus4

There's no home for you here - The White Stripes: https://youtu.be/8ahICj_vEZ4

Social influences and Metta

Dropping these bad relationships, objects, or activities can coincide with a new search for replacements. We often replace them with other socially sanctioned activities, and again find them wanting. This is due to the competition over scarcity, and how we bump into rivals when we imitate the same desires. The Buddha described it in a similar manner to Rupert. "Wanting a haven for myself, I saw nothing that wasn't laid claim to. Seeing nothing in the end but competition, I felt discontent. And then I saw an arrow here, so very hard to see, embedded in the heart. Overcome by this arrow you run in all directions. But simply on pulling it out you don't run, you don't sink." We can take out the arrow and continue to learn. The Girardian, Jean-Michel Oughourlian talked about imitated desires. We see people savoring in different ways, and craving makes a choice for you by welling up when it witnesses others momentarily enjoying themselves. These are the typical imitated suggestions. The perception quickly detects luxuriating, basking, boasting, and a variety of forms of savoring. The craving moves to action and we imitate our role-model. When we were born we were innocent, inexperienced, and everything was new. As the years go by we take on many modes of being through imitation of savoring. It's like putting on different clothes of personalities we imitated. The rewards those role models gained condition in us as well, so we literally are conditioning ourselves to be like them, or feed emotionally like them, even if it wasn't intentional. This is how we start leaning towards conflict, often unawares.

Attadanda Sutta: https://www.accesstoinsight.org/tipitaka/kn/snp/snp.4.15.than.html

With meditation, you can catch the imitation. There are times that you might notice that you are starting to develop someone else's body language, or you see an image of how somebody says something in their particular way, and how you now sound the same. Culture is essentially this: imitation and inspiration. In Oughourlian's Puppet of Desire, our imitations can be dangerous. Like in a trance, our actions go from the innocent baby and grow into many templates of desire based on our environment, level of technology, and economic circumstances. The most typical result is eventual rivalry, where what is mutually desired cannot be shared. The more desirable the object, situation, or position a role-model possesses, the harder it is to attain. It's well protected or requires talents we don't have. The role-model may be bored with the object, situation, or position, but they very quickly become passionate when a rival tries to pursue it. The masochist rival keeps "looking for an impossible victory," because they want what someone else has, and when you want something from someone they begin to have a Freudian Prestige for you, meaning you want something from them.

Group Psychology - Freud and Beyond: https://rumble.com/v1gvcxr-group-psychology-freud-and-beyond-war-pt.-33.html

When people have Prestige for you, and you feel more and more that you will never get what they have, enmity, and especially indignation appear. Part of this is the inner sense of self and the outer circumstances that are craved. Jean-Michel takes an angle different from Kierkegaard, but there's more unpacking that can be done when both angles are viewed together. For Jean-Michel, an onlooker sees a role-model savoring, but the craving does something interesting for him. It views the savoring as a suggestion, but not for very long. The sense of lack leads to a sense of entitlement, partially because a sense of lack has a survival urgency to it. "This lack wants satisfaction!" Jean-Michel sees that this "requirement" distorts psychological time. The entitlement makes a rival feel that whatever they see is "MINE." This possessiveness comes from the fact that the imagery is located inside the mind or sense of self, and also the image-created feelings. As described in Otto Fenichel's Narcissistic Supply, our conceptual ego expands beyond the physical body, and also the same sense of urgency for self-protection. The sense of lack also can lead to a sense of self-punishment for not being good enough to achieve the savoring. Low self-esteem and entitlement lead to a feeling that there's an injustice and time gets warped. "[Imitative] rivalry is always rooted in one of the two following claims: the claim of the self for the [originality] of its own desire; and the claim of desire [to be prior], [and have precedence] over the other's desire, the [suggestion] that has generated it, on which it is modeled." The problem of suggestion is the hype that is connected with it and the exaggerated panic. The hype has a lot to do with the need for social approval and to measure oneself against an impressive other to get social rewards. Social rewards can add spice to what would be a boring object in a world where you were the only one there with no one to compare against. This is reflected in one of the instructions in the tetrad meditation practice which is the prescription to concentrate and let go of worldly concerns. Those worlds of course are inhabited by role-models. Those worlds are also abstractions distorted by hype, and therefore misleading, and stressful, as will be detailed below.

The Anapanasati Sutta: https://youtu.be/RM69VCeECWA

How Soon Is Now? - The Smiths: https://youtu.be/4PIi1LWkfDE

The Universal Want - Doves: https://youtu.be/_HVI9A60sLI

One of the funny stories from the behaviorist B.F. Skinner outlined in, Theories of Personality, illustrates the trap of needing social approval. People who have Prestige for us have the power to shake us like a rag doll if they want. After so much conditioning with parents, it's inevitable that all of us have to grapple with that influence as adults dealing with powerful Others. We want people to be our friends and to like us, even if it's not good for us. "A somewhat humourous example of both unconscious behavior and social control involved Skinner and Erich Fromm, one of Skinner's harshest critics. At a professional meeting attended by both men, Fromm argued that people are not pigeons and cannot be controlled through operant conditioning techniques. While seated across a table from Fromm and while listening to this tirade, Skinner decided to reinforce Fromm's arm-waving behavior. He passed a note to one of his friends that read: 'Watch Fromm's left hand. I am going to shape a chopping motion.' Whenever Fromm raised his left hand, Skinner would look directly at him. If Fromm's left arm came down in a chopping motion, Skinner would smile and nod approvingly. If Fromm held his arm relatively still, Skinner would look away or appear to be bored with Fromm's talk. After 5 minutes of such selective reinforcement, Fromm unknowingly began to flail his arm so vigorously that his wristwatch kept slipping over his hand." Social conditioning is operating all the time, and by the way, psychologists read these stories, like the one above, and practice these manipulations on others. In Freudian lingo, it's manipulating transference, or in some cases yanking on transference, and we all should be aware of how we can be influenced in the wrong way. That's part of the reason why manipulators love this information. But for any serious meditator the takeaway would instead be that a basic practice that involves being present with the breath while around people, instead of looking for pleasure in unstable sources of social approval, can be a relief and can be helpful for negotiating. Practice around people can be a whole new avenue to explore. Instead of shaping people to get off on manipulation, one can project internal peace so that others can imitate, and also relax. Isn't that nicer?

Why Caring What Others Think Breeds Mental Illness - Academy of Ideas: https://youtu.be/A4jzzDYLgro

Now, because craving works so quickly, it's hard to blame people for their mistakes, conflicts, and unconscious digressions. This is especially true since psychology is not widely taught in society. People just accept unhinged behavior. Of course, we should care, because of how the rivalry can be contagious and lead to overthrowing governments, genocide, and miserable psychologies. Society is based on exchanges to mutually satisfy cravings. It falls apart if most people can't achieve that for long periods of time. There's difficulty being on top in that you have to fight to protect what you've achieved, and those with a sense of lack can drift into finding the only solution left for them: Tearing down the role-model. Some narcissists are even perceptive enough in tearing down people before they even get close to their potential. A pre-emptive strike. Kierkegaard said that "neither does [ressentiment] understand itself by recognizing distinction...but wants to drag it down, wants to belittle it so that it really ceases to be distinguished. And ressentiment not only defends itself against all existing forms of distinction but against that which is still to come..."

Narcissistic Supply - Freud and Beyond: https://rumble.com/v1gveop-narcissistic-supply-freud-and-beyond-wnaad.html

One pro-social method to reject ressentiment in oneself is to trace your imitative desires to their sources. If we are fast enough, we can catch the entitlement and time-reversal that Jean-Michel talks about. Another way is a classic Buddhist method which is to pay attention to the three characteristics and drawbacks of desires, as described above. One can actually look at the role-model and say that "I'm so glad I don't have their high maintenance lifestyles." Another Buddhist method to deal with envy is contemplating impermanence where you wish everyone the best precisely because anything anyone gets is impermanent for them too. The wealthy don't escape death and loss. They even have more to lose. The goal for stable societies is to provide as many varieties of occupations for people as possible while allowing them to trade with each other. The threat for any society is when large sections of the population find themselves left out and they purposefully act to destroy other people's exchanges out of desperation and revenge.

This kind of hatred makes achieving happiness, let alone nirvana, next to impossible. One of the main practices for dealing with negative energy is Metta, a well-wishing practice. Some forms of cultivation and attachment aid in letting go. The Buddha himself wanted well-wishing to expand everywhere "omitting none," and this is made easier "by not holding to fixed views," and "being freed from all sense desires." This might seem like an enjoyable practice but it can trigger internal conflict, especially when one has been abused in the past. Daniel J. Siegel in The Mindful Brain talked about how moving the metta practice was for him, but also how difficult it was for many others. "I personally found [this practice] deeply moving, but several in the group during evening lectures expressed difficulty forgiving those who'd done them harm. For others, this entire 'metta' or loving-kindness practice was uncomfortable, and some even stopped coming when this was the guided-meditation topic of the session. A number of people later would say that they had a hard time forgiving someone who'd wronged them and hadn't apologized for the transgressions."

The typical list for Buddhist well-wishing includes:

Loving-kindness (metta) -> Counters ill-will

Compassion (karuna) -> Counters cruelty

Sympathetic Joy (mudita) -> Counters envy

Equanimity (upekkha) -> Counters self-belief

Thanissaro Bhikkhu on many talks I could see found that it was difficult for him as well to convince people to really let go. He would even joke about allowing violence to oneself as a reminder that this world allows such things, but in seeing the resistance in the audience, he would laugh and concede defeat. From what I could see from his intentions was that many times we think we need to defend ourselves but we are striding into paranoia, yet there are also real victims who've been in dangerous situations. One of the keys Thanissaro found was to develop equanimity out of the list above. Equanimity allows people to handle suffering much better. Understanding that bad behaviour is not coming from a self per se, but instead, natural causes and conditions animating a self, and this helps to forgive much easier. There are violent conditions and there might be some causes we should look into. I would also say that if one wanted to keep out of harm's way, due to an understanding of cause and effect, equanimity should help people to pick and choose who to help so that if there is too much danger, the kind of danger most people would find incredibly stupid, one could aim their target where there might be more of an effect, especially when we are talking about cause and effect. Why stroll into a burning house? Equanimity allows one to accept that some people will benefit from help and others won't. We don't always know who will benefit. Equanimity also helps with reminding ourselves of past good deeds and that we can still do more. We don't have to have perfect Metta results. We can search for better opportunities instead of giving up if a Metta practice fails at one time or another. The mind likes to cling to excuses to go back into ill-will, cruelty, envy, and self-belief, so equanimity helps to see where there might be some clinging hanging around where we are overly for or against something.

Karaniya Metta Sutta: https://www.accesstoinsight.org/tipitaka/kn/snp/snp.1.08.amar.html

The Four Sublime States: https://www.accesstoinsight.org/lib/authors/nyanaponika/wheel006.html

In the pandemic we are in, as expected, there's not too much Metta, and peaceful economic exchanges are being targeted. In the end it still all comes down to clinging. There are threats of political power grabs, hypocrisy, endless lockdowns, irritation, frustration, repression, hopelessness, addiction, and a desire for revenge. Thanissaro Bhikkhu talks about identity building, and how threatened those identities become when there's hardship. "The fact that we are beings means we have to eat, both physical food and mental food. We're taking things in to sustain our identity as a being that we have created through our attachments...Unbinding, or Nirvana is a place where there's no feeding at all...For a lot of us, that's our pleasure in life: taking things in...You're looking for pleasure and then you excrete what? Greed, aversion, delusion...The path requires that you feed, but feed in a skillful way. You are feeding on the goodness that comes back when you are radiating goodness out..."

This sets up the fact that even if there is a political move for a quick economic recovery ahead, we also can face dissatisfaction with our own spoiling if that succeeds, though it's a much better problem to have. Thanissaro asks us to "imagine what it's like living in a land where there's nothing but pleasure all the time. Everything you would think of, everything you would want keeps coming back right there when you want it. You get spoiled, and when the good karma finally wears out then you fall. When you fall it hurts...The factor of Right Concentration, that becomes your new food on the path...It's the pleasure of form which doesn't have the drawbacks of the pleasures of sensation...You look at the difficulties the world is going through and a lot of people are desperate. We've had a healthy economy and it's crashed. People have been used to feeding well...When they don't feed well, they get frustrated. So a lot of the turmoil we are seeing right now from the top on down is basically frustrated feeding. The question is, do you want to join in on that feeding frenzy, or do you want to step out? Think of the Buddha's vision before he gained awakening. The world was like a 'dwindling stream' and there are fish in the stream fighting one another over the water."

One thing clear through - Thanissaro Bhikkhu: https://www.dhammatalks.org/Archive/y2020/200804_One_Thing_Clear_Through.mp3

Stigma

Another great thing about meditation practices is that they make the requirement that you get to work being peaceful now, instead of waiting for huge outcomes. The late Rob Burbea, and Martin Heidegger before, found some low hanging fruit by looking at the questioning mind itself and asked practitioners to sense the experience of questioning. "When you ask that, how does that feel?" You see, it makes sense to look at our mind if we want to really learn about happiness. Whether you use psychology, meditation, or other practices of contemplation, there's a lot of detail to explore, including well-grooved habits related to past and future. Jordan Peterson said "if you're thinking about your past, it means you haven't analyzed the causal chains...There's only one reason you remember the past, and that's to be prepared for the future. What you're supposed to do is...to know what, why [that thing] happened, and how you could react differently in that situation. As soon as you do that, your brain will leave it alone...A lot of situations are dangerous or not dangerous depending on your level of mastery. A negative emotion that is associated with a memory is crying out for mastery, and writing can really help with that. You are reorganizing your brain when you write autobiographically...You want to take everything that is negative and emotional and transform it into a fully articulated vision for your future, and that frees you of your past...If most of the time you are thinking about your past, it's like your soul is trapped back there and you need to free it through investigation."

How to let go of your past - Jordan Peterson: https://youtu.be/U_tJTAgHiPo

Studies in Hysteria - Sigmund Freud and Josef Breuer: https://rumble.com/v1gtdvl-studies-in-hysteria-sigmund-freud-and-josef-breuer.html

This is part of the answer, but many things may not be possible to master, obstacles are too big, or what one did was so bad that an element of past regret remains throughout life. A perfect example is a stigma. Maybe you get to the point where you can move on from your past, but others cannot. They won't give you a pat on the back if you escaped an addiction, or if you reformed after a prison sentence. You might even be innocent but you remind people of others who weren't. A typical transference found in bigotry. If people with Prestige for you, meaning you need attention and resources from them, reject you, a wounding can happen again and again. Coping behaviors can include more addictions, violence, and debasement. In Stigma and Group Inequality, the physiological feelings that stigmatized groups go through, especially those who are incompetent at something at this point in time, or associated with individuals who have been labeled as incompetent, can lead to self-fulfilling prophecies. "Repeated negative experiences with stigma can lead members of stigmatized groups to anxiously anticipate similar treatment in future situations, straining cognitive resources that would otherwise be devoted to other tasks." The importance of leadership that mixes compassion with fairness can have a big effect on outsiders who have the potential to make contributions. "...Self-expansion through relations with higher status outgroup members is especially important for members of stigmatized groups, as such relations provide access to the physical and social resources of the higher status group." Part of the reason for the wave of hypersensitivity to stigma today is that a lot of people are in precarious scenarios in their lives and they need social resources desperately. Jokes and perceived slights become survival threats all of a sudden. People also get tired of being inauthentic in order to get attention from powerful people who care nothing for them. "As a result of interactions with others who are perceived to hold negative stereotypes about their group, members of stigmatized groups may perceive themselves in ways that are consistent with these stereotypes in an effort to socially tune and maintain relationships with them."

Case studies: Dora and Freud: https://rumble.com/v1gu2dt-case-studies-dora-and-freud.html

Heat - Neil recruits a new driver: https://youtu.be/7QhttjrOg5A

There is also self-stigma when stigmatized groups internalize hatred, like in my review of Freud's Dora and the Jewish experience in Europe at the turn of the 20th century. The self is about labels and imitated, internalized labels can lead to masochism, and addictions again. One of the difficulties with finding happiness and success in the workplace is how the self can be pulled in so many directions. It can attack itself, strive painfully to improve, scapegoat others, look for escapes and distractions, and then one is supposed to sit down and work uninterruptedly for long periods of time. Being pulled by both self-stigma and addictions drastically reduces the speed of learning, which leads to more rejection and failure, which in turn create lower self-esteem in a loop. If mapping out a past history as Peterson prescribes is not efficacious enough, people can be left with few choices, but thankfully developing the skill of concentration is available. Some people get this even if they are not into meditation at all. They may bump into it unintentionally. For example, Gary Vaynerchuk talks about acquiring assets for their own sake and to avoid consumerism. This right here would reduce a lot of distractions. If you don't think you need to be somewhere else more fun than where you are working now, there should be no resistance to concentration. A lot of being able to concentrate is about liking your job enough so that there aren't too many competing desires pulling your mind away. You are more likely to get into Flow because that is also one of its precursors: to control distractions. One can also infer that intrinsic motivation is present if you're not being pulled elsewhere. Attachments drain energy. If the mind doesn't want to be anywhere else than here, then concentration naturally happens.

How to get into Flow: https://rumble.com/v1gvked-how-to-gain-flow-in-7-steps.html

A lot of the meditation practice is precisely these small insights that build over time, even while you're in daily life. For example, noticing when you're concentrating on an activity and how that feels when you are interrupted. This can predict how you will feel in many other situations, ones where you are prepared or unprepared for distractions. Most people describe so many influences that lead to some skill or attainment, and this is no different for meditative skills. Through trial and error, any procedures that are taught in meditation will necessarily have holes in them, and we each have to fill in those gaps of knowledge with our own experience. In a great interview with Deconstructing Yourself, Rob Burbea explained his experience of searching for insights from others and the need to experiment. "I certainly felt helped by a lot of the teachings that were out there. Certainly, as I mentioned, Ajahn Geoff, and Christopher Titmuss, and Christina Feldman – actually lots of teachings. But I also felt, somehow, nothing fully satisfied me. There were lots of questions that I couldn’t really find answers to or people with the same degree of burning interest in them. So I had a lot of time on retreat – years, in fact. And I was, to a certain extent, it was a natural kind of move for me to just begin experimenting and seeing what happened and getting super interested in stuff, with this burning curiosity about it...I was just struck by, again, how unsatisfactory I found the answers about the relationship of awareness and the Deathless and the Unfabricated, et cetera. There were a lot of different answers, all of which, I felt, for me at that time, were not satisfactory. What I also encountered in some of the people that I talked to was just – it was clear that it really wasn’t an interesting question to them, or that level of meditative territory or inquiry or that level of liberation just wasn’t that interesting. I think it was more those signals of lack of interest – and also the absence of answers that were satisfying – that kind of made me just tip ever-so-slightly off an edge that I was already on..."

What is Emptiness? - Deconstructing yourself: https://deconstructingyourself.com/what-is-emptiness-an-interview-with-rob-burbea.html

Insight practice

A lot of modern practitioners are interesting to study, and their methods of practice often involve all three general categories of Buddhism: Theravada, Mahayana, and Vajrayana. It also supports this idea that learning happens in small bits and is not always linear. Rob Burbea, for example, studied briefly with Thanissaro Bhikkhu, a Theravadan monk from the Thai Forest tradition. Learning from him he got the benefit of understanding Buddhist fabrication. Fabrication here is the way the mind can relax and build tension on a spectrum. The tension can also start increasing with our habitual thoughts. They can sneak through gaps in mindfulness and build worlds of fantasy, and all of those worlds are more or less painful. Fabrication is tension arising from built-up psychological worlds we can like or dislike. "The mind has a basic habit which is to create things." Watching and understanding this tension, or dissatisfaction is a key for Thanissaro all the way up to Nirvana, but this activity is hard to see. Thanissaro says that the mind's ability to put things together happens "before sensory experience." Essentially it's unconscious.

"Look for that issue of inconstancy and stress...leading the mind to release." Blogs like this and any written material are good pointers, but we have to go to experience. If not, then "...abstractions pull us away from where we need to be...There's a lot of self-delusion and lying to yourself." Ironically less abstraction allows us to see more detail in sensation, but the instructions are more simple. "The breath comes in, we know it's coming in. The breath goes out, you know it's going out. There's pain, you know there's pain. There's no pain, you know there's no pain."

Consistency - Thanissaro Bhikkhu: https://www.dhammatalks.org/Archive/y2003/0304n5a1%20Consistency.mp3

Keeping things at the level of sensation, and letting sensation guide the meditation, allows a meditator to extend their concentration for longer periods of time. Insights can be written down in a journal later if need be. When the mind wanders we can ask "where are you going? What are you going for?" See the drawbacks of what the mind is wandering for and let disenchantment bring you back naturally. "I don't need that in my life. I've had enough of that...Everything you need is right here...Other times you consciously ignore the distraction. There's a little world in your mind, and you don't want to enter it, but for some reason it doesn't go away. You realize the reason it's not going away is because you are paying attention to it. Even if you don't like it, paying attention to it is often enough to keep these things going...After a while from a lack of attention, it just dies out. [Another] way of pulling yourself back is to notice how when there is this process of creation, of these little worlds that you create in your mind, there's a certain level of tension that goes with it, and it's a lot easier to not create. You just relax whatever tension there is. It's kind of a physical and mental tension around these things. Once you can look at it, just relax it...When none of these other methods work you say 'I'm going to clench my teeth, press my tongue against the palette and not think about that thing. Through the force of your will you force it out of your mind. That's the method of last resort."

Anatta (Not Self): https://rumble.com/v1gr0w5-mindfulness-how-to-avoid-intellectualizing-your-practice.-anatta.html

Dukkha (Dissatisfaction): https://rumble.com/v1gr1it-mindfulness-how-to-meditate-for-longer.-dukkha.html

Anicca (Impermanence): https://rumble.com/v1gr219-mindfulness-gone.-anicca.html

Sensitivity and Skill - Thanissaro Bhikkhu: https://www.dhammatalks.org/Archive/y2020/201014_Sensitivity_&_Skill.mp3

Now, the process of creation is involved in meditation, but it's considered a more skillful fabrication, or tension, that is created to offset worse tensions, and increases clarity of the creation process in the mind. Like a raft, it can guide you to the other shore. As you go through the levels of concentration, as described in my review of the Jhanas, the brain continues its more subtle labeling process, "rapture", "bliss", "happiness", "equanimity", "space", "consciousness", "nothingness", "neither perception, nor non-perception", or "oneness." You get attached via the label to each level you reach, but Thanissaro calls it a "good attachment" compared to the other "worlds" you can drift into. These practices can seem quite complicated, but Thanissaro wants meditators to keep it basic: "Where is there stress here? See what you're doing to keep the stress here and let go. Ultimately you open up to something that is totally unfabricated." Essentially people have to become bored of these concentration states by marinating in the pleasure of the different attainments towards fulfillment. It's like a kid playing with a toy, getting bored, and moving onto something else.

Unraveling the present - Thanissaro Bhikkhu: https://www.dhammatalks.org/Archive/y2000/001101%20Unraveling%20the%20Present.mp3

Fabrication - Thanissaro Bhikkhu: https://www.dhammatalks.org/Archive/y2001/0103n2a1%20Fabrication.mp3

The Jhanas: https://rumble.com/v1gqznl-the-jhanas.html

Daniel Ingram is another Theravadan practitioner, though like many other modern meditators he's studied other traditions as well, but he's most well known for teaching the Mahasi Sayadaw noting method. Noting is a difficult practice at the beginning because the mind is also difficult to control when skills have yet to be developed. The danger of course is overusing the judgment faculty, which works with labels used in noting, and is connected with the stress that often spoils meditation. As Rob Burbea warned, "any input has an effect." Yet noting is all for the benefit of increased skillfulness in the realm of direct experience. Abstraction, like this post, is just pointing at sensations, and as Thanissaro pointed out, abstraction has to take a backseat to sensation, and especially when things begin to fade into higher jhanas. The labels are more subtle there, and as we will see below, the Unconditioned, or Nirvana can't be labeled and is not an experience because of its timelessness. The refreshment coming out of Nirvana is an afterglow. Yet the noting practice can be used for long periods of time as one tries to get to know experience during early stages of development when being lost in thoughts is the norm.

When beginning you can follow whatever meditation practice you like, just to get concentrated and settled. Enjoying concentration practices and doing a kindness practice of well-wishing for oneself and others will always be a part of your practice. During the more difficult withdrawal symptoms from a noting insight practice, you will need those practices to bring stability back to your meditation again. Well-wishing for oneself, the Metta practice, also helps with self-esteem. Feeding yourself with kindness is a form of emotionally feeding, and in turn, you can find it easier to be nicer to others when you're not hungry.

When you are prepared to note, the speed doesn’t matter as much as the acknowledgment of actual experience, followed by the label. To avoid getting stuck with the wrong label, use simple labels like "seeing" instead of "seeing the wall." This way you can avoid being distracted with the all-important noticing of what's actually happening. It’s the sensation of knowing or acknowledgment of what’s happening you want to get to, before the label. This prevents you from being overly conceptual with the noting practice. Another advantage of noting is that labeling improves your concentration because it prevents narratives from sprouting. You're filling in some of the bandwidth that being lost in thought exploits.

Using the Satipatthana Sutta, you have a framework of what to note, which are the 4 foundations of mindfulness. You can practice them 1 layer at a time, or note whatever is most prominent.

The 1st foundation is the body. You can note what is happening in the 5 senses: seeing, hearing, touching, tasting, and smelling. You can add things like hot, and cold but we are getting closer to the next foundation which is how we feel about what is happening in our senses.

The 2nd foundation is feelings. Ask yourself, is the experience pleasant, unpleasant, or neutral? Are the feelings from the meditation itself or feelings related to worldly thoughts?

The 3rd foundation is the state of your consciousness. Is it in lust, aversion, or delusion? You can label any sensual thoughts, aversive thoughts, and any thoughts that appear to be a fixed identity. The key to identity is self-measuring, which can also interfere with meditative progress. Here is where I would emphasize, and you'll see more emphasis below, that equanimity is important to have when noting. Noting with judgment is dangerous because it releases cortisol, which can be toxic when it's too much. Non-judgmental noting works best so that you're noting, not suppressing, or getting lost in narratives.

The 4th foundation is for mental objects. These include the 5 hindrances of desire for what you don’t have, hatred, sluggishness, restlessness, and doubt. You know it's a good note when you essentially snap out of the mind-state you were noting, and it wasn't out of suppression, just non-judgmental awareness. Why people like noting in the early stages of practice is that it can save you when you are drifting. It becomes a hindrance later when you get more sensitive and skilled. You eventually have no need for confirmation of what you're witnessing.

The 7 factors of enlightenment are a guide to how you are balancing your meditation. When your mind is really dull you want to reengage your 1. Mindfulness to dip into the object, then 2. Investigate the impermanence of your experience, and then you use an adequate amount of 3. Effort that keeps you from dullness but isn’t too much effort that you become restless. As the practice gets effortless then there is a 4 & 5 delight and calm that arises. To keep from being too restless one must slow down the noting enough so that you are 6. concentrating on noting your object and really seeing it’s characteristics of impermanence, dissatisfaction, and non-identity. If necessary, I would add imagery practices to notice drawbacks to your thoughts. This leads to 7., an equanimity towards your experiences. For people who are already very experienced, equanimity is actually a great starting point for meditation. I like Adyashanti's description of not being for or against anything that arises in your mind. But again, if you're not very familiar with equanimity, you'll naturally get there with noting momentum.

Within this foundation there are two more sets of instructions making the 4th foundation quite large. You need to be able to notice how consciousness (knowing) is interdependent to the objects known. This means eye and form, ear and sound, nose and odor, tongue and flavour, body and touch, mind and idea, are interdependent. Consciousness or knowing must always be of something. This is tapping into that sense of knowing that has to be with the object. This way the non-identity of your experience is palpable. You will see other Mahayana practices later that point to how the self is always involved in the activity of labeling. The skillfulness is being able to use labeling to understand the Self-label we are trying to get to know. The self is describing itself as it's labeling, and self-measuring, and labels are abstract models, meaning that they lack the detail of cause and effect that becomes more apparent with strong concentration.

To go deeper, mental contact cannot happen without [1] the feeling of the experience, [2] the recognition of what the experience is, [3] your volition, which is your movement of the attention span toward or away from an object, and [4] your consciousness or knowing of the experience. In other words, you are reacting to your environment all the time and finding it impossible to corner a separate identity that is independent of these experiences. Unfindability is integral to relief from the self. Being able to note your attention span moving with intention to go towards something attractive and move away from what is not attractive takes away a lot of the feeling of your attention span being the locus of a permanent self. The brain is always weighing pros and cons based on memory, intelligence, and skill. This is often where a lot of meditators get stuck. The attention span is still moving with intention as if it is the "strategizer", "analyzer", or "problem-solver." Siegel reminds us that "...the mind is never 'empty.' Filled with continually generated images and thoughts, feelings and perceptions, the mind is abuzz with activity that never ceases." Noting strategizing, analyzing, and intending alleviates clinging in these hard to see phenomenon. There’s always a little stress in the intention (or movement) to pay attention to something. Searching always involves subtle stress. The key is that the labeling is taking experiences in the mind and placing self-labels on them. Labels as you'll see below have a concrete quality about them because they're abstract, or over-simplified. So for example, you can put a lot of attention on any tension or movements of the mind, without labeling so heavily. You want to notice a "me" label show up with subtle phenomena like the intention to pay attention. Labels appear as if they float with separate-existence, involving no cause and effect, and that includes who we think we are.

The mind can go in circular directions looking for a self and all it finds is causes and effects, and reactivity to control what is happening. Because we are often unconscious of subtle causes and effects in the environment, we can conceptualize a self-identity that is in control. But this identity can be proven that it is only conceptual, when we see people identify with family, cultures, nations, or even sports teams. There are multiple self-concepts. These concepts are simplified symbolic thoughts built up from the sub-atomic complexity that we are. Even sub-atomic entities are conceptual constructs that are likely to give way to smaller phenomena as physics advances.

Now as we move through these complicated causes and effects, seeing the impermanence, dissatisfaction, and when we fail to see a permanent identity controlling as an independent agency, the progress of insight deepens, and relief happens every time this permanent self is not found. Because we are addicted to our solid conceptual personal narratives, we are going to have to go through withdrawal symptoms, as we wean our attachments, and find mental peace. Both Daniel and Mahasi Sayadaw go through these stages in great detail. To simplify, we start our meditation with seeing the arising and passing away of phenomenon and get excited and feel pleasure from the reduced stress. This is kind of like enjoying a personal narrative of success on the way up. As we focus more on the passing away of experience, the dissatisfaction arises causing a lot of suffering in the meditator. This is like grieving for a personal narrative of failure. For many people, a pleasurable concentration practice and a kindness practice can help to relieve the stridency of the weaning process. As the brain gets used to the emotional distancing of the practice of acknowledging sensation, including the sensation of thoughts, an equanimity occurs. You get used to the bumpy waves and they become less scary, so you lose the feeling of being for or against the waves. Unfindability becomes less scary and more peaceful. This leads eventually to a surrender of our intentions toward objects and a softening related to dissatisfaction. Therefore relief cannot be willed, because willing reinforces the label of "I." Any anticipation, analyzing, strategizing, and impatience towards the goal of nirvana has to be noticed for their dissatisfaction. We will see below why goal striving is a major obstacle.

Bhikkhu Analayo provides a lot of advice for people stuck in striving and a lack of patience. This practice, as in my Jhanas review, also requires a lot of time commitment. Whether you go on retreat or do this at home, a gradual increase in practice time, including experiments with mindful walking, or mindful work, will be aided if you can find 4 hours of meditation a day eventually. I think this is part of the reason why Rob Burbea didn't always find people so interested in these subjects. They really would rather do something else. It's extremely rare for people to achieve high levels of attainment without periods of specialization. Siegel quoted a study that looked at highly trained meditators who achieve "Ipseity - our essential way of being beneath the layers of thought and reaction, identity and adaptation."

"Finally, at the highest level of practice, what we have described as a 'de-emphasis' of both object and subject moves, at least theoretically, to a point where no elements of objectivity or subjectivity - whether in the form of conceptual structures, categories of time and space, or some other feature - remain in the experience...Traditions recognize only a small number of practitioners as having truly reached this level of practice."

Analayo describes this gradual development towards Nirvana, which ties craving to the sense of self, and in it becomes extinguished, like a burning candle being blown out. "As our craving and attachments fade away through dispassion, we become increasingly able to be at peace with the ending of things; we are willing to allow things to cease. This serves to go beyond the average unbalanced attitude of only wanting what is young and new, ignoring what is old and decaying. By attending to the cessation of phenomena, to their ending, we arrive at a more balanced vision. It becomes more and more clear that cessation is not frightening, but actually peaceful. This becomes a practical implementation of insight into emptiness. As identifications lessen, it becomes increasingly easy to allow things to cease. This understanding spurs us onwards on the path to supreme cessation of [dissatisfaction]...The more we are able to allow things to end, to be at ease with cessation and recognize its peacefulness, the better we will be at letting go. Gradually letting go of all remaining attachments prepares us for supreme letting go, the plunge into the deathless, the realization of Nibbana...Needless to say, bringing these meditative themes into actual practice is not meant to encourage a tendency to fabricate experience. The proper use of these tools for progress in insight could be compared to a ray of the morning sun that touches a flower, causing it to open. The touch by the ray of the sun is like the skillful use of these themes; what follows is a natural development leading to the flowering of insight...[Another] simile...describes a hen sitting on her eggs. Due to her unrelenting sitting on the eggs, eventually the chicks will break the eggshells and hatch. In the same way, due to our unrelenting sitting on the meditation seat, eventually we will break the shell of ignorance and awakening will take place. It will occur in its own time. Our job is simply to make sure the appropriate conditions are in place. But the experience itself cannot be made or forced to happen. To try to do so would have the opposite result, as it would be directly contrary to what is most needed for awakening to take place: letting go." Here a key I can see is the role of sensation. By persevering with sensations, and treating them like the ray of light on the flower, it can be easier to avoid abstracting the process.

"In a way all of these meditative themes of seclusion, dispassion, cessation, and letting go point to Nibbana. Each does so in a way that is a bit more pronounced or clearer than the previous one...Proceeding through these meditative themes is quite different from a self-centered attempt to attain a certain experience. There is nothing to be acquired here. Rather, all and everything is to be let go of. Instead of reaching out to gain something, we allow the mind to resonate ever more strongly with profound peace of Nibbana. This is the peak of dwelling independently without clinging to anything in the world."

"The basic dynamics involved...could be visualized with the idea of a tiny slot between what is happening now and what happens next. Now our basic meditative task is to avoid being drawn into past and future. Instead, with mindfulness well established we learn to remain in the present. Once we are well-established in the present moment, however, there remains a tendency of the mind to reach out for what comes next. This is like wanting to get the next spoonful of experience before having properly chewed the present one. By cultivating dispassion, we learn to let go of this reaching out for what is next and come to be at ease in just being with what is now. By moving on to cessation, the ending part of the present moment becomes fully clear to our meditative vision. Earlier this ending part was not properly noticed, due to the tendency to reach out for what comes next. As the ending of the present moment fully emerges, it becomes possible to let go into a tiny slot between what is now and what comes next. By letting go into that very slot, the breakthrough to Nibbana can take place and timelessness can be experienced." It's important here to emphasize that letting go is not a forceful movement or a negative marching towards a disconcerting emptiness. It's relaxation, an easing, and it's why nirvana catches people off guard. The relief has to be more than what was preceding it, not less.

“Both the objects and the noting mind were abruptly cut off and stopped.”

“I saw the objects and the noting mind drop away, like a heavy burden being dumped.” ~ Student's experiences

"While early Buddhism does not deny the distinction between subject and object, it does not treat this distinction as particularly important. Both are insubstantial, the subject being nothing other than a complex of interactions with the world..." I can see here a possibility of falling into the trap of trying to tense muscles and force attention towards this "tiny slot between what is now and what comes next." This is more of a relaxing into that slot. Peacefulness and relaxation will make that "slot" less scary and more inviting. A way to notice if you've been in nirvana or not, after having an amazing experience in meditation, is partially a lack of time because the present moment is short-term memory, and nirvana is a non-experience, timeless, and not abstract. So many practitioners ask "I had an amazing experience! Is this Nirvana?" If it's an experience, then it's not. Most experiences that are awesome are still awesome but they involve some feeling of non-duality. Concentration by itself can create a lot of great experiences, including this feeling of unity, but at the highest levels of Buddhism, they want to go beyond an experience that's labeled "awesome unity!"

"Unity, in terms of subjective experience, entails a merging of the subject with the object. Experiences of this kind are often the outcome of deep levels of concentration. Nibbana, on the other hand, entails a complete giving up of both subject and object, not a merger of the two. Such an experience constitutes an 'escape' from the entire field of cognition. Although Nibbana partakes of non-duality in so far as it has no counterpart, its implications nevertheless go far beyond experiences of oneness or unity."

One of the final stumbling blocks to awakening is conceptualizing a negative self or to do away with the self. "According to the Buddha's penetrating analysis the attempt to annihilate self still revolves around a sense of selfhood, though being motivated by disgust with this self. In this way annihilationism is still in bondage to a sense of self, comparable to a dog moving circles around a post to which it is bound. Such craving for non-existence forms indeed an obstacle to the realization of Nibbana...To think in terms of 'I shall not be' is a form of conceiving as much as the thought: 'I shall be'. Both are left behind in order to proceed to awakening."

Satipatthana - Bhikkhu Analayo: https://www.isbns.net/isbn/9781909314030/

Intellectual practice

Later forms of meditation practice have the ability to look at how people can be stuck in one practice or another. For many people a sense of oneness with concentration and the practice of scanning the body, looking for the self, and not finding it, it can feel like a place to "pitch a tent and stay there." Even with eyes open a person can follow the breath, scan for a self, and the sticky sense of self retreats, though these practices have to repeat because the stickiness of self-stress returns again and again. Some people stay in bare attention and try to meet everything with bare attention, which is quite difficult. Others try to maintain consistent attention to impermanence. All these put one closer to that sense of the watcher or the greater I. This continues into Mahayana practices, but some masters wanted to keep a high standard for the goal. Burbea called these earlier attainments an inferential realization. It is temporary relief, but any relief is better than nothing.

Zen Teacher Huang Po was very forceful in calling out people away from the great "I" and people's resting in awareness. For him, Nirvana is beyond bare awareness and is even void of time. "This mind, which is without beginning, is [uncaused] and indestructible. It is not green nor yellow, and has neither form nor appearance. It does not belong to categories of things which exist or do not exist, nor can it be thought of in terms of new or old. It is neither long nor short, big nor small, for it transcends all limits, measures, names, traces, and comparisons...Begin to reason about it and you at once fall into error." Like with the three characteristics, those practices can still admit a sense of objects moving through time and many practitioners stay stuck thinking they've found IT, when they simply found non-dual concentration. "By their very seeking they lose it, for that is using the Buddha to seek for the Buddha." All the questioning can become a habit and mislead a practitioner who ends up externally seeking just like with many other things. Certainly, insights during the practice can energize people away from sleepiness, but it can also distract from concentration by falling into the trap of abstraction. "Just as apes spend their time throwing things away and picking them up unceasingly, so it is with you and your learning...Not till your thoughts cease all their branching here and there, not till you abandon all thoughts of seeking for something, not till your mind is motionless as wood or stone, will you be on the right road to the Gate."

"The first step is to refrain from knowledge-based concepts. This implies that if you were to follow the empirical method to the utmost limit, on reaching that limit you would still be unable to locate Mind." Even with modern day thoughts about physics and particles, Rob echoes Huang Po about the danger of abstraction. "See, what usually happens is people engage in some degree of deconstruction. Some degree of deconstruction any human being is going to agree on. But when I was talking about fabrication, it’s a similar thing – it’s like, where am I going to stop? Are there any basic building blocks? You could say, 'Yeah, there are quarks.' My question would be, 'Is a quark empty or not?' In my view, a quark is thoroughly empty. It’s not that the world is made of building blocks and we just, 'Oh, now we’ve got a smaller building block'...None of these are independently existing structures from a perspective on quantum mechanics, the typical perspective at present."

Going from one conceptual reification to a smaller one doesn't provide enough relief. Huang Po again hints at the value of equanimity in his very spare practice. "First, learn how to be entirely unreceptive to sensations arising from external forms, thereby purging your bodies of receptivity to externals. Second, learn not to pay attention to any distinctions between this and that arising from your sensations, thereby purging your bodies of useless discernments between one phenomenon and another. Third, take great care to avoid discriminating in terms of pleasant and unpleasant sensations, thereby purging your bodies of vain discriminations. Fourth, avoid pondering things in your mind, thereby purging your bodies of discriminatory cognition."

Rob further explained, and much like Thanissaro did, that there's a partially unconscious activity in the mind, and in some Mahayana circles, Ignorance is the ignorance of how the mind builds experience unknowingly. A subtle label, and sensation, of subject and object is there unless we practice seeing the emptiness of labels, or their lack of inherent existence. Inherent existence is how perception labels things in a Gestalt like image that is useful for us or dangerous. How we perceive things is as if objects always existed in their final form. It's what allows us to be very surprised when natural changes occur. At some point, we have to take experience of Nirvana and apply it to our perceptual life so that knowledge of emptiness can be used in daily life. It has to be portable. The typical Mahayana expression Form = Emptiness | Emptiness = Form hints at a skillful use of perception. Many theorists have their idea of what it means, but to me rational thought has to be applied in daily life in order to function properly. To see the usefulness of what we perceive and think has to give way to an equanimity, or a reduction of being for or against, or the tightening and constriction of clinging, so that we can understand form without over-reacting to the changes and interdependence that was there all along. We can logically be for or against something while relaxing the tightening. Like in Willoughby Britton's study of excessive meditation practices, it's good to drain excessive judgment but we need enough discernment so that we can follow important signs that protect our lives.

Improving concentration: https://rumble.com/v1gqxct-improving-concentration.html

Rob Burbea enjoyed playing with practices that he learned from other teachers and put together a tripod of investigations to help students. He was influenced by later masters Nagarjuna, Chandrakirti and Mipham Rinpoche to name a few. Rob found that fading of senses could happen when emptiness of self, object and time were realized. Whether senses faded completely or not, practitioners can get a lot of stress relief in waking life. The difficulty with investigating self and object is noticing, as described above, that self and object are not separate. The act of investigating can reify a sense of self searching for an object and label itself, or measure how it's doing. They are more like a mutually arising self-object. Using Nagarjuna's Diamond Slivers, his extensive analyses of conceptual categorization and their emptiness could be summarized in a helpful way in the quote below:

Things do not arise from themselves. They do not arise from another. They do not arise from both themselves and other, or causelessly [from nothing]. ~ Nagarjuna

These reasonings help to take the world of perception we live in and use it. We usually follow the pleasure principle and look for goodies in perception and avoid danger. The searching itself looks for comparable perceptions, differences, and then locks in for the kill. When the mind does this it has certain beliefs based on perceptions and conceptions. Overlaying concepts appear to us as permanent, unchanging, and indestructible. What their impermanence demonstrates for us is that there is stress because impermanence sooner or later interferes with our feeding goals. A basic example that would be easy to practice would be in a park or a forest. A tree could be analyzed and what the searching self usually doesn't look at, because it just wants utility, is how interdependent objects are. A tree and soil are separate concepts for what we can perceive with our senses. Yet the tree could not exist without the soil, rain, carbon dioxide, and sunlight. The conceptions of tree, soil, sun, CO2, and rain dissipate because we haven't created a global term "tree-CO2-sun-rain-soil." The conception doesn't exist because that's all it is, an idea. Looking at how the soil connects with the tree, the rays of light to the leaves, and the moistness of the soil helps to drop the conception to a more primordial experience that does not conform to rigid categories. What is interesting is how the sense of self also relaxes at the same time as those concepts do. The sense of self is measuring and labeling how it's doing with any activity or searching. The self-conception of a searcher investigating a forest has a certain stress too, because it's trying to justify itself.

Ajahn Maha Boowa intuited a helpful insight that "When there is a center to the knowing, there's dukkha [dissatisfaction.]" When analyzing in this way, object conception is abolished, the self-conception, and along with them, stress collapses. Again it will return, and Theravadan practitioners like Thanissaro would warn against too much analyses of inherent self, due to the dangers of developing a nihilistic attitude and a feeding frenzy that usually comes afterward. This is because practitioners can't forget that craving and a need to feed always return, and so does that sense of spatial distance and stress between subject and object. Certainly, if we look for a self that is independent of an object, the sense of stress and distance collapses again and again, because even a body sweep looking for an inherent, solid, indestructible, self-sensation, is another practice that finds relief in unfindability. There is always a flitting attention span moving in perception, and the self just ends up being a stressful concept that motivates, and is motivated to search for something to feed on, or to justify itself. All these practices are about renunciation, and renunciation slowly dissipates craving with time. Even people who don't meditate can practice this abstinence with the activity of measuring self-esteem with each day of abstinence. "I did it again today! I've been sober for 3 years!"

Emotional Feeding - Thanissaro Bhikkhu: https://rumble.com/v1gqvl1-emotional-feeding-thanissaro-bhikkhu.html

So concepts are static and unreal, but these practices are not trying to pretend that there is no reality. Our sense of ignorance is down to unconsciousness. The unconscious recreates the world in our minds, with clear perceptions, and then we make concepts out of the different sensations, which are basically measurements. We are basically measuring how good we are at survival. For those who are confused, Douglas Harding provides a good pointing meditation to see what this recreation is. Our mind takes in information from the world, simplifies it, possibly in the hippocampus and other brain structures, abstracting what is capable in our minds, and like a snowy village, inside the Void, a recreation of our senses appears in its limited capacity. Through body vibrations, we can sense a body. Through two eyes we have 3D vision. We have sensations specifically for the ears, nose, and tongue. The brain transfers that data, and like a hologram, recreates our abstracted perceptual world. Then a lot of our future conceptions and memories predict spatial and event expectations through thinking. For example, the eyes can't really see the complete head because of where they are situated, but through physical sensation, we can touch the backs of our heads and infer realistic conclusions without direct vision. Because the mind needs utility and usefulness, we depend emotionally on those facts being reliable and true. Tragically as we age, the body gradually loses the abilities it once had further aggravating our immutable self-conceptions. These concepts are so immutable at times that even amputees can still sense their old limb. Impermanence, instability, and insecurity disturb our minds greatly, and hence the reason for meditation.

What not to forget is that these practices are targeting the concepts we use all the time and especially react to. Perceptions register a certain level of detail of change, but our rigid theories are solidified by feeding, habituation, and attach to circumstances not changing. This means that stress in waking life is partially based on these rigid judgmental concepts when they fail to materialize in our expectations in perception and thinking. This is how scientists can also fight over abstract theories. There's a lot at stake for their future feeding, and the brain is conditioned to react to surprises and hairpin turns in self-narratives. Siegel describes it this way. "When the mind grasps onto preconceived ideas it creates a tension within the mind between what is and what 'should be.' This tension creates stress and leads to suffering." This is why the inherent existence exercises can create little blips of healing with each reasoning while still being in our normal awareness. With repetition, and also concentration, the mind can learn to relax more habitually. It's also a good gauge of stress and the sense of self. If stress returns, then so do the effects of those rigid judgments and the sense of distance from subject to object. When I look at an object, there's an overlay of the concept or theory, but now I can play with the Diamond Slivers and relax those constructions.

Since concepts are so static as to be a noun, treating them like verbs can help to alleviate stress in real-time, by paying attention to actual movement more than the projected concept. To go further you can look for joints between perceptions and labels where there are causes and effects. Of course, they can't be found except in our impressions. So we can ask if the shape or concept of the tree that I overlay on perception, does it arise from itself? No. Does it arise from the separate delineated concept of the soil? No. Do they arise together? No. Or do they just arise from nothing? No. Since the interdependence of soil and tree is so interdependent that zooming in on their interdependence can zoom in all the way to the limits of biology and physics, then we can see that these concepts are only useful, but not real. When the concept bubble pops, notice the stress reduction and the thinning of the self. Again, the cause and effect can be expanded to include as many things as possible, including the universe. Sub-atomic theories may also breakdown endlessly so as to be completely empty in terms of rigid concepts that never change.

Laraaji - Flow Goes the Universe: https://youtu.be/bzvFL-_fzZ0

Laraaji Boiler Room London - Deep Listening Session: https://youtu.be/hIvP2otHGiw

Nirvana

One of the preliminary emptiness practices in Vajrayana is to help people detect the sense of pain that naturally happens with a sense of self, as we did before. Since self-concepts hurt, the concept of a self being accused is a great way to bring the feeling of the gross sense of "I," especially for those just beginning the practice and don't know what to look for. Jeffrey Hopkins says, "one could...imagine that one is being accused, even falsely, and watch the sense of I. One could remember an incident of false accusation, during which one thought, 'I did not do this, I am being wrongly accused.' By watching the 'I' who is accused, a firm sense of the way that the non-analytical intellect apprehends 'I' can be ascertained." In a way, this practice would expose defense mechanisms from the Psychoanalytic point of view. As students practice with inherent existence, and concentration, periods of stress relief are attained. With concentration, students can also gain many experiences of oneness as well. Equanimity can begin to dismantle the pain found in the sense of self. These thought exercises keep creating that unfindability that makes the "subject become like water poured into water."

Rob provides a good example of how to dissolve the persistent self. "The Buddha, when he talked about these four foundations of mindfulness, he keeps using these strange phrases. He says... he talks about the body, and he says, 'See the body in the body.' He talks about feelings, and he says, 'See the feelings in the feelings.' And he talks about the mind, and he says, 'See the mind in the mind.' And what on earth does that mean, 'seeing the mind in the mind'? What it means is exactly this: don't see self-belief in the mind. The mind is depressed, it means what? It means the mind is depressed. It doesn't mean, 'I'm a failure.' It doesn't mean, 'I'm a loser.' It doesn't mean, 'I'm a completely depressed person.' See the mind in the mind; don't see self in the mind. And to be very careful with that, and don't see other assumptions in the mind. It's just that's what the mind is doing. That's how it is right now. It's just the mind in the mind. Similarly, with the body, instead of thinking about the body in terms of the sense of self-worth: 'It's attractive' or 'It's not attractive' or 'It's aging' or 'It's not aging' or 'I'm healthy' or 'not'--it's just the body in the body. It takes away so much of the unnecessary suffering that we dump on top of body and mind. So just see the mind in the mind. It doesn't mean anything about ourselves."

Bahiya Sutta: https://www.dhammatalks.org/suttas/KN/Ud/ud1_10.html

A way I could help to explain deeper what Rob was saying here is to look at being lost in thoughts as already the mind vibrating with a little stress looking to identify, judge, and feed on something, e.g "I'm a completely depressed person." Seeing thoughts as thoughts relaxes the feeding right at an early stage with emotional distancing, or equanimity. You can also look at perception. The mind is able to look at changes in perception and use it to think about ways to feed. It is kind of like "this color is different from that color and maybe that's because there's something scrumptious here." Deep down in perception is the sense of self looking for differences in the senses to find something delicious to detect. What you learn, as you go about your day, is when you catch a feeding start up in a feeding thought, which is often an exciting anticipation thought like "oh that might be delicious," you can pop back into awareness, without any judgment, because judgments are also a form of feeding, and just see the thought as it is and notice the stress that comes with excitement, and start to relax. This can provide an extra element of choice where you don't have to feel guilty about appetites, but you can now bring some calming awareness to it instead of dogmatic stressful bashing with a Super-ego. "You're not supposed to want that!" Some things are delicious and it's okay to be excited and interested, because we don't want to be too dull, but you can add a comparison of pleasure with pain to see if it's worth it right at the moment the decision-making is happening by impulses on the self's behalf, much to the chagrin of the controlling sense of self. Desire is no longer buried in the pre-conscious where it can get carried away or defended by excuses. Again, it's a portable way of working, and many will say "that's just fine and dandy" for the limit of their practice. But if you just rest in bare awareness, the vibrations have a potential to be stressful because a vibrating consciousness, with these changing perceptions, is also inconstant.

Saruman's Storeroom - Lord of the Rings: https://youtu.be/01fpQP1v5ZY

As practitioners practice, often for years, enjoying the sense of oneness, the resting in just bare awareness, perception, the "snowy-village" of the perceptual world, the perception becomes so polished that colors, vibrancy, sounds, smells, and tastes become vivid and delightful, like Haiku poetry. Memories of childhood return of that polished perception when there was less conditioning, but this time one benefits from adult discernment learned thus far. Again, for many, the tent is pitched, the home is built, and it's time to say we're finished and let's party!

4K - A Tropical Day - Silentwatcher: https://youtu.be/f94ebvGISMw

4K - The Golden Fields - Silentwatcher: https://youtu.be/I4o87O4Pd_k

Sonata for 2 Pianos K 448 - II Andante - Murray Perahia - Radu Lupu - Mozart: https://youtu.be/zr59kJXVKQM

Abundance - Aphex Twin: https://youtu.be/zrWTZk0sMS4

Sloth - Aphex Twin: https://youtu.be/5QdzolPpo_A

Green - Hiroshi Yoshimura: https://youtu.be/Q-k9Xu5O7AY

Joanna Brouk - The Space Between: https://youtu.be/gxI3t67cspw

Forest Bathing - Dr. Qi Ling: https://rumble.com/v1graqv-forest-bathing-dr.-qing-li.html

In this situation, Analayo prescribes continuing the practice, but we can also enjoy it, so we don't force too much. As the mind begins to sensitize enough to notice a little boredom with bare awareness, or maybe the subtle pushes and pulls, in awareness itself, become detected, and then dissatisfaction with even oneness can manifest. Like the burning candle, human perception has subtle stress to it. A lot of it has to do with the dimension of time which connects with death, and how perception is already subtlety striving towards targets. One of the Tibetan practices is to look for inherent existence in time, to play with the concept of one or many when investigating what a "present moment" is. Is the present moment one or many moments? Again it's a concept overlaid onto short-term memory, as another description of the present moment. If you divide the present moment into smaller slices, you can do that indefinitely and not find a solid, indestructible present moment. The bubble of the concept of the present moment pops and we're back to a "tiny slot between what is happening now and what happens next," just like Analayo described earlier.

To Escape the Prison of Time - Thanissaro Bhikkhu: https://www.dhammatalks.org/Archive/y2020/200928_To_Escape_the_Prison_of_Time.mp3

Christopher Titmuss lays out the final bit that has to be let go of, which is subtle labeling and time. "To counteract this pursuit of a fruition in life, of some end which is the answer to all the varying conditions of life, much emphasis is rightly placed on not being attached to a goal, not being attached to ideas of enlightenment, not identifying oneself with trying to get on to a nirvana experience, or whatever. And how quickly the mind in any form of experience, especially experience which is strange or difficult or mystical, how easy you want to identify, put a label to it. And by putting a label to it, subtly or grossly imply 'this I have had,' so that the self-idea can get a reinforcement through an experience, get a sense of an assertion of itself that it actually has achieved something special, and it wants that, and it wants that for its own confirmation. It wants it as a proof that all of this is really worthwhile because it has brought me that. And the idea of, not only having to give up the greed, the aggression, the despair, the confusion, the anger, but to actually give up the promised land that goes with it, the mind doesn't want to know. This movement of this process and the evolution that goes with it may require the genuine renunciation and letting go. And even then when one says 'ahh if I renounce and let go then it will come through the backdoor,' one is still faced with the difficulty within this situation because it seems that the texts, that the scripture and the whole sense of path and goal in fact gives this promise, and the way that it is spelled out, in the form of the language, seems to spell this out in some way or other, but that's because the investigation and the seeing into nature of things, there's still obscurations there...So one finds that one is faced with a difficulty which says that 'continuity is the key to practice, therefore time is indispensable' and the sense that time and the continuing of time and that relationship to time, which says that it might be in a subtle and pure way that 'I am doing this for that. I am meditating in order to be free from...I am observing in order to be able to let go of...' Our relationship is that the present is a means to come to a certain end, and because we experience this because this does actually happen, we carry it to the degree that somehow or other that this is related to a transcendent understanding. We forget that the Buddha has spoken of the Unconditioned, therefore no process, no conditioning has any bearing on the unconditioned...Is there any connection? It comes back to the old self-idea. The self-idea is the key...in that, anything which is pointed to is self...It has through the pinpointing a separateness, a sense of it's own-ness, that it belongs to itself...[Self-Object-Time]. What if in the deeper layers of meditative observation there is not that kind of movement of mind, that kind of interpretation in any way at all which is involved in the question of something being self or not-self or no self? What if there is no kind of way of taking a hold of any aspect of all of it or some of it, of any kind of condition, so there's no pinpointing happening, there's no conclusion its all diverse and different, or that it's all one and unity, and that one's being is not drawing that kind of conclusion in any way that it's not all separate nor that it's interdependent. It's simply not seeing like that. All of that is reliant on a certain, if it's not an abstract theory, on a certain experience to see in that particular way, but one is not seeing with one's head, therefore it's not abstract, one is not seeing through the limited reference of a personal experience, so there is not the head, and there's not the thinker. There is not the experience or the experiencer who will see in a particular way. Where is an 'it' in reference to another 'it,' or to 'itself?' In that emptiness, in that fullness, in that unconditioned, the response of the human being is compassion."

The Unconditioned - Christopher Titmuss: https://dharmaseed.org/teacher/45/talk/5054/

When the mind relaxes it's moving attention span, the intention to pay attention, seeking experiences in time, and the pinpointing with labels, it becomes ripe and finally tastes of timeless nirvana. Rob describes how some people find it a "laugh out loud" moment to see how everything in experience, including the self, is built up from tension, but I also think that nirvana sneaks up on people precisely because it's only when there's the ability to enjoy when things are gone, the searching and labeling relax, and this happens even in lower stages of Jhanas, and the remaining tension finally falls into nirvana on its own relaxation inertia. For Thanissaro Bhikkhu, a lot of our past desires now appear ridiculous or just plain stupid. The refreshment of nirvana seems as far as one can go in a body that is alive. To move further one has to die first. For the Buddha and others of high attainment, one still has to trust in concentration while we're still alive and it continues to be a safe place to dwell. This is good news for most of those who don't make it this far. Concentration is valuable as long as you are alive. There may be errors in labeling emptiness and pinpointing nirvana and subtle stress attached and related to concepts of what is non-conceptual, but one can dip into refreshment again and again in compensation, while at the same time reduce addictiveness further and further. For those more skeptical, who wonder about Dharma teachers who have a stomach growling into their microphones while they talk, there probably is a certain amount of craving left, but much less than what the person had when they first started the practice. The answer still is continued interest in concentration as a form of protection. Like in my Jhanas review, what a person did in the past, and looping on that incessantly, doesn't protect one's future behavior. It's better to drop it and enjoy concentration. Concentration is also a necessity for developing skills which nirvana can't discount. You can't live in a nirvana state and engage in conscious life. Rob Burbea, for example, developed imagery practices. Many others develop all the Jhanic attainments and learn how to go into them at will. Some study sciences and learn even more about the brain. Concentration is also needed because having meditation skills doesn't eliminate mistakes you can still make. The Buddhist expectation that praise and blame will continue means that you can handle it better, but nirvana is about stress relief and letting go of conceptuality, not learning new skills.

Despite nirvana being non-conceptual, the book The Island provides lots of Buddhist descriptions of nirvana for whatever they are worth.

Hunger is the most severe bodily disease. Conditioned things are the worst calamity. When we see this clearly, we achieve Nibbana, the ultimate bliss. ~ Dhp 202-4

It is the Unformed, the Unconditioned, the End, the Truth, the Other Shore, the Subtle, the Everlasting, the Invisible, the Undiversified, Peace, the Deathless, the Blest, Safety, the Wonderful, the Marvellous, Nibbana, Purity, Freedom, the Island, the Refuge, the Beyond. ~ S 43.1-44

Having nothing, clinging to nothing: that is the Island, there is no other; that is Nibbana, I tell you, the total ending of ageing and death. ~ SN 1094

When one finally has to face death, the sense of perception has changed quite a bit. Daily life is less mired in panic and rumination because the mind naturally prefers nirvana and inclines towards relaxation and letting go of rumination. Stigmatizing labels, and their sore spots, can be ignored and proven false with better behavior. As time passes stigmatized complexes fade. Physical pain is still the same, but if one has practiced a lot, the sense of self doesn't entirely shrink at the end of life as it does for many people. Touching the timeless and exploring the recreated world of our perceptions creates a cocoon of interdependence where death isn't something to run away from with a sense of loneliness and separation, and ultimately none of us can. To face a timeless void while you're alive helps to prepare for the permanent timeless void we all have to face. The gamble is that when we actually face our own imminent deaths, this preparation is good enough to ease the panic of having to permanently let go. Rob's recent passing was a reminder of consistent practice and that we don't know when it will happen. In one of his talks he recounted how people he knew that died, woke up the morning before their death, and had no inkling that this would be their last day.

Guided Meditation for Chronic Pain: https://rumble.com/v1goucj-meditation-and-chronic-pain-various-authors.html

A short time before his death he posted what it can feel like when you have practiced a lot beforehand, and how you have to rely on past cultivation. "Yet even now, mostly I do not feel as if the horizons of my existence have shrunken. What calls me deeply calls me still in its beauty, with its intimacies and its distances, and that seems to keep the mind and heart, and the sense of existence and its scope, open, endless even. But all this has definitely been challenging. My mind is affected by the low energy, and that makes a big difference. And it is hard to exercise a fully helpful relationship with the pain and at the same time try to do something else – work or whatever; too often then the pain will cumulatively over time become quite enervating and even agitating. It is (or at least was, before the mind-wrecking drugs) easier to access some ease and peace with the pain in meditation, when giving it or something else full attention. But that resource has become less and less available. Mostly now I have to rely, I think, on whatever fruits there are from past practice, immensely grateful for those gardens, that orchard."

Lifelines - Doves: https://youtu.be/9UAy1UGNRPc

Manual of Insight by Mahasi Sayadaw: https://www.isbns.net/isbn/9781614292913/

Mastering the Core Teachings of the Buddha(2nd Edition) An Unusually Hardcore Dharma Book (Second Edition Revised and Expanded) by Daniel M. Ingram: https://www.isbns.net/isbn/9781911597100/ Free version: https://mctb.org/

Mastering the Core Teachings of the Buddha: An Unusually Hardcore Dharma Book (1st Edition) by Daniel M. Ingram: https://www.isbns.net/isbn/9781904658405/

Daniel Ingram's website: https://www.dharmaoverground.org/home

Daniel on Vimeo - Vipassana, The Six Sense Doors, and The Three Characteristics: https://vimeo.com/250616410

Satipatthana Meditation: A Practice Guide - Bhikkhu Analayo: https://www.isbns.net/isbn/9781911407102/

The Direct Path to Realization - Bhikkhu Analayo: https://www.isbns.net/isbn/9781899579549/

Seeing that Frees - Rob Burbea: https://www.isbns.net/isbn/9780992848910/

Meditation on Emptiness - Jeffrey Hopkins: https://www.isbns.net/isbn/9780861717057/

Desire is Mimetic: A Clinical Approach Jean-Michel Oughourlian Université de Besançon, American Hospital of Paris

Puppet of Desire - Jean-Michel Oughourlian: https://www.isbns.net/isbn/9780804718233/

The Nature of Consciousness - Rupert Spira: https://www.isbns.net/isbn/9781684030002/

Gil Fronsdal's noting tips: http://www.insightmeditationcenter.org/books-articles/articles/mental-noting/

Steps to Liberation - Gil Fronsdal: https://www.isbns.net/isbn/9780989833493/

A Head off Stress - D.E. Harding: https://www.isbns.net/isbn/9780953425525/

On having no head - D.E. Harding: https://www.isbns.net/isbn/9781908774064/

Rob Burbea's talks and transcriptions: https://airtable.com/shr9OS6jqmWvWTG5g/tblHlCKWIIhZzEFMk/viw3k0IfSo0Dve9ZJ?blocks=hide

Rob's site: http://www.robburbea.com/

Light on Enlightenment - Christopher Titmuss: https://www.isbns.net/isbn/9781570625145/

Christopher Titmuss Talks - Dharma Seed: https://dharmaseed.org/teacher/45/

Theories of Personality - Jess Feist: https://www.isbns.net/isbn/9780077861926/

The Island - Ajahn Amaro: https://amzn.to/3m34qVo

Contemplative Practice: http://psychreviews.org/category/contemplativepractice

#meditation #buddhism #nirvana

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inkykeiji · 4 years

Text

do i make you scared? baby won’t you take me back

characters: dabi | todoroki touya, shigaraki tomura

genre: smut with a bit of angst sprinkled over it

notes: the second part of a companion piece to i can take you there but baby you won’t make it back. i’m really not kidding when i say this is almost entirely smut. uhhh virgin!tomura is a nasty nasty boy, please please please heed the warnings and stay safe! <3 | title credit: save that shit by lil peep

warnings: 18+, pseudo-incest (stepcest), non-consensual branding (yes, branding in the sense that something is being burned into the skin), noncon/dubcon, dacryphilia, cheating, degradation/dumbification, emotional manipulation, cumplay/snowballing, cockwarming, size difference, generally toxic relationships

words: 7.1k

synopsis:

“Was it good?” he seethes, eyes narrowed sharply. You think you might be able to detect a hint of distress sown into his voice, but you have no time to meditate on the thought as he yanks again, pulling your head back further. “Was it worth it?”

Glistening tears stream down your cheeks and you exhale harshly through your nose, teeth gritted as you urgently try to stop crying.

“Fucking answer me,” he growls out the words, but he sounds almost…desperate? You’ve never heard his voice like this before, and it’s then that it finally dawns on you.

You got him back.

✰ ✰ ✰ ✰ ✰ ✰ ✰

To your surprise, you spend the rest of your night the day after the party texting Tomura, and every time your screen lights up with a message from him, it sends a whole flock of butterflies fluttering in your tummy. You should feel guilty, really, but you’ve never been in a situation like this before and it’s…exhilarating.

It’s risky, answering these texts when Touya’s a mere few feet from you, but it sends sparks shooting up your spine, the idea of getting caught doing something you’re definitely not supposed to, the very thought of how upset he’d be if he knew, making you feel giddy.

You guard your phone closely for the rest of the week, deleting messages exactly after you send them—Touya has taken it and gone through it in the past, so it wasn’t far-fetched to think he may try to do the same thing again. It wasn’t like he didn’t notice your nose in your phone, little giggles bubbling up from your chest as you responded to whatever was on the screen. You can see it in his eyes, the frustration building each and every time a soft laugh escapes your lips, eyes glimmering as you tap out a response.

You plan your impending visit strategically, in tandem with Tomura. He knows Touya’s unpredictable and seemingly ever-changing schedule better than you do, and you both know that there’s absolutely no way in hell Touya would ever willingly let you hang out with each other—he barely leaves the two of you alone when Tomura comes over to your house, so you can only imagine how livid he’d be if you even asked to go spend some time with him, just the two of you.

You wear your prettiest dress—Touya’s favourite dress, a deep, satiny crimson—two inches too short to be considered proper, the hem brushing your midthigh. It hides a pair of baby pink cotton panties you’re sure Tomura will like.

Your veins thrum with the combined mix of terror and anticipation as he lets you in, and the heady combination has your entire body trembling. Tomura gives you a look as you kick your shoes off, eyes narrowed as they scan your body.

“You comin’ down or something?”

“I-I’m not allowed drugs,” you admit meekly, eyes falling to your feet, toes wiggling a bit.

Tomura snorts, an amused little smirk on his lips as he mutters, “No, of course not,”

Long, slender fingers wrap around your wrist, his cold touch making you jump, giving a slight yank as he begins leading you. He lives alone, in an apartment his father pays for—which is surprisingly much tidier than you expected—and you can’t help but look around curiously, eager to learn more about him, glazed eyes searching for hints in the empty takeout containers littering the counter, in the few articles of clothing strewn around the place.

Brows knit together when he bypasses his bedroom completely—the door wide open to reveal a large bed with blue sheets tangled at the bottom—and leads you to a living room with plush couches and an ornate rug you’re positive he didn’t pick out by himself. His fingers release, and he plops down on the floor, hands curling around a gaming controller. Scarlet eyes drift to you, up your legs and to your face, and you resist the urge to shiver under his intense gaze—you’re sure he can see straight up your dress from this angle.

But he does nothing except look at you expectantly, not breaking his stare until you finally sit down next to him, daintily tucking your knees under yourself.

Then he’s shoving an extra controller at you almost aggressively, the sudden motion pulling a gasp from your throat, making you flinch away.

“Relax,” he rolls his eyes, pushing the controller at you again and shaking it a little in his hand, trying to entice you to take it. “I’m not gonna hurt you, or anything,”

“You…You’re—what?”

Tomura observes you carefully, scrutinizing now, eyes narrowing a little as they scan your face. You stare back at him dumbly, lips slightly parted. “What?” he snaps.

“But I thought—I mean, I want you to—”

“What?”

“That came out wrong,” you rush to say, shutting your eyes tightly in embarrassment. “What I mean is…Um, didn’t I come over so we can like, fuck?” your cheeks burn as you force the words out, ears ringing as blood rushes to your face, so loud you almost miss his sharp intake of breath.

Tomura’s eyes widen and he stares at you for a long moment before he checks his phone, scrolling through your messages. “You said…You wanted to play video games?”

You look at him, blinking in astonishment. “And you believed that?”

Tomura frowns a little, eyebrows knitting, slightly defensive. “Well, yeah?”

You’re at a loss for words as you stare back at the man sitting cross-legged in front of you, watching you closely. This is the guy Touya so desperately didn’t want you to be around?

Powerless to stop the little giggle that bubbles up in your throat, you inch towards him on your knees. “You’re kinda cute, y’know?”

Soft notes of tiger orchid and sweet sticky toffee waft over him, your body heat clinging to his skin as you settle beside him, thigh touching his knee. He seethes at you, and his fingers twitch around the controller, a hand moving to rake his nails against his neck.

You reach out, little fingers wrapping around his wrist and pulling it away from his flesh.

“Do you want to?” you ask softly, gazing at him through your lashes, bringing his palm to rest over your breast.

“Are you stupid?” he spits, fingers instantly tightening the moment they meet satin, the strength of his grip making you gasp. “Of course I fucking want to. Do you know how many times I’ve jerked off to you? Christ,”

Warmth blossoms in your chest at the confession, sparking a dull heat that begins to spread deep in the pit of your stomach. You’re flattered, even though you can hear Touya’s voice in the back of your mind, sharp and condescending, reprimanding you for being so easy.

“Yeah? What did you think about?” Your voice quivers a little as you ask the question, but that doesn’t stop his ruby eyes from darkening, his free hand dropping the controller to shamelessly rub at the bulge in his jeans.

“How cute your little cunt must be, how sweet it’d taste, how good those lips would feel wrapped around my cock as I fuck your throat,” his voice drops an octave as he speaks, low and dangerous as he kneads your breast hard—too hard, but adrenaline keeps the pain from registering.

He’s reaching for you now, pale hands pawing at your hips and dragging you over, forcing you to straddle his lap. A soft whimper falls from your lips as he instantly begins rolling his hips up, like he can’t bear to wait, fingers digging into your flesh as they hold you in place.

Neither can you, apparently, because you begin wiggling a little in his grasp, trying in vain to rut against him.

“You’re a little whore, huh? Even with a virgin, you can’t help but grind on a hard cock,” he smirks, lips at your ear. “A hard cock’s a hard cock I guess, makes no difference to you, greedy little slut,”

A mewl escapes your throat as you nod, hips pushing forcefully against his, grinding your little cunt against rough denim.

Wait, virgin?

“A v-virgin?”

“Yeah, lucky you,”

His words taper off into a growl, vibrating in his chest, hands leaving your waist to cup your jaw and roughly pull your face to his, lips crashing into yours. You emit a soft, startled noise into his mouth, and he swallows it greedily, tongue forcing its way through your parted lips and into your mouth, commanding your own tongue into submission almost instantaneously.

It’s nothing like kissing Touya. Your body follows your tongue, melting into him. Fingers grip your jaw, pressing crescent indents into the skin as he guides your head to exactly where he wants it to go.

It isn’t romantic. It’s harsh, and desperate, a mess of teeth and tongues fighting for dominance. A hand tangles in your hair and pulls, forcing your head back and revealing your arched neck to him. His lips trail down the column of your throat, leaving wet, sloppy kisses in their wake.

“I wanna fuck you already,” he whines a little, aggressively thrusting against your clothed core. You moan out an affirmative noise, nodding.

“One rule,” you breathe out.

“Hmm? And what’s that?” his lips are against your neck, tongue painting it in glistening saliva with slow, languid strokes.

“No marks,” you yelp out just as his teeth sink into your skin. It stings, Tomura keeping his mouth latched onto your neck for a few seconds, teeth buried in the soft flesh. His tongue laves over the mark before pulling away completely, and a shiver crawls up your spine as the bite is exposed to the cool air.

He’s giggling into your shoulder, nipping at the skin superficially. “Oops,”

“Tomura!” you whine, making no effort to pull his lips from your neck. “Touya’s going to murder me,”

He laughs again, pulling back and rolling his eyes. “And, what? He isn’t already going to kill you for fucking someone else?”

There isn’t a moment to respond, though, not a second to try and explain how weird Touya gets about marks in particular, because then he’s crushing his lips to yours again, hard, fervent, bruising.

“Gonna cum soon if you don’t fucking do something,” he practically snarls into your mouth.

The very thought of Tomura cumming in his pants just from a few minutes of dry humping makes your entire stomach flutter, a flash of pure confidence surging in your chest as involuntary words tumble from your mouth.

“Oh?” you murmur, breath hot against his lips. “Something? Like this?” you begin gyrating your hips in tiny, quick circles, giggling at the groan you rip from his throat.

And Tomura hates how fucking innocent you sound, gazing at him with glassy eyes and swollen lips and a sinful little smile.

“Stop,” it’s supposed to be a command, an order, but it comes out as a broken whine, his hands latching onto your hips again as he forces you to move even faster, rocking into you.

“Doesn’t feel like you want me to stop,” you pout a little and he huffs out a curse.

It’s intoxicating, to be in a position of power like this. It isn’t your favourite—you’re much too shy and indecisive to be in a role like this all the time—but the novelty of it excites you nonetheless. Touya never lets you do anything like this, hates being teased with a passion, but Tomura seems to enjoy it, like it’s some sort of game to him.

“Little bitch,” he breathes out, though his forehead is resting against yours, eyes shut, soft grunts spilling from his throat.

“C’mon, Tomura,” you whimper, and now it sounds like you’re the one begging. “Make a mess in your pants for me? P-Pretty please?”

That’s all it takes to have his hips stilling, fingers pressing bruises into your skin as he grips you tightly, holding you in place and forcing you to grind against him ever-so-slightly as his cock throbs and twitches in his jeans.

You expect him to push you off immediately after, to shout and berate you for such behaviour, but he doesn’t. Instead, he leans back against the bottom of the couch, arms encircling your waist and bringing you with him.

It must be uncomfortable, to sit in those soiled jeans filled with cum, but he doesn’t seem to care, more interested in exploring your mouth with his tongue as you kiss lazily. You don’t mind, although your clit is aching and swollen, pussy fluttering around nothing every so often as his fingers explore your body, kneading your ass and tweaking nipples, your panties soaked all the way through and sticking to you unpleasantly.

And it’s due to this that your hips still manage to rock against his in minuscule movements that are more teasing than anything else, little micro-circles that have your drenched cunt grinding gently against wet denim.

It seems he has an impossibly short refraction period because, before long, his cock’s hard again, pressing up into your clothed hole. You whimper his name into his mouth and he breaks the kiss, lips red and puffy, shining with saliva.

“Take my cock out,” he instructs, voice stern despite his slight breathlessness. You crawl off his lap and do as your told, popping the button, tugging the zipper down and pulling at the waistband of his jeans. He lifts his hips just enough to aid you in dragging them down to his thighs, cock springing free.

“Clean it up,”

It’s covered in cum, so much cum—too much cum, more than is normal—glistening in the low light of the living room. It twitches a little under your gaze, as if to say get on with it already, so you wrap a hand around the base and bring the head to your lips.

You start with kitten licks, tongue tracing around the head and playing with the slit, pulling a deep, throaty moan from him.

“Don’t—Don’t swallow it,” he rasps. “Clean me up and keep all my cum in your mouth,”

It’s difficult—his cum is much more bitter than Touya’s, and you gag a few times as it settles on your tongue, marinating in your mouth. You try your best to hold it in your cheeks and away from your tastebuds, working as quickly as possible as you lap it up, gazing up at him with teary eyes when you’re finished.

“What a good girl,” he spits in a patronizing tone, like it’s an insult. “Kiss me,”

It’s a demand you have no choice but to obey, a hand rooting in your hair and yanking you up to face him.

He all but smashes your lips together, fingers still wrapped tightly in your hair, holding you in place. His tongue forces its way through your lips and you greet it eagerly, desperate to get his cum out of your mouth.

Except he doesn’t let you pull away after you’ve passed the majority of his cum to him, the bitter taste still stinging your tongue. No, he uses the fist tangled in your hair to keep you still as he shoves his tongue into your mouth again, transferring the cum—now watered down a little with his saliva—into the warm cavern yet again.

You whine, and he chuckles, lips spreading into a grin against yours.

“Swallow it,” he whispers, pulling back just enough to watch your expression as you force it down your throat, face souring, eyes squeezed shut as your lips pucker just a little. “Open, lemme see,”

Your mouth falls open obediently, little droplets of water clinging to your lashes as you gaze up at him, waiting for approval.

“Good,” he practically purrs, eyes darkening as his fingers caress your face. “Now I want to fuck you,”

You’re nodding, but he doesn’t give you a moment to respond, beginning to manhandle you into the position he wants before he’s even finished speaking. The oriental rug is soft against your cheek as he presses your face to the ground, hands curling around your hips as he hoists them up.

“What cute little panties,” he breathes, dragging a finger along your clothed slit before yanking the material down to your knees.

It stings a little as he practically shoves his cock into your sopping cunt, not bothering to stretch you out—you’re not even sure if he knows he’s supposed to—but you’re wet enough that the breach is relatively easy, and the burning fades quickly as your little hole adjusts to the girth of his cock.

He begins thrusting immediately, and he’s rough, overeager, uncoordinated, the vicious snaps of his hips uneven and sloppy.

Truthfully, he’s only using you as a hole the first time, but you don’t mind—not really, anyway. Blazing sapphire sears through your mind, and you think about how furious Touya would be if he knew, if he could see the way you’re degrading yourself, letting yourself be reduced to nothing but a fucktoy for a nasty virgin to desperately hump away at, sacrificing your own pleasure for his.

Touya would never.

To Touya, making you cum is half the fun. He gets a rush from it, gets high off the way you go absolutely fucking stupid from his fingers and cock, how quickly he can turn your brain to soup, rendering you a dumb little blabbering mess only capable of whining out the words niichan and Touya-nii. It feeds his ever-growing ego.

But Tomura is eager to please in a different way. He’s more selfish than Touya, sure, but he’s keen to learn all he can, curious and committed.

And, once he finally gets the hang of it, confident, too.

His thrusts gain more finesse as he fucks you, but he’s unable to keep up any steady rhythm, the tight fluttering of your pussy every time he grazes a specific spot inside of you making his hips stutter, forcing needy, guttural groans from his throat.

He cums quick—not that you expect any less from a virgin—with a deep growl of your name that has your stomach swooping, cunt throbbing around him again as he fills you with thick, burning cum.

You’re exhausted by the end of it, abused body melting into the lush carpet as your cunt throbs desperately, his cum slowly oozing out of it. Tomura snorts as he looks down at you, gentle hands tugging your panties down the rest of your legs and removing them completely, discarding them a few feet away.

“Up you go,” he’s murmuring as hands snake under your armpits and haul you up. You mumble his name and he hushes you, collapsing heavily on the couch with you still in his arms. Strong hands manhandle you into straddling his lap again, leaking pussy pressed against his softening cock.

The television hums to life, quiet main menu music floating through the room as the soft clicking of buttons sounds behind you.

You should go home now. You know you should. You’ve done what you came here to do, and now you should be leaving.

Should, should, should.

But Tomura’s so warm, and you’re so tired, muscles aching despite the fact that he did most of the work.

“Rest,” he instructs quietly when you begin to whine into his neck, fingers preoccupied with unwrapping a piece of watermelon bubblegum.

He’s so much softer than you expected—disgusting, but soft—and you can’t believe you spent months being terrified of him. You know this is probably the last time you’ll be able to see him in a long time—a fact that produces an inexplicable ache deep in your chest—so you allow yourself bask in the moment, just for a little, you promise yourself.

You obey his gentle command, snuggling up against him and permitting yourself to drift in and out of consciousness to the sound of aliens being killed and aggressive button smashing.

But then something hard is poking you—you aren’t sure how long you’ve been sitting here for now, long enough for Tomura to power through a few matches, at least—and that blistering heat flares again, beginning to coil tight in your tummy.

You shift a little, an involuntary whine slipping from your lips.

“What is it?” Tomura asks, eyes never straying from the screen, fingers never pausing. “You wanna sit on my cock, baby?”

Christ, yes. You mumble into his shoulder, nodding and rolling your hips in response.

He chuckles—a low, quiet sound rattling around in his chest—and allows you to sink down on him again, captivated by the soft moan you emit as you do so, crimson eyes gleaming and breathing slightly laboured.

“Ah, fuck,” he mutters when his avatar on the screen gets shot, redirecting his attention.

And it’s…it’s nice. Surprisingly nice. He’s cozy, and comfy, his breathing slow and even with every rise of his chest, despite the alien shrieks coming from the TV behind you. He smells like cheap cigarettes and artificial watermelon with just a hint of cedarwood, and you inhale deeply, letting the scent fill your lungs.

Touya rarely lets you cockwarm him; Touya doesn’t have the patience, Touya doesn’t have the time. You fall into a state halfway between asleep and awake, hips rocking against Tomura just enough to keep him hard, just enough to have you whimpering into his neck.

He could get used to this, he tells you. The confession is soft, a private little thought that just kinda slips out, mindlessly falling from his lips, but you could, too, you think.

It’s intimate, which is odd, considering you barely know him, used to be frightened of him. But it’s such a refreshing contrast to Touya’s intense, scalding flame.

Eventually, though, it isn’t enough, the teasing’s too much, and you need more.

Gazing up at him with glittering eyes, you begin to trail your lips up his neck, over his self-inflicted scars, slowly, hesitantly.

He inhales sharply, jumping a little in surprise, and you freeze, terrified you might’ve overstepped some invisible boundary you were not previously aware of.

“Keep going,” he whines, a little petulantly, hips wiggling against yours.

Lips resuming their ministrations, you place gentle, chaste kisses up the column of his throat and along his jaw, delighting in each soft sigh you manage to pull from him. The game playing on the TV suddenly halts, Tomura throwing the controller on the couch cushion next to you before large hands cup your face in a tender way you did not think him capable of.

Your mouths slot together, kissing messily, saliva glistening on your chins as you pass his watermelon gum back and forth between yourselves. It’s kinda gross, kinda filthy, juvenile and sloppy, but it’s fun, has the two of you giggling into each other’s mouths, a little breathless from it all.

“Wanna ride you,” you murmur, almost shyly, against his slippery lips.

“Yeah?” he rasps, just barely bouncing you in his lap. “You wanna use my cock to get off?”

“Yes, please,” the plead comes out as a pathetic whimper, and you squirm impatiently.

Finally, finally you get to cum. In this position, you have leverage over the angle of your hips, able to situate yourself just right, so his cockhead nudges exactly where you want it to.

He does nothing this time, just leans back and watches you with those dark, half-lidded scarlet eyes, hands idly exploring your thighs, occasionally raking his nails down them. He’s in a trance as he gazes at you, mesmerized by the way your eyes are starting to roll back, by the way each drag of his cock against that spot has you keening, by the way his name leaves your lips in broken little whines that have him gasping in response.

Your hips speed up, and you’re desperate, so desperate to cum, nails digging into the flesh of his shoulders through his thin t-shirt.

“Gonna—” he starts, breathless. “Gonna cum?”

You nod a little frantically as eager hips rock against him, his hands finally finding your waist and helping you move.

“Please,” he whimpers. “Wanna feel you,”

And it’s his begging that does it, that finally sends you over the edge, pussy clenching around him, convulsing almost painfully and gushing on his cock with a sharp cry of his name. He follows immediately after, painting your insides with hot cum as a curse hitches in his chest.

Your body collapses against him, going pliant and boneless as you both pant. Everything feels heavy—you haven’t had an orgasm that intense in a while—and the absolute last thing you want to do is get up and walk home.

Tomura can sense it. He can feel it in the way your fingers are knotting in his t-shirt, in the way your hips try to scoot forward, chest pressed against his tightly, and he wraps an arm around you, trying to keep you close for just a minute more.

Silence blankets the room as the two of you calm your breathing. You’ve been anticipating a certain sense of awkwardness to finally wash over you all night, but it never comes. Instead, it’s pleasant, and you hum a little, nuzzling your face into Tomura’s shoulder as skinny fingers brush through your hair.

“I don’t wanna go,” you say, and it’s so quiet, muffled by the material of his shirt, that he barely hears it. Maybe he wasn’t supposed to.

“Just stay,” he mumbles, resting his chin atop your head. “Text your dad some bullshit, or whatever,”

You want to. You’re surprised at how much you desperately want to.

“Touya will kill me,”

“Touya’s gonna kill ya either way, sweetheart,”

You suppose that’s true. Neither of you tricked yourselves into thinking that you’d actually get away with this. Touya will know the moment he sees you, will probably be able to smell Tomura all over you, but you can’t seem to find it in yourself to care, not in that moment, not when Tomura’s so comfy and you’re so sleepy and it’s all just nice.

Good, you think. It’s about time he gets a taste of how much stuff like this hurts.

And so you find yourself crawling into his bed, in one of his t-shirts, with bruises in the shape of his fingertips rapidly blossoming, heat seeping into your cheeks when he tells you he thinks you look cute in his clothes.

He latches onto you the moment you’ve settled into his mattress, long arms encircling your waist and dragging you towards him. One of your legs slots between his, and you have to stifle a giggle.

“Hard again, Tomura?”

“Shut up,” he says, no heat to his voice. “Can’t help it,”

His words echo your own, three simple words you’ve said so many times to Touya, and you feel a pang in your chest.

“Not my fault you’re too hot,” he continues, grumbling into your neck.

Honestly, you didn’t peg him as a cuddler, and maybe he isn’t—maybe he just wants to grind and hump against your thigh—but you welcome the warmth of his body nonetheless.

It doesn’t bother you, although it probably should, as he ruts against you, tiny broken moans and high, breathy whines being exhaled against your neck. But it’s so new, all of this is so new to you, and curiosity clouds your better judgement. While you’re pretty sure you should be shoving him away, reprimanding him for such behaviour, positive that’s what any normal person would do, you don’t. Little fingers thread in his hair instead, carding through silvery-blue fluffy tufts, reveling in the groan it pulls from him.

It doesn’t take long for him to cum, thick and sticky in his boxers, the material wet against your thigh. You’re impressed, both by how easily he cums, and how much he cums. You want to tell him, want to tease him about it a little, let him know you think it’s cute, but heavy, hazy fatigue begins to wash over you, and you fall asleep to Tomura’s soft breaths mingled with the sound of you phone buzzing, over and over and over again.

✰ ✰ ✰

Your phone’s dead when you wake sometime in the early afternoon, and for that, you’re thankful. Anxiety floods your stomach, bubbling up in your chest acidly as you think about what’ll be waiting for you when you recharge it.

Tomura walks you to the door, which you find to be very odd behaviour, but sweet nonetheless, and watches carefully as you slip on your shoes.

“Uh, text me later, okay?” He sounds unsure for the first time since you’ve been with him, and your expression softens.

“I will, if Touya doesn’t take my phone away,”

And you pretend to miss the look on his face, the way his eyebrows knit as a hand comes to scratch idly at his neck, the way he looks almost worried. It’s fine. You’ll be fine.

✰ ✰ ✰

He knows. The moment you step foot through the front door, he knows.

You knew he would, but it doesn’t make the glare scathing your skin any less terrifying.

He’s on you in an instant—you didn’t even know humans could move that fast—pinning you to the drywall, large hands wrapped around your wrists and forcing them above your head, keeping you trapped.

“You little slut,”

Unexpected anger flares in your chest, even though tears are already beginning to collect in your eyes, and you squirm in his grasp.

“I fuck one other person, and I’m the slut?”

You gasp the moment the words leave your lips, wide eyes searching his face and shaking your head frantically, would slap your hands over your mouth if they weren’t currently secured in his bruising grip against the wall.

The look he gives you is absolutely petrifying, blue eyes darker than the ocean—so dark they almost look black—his stare cold and hard as stone, sending sharp spikes of ice up your spine.

“You fucking reek of him,” he spits, face screwing up in disgust. You’re sure you do, too, after spending a good twelve hours in his bed, almost positive you can smell him in your hair, the remnants of cheap cigarettes and artificial watermelon clinging to you.

Patronizing eyes rake over you, zeroing in on the violet that’s bloomed on your neck. His nostrils flare as he stares at it, breath beginning to come in rapid, uneven huffs. His eyes slowly drift back to yours, an unreadable expression settling on his face.

It’s shock, and disbelief, and rage, and…and sadness? It passes too quickly for you to even tell, and then he’s pulling your wrists down callously, still gathered in his hand, and dragging you towards his room.

He all but throws you on his bed face first, breathing harsh and erratic as he exhales forcefully through his nose and climbs on top of you, knees on either side of your thighs. A large hand wraps itself in your hair and tugs, forcing your upper body to arch.

Glistening tears stream down your cheeks and you exhale harshly through your nose, teeth gritted as you urgently try to stop crying.

“Fucking answer me,” he growls out the words, but he sounds almost…desperate? You’ve never heard his voice like this before, and it’s then that it finally dawns on you.

You got him back. Sure, he’s furious beyond belief, looks like he could kill you right here, right now, with his bare fucking hands—but he’s also extremely upset, if the slight quiver present in his voice is any indication.

“Yes,” you wheeze out. If it made him feel even an ounce of the emotional turmoil he’s put you through with his whores, then yes, it was absolutely worth it.

“You’re going to regret saying that,” his voice is low, threatening, calm. It’s disturbing, how quickly he can switch, and a chill of unease settles deep in your bones—once Touya stops with his growls and snarls, once his voice becomes monotonous and almost serene in a way, that’s when you know he’s really angry.

Shoving your head down into the mattress, he tells you to stay fucking put as he gets up and wanders over to his desk. He returns to the bed moments later with a tool that vaguely resembles a pen, hand tangling in your hair again as he pulls you up.

“You know what this is?”

You shake your head as best you can.

“It’s a soldering iron,” his voice is still composed and collected, sounding almost as if he’s explaining something to a child, but there’s a malevolent glint in his eye, a look you’ve never seen before. “It gets really, really hot. I just so happened to be warming one on my desk,”

He says it so nonchalantly, as if this is an object one would regularly keep in their bedroom or on their desk.

“It’s not supposed to be used on skin,” he shrugs a little, twirling the tool between his fingers. “But today, I think we’ll make an exception,”

“What?”

“Head down, ass up,” he instructs sternly, pushing your head into his pillows.

“Touya, wait—” you start, the rest of your sentence muffled by the sheets. His hand gives one firm shove—a warning to stay down—and then he begins shuffling around on the bed.

Careful to keep your cheek pressed hard against the pillow, you turn your head just enough to speak.

“Wh-What are you doing?” Your voice is trembling, thick with tears, dense anxiety building in your chest.

“I’m going to burn my name into your pretty little ass,” he responds simply as he positions himself behind you, yanking your panties midway down your thighs and sitting back on his heels. “A nice, pretty, permanent mark so you, and everyone else, never forget who you fucking belong to,”

“No!” you gasp, beginning to lift your head only to have him force it back into the pillow with a snarl. “No, Tou—niichan, I-I’ll do anything, please—”

“No, no, no, baby,” he says over your senseless babbling, voice almost gentle, thumb caressing your silky skin. “Don’t squirm, now,” he chides. “If you squirm, my hand might slip, and I might burn other parts of your body. We don’t want that, do we? Be a good girl for niichan and sit still,”

And so you do. You should feel ashamed, pathetic, revolted that he’s able to manipulate you so easily, that he knows exactly how to turn you into putty to be molded and shaped as he pleases, even when he’s about to sear his name into your skin.

It burns unlike anything you’ve ever felt before as he carefully carves his name into the supple flesh, saying the letters out loud as he does so. It’s a unique, stinging-stabbing type of pure agony, one that sends sharp pain radiating up to your lower back and down your thigh.

Fingers curl in his dark sheets as you sob into his bed—chest-wracking sobs that have your entire body trembling, chest-wracking sobs that you so desperately try to hold back and swallow, to stay still, to be good for your niichan. Touya tells you to be happy, be grateful, that the temperature of his iron goes up so high.

“Otherwise, I would’ve had to go over it several times in order to make it really stick,”

It’s over quickly, though, a mere fifteen minutes later and he’s cleaning it with rubbing alcohol and gently taping thick gauze over it and uses this opportunity to take your panties off entirely.

“Good girl,” he praises as he hoists you up, manhandling you to straddle his spread thighs, careful of your now very sensitive bottom. “You did so good for niichan,”

And you can’t stand the way your heart weakly flutters at his praise. You can’t stand the way you instinctually bury your head in his chest, tiny fists forming in the material of his t-shirt as you wail, can’t stand the way he is still the only one you want comforting you.

His cock is hard through his jeans, and you can feel it pressing into your core as he shifts a little under you. It’s humiliating, but you’re powerless to stop your hips from moving in subtle little circles, grinding your cunt against the rough denim. And he lets you do it for a little, too, tender fingers petting your hair as he soothes your sobs, taming them to little sniffles and hiccups.

“Niichan’s gonna fuck you now, okay?” he asks softly, murmuring against your scalp, voice almost sickly sweet.

It takes you a moment to respond, eventually nodding your head.

A smirk spreads across his lips and he instructs you to get up, tapping the side of your thigh.

You lift yourself, walking back on your knees and giving him enough room to free his aching cock from the confines of his jeans before his hands find your hips again, dragging you back.

“Baby,” he breathes as his fingers spread your folds, his eyes darkening in a manner much different than before. “Already wet for me?”

Cheeks burning with shame, you nuzzle your head into the crook of his neck, whimpering a little as he pushes a finger into you.

“Don’t tell me,” he gasps tauntingly, voice dripping with artificial surprise. “You didn’t like being branded, did you?”

“No,” you whisper, shaking your head quickly. No, it wasn’t the branding that did it—not really, anyway. It was the aftercare. It was Touya’s cold hands gently tending to your injured bottom, Touya pulling you into his lap as he praised you and dropped kisses to the crown of your head, Touya getting hard from the punishment, from permanently searing his name into your flesh.

You should be disgusted with yourself, with how eager you are, hips wiggling a little only a few moments later as you whine out softly, “Niichan, cock,”

“Impatient,” he huffs. “Don’t get bratty with me now, you were doing so well,”

A pout forms on your face, still hidden in his shoulder.

“Jus’ want it so bad,” you mumble against him, beginning to slur your words. “Please, Touya-nii?”

He hums to himself, makes you beg just a little bit more, reveling in the way your voice begins to get desperate, all high and needy as you try to fuck yourself on his fingers, whimpering and begging with pathetic little please, niichan?’s.

“Is this how you want it? Huh? Wanna ride niichan?”

Mewling a little, you nod, rolling your hips into his palm.

“Words, sweetheart,”

“Yeah,” you breathe out. “W-Wanna ride you,”

Finally, he gives it to you, lets you sink down on his cock, watching the way you wince as it stretches you, expression contradicted by your soft moans.

He forces you to begin bouncing immediately, doesn’t allow you to set the pace—he never does—smirking at those little pained cries spilling from your throat, though whether they’re because his cock or the five letters freshly burned into your skin, he isn’t sure. Maybe both; probably both.

“Aw, baby,” he coos, tone condescending. “Does it hurt?”

“Yeah,” you whimper, the threat of tears stinging your eyes.

“Yeah? Yeah?” his voice mimics yours, pitched high and whiny. “I bet it fucking does,”

A hand travels down to grope your ass—specifically, the cheek with the brand—squeezing hard as fingers dig into your skin. You cry out, tears finally leaking from your eyes, chest hitching as you sob out, “Touya-nii,”

“Don’t ever do something like that again,” he says in your ear, voice low and dangerous. “Don’t you ever go fuck another man because you’re mad at me, do you understand?”

Heat begins to coil tightly in your stomach at his smooth, dark voice. “Y-Yes,”

“Promise me,” he growls, grip tightening on your ass.

“I promise,” you’re weeping as he gives one more harsh squeeze, pain scorching through your backside, a loud yelp escaping your lips.

“Bet his cock didn’t feel as good as mine,” he sneers in your ear, panting a little. “Wasn’t as big as mine, didn’t fill you up the way mine does,”

“No, no, no,” you’re chanting in time with his thrusts, eyes rolling back in your head.

“Probably could—” a low groan cuts him off as your pussy flutters around him. “Could never make you cum the way I do,”

A loud whine rips from your throat, your head nodding as he continues his relentless thrusts up into you, never once faltering. Adrenaline and endorphins rush through your veins, high off the heady mixture of pleasure and pain.

“N-Niichan,” you gasp, nails digging into his flesh through the material of his thin t-shirt. “Niichan,”

“Gonna cum? Hmm? Gonna make a mess all over niichan’s cock?” he’s asking breathlessly, slamming into you at a rapid pace and using his thighs for more leverage, hands gripping your hips.

“Uh-huh,”

“Do it, then,” he commands hoarsely. “Cum on your niichan’s cock,”

And you do, helplessly, incapable of disobeying a direct order, creaming so hard your vision blanks for a second, overwhelmed by the extreme, potent mix of pain and pleasure crashing over you.

“Who do you belong to?” Touya’s nearly keening now, hips jackhammering, making your body twitch and shudder with every sharp thrust into your sensitive pussy.

“You,”

“Tell me again,”

“I belong to you, niichan,”

And those five simple words—those five simple words have him cumming hard, hips stilling and cockhead pressed firmly against your cervix, filling your cute little cunt with his seed as broken curses fall from his lips.

You’re both panting, covered in a thin, sheen layer of sweat, your hair sticking to your face and little droplets of tears still glistening on your lash line. He all but collapses back against the bed, taking you with him, cock still buried inside of you.

“And I’m yours,” he whispers into your hair, hugging you tightly—too tightly—to his heaving chest. “I’m yours,”

Laying in his arms, in his bed, with his name burned into your ass, you wonder if you’re destined to play this game for the rest of your lives.

He’s yours.

Are you stuck with him now, forever?

He’s yours.

Will you every get married? Ever get the chance to date someone else?

He’s yours.

Do you even want to?

Laying in his arms, in his bed, with his name burned into your ass, knowing he’s yours, do you even want any of that?

No. With your head resting against his chest, rising and falling with his gentle breaths, slender fingers combing through your sweaty hair, you realize that this is all you want.

He’s yours, and you’re his, and that is enough.

#dabi x reader #dabi smut #shigaraki x reader #shigaraki smut #dabi #todoroki touya #no of course i didn't get the brand idea from jackass #what are u talking about #this tomura is uhhhh v different from break my bones tomura #ehehe he's kinda soft but also rly disgusting???#yucky yucky boi #i will DIE with that rich boy shig hc #tw pseudo-incest #tw noncon/dubcon #tw branding #tw dacryphilia #tw degradation #tw cheating #tw toxic relationship

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athenadione · 4 years

Text

pizza and feverish confessions

No one:

Me: DID SOMEONE SAY WHUMP

Okay so it’s only light whump, with an emphasis on comfort. Will I go to the grave believing that Damian is a big softie when it comes to sick Raven? Absolutely.

Words: 3,909

Rated: G it’s all appropriate... this time ;)

Pairing: DamiRae

Click Here to read on A03

It starts out with a warm, fuzzy feeling in the back of her head. A little dizzying, but not enough to disrupt her equilibrium, so she brushes the feeling aside and chalks it up to a flare of her empathy. Throwing up a few mental shields to keep the plethora of auras at bay, she continues walking down the street with the rest of her teammates, nearing Pizza Corner.

A popular hotspot for locals, they have to request seating ahead of time so that the employees can prepare for a visit from the Titans. It’s always a daunting task to go out in public. The employees have to barricade a spot near the back of the restaurant for them to eat in peace, and constantly combat the flow of customers that walk in all for the chance to meet them. Obviously, they don’t do it often. The sheer amount of work it takes for them to dine-in never takes less than an hour. But today Gar insisted, and Kori can be a sucker for cute, green kittens; So naturally, they made a reservation.

The restaurant is already buzzing with activity by the time they turn the corner, still about a block away. Hosts and waitresses are shuffling people out and the crowd is growing considerably, all looking for a chance to get an autograph or picture with a Titan. They’re used to all the chanting and the yelling, but today it bothers her a bit. Already she can feel a tension headache blooming just behind her eyes, and she resists the urge to rub at her temples with her fingers. Maybe she stayed up reading too late last night.

She says nothing about her ailment and continues walking, appearing unaffected to everyone that doesn’t know what to look for in her face- a light grimace tugging at the corners of her mouth, and eyes that flutter shut a moment longer than necessary.

A few employees jog out to escort them the rest of the way, and Kori thanks them warmly, resting a hand on one of the men’s shoulders. The way the man looks back at Kori can make any woman mad with envy. Complete, undivided attention and adoration. Really, she can imagine literal red hearts leaping outwards from the pupils of his eyes accompanied by the loud sound of an ahooga horn. It nearly makes her snort, but instead she arches a delicate brow. With a reminder to herself to watch less Cartoon Network, she allows herself to be ushered into the building by another employee.

When she feels the brush of a well defined chest against the length of her arm after stepping inside it takes her a moment to realize it’s Damian. He must have stayed close behind her from the way he’s angled his body, shielding her from view. She remembers a time when his body wouldn’t even be able to take up half the space of the door. Now, at twenty two, he can easily provide coverage from the crowd- which she’s certainly grateful for. One would think after nearly a decade of superhero experience she’d be used to the publicity. Reluctantly, she admits that she’ll probably always be a little uneasy when it comes to large crowds.

“Beast Boy, stop flirting and get in here!” Jaime is seen tugging on the Changeling’s arm, practically dragging him in the diner. Gar comes begrudgingly with promises to the horde of females surrounding him to come back later for pictures. The foray of giggles that is heard a few seconds after leads Raven to believe that he’s said something else that’s borderline inappropriate, and from Damian’s eye roll she knows that he heard exactly what it was.

“Come on Beetle, I was this close to getting that blonde chick’s phone number!” Gar laments, rather dramatically Raven thinks, and continues his protests all the way to the door.

“Hurry up you two, we’re ready to be seated.” Kori says, shooting Gar a glance, the warning to behave clear in her eyes. Raven admits that she’s impressed when Gar doesn’t immediately shrink back like he used to.

“Sorry Star.” He mumbles, letting Jaime pull him past both her and Damian to follow behind Kori. Raven watches them a moment, willing the dull throb in her head to ebb, but it doesn’t cease. A light frown crosses her features when she realizes that she’ll likely need to meditate an extra hour today for the pain to subside. And perhaps take a few ibuprofen.

Behind her, Damian steps around her and lowers his gaze to meet her eyes. “Raven, are you okay?” He asks, touching her arm lightly. “You have a headache?”

Raven blinks, the only evidence of her surprise that Damian had been able to read her so well. But then she remembers that they’ve been teammates for years, and of course he would be able to tell, just as she can tell that the lilt in his tone is concern, not annoyance.

“Yeah.” She breathes and closes her eyes again. “I’m okay, I just need to meditate when we get back to the tower.”

When she opens her eyes again she sees him press his lips together and narrow his eyes like he doesn’t believe her and he’s definitely going to argue with her...but to her relief he says nothing, just gestures to the large booth where the others are already seated.

“Come on, the sooner we eat the sooner we can leave.”

She nods lightly, aware of how the movement heightens the pain of her headache, and turns to walk to where Kori is waving for them. Then Damian places a hand to her lower back and begins to guide her through the clearest pathway to the booth, unaware of the light blush heating her cheeks. Even after all this time she still hasn't gotten the courage to admit to herself what the pang in her chest is when he does little things like that.

Shoving back emotions that she refuses to interpret, she focuses her attention on the booth ahead of them, giving Kori a shrug when she sends her a curious look.

“Man they always have the best veggie pizzas. I wish I could eat here everyday.” Gar states to no one in particular. Jaime takes offense, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “How can anyone come here and eat vegetarian pizza? That should be considered felonious.”

“For once, I’d have to agree with Beast Boy.” Damian tells them both, stepping up to the booth first, then he reaches out with an open hand for her to take it. His hand is cool, contradicting the heat that she’s feeling from her headache. He gestures for her to step into the booth first and she scoots beside Jaime. Then he follows behind, effectively closing her in.

“Are you serious? Did everyone hear that?” Gar’s eyes widen in excitement, and he jumps in his seat, nearly sloshing his drink. “I want this in writing.”

“Don’t get used to it.” Damian quips back, eyes scanning the menu. The pout that Gar sends him makes Raven smile, mildly amused at the way his canines protrude over his upper lip.

Any plea that may have come from Gar’s mouth is silenced when the wait staff swoop in to get their orders. As quickly as they left, they come back with her and Damian’s drinks, and they are already set to make their pizza. Fast and succinct, the waist staff pride themselves on their service, and they deserve a considerable tip for the effort they’ve already given to allow them all to eat here. She makes a mental note to mention that to Kori when there’s a light itching in the back of her throat, and she takes a few sips of her water to combat it.

Conversations between her teammates continue, and Raven’s content to remain silent and listen to their banter, leaning back into the cool upholstery of the booth. The haziness in her mind grows, accompanied by a lightheadedness that makes her breathe deep, repeating her mantra to focus. In one corner, she finds a tear in the mahogany leather. Eyes beginning to glaze over, the longer she stares at it, the more black dots begin to swim along her vision.

At some point she vaguely recognizes Dick’s voice across the restaurant, joining them in his Nightwing suit. The joy she feels bubbling from Kori’s aura is enough to bring her back to the present, vision now clear, and she sees Dick slide in beside the Tamaranean. Everyone shifts to make room and Raven’s thigh brushes Damian’s when it’s her turn to scoot over.

“Hey guys, how’s it going?” Dick asks the entirety of the table. There’s a series of replies, each ranging from a curt “Fine,” to “I’d be better if I had my pizza right about now,” to a bemoaned “Thanks a lot Nightwing! It was already hard enough getting phone numbers with Robin around, now it’ll be impossible!”

Raven just nods in greeting, knowing that Dick won’t consider her silence as rude. Something she’s thankful for. Dick takes it all in stride as he always does, and he easily fits in with their group dynamic, bantering back and forth with Gar and Jaime all the while shooting the occasional tease to Kori. He even manages to make Damian smile once or twice- a considerable feat to accomplish.

Eventually they all settle down again and her eyes begin to feel bleary once more. This time a light shiver follows all the way up her spine, and she barely contains the shudder that threatens to wrack through her body. It does cause her to lightly brush against Damian’s thigh again though, and she’s very aware of his keen, inquiring eyes on her. Looking up, she sees the question in his gaze.

And she wants to put the concern she feels in his aura at ease, but at this point the ache in her head has pretty much developed into a migraine, and any jarring movement sends her head spinning, so she just gives him a small smile, if a bit forced. And as much as she’d rather go home and lay down in the dark, everyone’s having a good time, and they don’t get to go on public outings often together. She doesn’t want to ruin it by cutting their trip short. Besides, she’s been through much worse.

Even so, when their pizza finally arrives Raven only picks at hers, taking a few small bites for show, but her migraine is starting to make her feel nauseous, and the itch in her throat is scratchy, making it uncomfortable to swallow.

After a while, a heat begins to sizzle over her skin even as she’s bundled in her thickest cloak. Beside her, Jaime is arguing with Gar over which pizza is the best on the menu. It escalates to a point where Gar begins to point out how many slices of each kind of pizza everyone’s been eating until he gets to her own plate.

“What’s wrong Rae, you don’t like your pizza? You love pepperoni.” Gar pipes up from across the table, a piece of veggie pizza in one hand and a crumpled napkin in another. His brows are drawn together in disapproval when she follows his eyes to her plate. Only one slice of the two that she had taken from the pepperoni and cheese pie in the middle of the table is half eaten.

Aware of everyone’s eyes on her, she feigns nonchalance as she fights back another shiver. “Yeah, I do. It’s good.” She swallows, then takes another sip of her water to moisten her throat, looking back down at her plate. “I guess I just don’t have much of an appetite today.”

Beside her, Damian narrows his eyes and turns in the booth to observe her blatantly, ignoring Dick and Kori’s curious glances. Feeling a bit self-conscious under his intense stare, Raven wraps her fingers inside her cloak, pulling it tighter around her body. His eyes sweep her figure pensively, then rest back onto her face, taking in the glazed expression on her face.

After a few more moments he crosses his arms and gives her a reprimanding glare. “You’re getting sick.” He deadpans.

Immediately words of denial bubble up her throat, still conscious of everyone’s attention. “I am not. I’m fine.” She says, and as punishment the pain in her headache blossoms tenfold right at the base of her skull.

Despite the clouding in her mind she can still feel the brush of Damian’s aura, a tinge of both worry and frustration lapping at her empathy. “Tch. You’re a horrible liar and this is ridiculous.” He vaguely motions at the table they’re sitting at. “You shouldn’t be forcing yourself through lunch when you’re feeling unwell.”

The others voice similar echoes of concern with promises that she shouldn’t feel guilty for staying, and Raven sighs because this is what she has been trying to avoid. She waves off their concerns. “I’m okay, really. Let’s just enjoy the rest of lunch okay? I’m fine.” She repeats.

“I think we’re all ready to go back anyway, right guys?” Kori asks before Damian can argue with her further, looking at Jaime and Gar. Together they nod and begin to shuffle as one when Kori and Dick step out- Dick leaving the group entirely with the check in his hand.

Guilt swells in Raven’s chest, knowing how much the team had looked forward to being together on a relatively calm day like this, which is so very rare. “Wait, Star.” She winces as the raspiness grows in her voice. “You said you wanted to go to the mall first, we still have plenty of time.” Kori’s been wanting to go for weeks now.

Scooting out of the booth to follow her teammates takes more effort than she’d like to admit, but Damian hovers close by, taking her elbow and helping her step down. His gloved hand around her arm is much colder this time, causing a shudder that she can’t contain anymore.

Standing is not a good idea, Raven thinks. Her legs wobble and she locks her knees to stop them from shaking, and gods why is it suddenly so hot in here? She completely misses the first half of Kori’s response.

“...and besides, the dress I want to buy will still be there the next time I go.”

The world tilts on its axis, or rather Raven tilts, taking the world with her when she takes a step. The sudden lightheadedness she feels is so overwhelming she doesn’t even notice that Damian still hasn’t let go of her arm.

Someone within the vicinity of her incapacitated hearing begins to speak. Is it Gar? His voice sounds so far away now and her movements feel sluggish. There’s a light ringing in her ears that increases in tune with the pounding of her head, and through it all she feels that she’s broken out in a light sweat.

“Raven?” She looks through bleary eyes to see Damian’s face contorted with alarm. It makes her want to reach out and cup his face because he’s normally so stoic, and the worry creases above his brows don’t suit him at all. What would he do if she reached up on her tip-toes to kiss them until they receded?

She never gets the chance to find out, because the black specks dancing at the edge of her peripherals fill her vision all too quickly, and before she’s able to take another step forward her knees buckle, falling into Damian’s arms as swiftly as she falls into unconsciousness.

“Oh my god, Raven!”

She’s not fully conscious when she catches hints of low whispers near her, nearly drowned out by the beep of a machine next to her ears. Groaning softly, her senses are overcome with the aching in her leg muscles, and how hot her skin feels against the sheets she’s tucked underneath. A shiver wracks her body and she involuntarily curls into herself on the bed she’s in. Cords follow her body, attached to the pulse oximeter that she briefly notices is on her finger, along with an I.V. in her arm.

Faintly, she hears the sound of the t.v. playing in the background. She thinks it’s Scooby Doo. Either someone had turned it on for her when she woke, or Gar’s been in this room recently. Nonetheless, it’s enough to make her realize with mild amusement that she reminded herself to watch less Cartoon Network, not more.

But that amusement is short-lived when there’s a dip in the bed, the movement making her moan as the aching in her legs heightens, and she opens her eyes hazily.

It takes her a few seconds to focus on the figure beside her. “Dami…?” She croaks and immediately regrets speaking from the sharp pain in the back of her throat. “Ah..hurts.”

Luckily Damian isn’t one for small talk and he just rubs her upper arm lightly. “I know, don’t speak.” He says gently, “You have strep throat and the flu. Your fever got worse overnight.”

Damian presses something cold and wet to her forehead, and she sighs in reprieve as it soothes her heated flesh. Her eyes flutter shut once more and she’s already drifting off to sleep, barely hearing his next words. “Get some rest habibti. I’m here.” The darkness takes her under, and this time she welcomes it.

The next time she wakes she thinks she must be delirious.

Damian is mere inches away from her, pressing his lips to her temple in a light kiss, and whispering something to her in his native tongue.

If she wasn’t so sick then this would be heaven- waking up to his soft kisses. And maybe it still is in her own mind, because she’s honestly not sure if this is real.

A wave of nausea disrupts that train of thought and it courses through her stomach. She shoots upwards into a sitting position, head spinning. And she must’ve done this before because a small trash can is placed directly under her mouth as soon as she sits up, and she grasps at it weakly, vomiting up bile. Hands gather her hair gently at her nape, holding it back for her as she continues retching. Then she’s just dry heaving for a few minutes after there’s nothing left to throw up, and her stomach twinges achingly.

Someone starts rubbing soothing circles at her back and cooing into her ear, and she finally has the energy to glance back, recognizing those familiar emerald orbs that look back down at her in sympathy. When it’s clear that she’s finished he takes the trash can and places it next to her bed, within reaching distance. Gratefully taking the hand towel from his outstretched hand to wipe her mouth, she wonders if she should feel mortified at the fact that he’s seeing her in this state, but another shiver wracking through her body halts that train of thought too.

“Raven?” She must’ve spaced out at some point because she’s now leaning back against the fortress of pillows that have been fluffed for her, and Damian is hovering above her.

He reaches out an ungloved hand and tucks a stray hair behind her ear, and she wishes she had the courage to ask him to keep stroking her hair like that. “How are you feeling?” He asks her.

She just shakes her head, not trusting her mouth to speak. Also, her throat feels raw after vomiting. The lingering taste of bile makes her grimace.

“Try to sit up for me, you need to hydrate.” He calls out softly and she wonders how she didn’t notice the glass of water in his hand before. Bracing shaky palms into the mattress, she manages to pull herself up enough to earn a hum of praise. A straw makes its way to her mouth and she accepts it without argument, knowing from the set of his jaw that if she tried to she would certainly lose. The few sips she’s able to stand helps ebb the burning sensation in her throat, and Damian encourages her to take a few more. Then, she’s shaking her head and pushing away the glass. He relents, murmuring his approval. Soft, low tones. “Good. That’s good, Raven.” A hand threads through her hair again and she leans into his touch, taking the small comfort he’s offering despite how out of character it is for him to be so...intimate.

The soft, rhythmic brush of his fingers through her hair distracts her from the ache in her legs, and the dull throb of her headache. It helps tether her to consciousness enough to open her eyes more clearly and see the gentleness in his gaze as he watches her.

When she opens her mouth to speak her tongue feels like cotton, but she continues anyway. “You...don’t have to stay.” Her voice sounds like she’s been screaming in terror for hours until finally succumbing to an unbearable torture, and she winces at how pathetic it must sound to him too.

He just shushes her and continues threading his hand through her hair. “I’ll leave if you insist, but I’d rather stay...if that’s alright.”

All she can do is nod. They fall into a comfortable silence, which Raven cherishes. Damian’s always seemed to know when silence is needed, and he gives it to her often. Having him here, helping her while she’s in such a vulnerable state sends another sensation through her chest, filling her with a different kind of warmth. Not the kind of feverish, sweaty, and boiling heat that’s bogged down her mind the past couple of days (It’s been a few days right? Truthfully she doesn’t really know). But it’s a warmth that slowly spreads throughout her entire being, pouring over into her soul that leaves a light tingling in its wake. It’s stronger than anything she’s ever felt before and it swells in her throat until it formulates into words, spilling out of her mouth before she can stop it.

“I love you.”

Another shiver reverberates through her body, and the combined ache of her muscles and persistent fever takes her back under- so much so that she doesn’t even realize the significance of what she just said. She just knows that it makes Damian give her a smile that she’s never seen before. One that softens every feature in his face, and lights his eyes in such a way that mesmerizes her through the fogginess of her affliction.

“I know.” He says in a hushed timbre, leaning down to press his lips to her hairline- an act that makes her sigh in content, despite her dazed state. “I love you too.”

He stays with her, fingers playing languidly with the strands of her hair as he murmurs into her ear- a mixture of both their common language and arabic, and she clings to the gentle undertone of his words, relishing in this new, welcoming warmth that’s now unfurling all the way down to her toes. She continues to listen to his voice as it lulls her back gently into unconsciousness.

And she knows that he’ll be there when she wakes up again, just as surely as she now knows in her heart that she loves him.

And he loves her back.

#damirae #damian wayne #raven #teen titans #fanfic #oneshot #whump #light whump #hurt and comfort #hurt and comfort feels #fluff #full text #sickfic

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mymelodyheart · 4 years

Text

Miles Between Us Chapter 4 ~Reunited~

Picture Source

Previously in Twists and Turns

Although it was a cold, dreich and cloudy day, it didn't stop the strains of Pharell William's song, "Happy" playing in his head. He was having one of those days where he had the world on a string, and it felt like nothing could thwart his good mood. His Sassenach was coming tomorrow, and she'd be staying with him for at least a week. She already warned him not to make too many plans as she had work to do, but he didn't care. He would be waking up every morning for the next few days with Claire in his arms, and they'd eat dinner together when their day was done. That was all that mattered.

He was about to turn around and make his way into the living room when he saw Jenny leaning against the far end counter, her arms across her chest. It only took Jamie a second to deduce his sister had been standing there a while, her grin saying it all.

"Jenny!"

"I called out to ye when I came in, but ye didnae hear me. Looks like someone is happy," Jenny observed, smirking. "What's up with ye?"

"Claire ...ye ken Claire. Ye met her over two weeks ago. She's coming over to stay for a few days. With me."

If you wish to read this on AO3, here is the link.

If you wish to read this from the beginning:

AO3 link

Tumblr link

Jamie eased his car into the parking lot, focusing on his breathing when his heart began to pummel against his chest. He'd known this might happen, and he'd come prepared ...or at least he hoped so. Taking his key out of the ignition, he reassured himself Claire would be with him soon enough, so he tried to remain calm.

He leaned back against his seat and shut his eyes for a moment. Breathe in, breathe out, repeat. C'mon Fraser lad, ye got this.

Claire had initially planned on making her own way to Broch Mordha, too worried for him, in case he had another one of his panic attacks. But Jamie had vehemently insisted on picking her up despite her protestations. There was no way he was going to sit around in his cottage, waiting for her to arrive when he could be with her sooner. Every second spent in her presence was precious, and he wasn't about to give up any opportunity to be with her.

When he finally gathered himself together, he noticed his knuckles had gone white from gripping the steering wheel and a dull throb slowly working its way up to the back of his head. Every noise, every reflection of sunlight bouncing off the windshield was a torment. Ah, shite! Please, not now! His jaw already ached from its constant clenching and unclenching and his molars grinding during the drive, an attempt to smother the anxiety threatening to bubble up. He'd just arrived, and already he felt like he was going to suffocate.

All the way from Broch Mordha, he'd centred his thoughts on Claire, afraid that if he allowed his mind to wander, the panic attacks would get out of hand. In his head, he'd pictured her laughing, full of life and excitement, and the way she made him feel. And he'd thought, if he could hold on to those images, he might just be able to keep the anxiety at bay, long enough until Claire was by his side.

Taking a deep fortifying breath, he exited his car, the noise around him giving off a static buzz, rivalling the one crackling in his head. On cue, an onrush of whirring sound intensified and just when he thought he was going to pass out, he caught a familiar scent as a blur in beige walked past him. Surprisingly, the din between his ears subsided into a distant hum, and his head shot up in time to see a man in an old fashion trenchcoat and a flat cap, hurriedly zig-zagging past oncoming and ongoing crowds. What the ...?

He felt drawn to the man like it was pertinent to get hold of him right this instant, not quite comprehending why. "Hey ye!" Jamie shouted after the bustling figure. "Wait up!"

The man stopped as if he'd heard he was being called, long enough for Jamie to see his profile. Harry? Harry ...as in Claire's father? Surely not! It cannae be.

Before Jamie could make sense of what he was seeing, the figure began moving again, and so he picked up the pace. "Harry?!? Hey! Stop! It's me, Jamie," he shouted.

Jamie began to walk quicker, straining his neck so he wouldn't lose sight of Harry, but the man was fleet, occasionally stopping, looking for someone or something before rushing off again. Although Jamie was agile himself on his feet, he couldn't seem to catch up, and it wasn't long before Harry disappeared through the glassed entrance. Bummer!

He ran this time. When he eventually made it inside the airport, all he could see was Harry's head, bobbing up and down among a moving group of bodies heading in the direction of the arrivals' waiting area. He continued to follow, wondering what the hell Harry was doing here. The last time he'd seen the man was before Christmas, and after that, on an old photograph, Claire had shown him. Ah, fuck! Jamie thought he must be losing his mind. Is Harry alive, or is he a ghost? Claire did tell him that Harry or Henry, or whatever he was called, died in a car accident. So what the hell is happening? Is his condition making him see the deceased or is Harry a figment of his imagination?

His eyes scanned the crowd, but Harry's head was replaced by an image of a bouncing oversized red beanie. Jamie continued to walk forward, dipping and diving, not wanting to lose him, but red beanie head was waving an arm, and it kept getting in the way. Ah hell, where did he disappear to?

Irritation coasted down his back, and his eyes landed once again on the red beanie head, walking towards him, just a few feet away. Underneath the brightly coloured headgear was a mass of dark curls that framed a rosy cheek face with crystal clear amber orbs and a smile that tugged at his heart. Gradually, as if coming out of a trance, everything came into focus, and the backdrop and the noises dissolved. His heart stopped as realisation kicked in. It's Claire!

"Sassenach," he whispered. His lungs dislodged every iota of oxygen in his body, the world seeming to suspend around them expectantly.

Before his brain could compute what was happening, Claire dropped her bags and launched herself into his arms. Her warmth, scent and breath enveloped him, soothing his soul. In that instant, everything in the world felt right again as she buried her face against his neck.

"Oh, God Jamie, I missed you," she whispered, her grasp tight around his neck. "You came, even when I told you not to. Stubborn, stubborn man!"

The tension in his muscles loosened, and the feel of her body was worth the stress he'd put himself through coming to the airport. He drew away slightly and gazed down at her beautiful face. "I had to come so I could do this," Jamie murmured, ensnaring Claire's mouth with his own.

Her lips parted on a breath, and his tongue delved in, claiming her. Reminding them both and anyone in the vicinity who was watching, to whom she belonged. She must have sensed the psychological toll on him being in a busy place and what it took out of him to drive here, and his need to be grounded and centred. She clasped his face in her hands, forcing him to withdraw the kiss on a groan. She glanced up at him and searched his face, and when she was satisfied that he was alright, she gave him a smile that caused his throat to tighten with emotion. His heart pounded so hard, she placed her hands on his chest as though to keep it from bursting free. Wanting to feel more of her, he hoisted her up and pressed her closer against him. When he lowered his head to reclaim her lips a second time, she playfully nipped at his lip, before taking control of the kiss, reminding him he belonged to her too. She tunnelled her fingers in his hair and tilted her mouth over his, kissing him fervently until they broke away, gasping for breath.

She giggled, sliding away from his grasp, only for her arms to encircle his waist. "That was some welcome. I'm tempted to come more often now if I get to receive a kiss like that every time I arrive."

A harsh sound escaped his mouth. "Ah, Christ. What universe am I on that I get to keep ye for mysel', huh?" he breathed, running a thumb across her lower lip.

"A universe tucked away in a Highlands, one that I'm so chuffed to have found because you're in it," she replied, smiling, her breath ghosting on his chin as she looked up to meet his gaze. "Though I must admit, I wasn't too thrilled when you insisted on picking me up. I have faith you'll get over your anxiety one day, but you shouldn't push yourself too hard. Healing takes time, Jamie."

He tipped her chin and smiled, oblivious to the hustle and bustle of their surroundings, finding his calm in her presence. "I ken ye still worry, but I'm getting better every day. I promise. The meditation playlist ye sent me helps a lot, and it works even if I get leg cramps out of it as a result. Next, ye'll be suggesting yoga, but I'm warning ye, that's where I draw the line, Sassenach. My limbs are fine as it is."

She scrunched up her nose at his attempt to downplay his condition. "So, no more anxiety attacks? How about nightmares?"

"No nightmares," he reassured her, picking up loose curls resting on her shoulder and letting them slide between his fingers. "Though I still wake up sometimes in a cold sweat and occasionally, I have wee attacks when I'm under stress. But they're manageable as long as I remember the breathing exercises."

"That's good, Jamie," she said, sliding her hands up and down his back. "For a minute there, when I came out, and first saw you, I thought you seemed rather pale. You looked past me like there was no recognition in your eyes, but your colour returned when I got closer. I have been worried about you coming ...so I must have imagined the whole thing."

Ah hell, Harry! He'd forgotten about him. He looked beyond her head, even though he knew Harry was long gone. Knowing it was a futile endeavour to even contemplate Harry's whereabouts, let alone start looking for him, Jamie cleared his throat and brought his attention back to Claire. He didn't want to lie to her, but there was a time and place to talk about Harry. He knew he'd delayed it for too long, but it had to wait just a wee bit longer. "Ye didnae imagine anything, Sassenach. I felt the beginnings of the panic attack, but when I saw my mate and started to call after him and follow him, I realised the distraction helped suppress it. He was going in the direction where ye came from. And then right after I lost him, I saw ye."

She cocked her head and looked at him curiously, amber eyes inquisitive, always reading between the lines. Even though he knew she appreciated that piece of information, there was still something niggling at her. "Are you sure you're alright?"

"Aye, I'm certain now that ye're here."

Claire studied him. "Well, the distraction from your mate helped for sure. Or at the very least, it took the edge out of the anxiety."

Jamie gave her a reassuring smile. "Indeed, it has. Shall we go?" he proposed, eager to get going.

She visibly shook herself and nodded as he stepped away from her embrace and made a move to collect her bags. Once they got going, he twined their fingers together, powerless to stop himself from kissing her knuckles and brushing them with his thumb. The noises in his head had already ceased, and with Claire by his side, not even the drone of a busy airport could yank him back into the grips of immobilising anxiety bouts.

Although seeing Harry earlier had helped quell down the panic attacks, he knew it wasn't a permanent fix. As Claire had once told him over the phone, part of his recovery included finding a healthy way to let go of the past and forgive himself. It was taking time for sure, but the more he acknowledged his demons, instead of burying it deep down into his subconsciousness, the easier it got. The more he talked about the death of his best mate, Simon MacKimmie, the lighter the load on his shoulders became. There might still be lingering guilt and the image of Simon's death deeply embedded in his memory, but as Claire often had, and time and time again said, real progress took time. Jamie understood the fix needed to be on a mental level, and that was on him.

Despite it all, he felt incredibly blessed to have a lass who was willing to walk with him through it and not for him, something perhaps his sister should take note of. He'd shared with Claire his living hell, and still, she found something beautiful in the midst of so much ugly. He was convinced more than ever, with Claire everything was possible and he was looking forward to their future.

As they made their way out of the airport and into the parking lot, Jamie squeezed Claire's hand and smiled. "So what are yer plans today, Sassenach? Do ye have to work?"

She beamed up at him. "No. Work can wait until tomorrow. I think these past few weeks I've worked enough ...not to mention missing out on a lot of weekends. I think I deserve a break."

"Aye, that ye do. So, lunch perhaps, then?" Jamie suggested, releasing her hand and clicking the key fob as his car came to view. "Ye must be hungry."

"Did you make something?"

He swiftly deposited her bags into the boot and shut the door before kissing her on the forehead. "No. But I can always whip us up something, or we can stop somewhere on the way to grab a bite ...if ye wish."

Claire shied away, for once looking reluctant. "I'm not really hungry, to be honest."

"So do ye have anything particular in mind ye want to do?" he asked, his curiosity spiking when he noticed a bright shade of red rising from her neck to her face, causing her face to flush prettily.

She chewed her lower lip. "Are you working today?"

He grinned. "No. I took a day off." And he'd arranged with Willie he wouldn't be starting work until ten tomorrow morning.

"Well, ..."

"Weel what?"

"I think I'd like to go to bed."

To bed? He searched her face looking for any evidence indicating she was unwell or fatigued. After all, she'd been working a lot these past few days. But he found none. Instead, her eyes betrayed what she had in mind. Still, he could be mistaken and wanted to be sure. "To bed or to sleep?" he asked slowly and cautiously.

She stood on her tiptoes and brushed her lips against his, making his stomach flipped. "What do you think?" she whispered against his mouth.

There was an awareness on Claire's face that revealed she felt the wild rapping against his rib cage. Both of their breathing changed, and in an instant, the closeness of their bodies was no longer means to keep anxiety at bay.

His heart rate suddenly became an equivalent of a man running from a bull in Pamplona. "Ach, Sassenach, couldnae ye wait until we were nearer to home to tell me that?"

Her shoulders lifted. "Well, you did ask ..."

He walked her backwards against the car and pressed their forehead together. "Ah, damn it! Here I am trying to block images of what I want to do to ye the moment we're alone and be a decent boyfriend and treat ye like the sweetheart ye are. Now all I can think of is ..."

"What?" she asked innocently, her lids fluttering, her pupils obstructing out some of the gold of her irises. "What are you thinking of?"

Ah, bloody hell! He certainly didn't want to answer that. Not here at the airport's parking lot anyway. He blew out a shaky breath and adjusted his jeans. "Get in a car." The growl that broke from his throat sounded foreign to his ears, but it couldn't be helped when the sudden urgency to have Claire was thrumming in his veins. "And not another word, until we reach home."

She smiled and made a motion of zipping her lips as she got into the passenger side. He groaned inwardly, hoping and praying for another distraction. But this time for an entirely different condition that was tormenting him.

Dear Readers,

Well, I did try my hardest to finish this chapter in time for Valentine's day, but I was having too much of a good time with hubby that I thought surely you guys wouldn't mind. We had takeaways, a bottle of wine and cuddles on sofa rewatching Hunger Games. I know it's hardly a romantic film befitting Valentines, but we both loved it. My thoughts are, every day should be Valentine's day, so I hope you felt Jamie's love (and lust) for Claire in this chapter.😁

Before I sign off, I'd like to thank you for your continued readership and feedback, and I am so looking forward to what you think in my latest update. Take care of yourself and keep the love vibes rolling. Until my next instalment ...X

#melodyheart #wonderwall #milesbetweenus #ClaireBeauchamp/JamieFraser #claire beauchamp #jamie fraser #outlanderfanfic

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starrysnowdrop · 3 years

Note

“Wait, are those-? Are those bruises?”

I can’t believe this ended up being 1,261 words long!!! 😖 But thank you so much @meepsthemiqo for the prompt!! I got so inspired with this one, so I hope y’all enjoy it!

Having safely landed the Enterprise in Ul’dah after their encounter with the XIV Legion’s Legatus, Gaius van Baelsar himself, and a fully operational Ultima Weapon, Yume, Cid, and Alphinaud decided that they should reconvene in Vesper Bay, to see how they can find their fellow Scions. Alphinaud was the first to go on his way, and Yume stood waiting in the Airship Landing while Cid spoke with the Arrivals Attendant.

As she grasped her right side of her abdomen, Yume reached into her pouch with her left hand and took out a potion. In one swift motion, she opened the vial and downed the blue liquid in one gulp.

Yume quickly put the empty vial back into the pouch slung around her shoulder as Cid walked back over to his Raen companion and smiled brightly, “Alright, we are all checked in now. Think we need any provisions before we head out ourselves?”

Returning his smile, Yume nodded in response. “I might need to grab a few potions, but that shall not take too long.”

“Is it alright if I accompany you?” Cid asked with a twinge of hesitance in his voice.

“As if you had to ask.” Yume winked at the Garlean man with a light giggle.

Though she wanted to move along to their next destination as quickly as possible, her body would not allow her. As soon as she took two steps forward, a jolt of pain shot through her abdomen and up her spine. Yume instinctively grabbed her right side just above her hip to dull the pain.

“Yume? Are you alright?” She heard Cid ask while holding her eyes shut.

The Raen shook her head and waved her hand at Cid. “I... I will be fine. Just a minor wound from Garuda. ‘Tis nothing to fret over.”

“Just a minor wound, is it? Then why are you looking like you might double over in pain?”

“Please, I will be alright.”

As Yume grasped at the stabbing pain, the fabric of her shirt rose up just enough so that Cid could see dark purple marks on her skin.

“Wait, are those—? Are those bruises?”

Yume was in so much pain that she didn’t even have the strength to explain to Cid what was going on. Her vision started to blur as Cid ran over and pulled up her shirt a little more, revealing bruises that covered the entire right side of her abdomen, surrounding the scar that reached from her hip across to her belly button.

Cid audibly gasped, “Seven hells, Yume!” He placed one arm behind her back and the other underneath her knees, lifting her up to carry her bridal style. “You need a chirurgeon now!”

She whispered his name as she reached up to touch his cheek, but she soon began to lose consciousness. “Cid...”

———

The Raen had no recollection of how she found herself in a bed, but Yume awoke with the light from the morning sun hitting her face. Looking over the room, she recognized the amenities immediately as an Inn Room at the Quicksand. Her eyes scanned the room until an unexpected sight made her heart skip a beat.

Standing upright and leaning against the wall, Cid Garlond had his arms folded and his eyes closed, breathing in deeply. She couldn’t tell if he was asleep, in silent meditation, or just lost in thought, but she sighed with relief at seeing him standing vigil over her.

After a few moments of gazing over at his serene form, Yume called out to him, “Cid? Are you awake?”

As if lightning struck him, the Garlean swiftly opened his eyes and looked over to the Auri woman laying in bed. “I’m here. How are you feeling?”

Cid walked over to Yume’s side and reached out to take her hand in his. His silver eyes gleamed in the morning sun as he gave her a gentle smile.

With a nod, Yume pulled back the covers so that she could look down at herself. “Better.” She glanced downward to see that she had on a loose white gown and she could feel bandages covering her entire right side of her abdomen. “I see that I am healed.”

Cid nodded. “Yes, you are now. The chirurgeon said you had internal bleeding and that you needed to rest for another day before you can travel.”

“What about Alphinaud?”

“He has already been informed, and he’s actually waiting for us here in Ul’dah.”

Cid finally looked away from Yume’s sunlit face towards the ground, but still held her hand gently. “I am curious though...”

Yume looked back at Cid in anticipation, though she already knew what he was going to ask.

“Why didn’t you just tell me you were injured and needed help?”

Yume closed her eyes, fighting back the emotions that were rising to the surface. A flood of memories rushed back to her; there were so many times that she had to survive purely on her own stubbornness and willpower, especially in the years following her exile. She was no healer... in fact, she could not wield white magic at all. But what was even greater than her stubbornness was what she felt for the man standing next to her. The last thing she wanted was to make him worry... yet that was exactly what she had done.

Shamefully, she pulled the covers back over her chest and looked to the ceiling.

“‘Tis just... I am used to drinking potions and letting my wounds tend themselves.”

Cid shook his head as he looked back at Yume with concern. “Even the greatest warriors need a trained healer and lots of rest. Why do you keep pushing yourself?”

Yume’s voice shook as she tried to explain her actions. “I just... I tend to not dwell on myself. I must do my duty as a Scion of the Seventh Dawn...”

Cid crossed his arms and scowled. “Even Scions need others to help them. If you tried to go into battle with your internal wounds, you could have done even more serious damage. Your scar could have reopened!”

As Cid raised his voice, Yume responded in kind, “I know that! I am not in need of a lecture, Cid.”

Cid unfolded his arms as he continued his barrage, “Then why do you not care about your health? Are you trying to kill yourself?!”

Yume’s temper flared as she lifted her head off of the pillow and sat upright. Her tail swished in the bedding as she grasped the blanket with two fists. “No, I am not! Why are you so angry about it?!”

“Because I lo—“ Cid quickly cleared his throat as he tried to recover. “I mean, I care about you, Gods damn it! I don’t know what I would do if something happened to you!”

Cid then turned completely away from Yume as she looked at him in shock. He held his face in his hands as he fought back tears. He deeply sighed as he struggled to regain his composure.

Yume’s heart sunk at seeing the man she has grown so fond of so distraught. She instinctively reached out to him, attempting to call him back to her bedside. “Cid?”

With a few strokes of his beard, Cid turned back to Yume. “Please, just promise me to take the time to get healed and to rest properly. Take better care of yourself, alright?”

Yume quickly nodded and smiled through the tears that threatened to overflow. “I promise. Pray forgive me for my recklessness.”

#writing prompt #cid nan garlond #cid garlond #cid garlond x wol #cid x wol #cid/wol #yume x cid #yume aino #oc: paint it black #otp: always you

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grumpyhedgehogs · 4 years

Text

those who are left behind (share the grief between them)

Summary: Cody goes to find Rex. Ahsoka finds him first. AO3. Part 2 of “scraps” series. Part 1. Part 3, Part 4, Part 5.

Warnings: Grief/mourning, canon-typical violence.

Cody tries to find Rex.

It’s the only thing he can think of after he manages to get off the Death Star--a feat in and of itself, as he knew it would be. He’d had a couple close calls; he knows he was on the list to be transferred to a teaching job for new initiates, and clones as a whole were kept under close watch. Too many of the vode had killed themselves or disappeared or went berserk and killed their commanding officers. (Cody thinks about those brothers now and wonders how crazy they really were.) He’s not sure if he was under closer observation than most post-Order 66, due to his place at Kenobi's side for years; those memories are hazy, and upsetting besides. Obviously Vader didn’t think he’d be more of a problem than anyone else now, because even with the close watch Cody’d been able to slip security and hitch a ride on a stolen emergency shuttle with little fanfare. The fiasco with the droids weeks earlier taught everyone exactly how much the Empire let slip between the cracks.

The lightsaber was tempting. It still is. But Vader keeps it in his secure chamber, hoarding it like a Krayt dragon. Cody didn’t even try.

So he gets away and goes to find Rex. Rex, who had told him about the chips. Rex, who Cody had dismissed. Rex, who was made commander and promptly had everything else taken from him with Order 66. Rex, who Cody had seen hide nor hair of during his tenure as CC-2224. Cody tries to find Rex.

Ahsoka finds him first.

He's on some backwater planet, somewhere bleak and angry looking; drab grey roads and trees with no foliage against a blood-red sky. The people here live in hovels and call themselves lucky. Cody closes his eyes as he leaves the tiny fishing market on the edge of the docks. The smell clogs his nose and makes him want to retch, but for a moment he can almost feel the weight of Obi-Wan’s hand on his shoulder. He can picture the exact curl of Obi-Wan’s mouth, the twitch of an eyebrow as he tells Cody to find the beauty in the small things. The people here are born with silver scales lining their cheekbones, their fingers webbed with thin, iridescent skin that catches the light just right and turns to millions of colors. There are children who actually play in the street here. There are no stormtroopers raiding the stalls. Happiness comes in small packages, Obi-Wan would say. Cody exhales the smell of dead fish and wraps the robe tighter around himself.

It was probably too big on Obi-Wan by the end; it fits comfortably around his shoulders, and although Obi-Wan was a little taller, he certainly wasn't wider than Cody even on the best day. He’d slimmed down during the war too; they’d had few rations going around in the hard times--it was always a task getting the general to eat when his men were going hungry. Cody nearly put him on an IV a couple times.

The robe covers what’s left of his stark white stormtrooper armor well enough. He’d stripped the leg armor off immediately, stole some fatigues from a clothesline when he’d landed on the first planet he could find and slipped those over his blacks. He’s been planet hopping for a while, chasing rumors of rebels and crossing imperial battlegrounds. They’re burial sites now. Cody doesn’t know enough about the Force to do more than read the fallen their last rights and ask them to be well as they pass on. Every place is the same; empty, except for bones. The Mando’a prayers spill from his lips easily but his voice is rusty and Cody usually settles for a silent vigil instead. There are so many dead.

After the first graveyard, Cody stripped off as much of the white paint from his vambraces as he could. It’s a shoddy job, but it’s the best he can do. Paint is a luxury he can’t afford. Cody doesn’t have a credit to his name.

He bows his head to the small woman who pushes a package filled with row after row of tiny fish into his hands and chatters at him in an unknown language. Places like this, even as untouched by the Empire as they seem, know hardship. The people here are kind. Obi-Wan would be proud to have met them. Cody tries to be proud too, but his chest is so hollow now. The robe flutters and whips against his knees as he walks away.

He’s outside town limits, thinking about a campfire and shelter, when he hears it. There’s the scrape of a boot on rock somewhere above him in the hills that line the dirt road. He should have gotten off the path into the treeline when he’d had the chance. The hood is good cover from the light rain but it gives too much of the movement of his head away; by the time Cody whirls around, there is no one behind him. He scans the trees anyway and counts how many bolts he has in his blaster. He’d taken out those troopers on Florrum weeks ago. A couple of hunting trips when he couldn’t beg or work for any food in townships. He’ll have to make the shots count.

But before he can do more than pull the blaster from his sleeve, they're upon him. There’s a sound of ignition, one that has Cody thrown years into the past, and then a flash of white. A figure in dark clothes bears down on him with a white lightsaber, and Cody doesn’t mean to react how he does, he really doesn’t, it’s not red but—

But he’s spent years as a slave to a lightsaber wielder dressed all in black and he can’t do that again, not after watching Obi-Wan fall. He can't go back to the Death Star. Cody pulls his blaster and fires a shot, dodging to the left and then feigning a stumble, hoping to get around to the attacker's other side. The other fighter, also cloaked and hooded against the rain, is spry and wiry--perhaps female--and obviously trained. One of those Knights of the Empire they were talking about training? They dodge another bolt as Cody curses and then a second ‘saber lights up and--the handles are the wrong way around.

They’re holding their lightsabers wrong. Cody nearly does trip this time, only just scrambling back from a slice that surely would have taken his head off. As he does, the figure speaks.

“Where did you get that robe?” They hiss, and prepare to strike again.

“ Ahsoka?”

“Wh-- Cody? ”

“Oh, Force,” Cody says, feeling like he did when Longshot knocked all the air out of him during a sparring session. He pushes his hood down hurriedly. Rain splashes down his forehead, rolls off the end of his nose, fills his mouth. “It is you. You’re alive!”

He’d been so afraid of being alone.

Ahsoka, older and leaner and sadder than he’s ever seen her, lowers her own hood. One ‘saber stays in her hand. Good. “Cody. You’re...you.”

“I remembered,” Cody chokes out. It’s hard not to vomit when he thinks about it for too long. “Who I was, before the Order. I remembered.”

Ahsoka’s eyes are sharp. Her mouth is a thin line. “Good men lost their lives that day. Dead men walked among us for years afterward. I--I’m sorry for your loss, Cody. It has been a long time.”

“I’m sorry too,” Cody says. It tastes like ash in his mouth, like the pyre he should’ve given Obi-Wan and never got the chance to. “The vode weren’t the only people lost that day.”

She softens, if only just. The lightsaber is hooked onto her belt under her own robe. “It really is you. Come then, I have a fire.”

They settle around her campsite, small and remote, on a perfect vantage point, before she speaks again. Cody is waiting for her when she does. He unwraps the fish, ignoring the mud splashed onto the scales from their impromptu fight, and lays them out on a flat rock in the fire. They are too small to debone individually; they’ll have better luck eating around the skeletons and hoping for the best. (“If you kill my grandpadawan via choking on a fish bone I will never forgive you,” jokes the Obi-Wan in his head and Cody suppresses a snort.)

“The robe.” Ahsoka murmurs. Her lekku twitch, in apprehension or agitation Cody isn’t sure. The pit in his gut, always there, yawns wider. She’s Obi-Wan’s family. Next of kin. He by all rights should give it to her, but… “It has Obi-Wan’s Force signature infused in it, but I recognized that yours was different. I thought…”

“I’d taken it off his body.” Cody finishes for her. Ahsoka nods, grim. He nods too and flips the fish. “You’re almost right. He didn’t leave behind a body, just his lightsaber and the robe. Vader killed him; it’s what woke me up. Chip’s stopped working, I guess. Too old.”

“I felt him when he went.” Ahsoka’s eyes are far away when Cody snatches a glance at her. She sits, back ramrod straight, unyielding, steely. He thinks Obi-Wan would have been like this in the end; untouchable, almost. He was statuesque, carved from marble, right up until the moment he died. “His light went out; that day the Force got much darker.”

“Wasn’t sure it could get darker.”

“Obi-Wan spoke once to me,” Ahsoka tells him after a long silence. She takes the food offered and nods her thanks. Cody’s heart is dead, has been since he left the Death Star, but he curls his fingers into the robe’s edges and listens anyway. He never stops hurting these days. “Through the Force, I mean. It was right after--right after. Just a fleeting thing, a feeling. He wanted to make sure I was safe, that I knew he--”

Cody doesn’t move when her words cut off. He knows. She knows.

It is like stripping off his own skin with a dull blade when Cody shrugs out of the robe and offers it up. “Here.” His voice is hoarse, tortured, not his own. “I just--you’re his family, but I can’t... please.”

Ahsoka is beautiful even when she cries. The robe looks worn, dingy in her hands, but she holds it close, like a child. She has to work hard to get the next sentence out. “You loved him.”

Cody nods. His face is wet too. “Still,” he whispers, almost inaudibly over the fire. “Still.”

“It’s yours,” Ahsoka promises. “Let me meditate with it, just once, and then--it’s yours. It’s yours.”

Ahsoka goes still; her shoulders stop hitching after a while, her cheeks dry, her breathing evens. Cody does not sleep, but he does drift. He knows she will not mind the salt water on his own face when she wakes. Obi-Wan would tell him to release his grief, perhaps that Obi-Wan is not worth it; Cody holds on almost greedily, bottles up the pain and sorrow and regret and keeps it with him, cold as ice in his chest.

He knows she comes back by the small cry that slips past her lips; she jerks in place, nearly toppling from her meditation pose. Ahsoka straightens again and clenches her hands in the robe, head bowed. “Alright?” Softly, softly. He knew her when she was just a child.

“Meditation is rougher than it used to be,” Ahsoka admits, and, reluctant, passes the fabric over in a bundle. “Thank you.”

“I miss him too.”

“What are you doing out here?”

Cody smiles without real feeling. “Following you. Or the Rebellion in general, I guess. Thought maybe I could find Rex that way.”

Ahsoka raises her eyebrows. “The Rebellion hasn’t been here for months; I’m just here checking up to make sure refugees we helped are still doing alright.”

“You guys got a head start on me.”

Her laughter is quiet, like Obi-Wan’s used to be. Cody looks away, twists his hands in the robe.

Wait.

He knows Obi-Wan won’t mind. He lost so many during the war anyway, went through them like tissue paper. It was a game among the 212th, who could find them on the battlefield first.

Cody looks up, eyes Ahsoka shrewdly. She’s taller, more muscular than she used to be. He’s no seamstress. “Scarf or sash?”

Ahsoka blinks at him. He presses his lips together and nods. “Sash. Won’t get in the way.”

The sleeve comes apart at the seams easily enough. Cody ignores her protest, and tears the other sleeve away too before pocketing one--someone else will want it, someone else who can hold vigil with Cody and Ahsoka both. Then he tears open the remaining sleeve and flattens it, before holding it out to her. “Through the belt loops,” he advises, blandly, like the tears on both their faces don’t exist. Her eyes are the size of dinner plates in her head. “Won’t get in the way when you pull your weapon.”

Ahsoka’s lips tremble when she takes the scrap of fabric. Cody doesn’t watch her loop it through her belt, taking the time to wrap the rest of the robe around his shoulders in a makeshift poncho; the hood hangs down his back still, and the ends of the robe are still long enough to cover most of his breastplate, some of the only trooper armor he has kept. There is a scratch on the shoulder from when an overconfident Jawa took a shot at him on Florrum.

Ahsoka gasps when he looks up. She gestures at his chest. “You…”

Cody splays his hand where she indicates, over the insignia he painstakingly etched into the armor covering his heart. The lightsaber was tricky to overlay on the 212th logo. It took him hours. He has a lot more time on his hands now that he’s not being controlled by the chip, though; it was worth it.

“Yes,” Cody answers. “I--I don’t want to forget again. Never again.”

Ahsoka reaches out and takes his hand over the fire that gutters low in their makeshift hearth. A thousand lives lie between them, and a thousand deaths. Her hand holds his so carefully. Cody squeezes back and feels Obi-Wan smile. “Never again,” Ahsoka vows.

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nimsajlove · 4 years

Text

Warm

This is kinda related to the brothers-au, but you can take it as an alternate ending. In a reality, where the war ended and everyone is safe, at least the clones, Anakin and the other Jedi.

Ao3

*~*

It was dark and hot. Panting, she tried to get up and look around. In doing so, she discovered two things. First, she felt so incredibly light and her head was spinning. However, her body remained chained to the ground. Second, there was nothing really to see. It was dark around her and when she at least put her hands up, her fingers quickly met resistance. There were just a few inches of air between her face and what felt like a hot stone under her fingers. Why was it so hot?

Her thoughts were slow and only with thinking really hard, the images of the last few minutes returned. Or hours? The moment, the building swayed. That small second, in which she had pushed the other three figures away from her. She still knew that Rex had hit the ground pretty hard and wondered briefly, if she had given him another head injury ... wouldn't be the first, the captain would get up again. Like always! She digged her way back into her memories. Actually, this had been a peace mission, after all these years she should be allowed to fulfill her task as Jedi! Where did the bomb come from? She puzzled over it for a moment, then gave up. Lying here any longer wouldn't do her any good, her fingertips got cold and it worried her a little, given the heat around her!

With a grunt, she pulled her hands to her head and felt around at her wrist, the communicator was still in place and she pressed it firmly, there was a low squeak and she sighed, thanking every little god she knew, that the little device was still working. In fact, someone answered her too. "General! Where are you?”, somebody called, it sounded a bit hectic and she thought she recognized Fives. He always sounded like that when she threw herself in danger again. At least, since she'd actually taken a shot for him and was not able to walk for nearly two weeks. But hey, they got him out of the trouble and everything was back to normal, kind of! "Don't know... downstairs?", she tried to grin and noticed how her face hurt and a little dust got into her mouth. She turned her head in disgust and spat the dirt out again, tasted blood and spat again, ran her tongue over her lips. Yep, that was blood indeed!

"Not funny, Snips.", growled another voice and now she had to laugh after all, the movement shook something against her ribs and she stopped, it hurted more than she would have thought. She ran one hand down to her ribs and gently pressed on her flesh, she didn't had to be a medic to feel the narrow pipe. It appeared to pierce a lung and she suspected that the pressure on her body alone was keeping her alive. But for how long? She had grown up on the battlefield and knew the results of such injuries. She couldn't remember a single case, where Kix or the other medics had been successful. And now he wasn't here, but at home! In preparation for the next mission for the reconstruction... "We will come down to you, I think I got your location.", she heard her former master again and she thought about it. How thick was the layer of building debris above her? "Master, I don't know...", she mumbled and ran a hand over her face, damn tears! The only response she received were curses and rebukes. She was silent, did not answer. She didn't wanted those curses to be the last thing they had in conversation.

She rubbed her face again and was angry, she normally had better control of her emotions! But she couldn't dismiss the fear that crept into her throat. Should that be it now? She had survived the war, Palpatine, and all that crap. Had offered her master an anchor and had promised to train Luke in a few years. Just to die down here now, alone and cold? She had thought the war was over... The fear of death was joined by another and she reached for her comlink again. "Rex?", she asked, her voice was shaking ab bit, and there was silence for a few seconds. Then there was a soft crack, it indicated a slightly unstable connection and she suddenly feared, that the conversation would simply break off. "Yes?", the clone answered, panting, she heard the others working in the background and her heart clenched hard in her chest. She couldn't hear them down here, so the layer was definitely too thick! "How's your head?", she asked, suppressing a sniff, it was good to hear something and she didn't want to miss anything. "I'm fine, but I'll pay you back." The answer came as half of a joke and she smiled, although small tears continued to run down her cheeks. "Have you already found out how...", she wanted to end the question, but was interrupted by a cough and simply swallowed the blood. Every time she turned her head, she was afraid of having to vomit, so she preferred to lie still.

“Yes, Fives got his hands on him practically straight away. Don't worry.” She let the calm voice lull her in a little and almost felt guilty. She knew, that Rex had nightmares as much as anyone else. That he was afraid too. But in moments like these, he hid all of this well. It made her feel at home, something that had been with her for years. Her eyes hurted and she closed them, she couldn't see anything anyway. The cold had crept up to her elbows like cold water. She no longer felt the communicator under her fingertips and was afraid again, that she would suddenly just be alone. "You're taking care of them, aren't you?", she asked, her tongue was so strangely heavy in her mouth and a thought popped up in her light head. She always thought she would die quickly. Simple. But this was so different. Now the captain's voice became harder and she heard the stern tone, that had brought the men back to their feet again and again. “You won't get rid of us that easily. Just give us a few more minutes."

The whole time she doubted, that she would be able to notice when the three of them reached her. But at some point she heard the scratching above her and a cloud of dust trickled down to her. She wanted to cough, but every breath was already too much for her. She was freezing terribly and her arms were numb, she didn't believe that she could still use the comlink, although calm voices persuaded her the entire time. She didn't knew, when she'd last replied and when she tried to think she felt sick. Though, she actually felt miserable enough to throw up all the time. "Please tell us, that we're at least digging in the right place.", Fives muttered in the comlink and she thought, he was talking more to himself and to others than to her. Another few minutes passed before a fine beam of light appeared next to her head and she turned her head slightly. A familiar hand reached into the tiny hole and felt around a little, then the gap widened and a narrow torso pushed its way into it.

"Hey, Snips.", Anakin muttered, his smile slowing her frantic heartbeat. With an effort, the corners of her mouth pulled up a little and she stretched her numb arm a little helplessly in his direction, she did not feel him gripping her wrist. Her tongue was too heavy, but she was glad not to lie alone in the dark any longer, forced to just wait. If the men's words had already been balm for her soul, then this was like a beacon that drove away the darkness. Breathing heavily, she tried to return the grip and saw the exact moment, when Anakin realized how weak she really was. His gaze routinely scanned her and his face hardened, as he absorbed the severity of the injuries. She saw his shoulders pull up and wanted to comfort him, she fought against her own body and managed to loosen her tongue. "Took you a long time.", she mumbled and watched, as the three men enlarged the hole further. Eventually the two clones climbed in too and didn't hesitate to get her free. However, they all had their lips pressed to a thin line, and Ahsoka hated that they looked so seriously. The war was over!

"Kix would be handy.", she gasped when Anakin checked the back of her chest with his long fingers without turning her over. Rex grumbled, but Fives gave her a weak smile. “Oh really?", he muttered and she had to smile, until the pain made her grimace. Hands grabbed her and moved her gently. "Doesn't go through, must have come from above.", her old master stated and she broke out in a cold sweat, when she even thought about changing her current position. However, there was no way around it.

She gritted her teeth and let herself be pulled out of the hole and lifted. As she lay on a stretcher, the suddenly bright world turned wildly around her and she swallowed at the nausea. When did the others join them? The edges of the world blurred as she was loaded into a Gunship and she tried to find the others. Where were they? Tears began to gather in her eyes, as hands appeared and gently rested on her shoulders. On her cheeks, on her montreals, soothing hands were placed everywhere, warming her cold body. She blinked again, the world was strangely dark and cloudy, but she wasn't alone. She tried to concentrate, the pain was just dull and she was trembling slightly, tiredness reached out for her. "Take care of them!", she puffed into Rex and she saw his face suddenly soften. He stroked her cheek, she felt his thumb catch a tear and wipe it away. "Of course, vod’ika.", he muttered and she was satisfied, turned her gaze to Anakin and Fives. "Don't do anything dumb!", she growled, trying to appear stern. The rattle in her chest might work against that. Still, both nodded and she sighed, her heartbeat dropping again. It was like sinking into meditation. Peaceful, kind of. "Its okay. Sleep a bit, rest.", her former master mumbled and she nestled her face in the offered warmth. She felt the vibration of the ship and heard the quiet conversations of the other clones around her. Then it got dark. She was warm.

#why did I do this?#character death #ahsoka tano #clone wars #after the war #I wanted her to be safed but you know...#at least its kinda peacfull at the end #rex #fives #anakin skywalker #clone trooper fives #clone trooper rex

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yodawgiherd · 4 years

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Insecurities

>>>Read on AO3<<<

Short main fic (anytime anyplace) reject I found while cleaning up my file. As it doesn't really fit where the story is at, and doesn’t tie into it, I could either delete it or post it here, and I decided for the latter. It's definitely "canon" in the AU tho o_o Hope you'll enjoy it :)

“So, what do you fear? “

From her perch on the dorm bed, Mikasa shot Eren a slight frown, and he shrugged innocently in response. Well, she supposed that he had the right to know, considering that she just woke him in the middle of the night by violently shoving him off the mattress they shared together, screaming. Mikasa sighed. She wasn’t used to this yet, the bed sharing, but she liked it. Most of the time, it helped to keep the nightmares at bay, but tonight was an exception, sadly, and the dream sneaked its way through Eren’s embrace and into her mind. In just those two weeks that they were together, her life felt so much brighter, and she hoped that this little accident won’t push her newfound boyfriend away. Then again, if he survived the failure of their second date, he could most likely handle a night of ruined sleep over her bad dreams.

“Why do you want to know?”, she asked, curious, “Planning on scaring me?”

A smile appeared on Eren’s face, just a small twitch of his lips.

“Of course not, I’d just like to understand you. Whatever is going on in those dreams of yours, it’s an important part of who you are.”

He fell silent, most likely waiting for her to start, but Mikasa wasn’t really feeling like talking. She just woke up from another terrible dream, in the middle of the night, and her brain was still dealing with that unpleasant reality. Instead of voicing her concerns, she bent forward, intertwining fingers with her toes, letting her hair cover her face.

“Look,”, Eren began, seeing her unresponsive, “it’s not hard to guess that your dreams have something to do with your parents, right?”

Honestly speaking, Mikasa didn’t even know why she told him about her past on their first date. Bringing up the tragedy of losing your family to someone you just met was unusual, weird, especially for someone as silent as her, but Eren just made her open up, talking to him was natural in a way she didn’t truly understand. Well, now she had to deal with the consequences. With a sigh, she nodded, just a tiny movement of her head, but he caught it.

“I don’t always have them.”, still not feeling brave enough to meet his inquisitive green gaze, she kept watching her toes, “It just happens from time to time, I can’t help it.”

“I don’t blame you, I have nightmares myself.”

She peeked up at him through the curtain of her hair, curious.

“You do?”

“It's about my dad.”, Eren leaned back in the chair where he retreated after being forcefully evicted form the bed, eyes studying her posture. He reminded her of the therapist she went to, years ago, when Levi tried helping her with those dreams this way. But therapy has no chance of working if the patient doesn’t want to, so after a few sessions of her stubbornly staring at the floor and not opening her mouth once, her brother gave up. Then again, she never had those warm feelings in her chest when she looked at the professional, but Eren made her spine tingle.

“It’s always the same. I’m standing on the ground, in the middle of nowhere, and there’s a plane flying over my head.”, he took a shuddering breath, as the topic was not exactly pleasant, “I know, I just know, that there’s my dad in there. Then suddenly, the plane starts falling, and there’s nothing I can do about it. So, I just stand there, and watch, as it goes down, spiraling until it crashes and explodes. Then I wake up.”

Mikasa didn’t even realize it, but she covered her mouth with one hand during his story, staring.

“That’s terrible, I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t have it that often anymore,”, Eren shrugged appearing indifferent, “I got used to it. Kind of.”

But it was forced, this unnatural calm and Mikasa could see the pain behind his eyes. Dulled, maybe, but still present. If anything, she surely owed him her nightmares, now that he shared his own.

“I don’t really remember much,”, she began, “but I know that’s its always cold, and dark. There’s blood on the floor, and the bodies, but I can’t see their faces. Luckily.”, extending one hand, she closed it, fingers curling inwards, “I’m holding something, and it’s warm against my skin at first, but as I sit there, listening to the quiet, it always gets colder over time, until it’s like ice in my grasp.”, her breathing became agitated, “And I’m scared to trace the thing in my palm because I know what it will be, it’s always the same. It’s my mother’s hand.”, dropping her arm, she redirected her gaze back at her feet, a singular tear falling on the tips of her toes. “I usually wake up then.”

Eren didn’t say a word. Instead, she could hear the shuffling of his clothes as he stood up, and soon after the bed dipped under his weight as he sat down next to her. The arms that wrapped around her body were warm, and she leaned into the hug, closing her eyes as she rested her head on his shoulder. The remnants of the nightmare finally gave up, and their cold fingers disappeared underneath the warmth. It surprised her, but it felt good to share her demons.

“Mikasa?”, he asked, waking her up a bit. She hummed in acknowledgement, not feeling like talking right now. “You told me your secret, I told you mine. It’s good to get that off your chest, no?”

She just hummed again, burrowing deeper into his embrace.

After a few minutes, Eren cleared his throat, making her look up at him. The boyish smile that she liked so much was there again, as he ran a hand through his disheveled hair.

“I was thinking since we aren’t sleeping anymore, maybe we could…. practice?”

It wasn’t hard to guess what he was implying. And while it might look stupid and insensitive, to suggest something like this, it was exactly what Mikasa wanted. There was only so much that talking could achieve, and the feeling of his body against hers, to know that this is real, not the nightmares, that was something they both craved right now.

“Again?”

“Why not?”, I mean, we are still far from perfect and…”

Both to silence him and her laughter, Mikasa climbed into his lap, straddling his waist as she kissed him, aggressively. Maybe there were better ways to spend your night than sleeping. She just had to make sure to watch her teeth, that’s all.

Those downtimes between classes were always the worst. It was bearable when Armin could hang out, but most of the time his friend was unavailable, as his breaks were on different times than Eren’s. Just perfect. Like, what exactly could you achieve in an hour? Eren usually just ended up wandering around the campus, sitting down somewhere to review his notes, or meditating on the futility of life and whatnot.

Today was the first day he found himself in front of the gym, looking at the entrance. Contrary to the masses, he didn’t even come here to work out himself, but rather to meet someone who spends almost all her waking hours here, in her own words. Pushing the door open, he had to admit that the room was in a rather good state. The walls seemed freshly painted, the air inside was kept cool through the ventilation system, and the music was silent enough to offer the beat the gym-goers were most likely looking for. Eyes darting around, he searched for the object of his interest, only to find her in front of the punching bag, going wild at it. Her hands were a blur, the leather was creaking, and Eren couldn’t help but wonder what all those guys from elementary school would say, with the whole “girls can’t fight” shit. Mikasa seemed immersed too and didn’t even notice him, taking a step back to put a few well-placed kicks to the sides of the bag. Satisfied with her performance, she took a break, putting her hands on her hips and breathing deep.

“You could kill a man with your punches.”, Eren stepped in, making her turn on her heel with a surprised expression. He grinned “You do them so fast, it must feel like getting a shot when you hit someone.”

“Eren.”, she shook her head, but she was smiling too, those dumb jokes making her feel giddy, “What are you doing here?”

“You said that you will be here, and I had some time to kill so…”, he shrugged, “can’t I come to see how you work out?”

“I mean, sure, if that’s what you want. It’s just that I was expecting someone else, that’s all.”

“Oh, a secret lover in the gym.”, with a fake expression of anger on his face, Eren scanned the room, working his muscles, “Where is this rascal?”

“Stop that.”, Mikasa poked him in the chest, unable to hold her laughter in anymore, shoulders shaking, “It’s my brother. I usually go out of the campus to his gym today, not here, but he’s got some paperwork in the city, so he said that he’s going to drop by.”

As on cue, another man appeared behind Eren, short and grumpy, looking him up and down.

“Mikasa, who is this guy?”, he arched an eyebrow, disbelief in his voice, “Your new sparring partner?”

“No, no, of course not, this is Eren, he’s my….”, she was nervous, fidgeting a bit, “friend, just friend.”

“Just” friend? Wow, that one stung.

“I see.”, Levi seemed to lost interest in Eren, turning back towards his sister, “Get to the ring, let’s see how much you slacked in your training.”

But while Mikasa was climbing up, a hand bunched up in Eren’s shirt, and the man pulled him down to his height, with unnatural strength, staring right into Eren’s eyes.

“Listen, “just friend”, I want you to know that If I ever hear that you’ve done anything bad to my little sister, I swear to god that you and I will have private sparring, between my fist and your face. And if you ever make her cry,”, he moved even closer, growling the words in Eren’s ear,” I’ll cut your balls off.”

With that, he released him, and followed Mikasa into the ring, as if nothing had happened. Right, Eren thought as he was straightening his clothes, seems like Levi didn’t buy into the friend thing much. Checking his watch, he saw that he still some time, so he leaned against the wall, watching the two siblings fight.

Hours later, when he was done with his classes and picked up Mikasa from the gym, they were walking through the darkened campus hand in hand. The air was clear, the evening quiet, and her hand in his warm, but still, the little friend thing just kept circling inside his mind.

“Mikasa?”, he began, “Can I ask you something?”

She liked the way Eren pronounced her name, how it rolled off his tongue. Her name wasn’t even that hard to say, but in her life, she met a ton of people who tried impressing her by adding that weird -h at the end of the -ka-, or by using the Japanese honorific – Chan in the end. She didn’t like either of those things. Not to mention those smart assholes who called her Gothkasa, because combining your name with your fashion style is soooo smart, right? Not even mentioning the girl who kept asking if she is sad, since all Mikasa wears is black. That one dubbed her Raven. But Eren didn’t do anything like that, he said her name exactly as it was, and she did enjoy the sound of it.

“Sure.”

“Back in the gym, why did you tell your brother that we are just friends. I kind of thought that we are … more … by now.”

“We are! Of course, we are.”, she squeezed his palm a bit tighter, pulling at it to make him stop and turn to face her. “I just never had a boyfriend before, and Levi came out of nowhere,”, she sighed, “I was surprised, and I didn’t want to break it to him like that.”, she looked up, blushing slightly, “Are you mad at me?”

As if he could ever be mad at someone as cute as her, with his red scarf wrapped around her colored cheeks.

“Nah, not mad. Your brother is a scary guy, I understand.”

“True that.”, she sniffed, “he’s the toughest midget you’ll ever meet.”

With Eren still being silent, a bit of suspicion entered her tone.

“Wait, did he tell you something? Eren?”

“Nah, nothing.”, to stop her grey gaze from staring at his face so inquisitively, he brushed the ends of formerly his scarf from her mouth, pulled her closer by the silver cross around her neck and bent down to press a kiss to Mikasa’s lips. “You still owe me one, friend.”, he murmured when they paused, and she pinched his bicep in retaliation, before surrendering to the sensation. They both still had a lot to learn in that area, anyway.

“Tell me a secret.”

“Secret?”, Mikasa half turned in his arms, watching him over a shoulder, “What secret?”

“Something about you, a thing I don’t know.”, Eren grinned, hiding it by burying his face in her hairline, “Something you wouldn’t tell just anyone.”

“Oh?”, a tiny frown appeared between her fine raven eyebrows, “And why should I tell you my secrets, mister?”

He shrugged.

“Think of it as a payment for the friend stuff.”

“I thought you understood!”

“I do, but I still demand satisfaction.”, a hand poked her, under the ribs, “C’mon Miki.”

Mikasa used to hate pet names, despise the way couples called each other as if they were children. But that was before she had Eren, and now she was strongly considering how it would feel like if he called her a kitten. Maybe not so bad after all. Before him, Mikasa never had a pet name in her life, well, if she didn’t count that Levi was usually calling her brat, but she grew to enjoy this little one Eren gave her. It was certain intimacy to it. She was also hyperaware of his touch now, of the arms around her, feeling his fingers through the fabric of the shirt. Sure, he touched her before, and she liked the way his palms roamed up and down her body when they kissed, even the few times he got lost in her and traced her shape all the way down to her ass. Mikasa usually stopped him there, for now, but overall, she was very satisfied with how his touch felt.

“You want to hear a secret.”, she cooed, putting her hands on top of his, both to press him more firmly against her skin, but also to stop him from moving. Eren sometimes tended to be more adventurous than she was comfortable with.

“Pretty please.”

“All right, well I got one.”, it was awkward, but she couldn’t think of anything else right now. So, she took a deep breath. “I used to hate my breasts.”

That silenced him for a moment.

“Your…. breasts?”, he queried, unsure if he heard her right.

“Yes.”

“But why?”

“Because they are useless! Useless weight! I mean…”, she turned around, watching his face for a change. Eren’s cheeks had a slight blush in them, but he met her eyes with a small smile, clearly interested in hearing her explanation. ”I was flat as a board when I was a kid. So, when the puberty started, and things began to…. expand, it bothered me. I know that I’m not big either way, my, uhm, chest, is small compared to other girls, but suddenly, there were two bags of fat on my chest, completely fucking up my balance. Out of nowhere, I was being forced to wear a tight bra just because otherwise my tits would bounce all over the ring when I train.”, she looked down, over the place where her shirt was raised, “I used to bind them you know.”

“For training?”

“No, for everyday life. I didn’t want them.”

“Oh.”, Eren could see that it was a sensitive topic for her, the way she saw her body, and he felt happy that she trusted him enough to share it with him. “Well for what it’s worth,”, Mikasa looked up, and he couldn’t miss that the way those few strands of hair got into her face was downright adorable, “I think that your chest is beautiful.”

She started laughing, on the cheesiness of it all, small simpers escaping her lips, so he kissed her to stop it from blowing into a full-blown explosion, and before either of them realized what was happening, she fell on her back, pulling him right along. With Eren on top of her, his hands roaming all over her sides, mouth sealed against hers, all their long weeks of training were paying off. Comparing the first time they kissed, and the second, third and a lot after that, which usually ended up with either of them laughing, losing breath, or doing something that the other didn’t like, this was much better. She knew now to open her mouth for him when he nipped at her lower lip, and to push her tongue against his, licking into his mouth, not caring how obscene sounds it was making. It felt good for them both, and that was the only thing that mattered. Considering that she was doing her best to remember the things he liked, Mikasa was rather surprised when Eren pulled back, sitting up. Did she bite his bottom lip too hard again?

“Miki…”, he began, before she could ask what was wrong, “Could I….”, suddenly she realized that his hands left her sides, and were now toying with the hem of her shirt. Eren swallowed, obviously not sure how to proceed, although it was rather easy to understand what he wanted to ask. Her face was already red, from all the kissing and stuff, but now the color must have been on par with a tomato.

But why should she deny him? They were taking it slow already, and there’s a difference between taking things slow and not moving forward at all. Just a few seconds back, she was thinking about how good Eren’s touch felt, so why would this be any different? With a mortified expression, that didn’t do justice to how she felt inside, she nodded.

Eren’s eyes went wide when he saw her agree to his proposition, but he wasn’t one to question his good fortune. Yet even with her agreement, he could feel the light uncertainty that covered Mikasa like a blanket, and he wanted that feeling gone. So instead of going right to his prize, he lifted her shirt by just a few inches, bringing her muscled stomach into view.

“I love those.”, he pointed out, tracing the shape of her abs with his fingers. They didn’t even look real, more like a sculpture, made by an ancient Greek master, the way they perfectly stood out beneath the skin. But unlike marble, Mikasa’s skin was warm to the touch.

“Why?”, she frowned down at him, “It’s just muscle.”

“Nah, it’s much more than that.”, willing to see just how much she would let him do, he dipped his head to press a kiss to her firm midriff, loving the way the skin shivered beneath his lips. “It’s proof of your dedication. Show of your strength. It’s admirable and gorgeous at the same time, just like you.”, he murmured in-between gentle nips, making Mikasa’s breath hitch in her throat. She never saw her stomach as beautiful, just useful, but the way Eren genuinely seemed to enjoy spending his time down there, it made her wonder if perhaps her torso is aesthetically pleasing after all.

But he couldn’t just spend the whole night admiring her abs, he was on a mission. With just slightly trembling fingers, he started pulling the hem of her shirt further up, eyes darting between the increasing amount of revealed pale skin and her face, to notice the moment she changes her mind and tells him to stop. But she didn’t. It was mesmerizing, watching her body come from underneath the fabric until the bottom of her chest finally came into view. They were home, relaxing after school, and Mikasa ditched her bra as always, so the shirt he was currently lifting was the only cover. With a last peek to her face, seeing her nod again, Eren held his breath and pulled upwards, with finality. The instinct to cross her hands over her chest hit Mikasa hard, now when it was bare to him, but she held herself back, fisting the bedding instead.

“Holy shit.”, Eren breathed out, running his hand over his face.

“That bad?”, Mikasa could feel the old insecurities knocking at the backdoor in her mind, the same that made her roll those bandages around her breasts, every morning before going out, that made her angry when she felt the extra weight on her chest anytime she breathed. This was a mistake, she shouldn’t have done this. Now he’s going to….

“Bad?”, the word was choked out, as Eren still had trouble controlling his breathing. “Bad?”, he repeated in disbelief, not sure why in the world would she think that, “No, it’s not bad. It’s fucking wonderful.”

“Huh?”, she asked, not sure if she heard him right.

“Whoever told you that you look bad Miki?”, he wanted to get to the bottom of this, even with his brain working on about ten percent of its capacity.

“Well…”, no one told her anything like that, now that she thought about it. Then again, the only people in her life to saw her topless were her mom, her doctor, and now Eren. The only thing the doctor said was that she’s a healthy female, as one can expect from a professional, and if mom ever said anything, Mikasa didn’t remember it. All those doubts were her own.

On top of her, Eren was having the night of his life. Sure, it was the twenty-first century, he saw boobs before, with internet, TV and everything, but it was the first time he got to see a pair live, and there was quite a significant difference. Mikasa’s chest was rather small, but with next to no excess fat on her body, what could a sane person expect? Honestly, Eren didn’t care about that one bit, she was perfect just the way she was. The perky, firm shape, the flawless skin, the darkened area around her nipples, that all combined to make her breasts one of the prettiest things he ever saw. He found himself wanting to touch it, to feel it beneath his fingers, but just as he raised his hand, Eren realized that starting to grope her might not be the nicest thing to do to Mikasa right now. That was until she spoke.

“You can t-touch me.”, she answered his unspoken question, words unsteady, eyes wide and watching his every move.

Carefully, he put one arm down, tracing the shape of her chest with his fingertips, paying special attention to the underside, where he just found out she was ticklish.

“H-Hey! Stop that!”, she squeezed out in-between the giggles, squirming beneath him, but her voice betrayed that she didn’t want him to stop. Continuing in his exploration, Eren worked his way all around the breast, cupping it with his hand and thumbing the nipple lightly. It was amazing, to find something so soft and squishy on Mikasa’s rather toned body, so he gave it a few testing squeezes. In conclusion, it felt pretty damn good. Overcome with a sudden urge, Eren leaned forward, and pressed a kiss to the top, right in the middle of the peak, which in turn made Mikasa gasp and quickly pull her shirt back down. All right, playtime was over, but Eren was immensely satisfied, nevertheless. Her breathing was shaky, a very light frown on her face, as she sat up, pushing the hair from her face.

“Couldn’t help myself.”, Eren reached out, hoping that his sudden show of affection didn’t offend her too much, and was pleasantly surprised when she took his hand, intertwining their fingers. Not too mad then, all good. “But Miki, let me tell you, your chest is god damn perfect. I love it. And my opinion should count for something, after all, I’m a certified FBI.”

That gave her a pause.

“FBI?”

“Female Body Inspector.”

With a tug, he pulled her to himself, and together they tangled back on the bed, mouths once again combining amidst the laughter. And for the first time in her life, Mikasa was glad that puberty changed her the way it did.

#fanfic #eremika #snk #aot

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imaginesofruneterra · 5 years

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Zed x Vastayan Reader Scenario & Headcanons

Anonymous asked: hello! if possible, can i ask about Zed and a curious hare vastayan reader who keeps getting closer to the Shadow Order? like theyre dissatisfied with how others claim to protect their homeland from those that wish it harm, and became drawn to his idea of actively fighting to defend Ionia by all means necessary, even if it meant possibly having to go against those they called family

[Sure! I tried my best to capture their interesting dynamic, so this post ended up being a lot longer than I thought, lol. I hope you don’t mind!

Note: To give you a better idea of the timeline, this is meant to take place after the war, but before the events of Kayn's story.]

How you met:

There he was, just as the rumors described: a merciless man with a faint, yet formidable presence--like night given form. The person with the power to change your life forever...was currently sitting alone on the cold temple floor. And he didn’t seem pleased.

"Nakuri. What is the meaning of this? You know better than to interrupt my private meditation."

"My sincerest apologies, Master Zed," said the muscular acolyte, bowing his head. Then he shoved you, your body lurching forward at the harsh, sudden impact.

You felt your jaw clench.

“Watch it,” you hissed at him, flattening your long, fluffy ears. Ugh, the nerve of that guy!

Nakuri scoffed before quickly turning back to his master, who was losing his patience. "Found this little cotton-tail snooping around while I was out on my evening patrol. They practically demanded a meeting with you, though I can’t seem to figure out why."

“I have no time for such trivial matters,” Zed muttered. “Leave. Both of you. Now.”

Nakuri nodded and made for the exit. But you? You had other ideas.

“Wait!” you cried. “Please, hear me out just this once, and I swear I'll never bother you again!”

The ninja paused, scanning your face for a moment. He'd planned to dismiss you without a second thought, but your fiery gaze caught his eye.

“...Alright. Speak, then."

Well, here goes nothing. "I want to join the Order of Shadows," you firmly declared.

"Is that so," Zed snorted. "You think we let just anyone in?"

"No," you answered, shaking your head. "Of course not. But I'm willing to do anything it takes to get stronger, and you're the only one I can count on."

Zed mulled it over. "You couldn't get your tribesmen to train you? Vastaya are fierce."

"We were fierce. My people see no reason to fight anymore. Now, their claws have gone dull. Recent times have made them grow soft and complacent--embracing empty promises of harmony and balance while ignoring the scars of our past. But I’m not like them. I will never forget what the Noxians did to our home.”

“We drove those tyrants out, but their black-hearted, silver-haired bastard of a general lives. He's still plotting for sure, and as far as I'm concerned, all this 'peace' is just the calm before the storm. I want to make sure that I’m ready for whatever comes next--no matter the cost."

The masked man was silent. Maybe he was deep in thought. Maybe he wanted you dead.

It was kind of hard to tell, but you hoped for the best and continued.

"If there's one thing I've learned, it's that Ionia needs leaders who aren't afraid to stand up and fight. We can rebuild our villages, re-plant our crops--but we'll never be able to replace the precious lives of our loved ones. I know I can help you--"

"I’ve heard quite enough,” replied Zed, slowly rising to his feet. He gestured towards the temple door, barely even sparing you a glance.

No. This couldn’t be happening.

“Go and find Nakuri. He’ll show you around. Your time in the Order starts now.”

General headcanons:

At first, the other acolytes detested you, shunned you. To them, your vastayan blood implied that you couldn’t be trusted--that you’d eventually turn traitor. Rumors of your expected betrayal ran rampant, and you had a bad feeling that Nakuri was laughing from the shadows.

You tried to ignore their insidious whispers in favor of honing your skills. The wooden training dummies grew battered and nicked from your unrelenting slashes and strikes.

Even though you didn’t have Nakuri’s strength, or Kayn’s impressive mastery of weapons, you were still able to make a name for yourself with your unparalleled scouting and tracking. Your sense of smell and hearing were much sharper than a human’s, and your instincts were much better, too. Once Zed caught on to your natural talents, he publicly praised you for a mission well done, and the rumors were silenced for good.

One night, you found yourself unable to sleep, and decided to wander around the temple to get some fresh air. When you got to the courtyard, you ran into a strange, handsome man with bags under his eyes. Your jaw dropped. His snow-white hair shone in the moonlight as he stopped to raise a single, dark brow.

You were sure that you’d never seen this man in your life--and yet, something about him seemed oddly familiar. But despite your best efforts, you just couldn’t put your finger on it. Sighing, you cursed yourself, lamenting your ability to forget such a beautiful face.

Finally, the man spoke. “...What is it?” he asked in Zed’s voice. Your weak heart skipped a beat.

Your accidental encounters with Zed grew more frequent as days, weeks, and months passed you by. In fact, there were times when he chuckled and joked about you “showing up late to the party.” You knew it was foolish, or maybe even arrogant, but you were starting to suspect that he actually liked being around you.

As the two of you grew closer, Zed eventually admitted the cause of his perpetual insomnia. He was plagued by awful nightmares of Jhin, the Golden Demon, whose gruesome acts of carnage were enough to eat away at one’s mind for the rest of their life. You couldn’t even begin to imagine the horrors he’d seen. All you could do was place a gentle hand on the man’s shoulder. He didn’t move away.

#league of legends #league of legends headcanons #headcanons #league of legends imagines #imagines #scenarios #zed #lol zed #zed x reader #vastayan reader #champion x reader #reader insert #sfw #imaginesofruneterra

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scintillating-galaxias · 4 years

Text

Love Notes: Chapter 2

day 2 of thunderrod week! today’s prompt was ‘build’. i have come to realize i fail at actually using these as prompts. instead, they just become words i include in the fic. oh well. enjoy! -

Rodimus sets out to find a second note.

(read it here on ao3!) -

“Someone’s in a good mood.”

Rodimus stopped in his tracks and frowned at Blaster. “What gave it away?”

“You walked in without moaning and groaning about how much recharge you could be getting right now,” Blaster plainly informed him without once looking away from the communications console.

“I don’t do it that often.”

“You do it every time,” Doubletap deadpanned from the navigation consoles. “Also, you were practically skipping a second ago.”

“You do,” Blaster said. “And you were.”

“Well, it’s true. I could be getting a lot more recharge,” said Rodimus, electing to ignore the skipping comment. Captains didn’t skip. He didn’t skip, at least. He had no idea what Megatron got up to in his free time, but—

Blaster stood up. “Well,” he said, yawning, “I dunno about you, but I’m ready to catch up on said recharge. See you around, Captain.”

Rodimus nodded and sat down in the newly vacated seat. Right. Communications watch. Why did he put himself on communications watch, again? It was dull, mind-numbing work. You sat there in front of the consoles waiting for any incoming signals from any nearby planets or ships, and you occasionally made announcements. That was the most exciting part of the job in Rodimus’ opinion, and therefore his favorite part. But he always got a note from Magnus reprimanding him for improper usage of the ship’s intercom. At least he wasn’t Siren. He swore he could still sometimes hear his audials ringing if it was quiet enough, and it’d been weeks since the last… schedule mixup.

But the Lost Light was thousands of miles from any immediate planetary body. Not a single ship blipped the radar. The consoles were utterly still now. The only signals they would be receiving were radio waves produced by nearby stars. That left Rodimus plenty of space leftover in his processor to be filled with thoughts of the note. He furtively glanced around the room; no one was looking at him. As quietly as he could, he opened his subspace and discretely brought the note out to stare at it. Last night, he’d been curious about the sender. An amount of curious any reasonable mech would have after receiving an unsigned love note on their door. Now, though, he was absolutely dying to know. The need itched along his plating, worming its way to nip at his very protoform. The long game had never been one he’d been any good at.

You put the brightest of stars to shame. That was—That was sweet. That was tender. That something someone infatuated with another would say. Rodimus had no idea what to do about it.

“You look mighty concentrated on that there, Captain.” Crossblades voice cut through the silence as easily as his namesake. “What is it?”

Rodimus shrugged, suddenly cagey. “Just a note,” he said offhandedly. “Someone left it on my door last night, and I’m trying to find who.”

“What’s it say?” Hound piped up.

All optics in the room were on him. Rodimus opened his subspace and put the note back. “Nothing big, just some… request for a private meeting.”

“What kind of meeting?” Crossblades asked with a particular twinkle to his visor that Rodimus did not like at all.

Hound frowned. “Is it not signed? Doesn’t that make it pretty redundant?”

“Yeah, and why would they need a paper note to do that? We all have your frequency.”

“Dunno. I just know they’re trying real hard to remain anonymous.” Rodimus shrugged again. “To each one’s own.”

“And that isn’t the least bit suspicious to you?” asked Sunstreak. Bob chirped in agreement.

“Nah, it’s nothing that serious. Unless there’s another mutiny underway”—more than one mech in the room flinched slightly—” and someone’s trying to trick me into getting killed—points for creativity—I don’t think it’s anything malicious. It’s just a little weird is all.”

The mechs in the room made noises of disengagement, and the air returned once again to a sleepy quiet. Huh. That’d been easy enough. Rodimus brought out the datapad he’d snagged from his desk before leaving for his shift this morning and crossed out a few more names. Surely, if someone here had been the sender, they’d have had more of a reaction.

The note floated away entirely from the forefront of his processor as the day went on. He finished his shift on the bridge, then went and got his morning engex. He poked Drift, who didn’t respond (meditating), and then after that… A usual blend of meeting, meeting, squabble with Megatron, squabble with Magnus, write up the next shift schedule, approve a few requests for materials and new viable experiments, squabble with Megatron again, renew Swerve’s bar license, another fragging meeting (how in the Pit was there so much stuff to meet about?), his evening engex. Then, just like that, the day was done.

Drained how only a day of talking could make one drained, Rodimus dragged himself back to his hab suite. He pressed his thumbs against his jaw joints to chase away the aches that had somehow managed to settle in there. He’s looking forward to merely collapsing into his berth and zonking out for the next twelve hours. But first…

He scanned the doorway for any sign of another note. Nothing. His spoilers sank in disappointment, far further down than he expected. That couldn’t be… it though, could it? No. They’d probably only been brave for that one day. Maybe tomorrow, they’d try again. He entered his hab suite, set the note on the nightstand, and fell into a deep recharge filled with dreams of sparks and smiles.

But the next few days came and went with no sign of the sender or of another note. He and Drift met up a couple of times, only to run into the same dead ends over and over again until Drift, brilliant Drift, suggested, “Maybe we need a change of scenery. Why don’t we go to Swerve’s for the night?”

“Please,” grumbled Rodimus. Sick of looking at the note, he left it behind on his desk as he and Drift meandered towards Swerve’s.

“We can ask around while we’re there,” Drift said. “Perhaps more than one mech is involved.”

“Ooh, maybe. Do you remember how many of us it took to get Toxin and Aquastar to just talk to each other?”

“Not our finest plan ever.”

“Hey, it worked, so it’s a win in my book.”

The sound of chatter and laughter grew louder and louder as they drew closer to Swerve’s. Ten spotted them from his usual spot at the doorway and waved at them.

“Hey, buddy,” Rodimus called as they approached. “Been holding up alright?”

The dents that were Ten’s ‘eyes’ curved into a smile. As Drift handed off his swords to him, he idly said, “Perhaps they’re shy.”

Rodimus snorted. “They’re shy, so they decided to take a shine to me?” he asked incredulously.

“Hm. Fair point. But we can’t always control our feelings.”

“Tell me about it,” Rodimus muttered against his better judgment. Drift’s optics lit up with a dozen questions. But before he could start drilling Rodimus with any of them, an enormous weight shifted the floor just in front of them.

“Captain Rodimus! Drift,” Thunderclash exclaimed with a polite nod in Drift’s direction. “Good evening. I wasn’t expecting to see you—either of you—tonight.”

Rodimus flashed a grin up at him. “When did you ever think you could predict me?” he said, placing one curled servo on his hip.

Thunderclash chuckled, biolights turning from a sparkling red to a pink shade that could have almost been red if one didn’t have an optic for color. “Fair enough,” he said. “Oh, but I really did have a question for you, Captain.”

“Shoot.”

Thunderclash’s chest swelled in a motion that could have been mistaken as him steeling himself if Rodimus didn’t know better. “Could I get you a drink?”

“Uh.” He glanced at Drift, who nodded encouragingly with a mischievously sharp grin. “Yeah, sure.”

Thunderclash beamed. “Wonderful!” he said, clasping his servos together. “It’s my treat, of course.” Drift waved his digits teasingly (what was up with that?) at Rodimus as Thunderclash led them to a table where a half-finished drink had been clearly abandoned. He pulled the seat back and gestured for Rodimus to sit. “You usually get a Solar Sweep, correct?” Thunderclash asked as he waved down a serving droid.

“Yep,” Rodimus said as he sat. “How’d you know?”

“It’s, er, a hard drink to not notice. You—it caught my optic more than once.”

Fair enough—the drink in question was a garish cocktail of neon purple and glowing orange. Swerve was a genius for somehow figuring out to keep the two from mixing into a muddy brown.

“Shame we don’t get to catch up more often,” Thunderclash began easily as he placed his shanix on the serving droid’s tray. “Though I suppose your duties as captain far outweigh your free time.”

“Everytime,” Rodimus sighed, “everytime, I think, ‘I’m done with today’s meetings!’ And then I’m not! And then I’m not!” he repeated, his voice straining in a slightly hysterical whisper. “I genuinely have no idea how there’s so much time in the day that can be spent in damn meetings!”

“Goodness.” Thunderclash rubbed the bridge of his nose between two digits. “Believe me, I can more than sympathize. Forget a life support machine, they should’ve just turned the Vis Vitalis into one enormous board room.” Rodimus snorted into his drink. Thunderclash’s smile grew. “But meetings aside, how have you been?”

“Eh,” Rodimus said with a shrug accompanied by a tilt of his helm, “you know.”

“Neither here nor there?”

“Pretty much. Oh, something weird did happen a couple nights ago…”

Thunderclash went oddly still. “What was it?” he asked carefully. “If you don’t mind me asking, of course. I’m simply curious.”

The serving droid returned with Rodimus’ drink then. He picked it up, tilting the contents to and fro and watching the colors flawlessly shift into one another. “Someone left, like, a love note on my door.” Thunderclash’s optics went wide. “I know!” Rodimus exclaimed, mostly into his drink. He swallowed before continuing. “I have no clue who it sent it, though. I’m trying to figure out through pure sleuthing skills, though. It’s kinda hard. No clue how Nightbeat does it all the time.”

“You’re plenty clever. I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” Thunderclash said warmly. But the warmth vanished beneath a suddenly cool, serious expression. “Did you find it at all… odd? Discomforting? If so, you ought to tell someone.”

“Not really. I—Primus, this is sappy,” Rodimus huffed, lazily tracing his glass’s rim with a digit, “It’s the definition of corny, but also kinda sweet?” Too focused on keeping his smile from growing too large, he did not notice the strange tension vanish from Thunderclash’s shoulders. “I just wanna know who wrote it and talk to them, ’cause I mean, this stuff is… I’d feel bad if I just ignored it.”

Thunderclash hummed thoughtfully. “Perhaps it’s more than a note,” he said mildly.

Rodimus furrowed his brow. “What else could it be? A clue? What is this, a treasure hunt?” His optics blew wide with a hot rush epiphany. “A treasure hunt!” he shouted, causing a few mechs to turn his way. “Wait, wait, hold on, I gotta—” He fired out of his seat, knees clunking the bottom of the table hard enough to nearly upset the drinks. He snatched up his Solar Sweep, downed the rest of it, and set the cube down as quickly as he could without shattering it. “Thanks for the drink!” he called over his shoulder, leaving a faintly bemused Thunderclash to stare at his spoilers as he dashed out of the bar. He transformed in the hallway with an excited roar of his engines, neatly dodging Rewind, who yelped as he went blazing past.

The note had mentioned stars. So maybe Rodimus was meant to find the next note in a place to do with stars. He slowed as he rounded a corner into a less populated hallway. The Lost Light was an interstellar spacecraft. Everything about it was meant for space travel, and by extension, the stars. How was he supposed to find one specific spot on the ship that had to do with stars? Maybe the observation decks? Lots of mechs liked to head up there just to watch the void of space roll by. Personally, Rodimus never really saw the appeal, but to each one’s own.

There were ten main observation decks on the Lost Light. He had half a mind to page Drift and ask him to come and help him look, but a quick look at his messages with him revealed he’d put himself on Do Not Disturb. For Drift, that very literally meant to not disturb him unless it was urgent. Resigning himself to an hour or two of his time possibly being wasted, Rodimus made his way to observation deck one.

There were a few mechs on duty when Rodimus arrived. He could feel the inquiry in their fields as he scrutinized the doorways, searched the tops of the desks, even looked underneath the chairs and benches. Nothing. Onto the next one.

After the six observation deck, Rodimus was beginning to suspect his initial guess had been incorrect. He was tempted to start looking somewhere else, but if he had to come back here and finish looking at all of the observation decks after all, then way more time would be wasted. Then again, he really didn’t want to have to answer ‘what are you looking for’ for the seventh time.

He slowed to a roll, engines rumbling in thought. After a moment, he pulled up the Lost Light’s diagrams and began picking through it level by level. He had no clue if this place even existed, but he had to try, right?

After a few seconds, his efforts were paid off. There, on the fifth level, was a huge circle labeled “PLANETARIUM”.

“Why do we even have a planetarium?” he muttered. This was a spaceship. It flew through space. Why would they need some more fake space inside of the ship when one could just… look outside? “Whatever. Worth a shot.”

The drive up to the planetarium was uneventful. Rodimus flipped to a stop in front of the doors, scanning it up and down for any sign of red. When he didn’t see anything, he stepped forward, the doors smoothly gliding open before him. He stood in the doorway for a moment, squinting into the empty darkness. Perhaps there was something further inside.

The second Rodimus stepped in far enough for the doors to automatically close behind him, the projector switched on with a hum, and the heavens of Cybertron glittered to life over his head.

Rodimus whistled. He walked out further inside the room, one slow step at a time, until he was in the center of the viewing platform. He craned his helm back, drinking it all in. He’d become familiar enough with Earth’s skies after his time there in the desert, working to build his way to freedom alongside the Decepticons. But Cybertron’s skies? His home? He had no clue. It was difficult to imagine. He only remembered neon lights in a city of noise and movement; bristling, dark clouds of engineered acid storms; smog from smoldering ruins of recent immolation. He took a step backward, only to freeze when something made a soft shuffling sound beneath his pede. He looked down.

There, poking out from beneath his pede, was an orange piece of paper.

Grinning, Rodimus knelt to pick it up. He opened it, and in words lit by starlight, he read:

To build the greatest empire is nothing compared to the honor of being by your side.

The hunt was officially on.

#thunderrodweek #thunderrod #rodiclash #fluff #love notes #my writing #maccadam #i might try to go and link these together on here but ik that screws up tags #so i might just use a tag for it #we shall see!

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harveybwabbit92 · 4 years

Text

Skyrim: Touch the sky Ch1 Helgen’s chopping block.

The following is a non profit fan based story, TES Skyrim belongs to Bethesda, RwBy belongs to RoosterTeeth please support the official release.

I gain no profit from this nor do I own anything other then OCs and whatever sprouts from my imagination. Thanks for reading!

The feeling of cold and sound hooves hitting the frozen ground is what stirred Amon-Ra awake, her red eyes blinked and adjusted to her surroundings...She was in a wagon? the girl tried to move her long hair from her face only to find her hands tied. "Finally awake little one?" Amon-Ra looked across from her to see a blond man in a similar position, a stormcloak soldier she mentally noted she'd seen a few of them passing through Ivarstead...

Well run out of Ivarstead would be the proper term. the man gave her a tired smile "You were trying to cross the boarder, Eh? walked right into that Imperial ambush got captured with us and that thief over there." she looked to the right of her to see two more men.

One in rags and one gagged. Thief shot accusations at the Stormcloak as Amon-Ra got a look at the man next to her and the elven girl knew him well. Ulfric Stormcloak, of course he was just Ulfric the boy the last time she saw him, doubtful he'd remember her. The rare times they interacted was when he'd help her pick frost grapes,read and meditate, though their interactions became less frequent as he grew older.

As a child Ulfric never understood why she always wore a blindfold if she wasn't blind and was never allowed to leave the monastery? she had calmly explained that her eyes weren't normal and the monks and her father were protective of Amon-Ra's...condition.

"Got the Falmer's Bane, eh?" the man across from her broke her train of thought, both Amon-Ra and the thief looked confused "Falmer's what?" the thief asked before Amon could, "Falmer's bane on to the Nords they gain, Snow kissed hair and skin so white and fair, eyes red for the lost lives and blood they shed." The Stormcloak said unsure.

"At least, I think that's how the old poem goes?...either way she has it."

"My..mentor says it's called albinism where's she's from."

"Ah...so, she speaks."

"..."

The wagon driver snapped at them to quiet down, a few moments of silence the thief looked over at Ulfric and grimaced "What's his problem?" this caused the Stormcloak to glare at him "Watch your tongue Thief, you're in the presence of Ulfric Stormcloak. The true high-king of Skyrim." The thief went from annoyed to stunned. "Ulfric? But if you're here then..." the color drained from his face. "Divines where are they taking us?!" Amon-Ra may be sheltered, But she wasn't stupid. it was the end of the line, the white haired girl blocked out most of the chatter as she came to terms with this whole situation. Was this really how it ends? Her the last of her race and bloodline... does it really end here with her? All because Amon-Ra wanted independence?

The wagon came to a stop and they were ushered off, Lokir desperately prayed to the divines as he was yanked off the wagon. "Please don't kill us! we're not rebels!" the man pleaded but, it fell on deaf ears...as the imperial soldier keeping the list of names called for Lokir of Rorikstead. instead of stepping forward Lokir made a mad dash towards the gates only to get struck down by the archers.

Amon winced seeing Lokir's body drop lifelessly to the ground,then it was her turn Amon stepped forward the guard looked perplexed as he checked the list, checked every name and couldn't see hers anywhere "who are you..what are you?" The albino girl shifted uncomfortably she couldn't exactly tell them she was a Dark/Snow Elf ... then again she not technically an elf either.

"I am Amon-Ra of Ivarstead."

"I see... Race?"

"....Dunmer? I suppose." that wasn't a complete lie, her birth father was a Dark elf her mother was Snow elf mixed with ... let's just say her grandmother was something other worldly, What exactly? her teacher was never very clear on... Amon-Ra took after her mother in a sense, for she was neither Man nor Mer a beast would would better way describe it. but that's putting it lightly.

The imperial blinked a few times as he looked the young elf over, she certainly didn't look like a dark elf, but alas there was no time to ask nor dwell as he turned to the armored woman standing to the side unsure of what to do.

"Captain, she's not on the list."

The guard informed his superior who just sneered. "List or not Hadvar, she gets the block." she ordered Hadvar look back at Amon sadly. "I'm sorry, I'll see if we can send your remains to Morrowind." Amon-Ra went to protest that she wasn't born in Morrowind! but was shoved forward towards the line up. The villagers got a good look at her."They can't be serious! She's just a little girl!" one of the men yelled causing a the others to whisper among themselves. "The poor thing looks barely passed her 15th winter."a woman stated affronted. under different circumstances Amon-Ra would've giggled and took that as a compliment, being a 191 years old and all! but now? It was all just a bitter memory in her last minutes life.

The captain snapped at the villagers to be quiet as the first man step towards the block, Was when Amon-Ra felt it, her eyes turned towards the sky the energy in air it felt... disturbed, Something was coming... Then there was a noise it was distant at first but, loud enough to cause everyone to look up. "What was that?" Hadvar asked his eyes scanned around bemused. "Nothing of our concern, give him is last rights," the captain ordered the priestess gave the man his last rights or at least tried to till' the man told her to shut up and get it over with.

Amon-Ra looked away as the ax came down on him. the sound came again a little closer this time. "there it is again!" another soldier said warily the captain ignored it "Now the Dark elf!" she ordered Amon was shoved forwards towards the block. the girl felt her eyes burn as she knelt down *I'm sorry father...* she winced waiting for death only for a deafening sound akin to an explosion caused her ears to ring.

Amon-Ra's red eyes shot up to see a large black figure swoop down and land on top of the tower... a dragon!? The shock wave by the beast's landing caused the executioner to stumble and drop his ax and the town erupted into chaos, as soldiers scrambled to get to cover and their weapons, the townsfolk were scattered screaming in horror at the black mass that ravaged through Helgen.

Amon-Ra was frozen stunned at what she was seeing, only to be snapped out of it by Ralof who had grabbed her arm a dragged her into one of the towers. the white haired girl scanned the room they were in, few of the Stormcloaks were there catching their breaths. Ulfric included he looked up from an injured soldier as Ralof walked over to his leader, the two discussed what was happening while Amon ran up the stairs.

"Jump on the inn next to the tower, We're right behind you!" the blond called up to her, the girl nearly fell down when the side of the tower was ripped open and a torrent of flames shot passed her, she looked up to see a pair of red eyes staring back at her perplexed, Amon-Ra flinched as the dragon sniffed then in a low voice hissed at her " Hi ...Los Nid Joor-" the dragon was cut off by arrows hitting the side of it's neck, It whipped it's head in the direction they came from he roared moving away from the tower and went after the poor souls.

The white haired girl wasted no time hopping into the burning Inn across from the tower, and running down the stairs and into the street. she looked around frantically her gaze landed on a little boy, her stomach drop when she saw the black dragon land behind the child, before she even knew what she doing Amon-Ra ran over to him threw her arms around him and ran the child and herself behind cover; just as the dragon spat a torrent of flames right where he had been standing, Amon sighed relieved then looked down at the boy.

"Are you okay?"

"Uh-huh."

What were you thinking? are you trying to die?!"

"No, I wanted to hel-"

Hadvar cut him off "Trolof take care of the boy!" he then turned to the girl "Amon-Ra follow me!" he ordered the red eyed girl looked back at the boy before following after the legate who led her to the keep, this was the first time Amon-Ra ever killed someone. after she and Hadvar entered the keep he undid her bound hands, he told her to find some armor and a sword. she complied while Hadvar kept his eyes trained on the door in case any Stormcloaks wandered in when she was done changing.

Hadvar looked confused at her now braided hair. "how did you braid your hair so quic-" he was silenced when he heard talking over head. they saw Stormcloaks behind a gate, and the legate thought they could negotiate with them, They didn't give them a chance the second they saw Amon-Ra and Hadvar they attacked! Hadvar did most of the work as Amon-Ra had never used her skills on a human before...

As they traveled deeper into the keep depths Amon didn't know what to feel, sure she was trained to be a warrior. but, that was for Grimm not humans! and this damn Iron sword was so dull and clumsy! She wished she had her Jörmungandr with right now, then she'd be back in the swing of things! after fighting their way through stormcloaks,giant spiders and sneaking passed a bear.

They were out! Amon quickly changed out of the armor and into mage robes she found in the dungeons, she calmly threw her braid around her neck like a scarf and pulled the hood up before joining Hadvar outside where she saw the the dragon fly over them, for a brief second Amon swore she felt it's gaze on her as it flew off into the approaching storm clouds.

When all was said and done Hadvar led Amon to Riverwood. stopping a few times to point out the guardian stones and bleak falls barrow, The albino girl had to hold her hair still, to keep it wiggling it always did that when she was curious. her red eyes left the scenic view, she then followed after Hadvar only to bump into his back. She looked at him then at what was bothering him... wolves a large pack of them.

Amon-Ra made sure the nord man wasn't looking at her, she used her eyes on the wolves, the pack all looked at her and whined before running off with their tails between their legs, Hadvar was flabbergasted as he sheathed his sword. "That was odd...wolves usually don't back off when they see prey." he said turning to the girl next to him who just shrugged seemly just as bemused as he was as they continued on the path by night fall they'ed arrived to the small town.

#TES Skyrim #rwby crossover #fanfiction #female dragonborn #Amon-Ra #hey finally awake eh?#ralof #hadvar #ulfric stormcloak #riverwood skyrim #helgen #Falmer oc #Teldryn sero/Dragonborn

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almondharry · 5 years

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you look so good : two

you look so good [9.1k]

“Let’s get some pasta, green beans, kidney beans, and some lentils.”

Genevieve’s nose scrunched. “I don’t even know what to do with lentils.”

“I have a great recipe for a dal curry. I’ll teach you, it’ll be perfect. We can make a whole day out of it.”

A whole day? For lentils? Genevieve opened and closed her mouth shut, no words came out.

Arnold’s Singularity Theory

October 26, 2019

Her back was hunched over the wooden desk beside her bed. The high pitched ringing of her alarm snapped her eyes open at six in the morning. The sky was a navy blue; she could make out the few dog walkers on the street. It was her only day off, but the piled work on her table argued otherwise.

Genevieve was alone in her freezing apartment. The heating was broken and when she told Mr. Goldwin, her landlord, he didn’t have his hearing aid on. She had a routine for Sundays: Wake up. Do practice problems. Make a cup of tea. Sleep.

A dull ache prodded between her shoulder blades, her spine was sorely unaligned. Her face was all sunken cheeks and shades of grey. The sweater bought last month suddenly became a few sizes too big.

The sun created hues of orange and reds. The blue that slowly peeked out at the sides made it seem like a bowl of dirty paint water being stirred. The evening stillness in her flat was interrupted by the sudden roar of an engine. As she looked out the window, a car zoomed down the road with a blaring radio. An animated lightning bolt was left behind, its speed meant it was gone within a blink. An unsettling feeling made itself a home in the pit of her stomach. She pictured it as swirls, starting off as small slow circles, and eventually growing into sharp hurried edges.

It was probably nothing, maybe university kids having a laugh, but she didn’t have the time to mull over it because the swinging of her front door and jingling of a bundle of keys sounded loudly.

Meena opened the door to her refrigerator and the only thing there was a flickering light bulb and an empty box of orange juice. A high pitched shrill followed.

“Gen!”

Genevieve was out of milk, eggs, and cereal.

She wouldn’t have given it another thought and might’ve ordered take out or popped in at the Smalls’ to split a pizza with Jonah, the neighbour’s kid who she tutored every once in a while. He was the only child of a single dad who worked too many hours at the construction site to make rent. He wasn’t home often and they had a silent understanding of popping in every couple days to keep an eye on him, much like Meena liked to keep tabs on Genevieve. Except, Genevieve wasn’t a scrawny teenage boy who needed to be looked after, something which Meena would refute without a shadow of doubt. At the current state of Genevieve’s flat, the jury would easily side with Meena Ahmed.

Meena had a hand on her hip, her lips pressed in a firm line. She took a deep breath, pinching the carton between her thumb and index finger. “Gen-e-vieve!”

Meena put her foot down and opened the trash can only to find it overflowing. She held back a gag.

“Genevieve!”

After some rustling and movement on the other side of the wall, her feet stumbled out of her bedroom. An unimpressed snarl on her face, Genevieve’s body leaned against the doorway.

“I think by now everyone in this bloody building knows my name,” she said with a textbook in one hand and a pen in the other. She had not looked away from the pages. She hurriedly scratched an answer to her practice problems before it could float away from her brain. “That’s exactly the information they need to kick me out.”

Meena was in her work out clothes, a bright pink neon top with matching trainers. She looked straight out of a healthy living ad. She had glossy black hair, almond shaped eyes, and always smelled of fresh daisies. She had that all American smile and pearly whites that were blinding. She was into juicing, kale, and art history.

“What is this?”

“What’s what?” Genevieve inquired, her eyes glued on the next problem.

When a moment of silence went by and no response was given, her head shot up.

Her eyes flickered from the trash can—she thought she saw something move in there— to the open door of her empty refrigerator. Her lips fell into an O shape.

“When you told me you went to the shops on Tuesday, I didn’t know you were talking about two bloody weeks ago,” Meena huffed as she bent down to tie a knot on the black bag, her nose scrunched up. It was atypical to hear her accent try out British sayings, but amusing nonetheless. “Have you been eating?”

“Don’t be so dramatic. I do have instant noodles on the shelf. And I mainly eat at the diner.” Genevieve shrugged, her attention migrated back to her pages. What at first glance looked like to be ten simple problems turned out to be a mess of numbers and formulas that weren’t making any sense.

“That God awful place serves nothing but heart disease! It takes a whole stack of napkins to soak up that grease!” Meena scoffed as she replaced the bin with a fresh bag. On multiple occasions, she had cornered a frightened Walter to discuss his technique and may have even manipulated him to add a vegan alternative to his infamous pancakes. Thanks to Meena, Flo’s now served gluten-free, vegetarian, and no sugar added options. Genevieve firmly believed Walter did it out of fear, but he won’t admit it. “And instant noodles are not a meal, we have talked about this.”

“‘Course they are! An efficient one too.”

“What happened to ‘We’re gonna change things this year, Meena! Real changes! You won’t recognize me by the time I’m done’?”

If there was one thing Meena Ahmed took seriously, it was New Year’s resolutions. She kept every one ever since she was old enough to make them. She hadn’t missed a gym day for the past three years. When she said she would take on meditation, she actually did. When her mind became set on studying abroad in London, on January first, she was boarding a plane.

So when the following December 31st hit and Genevieve was one too many drinks in with Meena, she found herself making empty promises of eating better and taking care of herself. Little did Meena know that to Genevieve, resolutions were much like a two-week free trial. As soon as that time frame was up, you could up and go.

“I put in a solid effort for a week, and that’s what counts!”

“We need to go to the shops. You have nothing here. You need a list.” The pen between Genevieve’s fingers was swiped and the tearing of paper was quick from her notebook. She was also very much into being intrusive. “Let’s start off with the basics. Eggs, milk, bread. Do you want tea?”

“I can do my own groceries! I’m not a child, Meena!”

“Could’ve fooled me. By the looks of it, you’ve been living off frosted flakes. Do you even know where the closest store is?”

Genevieve scoffed and propped herself on the counter with the back of her elbows. “Of course I do, I am very much capable of taking care of myself.”

Meena paused. Her body turned towards Genevieve with her full, utmost attention. Her eyes scanned her from head to toe, Genevieve was being appraised.

She didn’t put effort to hide the worried crinkle forming between her brows. “Have you showered today? Changed your clothes?”

Genevieve wasn’t a slob, but she did let herself go at times. It was something that Meena, who religiously went to get fresh manicures every two weeks, couldn’t quite grasp.

“Oh, sod off! I was just about to run myself a bath before you came barreling in.”

She wasn’t, but Meena didn’t need to know that.

“Hm, what type of tea?” Meena asked after rolling her eyes dismissively.

“Green, please.”

“Let’s get some pasta, green beans, kidney beans, and some lentils.”

Genevieve’s nose scrunched. “I don’t even know what to do with lentils.”

“I have a great recipe for a dal curry. I’ll teach you, it’ll be perfect. We can make a whole day out of it.”

A whole day? For lentils? Genevieve opened and closed her mouth shut, no words came out. She sighed, getting Meena to budge was a faraway dream. She rubbed her strained eyes as Meena listed off something about the lack of vitamins in her diet. She was now on a tangent explaining how an increase in omega-3 and healthy fats in her diet could be beneficial when Genevieve's front door knob jiggled. There was a grunt and a strategic kick to the door, and it flew open.

“Gen!” he panted, his tongue slipped out unintentionally like a dog. His cheeks were flushed a cherry red, probably from the trek up the stairs. Jonah’s backpack was twice the size of him. He wore a shirt with his favourite comic book character, its armpits a shade darker than the rest of his shirt.

He had a ghost white face and his left eye twitched. “Hey, bud, you alright?” Genevieve raised a brow.

Little lungs took in a heavy breath, quite like pulling the handles of a bicycle air pump up.

“I don’t get the trigonometric equations! I have a test tomorrow! Mrs. Hansuld was going over the review in class and it looked like she was speaking Russian— and I know I should’ve been studying last week but they just released the new version of Triton Galaxy X and it was just so beyond cool, Gen. I am already on level twelve, and, well, now I have a test and I don’t know any of it. Nothing. Zero. I don’t think I can even add numbers anymore.”

Genevieve looked at Meena. Her mouth was parted from shock as she blinked at the frazzled boy in front of them. “You’re so tiny… but you, you speak so much and so fast.”

“Um, actually, you’re mistaken.” He raised an accusing finger. His height was a sensitive topic. He was at the stage where all his friends were getting growth spurts and growing like weeds, whereas he had yet to experience his own. “I am almost five foot and that is within the normal height range on WebMD, Docs4You and according to my pediatrician.”

Genevieve found it amusing that his voice reached a higher pitch the more defensive he got. He was a whistle by the end of his sentence. It also didn’t help that his last name was Smalls and kids in school could be cruel.

“‘Course, yeah, I’m sorry. My bad.” Meena nodded quickly. She knew she hit a nerve as she backed up slowly. She scratched the back of her neck. “Um, well, Gen and I were planning on picking up groceries, but I’ll go grab ‘em.”

“Great, I’ll go take my books out.” Jonah dragged his bag like a potato sack into the living room.

“You really don’t have to, Meena.”

“Gen, it’s no big deal,” she brushed off. “Anyway, I don’t think your pal wants me around much. I need an escape and maybe a magazine too.”

When Meena gulped uncomfortably, Genevieve shook her head. She pushed herself off the counter.

“Here take my card.” Genevieve shoved the plastic rectangle into Meena’s hand. A comforting squeeze was given. “If you get him one of those milk chocolate bars, he will forgive you in ten minutes tops.”

“Right,” Meena laughed. “I’ll be back in no time.”

***

October 27, 2019

There was a buzzing.

The room was swallowed in darkness, the crescent moon that hung behind the window didn’t provide enough light to warrant a quick search. It was enough of a reason for Genevieve to shut her half opened lids.

Except that the buzzing began again.

Genevieve groaned into her pillow until the nuisance came to a full stop. Whoever was beckoning her attention could do without it until the sun came up. There was an ache in her neck from the poor posture that her body folded in. To top it off, she had an 8:00 a.m. class. There were not enough hours in the night so she was clinging on to any thread of peace. She tossed and turned until she got the sheets pooled around her in just the right way.

Just when Genevieve was about to slip into the blissful state of unconsciousness, the aggravating buzz started once more. The less than pleased frown on her lips could surely make fresh flowers wilt. Her limbs were heavy with sleep as she moved her duvet to find the pesky device. Genevieve lived in a shithole. Labelling her room a shoe box would be bordering glamorous. Although, it did make it easier to find things.

It took a couple of shuffles and twists to hear the thud of a screen colliding against the floorboard. The damn thing was still ringing. The brightness on the unknown caller screen made her face glow blue and the back of her eyes burn; she shut them while blindly hitting the green circle.

“Hm?” Her voice croaked.

“You know the time I got you out of a thing?”

Their words were slurred and the glowing digits on her windowsill read 5:26 a.m. This meant one thing only. “No, sorry. Wrong number.”

Genevieve brought the phone away from her face, and just as her finger hovered over the red circle, a needy yelp cried out.

“Gen! Don’t hang up!”

Her eyes rolled with an aggravated sigh, fingers reluctantly pressing the device to the side of her head. There was sleep crusted in the corners of her eyes and she had to blink a couple of times to adjust to the darkness.“What do you want, Niall?”

“You see, I’m in this predicament… and I might need someone sober and with a car.”

“Then call a bloody Uber. Who do you think I am?”

“Look, I thought that. But—”

There was rustling on the other side. After some bickering, another voice spoke through the line.

“Gen, come get this tosser or else he will pass out on my floor. I swear, I’ll lock up with him inside.”

“How bad is he?” Genevieve was already pushing aside textbooks on her floor in search of a pair of trousers. With one leg inside and the receiver pressed between her cheek and shoulder, she hopped on her bedroom floor.

“Not good. He is a right mess.”

“I’ll be there in ten. Just keep giving him water, please? Thanks for the ring, Ted.” She knew Niall well enough to know that this wasn’t his bright and shiny idea. If it were up to him, he would pass out on a park bench.

“Got your number scratched on the wall for a reason.” The click sounded on the other side, then the line dropped afterwards.

It was true. If you looked hard enough you could make out the chicken scratched scribbles right under the faux payphone mounted inside The Cabinet, where the beers were cheap and Niall Horan was reachable at the slightest inconvenience that struck his life. Last week, it was because he had failed his mid-term. This week, the problem was blonde and walking across campus and shared one too many of his courses.

“No, Gen, she’s just too gorgeous, it’s unbelievable. I think I am in love.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not how it’s supposed to happen, but congrats.”

Ted adored Niall immensely when he was bringing more business to the pub and getting the word out, not when he was a blubbering mess on the sticky countertops. He sipped his drinks like water to the point that Ted would morph into a psychiatrist. This happened so often that it had become a ritual. The day Niall stopped burdening him with his problems was a day that failed to exist.

Much like her room, the small flat didn’t have the lights on. Genevieve didn’t need them to navigate her path, her fingers haphazardly pulled on her boots and plucked the bundle of keys from a mug.

Her car, a well-loved hand-me-down, was nothing lavish. It got her from point A to B without much resistance on good days. Her foot eased on the gas, with the route was well versed and memorized. After a couple of stop signs, her destination would be reached. The streets were empty and not one car was spotted at any intersections.

A light breeze roamed around and brought goosebumps to the surface of her skin. She should’ve brought a sweater, she thought, as her teeth began to chatter. Her dark hair was haphazardly twisted into a bun and rested on the top of her head. The car door shut behind her as she quickly jogged across the street to where the pub was located.

The street was lonely.

There were only a handful of people that would be up at this hour. This subgroup of people definitely did not include her. She thought she was still partly asleep when there was a familiar figure pacing down the sidewalk towards her. Maybe it was the dark, but even after she rubbed her eyes with the heel of her palms, the slope of the person remained familiar. As they got closer, the once blurred image sharpened, and she felt her stomach flip.

A slight panic arose in Genevieve’s eyes. He was too close of a distance for her to dash through the doors, and it would’ve been clear that she was making a run from him. She doesn’t recall when exactly their encounters began to turn dreadful. But the reality of the situation wasn’t how, it was the fact that they had. This was the second time he stood across from her. The rate of their reunions was at an all time high after years spent apart. It made a heavy weight rest on her chest, her own personal Sisyphus boulder.

Tiptoeing and maneuvering their way around each other was the hardest part. There wasn’t a book in the world that taught you how to stand across someone that you once spoke to every day. There was a time Genevieve could tell what each tilt, rise, and fall of Harry’s face meant. How do you go from sharing friends, laughter, a life, to becoming nothing short of hollow strangers? As they stood across from each other on an empty street, they only shared blank stares.

“Hi.” His breathing was a bit uneven, and Genevieve saw the beginnings of roses bloom on his cheek under the streetlights. His moose coloured hair was tucked under a beanie and there was a slight stubble on his chin.

“You are running?” Genevieve squinted at him. Navy gym shorts hung off his hips and a full sleeve athletic shirt was on top. “At five in the morning?”

Genevieve hated how Harry looked brand new. In the midst of a mountain worth of chaos and hurt, how he managed to look shiny, pre-packaged, and unopened was well beyond her. She had to hold herself together with her bare arms when her seems unravelled. Harry was happier before Genevieve and it was something she had to be okay with. There was no specific reason why. It was just how reality worked.

“By the time I’m done, it will be six. I’ll have to get up anyway.” His shoulders rose and fell in a mindless shrug. Genevieve brought her arms to fold across her chest, her fists cuddled under her armpits to trap heat.

“You’re insane.” Genevieve shook her head. The neon trainers he had on rivalled the brightness of the open sign hung on the doors of The Cabinet. When Genevieve thought she had made enough of an effort at a civil conversation, she turned around to push the heavy glass door. There was nothing else to say to him.

Conversation with Harry wasn’t always a chore. She was able to speak without having to think twice or second guess herself. Now, it seemed like every word led to a dead end of an inescapable maze.

Genevieve accepted that Harry was no longer the person she came to with her favourite songs, books and a cup of tea. She wondered if whatever reminiscent memoir she had in her memory of him served true till today. Her Harry was never the sober driver or the early bird runner. She did not expect him to stay the same. No, that would be cruel. But a small part of her wanted to know if she had known him at all.

Before her weight gave to the door, his voice chimed up.

“You’re drinking?”

“God no, I’m, um—No. I’m here for a friend.” Genevieve paused, a deep breath circled her lungs and helped her string some words together. “He’s gone a bit over the top.” She chuckled. It wasn’t soft and light, but rather felt like sandpaper.

“Oh, right. ‘Course.” Harry rubbed at the back of his neck with his fingers. He blinked to the ground, the cracked concrete suddenly became much more of an interest. “I wasn’t— it’s just, I run this route every morning and I never see you and maybe I thought—”

“It’s okay, Harry.” He began to run his fingers through his hair, the beanie scrunched in his left hand. “I really need to help my friend, yeah?”

“Right, I’ll see you around?”

Genevieve left his question hung in the air like forgotten laundry on a washing line. She thought it was better than saying I hope not. She didn’t want to mention that she tried to avoid him to the best of her ability. Genevieve knew his habits, his patterns. She had knowledge about places he went to, so, naturally, she didn’t. It was a triumph for her to go without months of seeing him. But there was only so much she could do. Juggling probabilities of his whereabouts would never assign her a one hundred percent assurance of erasing him, even with a ninety-nine percent confidence interval.

“Genny?” he called out again. The rational part of her wanted to pretend she didn’t hear him and walk through the door. Instead, she took a breath through her nose and turned around slowly. She wrapped her arms tighter together as the temperature dropped by the second. “Um, do you think we could talk sometime?”

There was a frailness to his voice. He was nervous. Genevieve knew this because he had made a mess of his hair with the number of times his fingers combed it back.

The next words off her tongue painted a sad smile on his raspberry chapped lips. He looked exhausted, the grey shadows under his eyes beckoned her to not beat around the bush.

“We are talking, Harry.”

Confrontation was a foreign concept to Genevieve. Brushing it under the rug and forgetting about it seemed the best way for her. If it is out of sight, it will be out of mind. But Harry had other plans. He wanted to strip the house down and uncover every corner Genevieve thought to be her hiding spot. It was an intrusion and she didn’t want him to come knocking down doors.

“No, I mean—”

“It was nice seeing you,” she said, her mouth set into a thin, straight line as she held eye contact. They were still the same deep green with golden flecks. She had seen them angry, hopeful, teary, but right now they were desperate.

The slight tilt to her head told Harry not to push it. To leave things as they were. He served as a walking reminder of loss and all the things she wanted to forget. Their situation did not have to go back to a normal distribution; their data was skewed, and the standard deviation was large enough to wedge a significant distance from their past to present.

Change was good, even if it was different. Over time, the further apart she was from him the better it was for her. And she hoped it was the same for him.

No one warned Genevieve that holding a grudge required discipline and so much energy. She felt drained, her bones became weak enough they could snap in half. There was no brochure that outlined the ins and out of the process. Your brain worked overtime to disguise clenched jaws and tight fists without any compensation.

On the surface, everything appeared smooth and stonelike. Beneath, lied the hot white anger. That type of anger was something no one wanted to intentionally claim; it was an orphan. It builds and builds and builds until you cannot see through it. You’re blinded, you’re revengeful.

“Yeah.” Harry swallowed a lump in his throat. He teetered on the balls of his feet and toes with his bottom lip caged between his teeth. He was debating on what to say next, and Genevieve wished it would be something short and quick. She wanted him to say a casual goodbye that was heard between strangers in a coffee shop or book store. Something that didn’t make her want to burst into a river of tears. “One more thing.”

“Hm?”

“Nice shirt.” There was a quirk to one side of his mouth where a dimple had coined itself on his cheek. It was an innocent compliment. Something a friend might say to another. Before she could give a reply, he had turned around and broken into a light jog.

Genevieve watched his figure become muddy until the darkness hid him completely. It was an odd thing to say, her appearance was something she could give less of a shit about at five in the morning. She had literally gotten out in the clothes she slept in.

Genevieve brushed his words off. She wanted a dry goodbye and he delivered. It was nothing more.

Without thinking twice, she pushed the doors open and warmth from inside greeted her. The pub remained looking the same since she had walked in with her two best mates three years before. It was a hole in the wall, fixed in between a thrifting and convenience store. It littered with mismatched chairs and alcohol stains, a pool table and dart boards lined the further corner, and a random sports channel glowed on the box TV. Niall’s blond hair was easily spotted; it laid on the century old cherry wood bar. The posture his back was slumped on the stool insured neck cramps.

The doors behind the bar came swinging open as the bells above chimed of her entrance. A rag rested on his shoulder and he wore a well loved band shirt from his touring days. For someone who was found frowning on most days, Ted beamed a smile at Genevieve.

“Good! You’re here!” His shoulders dropped in relief as she made her way closer to her friend. “He’s been miserable.”

“Gen? Is that you?” Niall grumbled from his position. “Oh, shut it, Ted. You’re giving me no option but to take my money elsewhere,” Niall slurred as he lifted his head off the wood. There were lines indented on his cheek from his possible snooze.

“Those are empty words.” Ted rolled his eyes easily and used his rag to clean up the surface that Niall previously occupied.

“You know what else is empty, Theodore? This glass!” It rattled against the countertop when Niall dramatically set it down.

Ted’s shoulders shook as he chuckled, crinkles lining the corners of his eyes. “I’m not pouring you another drop, mate.”

“Who said it was for me? Have you seen Gen? She looks proper in need of a few.”

With a deep sigh, Genevieve took the stool beside Niall. Her head slowly turned to scan the pub. A place that was the heart of loud laughter and cheers was dimmed down since they were the only ones. With her elbows propped up on the counter, she pressed her index fingers to her temples.

“You do look a bit poorly. Under the weather?”

“No, not at the moment,” she sighed.

“Well, you look like shit,” Niall blurted.

“Thanks, Niall, really.” Genevieve glared with a frown. “Remind me to never do a kind thing for you ever again. Sorry I wasn’t in full glam when you called at ass crack of dawn.”

“Did you see a ghost or something? You look sick.” Niall squinted his eyes and pinched her cheek between his thumb and index finger. It was rather quickly slapped away with a snarl. “Ouch!”

“Nothing a pint can’t cure.” A tall glass slid in front of Genevieve. Condensation dripped and pooled on the counter. The frothy foam rested on top and sat at the rim without tipping over. “On the house.”

A Stella didn’t sound like a bad idea to Genevieve. She felt like she deserved one. After all, two encounters with the person she disliked the most was beginning to become exhausting. The car keys weighed down in her pocket, her bones ached and her temples pulsed. A tired yawn stretched her face as the drink laid rested on the cherry wood.

Niall scoffed as Genevieve stared at the drink for a moment too long. “If you don’t take it, I will!”

His fingers crept to grasp the glass, and Genevieve batted his greedy hands away. “Paws off, Niall.”

A cold drink couldn’t hurt, she decided. The first sip eased the tense muscles in her shoulders. Niall found a basket of chips to pick at in the meantime. He probably ordered them to soak up his alcohol intake.

Genevieve could hear Ted in the kitchen. The shifting of pots and pans meant that he was officially closing up for the night. She thought the least she could do was flip the remaining barstools on the counter.

In the two seconds that she had abandoned her glass, she had turned to see Niall gulping like fish.

“No more!” He made a strangled sound as the rim was pulled from his lips. “Don’t need your puke in my car.”

Genevieve threw back what was left of the drink. “You could just pull the window down and I’ll mind me business.”

Genevieve squinted her eyes to catch a better look at Niall and she noticed he was turning a few shades greener. He had on a dopey grin and his eyes were almost shut. Niall became whiny when he got sick, and if Genevieve were to let that happen in the pub there would be no chance of him leaving.

“How about we get you to an actual sink, yeah?”

With an arm thrown over her shoulder and Niall almost near collapsing on her, she yelled a farewell to Ted. He was more preoccupied with rubbing the stove clean but he got the message, yelling muffled goodbye of his own.

The car parked across the street never felt further away. Niall was in his own world, mumbling some drunk words into her hair. Genevieve caught some that thanked her for taking care of him. She took each step slowly.

Getting Niall into the passenger seat was a process, one she thought she had got down pat. She had done everything as planned, put his head to the right, made sure he had enough room to stretch his legs and of course, double checked to see if he had his phone and wallet on him. Apparently, this was taking too long and Niall reached over to slam the door shut.

Genevieve had jumped back just in time that no fingers were caught between doors. She sighed in relief before shooting a glare at Niall. He looked at the fabric that stretched from her stomach. “Oops?”

Genevieve rolled her eyes at Niall, who burst into giggles because it turned out everything was more hilarious at 5:00 a.m. She tugged at the material.

It was old and ratty. It was two sizes too big and hung off her frame, there were stains, holes, some she never remembered putting in herself. It took her a moment, with the fabric bunched between her digits, the gears in her brain set into place. The sharp intake of breath hit the back of her throat and the air on the street suddenly froze.

***

October 27, 2019

“It’s stupid, Gen.” The clicking of a game controller didn’t halt. The animated character on the screen ran towards a glowing torch. Jonah adjusted the headpiece he had on over his ears, probably muting himself so the other kids wouldn’t hear Genevieve lecture him. Beside him sat a bowl of finished popcorn on the sofa, like his player two, and unpopped kernels rattled every time he enthusiastically surged towards the TV screen.

“This is due in two days, Jonah,” Genevieve emphasized. She had unzipped his backpack. His agenda was hard to read, his chicken scratch writing almost made Genevieve mistake a significant date for scribbles. It was for his English class, something that he had yet to mention, which Genevieve found odd because he always told her about his school work. Okay, it was more like Genevieve made sure he told her, but same thing regardless. “How are you planning on starting and editing and finishing it?”

She knew better than to talk to boys in the middle of a game. There was no use. Her experience regarding it only went one way, everything went in one ear and out the other. It was fascinating, really; their eyes would glaze over and for a short ten minutes the real world wouldn’t exist. They would become so immersed in whatever universe was in front of them. It had been once explained to Genevieve as almost the same thing as reading a good book, but with the exception that the player was put in charge of the main character’s decisions.

His tongue poked out at the side and the Playstation keys were innocent victims to his quick jabs. His shoulders deflated when the message on the screen informed him of the scoreboard. He grumbled something under his breath before his miniature joystick highlighted the option to opt for another round. “I’ll edit it while I’m writing it.” He shrugged mindlessly.

“I’m being serious.”

“I am too.”

“What’s up with you? You usually love finishing your assignments for Mrs. Yu’s class.”

“Look how stupid the prompt is,” Jonah grumbled. Genevieve’s fingers were already pulling out a crumpled rubric and pressing it flat so it stayed without folding in on itself. Eyes scanned the short blurb of instructions which Jonah soon summarized. “Pick a month and personify it. What type of pretentious—”

“I think it’s very neat. Creative. Have you selected a month yet?”

“Sure.” His flat tone said otherwise.

Genevieve rolled her eyes at his antics. “If you don’t spend enough time on this, she will give you an easy fifty. That will bring down your average and universities look at that. What will you do then?”

She reached over to the table to take a sip from her water bottle.

The Smalls residence was the same layout when compared to her flat, so it didn’t take long to get familiar to it. Granted, it was more furnished and had Jonah’s gaming consoles already hooked up to use. The latter being the deciding factor of Jonah’s executive decision to procrastinate his work for another week. Usually, Jonah would pop in after school to Genevieve’s, but she had just returned from a shift at the diner and his door was cracked ajar.

Like many days, his father left for the construction site and wouldn’t be back until after dinner, and the only appliance Jonah knew how to use was a microwave. Genevieve had some food which Walter packed for her and it was more than enough to share with a growing boy. His diet was worse than hers. He could go weeks on Pop Tarts and Twizzlers from his cafeteria vending machine. Plus, he wasn’t bad company to have around.

“Easy. Play the dead mum card. Works like a charm.”

Genevieve spluttered the water out, coughing since it had gone down the wrong tube.

“Jonah!”

Her jaw went slack and her eyes widened, a slight worry arose. She wasn’t well versed on the ins and outs of parenting—she preferred to see him as a younger sibling— or child trauma, but even she had a hunch that there was something troubling and incredibly off about the way he had referred to the passing of his mother so nonchalantly.

“What?” Jonah asked, dumbfounded.

“You can’t just say stuff like that!”

“‘Course I can. You have no idea the amount of pity and sympathy they throw at your feet. At first, I despised it, because obviously I wasn’t a knocked over puppy like they were making me out to be.” His character on the screen jumped to deflect an obstacle. A triumph smile was the direct result. “But then, I was like what the hell, you know? Like if it’s there already, why not play my cards right and score some sort of advantage from it?”

Genevieve blinked. She tilted her head to attempt understanding his analogy.

“Well, that sure is one way to look at it,” she said after a short pause. “But I am not gonna let you do that to Mrs. Yu. Something tells me you’ve already done it one too many times.”

He paused his game and finally turned to her, giving her more than his side profile at last. A hellish grin split his face. “How else do you think I got a month extension on that book report and a perfect score on our last quiz?”

“I don’t know… I had assumed hard work and honesty?”

“Wake up, Gen! This is the real world and the rules are different in this game!”

“Alright, bud, you’re cut off from this game.” Genevieve pushed the power button on the TV remote that laid limply to her right. The screen became black with a click. Jonah’s back hit the backrest of the sofa, the bouncy cushion slightly propelled him further before absorbing his weight. “Let’s at least get started on a rough copy, how does that sound?”

He groaned with his head tilted back and eyes shut. “Excruciating, torturous, maybe illegal.”

“I’m asking you to get a start on your project, not abducting you.” His pace to grab the rest of his belongings from the table two meters away from him could rival a snail. “Now, do you have a month in mind?”

“I was thinking maybe like February, December, or even October.” He opened an empty page in his notebook and clicked the top of his mechanical pencil to give away some lead. “Because, like, it will be easy to build a character off them because they all have some sort of festive holiday thing to them.”

“That’s a great start. But don’t you think it’s a bit expected? It is a creative piece, so let’s maybe brainstorm something out of the box. Try picking a month that doesn’t have a holiday attached to it.”

He sighed deeply through his nose. The thought of putting in a smidge bit of effort was like pulling teeth.

Jonah had started to doodle in the margins. He drew three tallies, evenly spread, and added another row of them. He then connected them in a way which Genevieve recognizes to be the symbol on a superhero’s chest.

“August?”

Genevieve swallowed a bug.

“Why did you pick that? What significance does it have to you?” Genevieve doesn’t miss a beat, it aided to mask her surprise.

“Well, I don’t know!” He throws his hands up exasperatedly. “You said pick one, so I did.” He pointed out, his tone reminded Genevieve of how a middle schooler says “duh”.

“Come on. Think a bit.”

“It’s like... sort of like the last month of summer and it brings in fall. Which is the season where we witness life slip away, but barely because it happens so slowly.”

Genevieve’s heart swells for two reasons. Jonah was a bright kid, well beyond his age. It was something he hid and purposefully tried his utmost best not to let shine through. Genevieve had guessed the reason behind his reluctance was mainly because Jonah was at that age where he just wanted to fit in and not stand out like a sore thumb. But every once in a blue moon, he would slip up. When he allowed himself to think out loud, his ideas lined in a way where it wasn’t just the tip of the iceberg anymore. The depth gave away his brilliance.

The first time Genevieve was left speechless by him was when he analyzed one of his favourite comic book characters with an intensity that put the burning sun to shame. Then again when he asked her to edit his essay on a world issue. And once more when he asked her how to approach a girl in his science class that he clearly fancied. Genevieve tried to define this tendency of his as a recurring variable in Jonah’s equation.

In many more ways than one, August held an importance like no other to Genevieve. It was a month that was easily overlooked because it was caught in a war for attention between the summer months and upcoming winter holidays. Its propinquity to strong competition was something that made it easy to forget. If it was a person, she was sure it would be a quiet boy around her age. Probably with a penchant for befriending girls and breaking hearts so slowly that you don’t even know it’s happening.

Genevieve hummed in agreement with Jonah.

“Go on.”

“Let’s say if I were to go with this month, I wouldn’t focus on death because that would be something colder, like December or January or like the first snowfall.” His pencil sounded against his notebook. A string of notes were effortlessly coming together as Jonah continued. He suddenly stopped writing and his face scrunched in thought as he stared at the blank TV screen with as much focus that could convince you it was on. “I think August is knowing you’re losing someone or something without the assurance of finding them again... and letting it deliberately happen.”

“Isn’t that almost death?” Genevieve raised a brow.

“Almost, but not quite.” He tapped his pencil to the metal like coils that ran down the side. “August is loss, parting away. You know, something along the lines of donating old clothes, a friend becoming a stranger, even placing car keys somewhere different.”

Genevieve knew exactly what he was talking about. She couldn’t really describe the feeling of losing a friend in words with sharp precision. It was the same as repeating a word again and again until it came to the point you deluded yourself into thinking it belongs to another language completely.

Jonah peered up, awaiting a response or another prompt to further his development. Instead, Genevieve smiled sadly and shakes her head.

“What?!”

“Nothing.” She laughed softly, a bit winded.

There was just something about him that was light years ahead. Something so pure and good and applaudable that made you think about the character that so many adults lacked and how it was sitting in front of you in a corked up bottle of a preteen boy. He had lost his mother, his father wasn’t around, he didn’t have many friends at school, and he picked the month of August. He had hit the nail on what it was so eloquently that Genevieve could burst into tears. But she refrained, instead opted to narrow her eyes jokingly his way.

“You’re just too smart for your own good, is all.”

That night she went to sleep thinking about August.

How he probably wore wrinkled shirts so effortlessly, with his hair in a gentle disarray. People would make a note to comment on his ridiculously long eyelashes, but she favoured his eyes. They were round and shiny and reminded her of a cloudy marble, the colour of slate. He was charming but had an air of coyness about him that was inviting and deliberate. With skin the colour of oat and a smile like rain, it came or it didn't, he was a knockout. She hypothesized the variable that contributed to his allure had less to do with his looks and more with how he made you feel.

He made you feel wanted, he made you feel like you were someone.

***

October 31, 2016

It didn’t take long for Genevieve to spot him, his back was slouched against the red brick wall of a tall building. A pair of old wayfarers sat on the bridge of his nose and his arms pretzeled over his chest easily. His jaw went slack then tight, this pattern repeated like clockwork until Genevieve got close enough to notice he was working a piece of gum lazily. With his head tilted to the sky and one leg crossed over the other, he was imitating textbook boredom.

“Do you have it?” Dried leaves crunched beneath the sole of his boots as he unravelled his legs and stood up straighter than before as Genevieve’s figure approached near. She could tell he was raising his brows, but they didn’t make an appearance, still hidden behind his frames.

“Yeah.” Genevieve dipped her index finger and thumb to the front right side pocket of her jeans. It took some wiggling to pluck out a piece of metal, smooth on one side and teeth jagged on the other. The metal was warm when dropped into his open palm. “Why the sudden need for it? Have you finally taken up my advice on actually locking your doors yet?”

It was natural for him to give Genevieve a spare key, a strategy that had served him well on multiple occasions. He had lost his more than once within the span of the first two months of getting his flat. This habit had come to a point that recovery was not an option; he preferred to keep his door unlocked anyway. Genevieve pointed out it was a safety hazard, but he liked to call it being efficient. In between locking himself out or forgetting his own key, Genevieve was a dependable solution.

“Not quite, don’t get too ahead of yourself.” She had seen his long black eyelashes hit the inside of his sunglasses, a clear indicator of him rolling his eyes. “I need it for a friend. He doesn’t have a place to stay for a while, and I offered the couch. Are you done with your lectures for the day?”

“I’m afraid not. Got one more and I’m free,” Genevieve sighed defeatedly. She shifted her bag from her right shoulder to the left. Today, she only had her laptop and one textbook, but the strap of her bag still created red dents on her shoulders from the weight. “Did you end up going to your tutorial?”

He gave her a look that was enough of an answer. His glasses rose on his face as a result of him scrunching his nose up in disgust. The tips of his mouth pulled downwards as sourness glazed his features.

“If it’s before noon, I’m not going; you know this, Genny.” He rubbed his nose with the back of his finger. “Can I tempt you to skip by offering the first round at The Cabinet?”

“It’s like…” Genevieve glanced at her wrist watch. “One.”

“I’m not hearing a no.” He grinned, a smile pressed deeply into his face. “Come on, Gen! You’ll get to meet my pal too. I think you’ll get along really well. And Ted is offering half off today. It’s a win-win. What could be more important than good company?”

“Dynamic Systems Differential Equations, unfortunately.” The course name was a mouthful and her dull tone was enough insight into what it was like.

“That sounds like a migraine.”

“Oh, you don’t know the half of it.” She laughed sans humour already picturing the formulas needed for her practice problems. “Speaking of migraines, what are we doing as costumes for Hannah Morton’s party?”

He squinted his eyes and paused for a moment. Migraine Morton was a nickname that stuck onto the bottom of your sneaker like chewing gum. “Is that tonight?”

“Well it is the thirty-first of October.” Her arms stretched to gesture towards the building she had exited from. “Do the carved pumpkins and the stick on ghost figures not make that obvious enough?”

“Fuck, I don’t know.” He winced in reply to her previous question. A fingernail scratched at the corner of his forehead. “I was thinking of piggybacking off whatever you’re dressed as.”

Genevieve’s brows creased and her head tilted. “What do you mean?”

“If you’re Frankenstein, I’ll be the doctor.” He pointed to Genevieve and then to himself. “Bonnie, Clyde. Sherlock, Watson.”

“You want to go coordinating? Isn’t that a bit…”

“What?” He prompted with a laugh spluttering from his lips. It was fresh and bright, and Genevieve didn’t know exactly when it would stop sounding like this. He had amusement glittering in his gaze, there was a youthfulness about him that was so prominent and bold. He leaned closer. “Are you too cool to go coordinating now? Don’t tell me you can’t sit beside me at the lunch table too.”

It was ironic because they both knew Genevieve had always chose him to split her fruit roll-up candy since pre-school. In return, he would never pick up the red smarties whenever they shared a pack because those were her favourite, despite the number of times you told her the colour doesn’t affect the taste.

“I don’t know, a bit coupley? I mean, it worked well when we were eight. Would you think Hannah would mind?”

To this, he scoffed.

“Of course not, don’t be ridiculous. Why would she?”

“She’s clearly into you, like a lot, and I don’t want to get in the middle of that. And I hear she’s going around saying that she’s your girlfriend.”

He closed his eyes gently and breathes out a sigh. “She’s not my—”

“I know that! You know that! But does she?”

His phone buzzed and the question hung in the air until his fingers stopped their dance on the screen. He looked over her shoulder as if waiting for someone.

“Doesn’t matter, she will soon enough.” He shrugged, his voice was distracted and far away. And that was one thing about him that Genevieve couldn’t shake off no matter how hard she tried. He broke hearts knowingly, and did it anyway. “What time do you want me to come pick you up?”

“I’m done with class at five. I’ll have to stop by Party City at six, then do my modules so that will take me till nine, then I—” Rolling tires sounded loudly against the pavement as they approached behind her. The closer they got, the less time she had to finish her train of thought. The radio was a few notches down from its max setting.

“Be ready at nine. No later.” He gripped her shoulders with both hands, brought her close and pressed a messy kiss against her hair. He smelled of cigarettes and toothpaste and beer.

“No, I won’t be, I have to do my laundry and—”

“Great. Sounds good. I’ll see you then.”

And he was gone. He opened and shut the passenger side of the beat up Honda Civic in two seconds. The driver was familiar to Genevieve, it was another blonde, not Hannah, with thick eyeliner. She was a regular turn up at every monotonous party thrown each weekend. She had seen her get too close to him on more than one instance. He convinced Genevieve to poke in at a few, but the scene was like a broken record and her lack of interest dwindled in them too quickly.

It once even prompted her to bring her textbook to do practice problems to keep her from falling asleep as drunk students lit up a joint around her. Every once in a while he would trap grey smoke in his cheeks and blow it directly on her face to elicit a scowl, something he found beyond hilarious when his inhibitions weren’t intact.

The girl’s hair was knotted and she had a less than pleased demeanour, probably nursing a hangover of her own. She stomped her foot down on the gas. He didn’t even have his seatbelt done before their bodies lurched backwards and the car zoomed out from the parking lot of the mathematical sciences department building. The radio became only a faint sound away the longer Genevieve stood there.

By the time she got to Party City, the student working behind the counter gave her an apologetic look. All the decent costumes were sold out. He led her to the back of the store where the remaining costumes were kept. Being a university student meant she couldn’t break the bank for something so trivial. In the plastic bin lied a pair of fangs and a deflated witches hat that had a tear near the rim. There were masks, but she would be better off by taking a paintbrush to her face.

She sighed deeply, her lips pursing in thought. It was obvious her plans of coordinating were a dream far away. That was until she turned around.

A long hat cowered in the corner. It had thick red and white stripes, she pictured it with eyeliner drawn whiskers and a cat ear headband from last year. Maybe even a red bow around her neck. What really sealed the deal for her was the red shirt hung on a hanger right above it. It had a white circle right in the dead centre. The font within the circle was a recognizable outfit from a famous children’s book character. Bonnie and Clyde, Sherlock and Watson, and now Cat in the Hat and Thing 1.

The relief that came along with not trying to maneuver creating an outfit at home was enough to get Genevieve to run to the till. Arts and crafts were not her strongest suits.

The same guy’s eyebrows shot up, surprised at her quick decision making. He shut his latest issue of Men’s Healthy Living and leaned his weight off his elbow. He scanned the items and Genevieve handed him the crisp bill. Before he could finalize the sale, Genevieve thought back to the couch friend that would be accompanying them tonight. Did he have a costume? Inferring from the fact that he didn’t have a roof of his own, a lousy Halloween costume was the least of his worries. But Genevieve found her feet trailing back towards the shop and grabbing the shirt that said Thing 2. The guy added it to her final bill and packed her belongings in a black plastic bag.

He was late and Genevieve was thankful that her laundry was dry and folded neatly.

---

Okay, I think I’m done introducing the main characters. We have quite the cast list, don’t we?

Let me know what u think! I’d love to hear your favourite parts and predictions!

Thank you eriza @booksncoffee for the banner!

Thank you so much to my wonderful betas @adoremp3 @haaaaaaarrry @drivingmekiwi @at-least-im-1 Ayesha and Hamna! Without them, this would be a jumble of fucked up grammar bc I write at 3am. If you want to beta, shoot me a message!

Tag list: @infinitiae @sortaanonymous @sydneysuit @wonderonrepeat @confusedkiwifan @mylifeisatoilet @awomanindeniall @guccikingstyles @verorax @stylesfics-xx @stylishmuser @at-least-im-1 @mellamolayla @thursday-iminlove @kizsyou @brassharry @kizsyou @thursday-iminlove @blue-eyes-freckles-and-a-smile @Hollydays @la-peonia

#1dff #1dff au #harry styles fanfic #harry styles x ofc #harry styles fanfiction #writing #ylsg2 #pls lmk what yall thought of this??

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cleverbxrd · 5 years

Text

When Tim submitted his Patrol Report, he left out the part about his emotional compromise.

His jaw hurt. He was probably still clenching his teeth as he typed and retyped up the note to send to his boss, his ‘dad’, for an impersonal briefing. His ears were covered by rounded, black headphones that deafened any noise of celebration outside, not that Gotham was one for much celebration. (New Years Eve, Calendar Man could be out and about)

The music was supposed to numb his skull, or at least it was an attempt to. He’d experienced the worst of the worst on the grime-covered streets of his hometown, but his heart and his head still ached. It was a dull pain, but it flared every so often, and he wished he’d just stop overthinking. He knew that was impossible, that was his thing, his use. He was the Thinker, the smart one… so, do your thing. With a hefty sigh, his shoulders digging into his desk chair, he closed his eyes, the bass thumping against his brain goading his thoughts to puzzle themselves together as he rationalized what happened, and why he felt so strongly. Sure, he was a piss-poor counselor, but he was a pretty damn good detective.

Check the report. At what time did this happen?

Time was really irrelevant to the bat. You try to live life in the daylight, follow the cape-tails by night’s shadows, you forget where the days end and begin. The numerous restless nights he was prone to staying fully awake for didn’t help much with that either, neither did working on holiday. Tim didn’t mind patrolling New Years Eve, he felt he didn’t have anything better to do. It was either make his rounds or watch on a computer screen how much fun it seemed like the rest of the world was having. He opted to actually do something with his night when he didn’t have to worry about classes in the morning.

Mistake number one.

He was halfway done, circling the shared bay shoreline when he’d gotten the text. It made his heart flutter as the words stretched into his vision, the small heads up display mounted on his white lenses causing more of a distraction than he thought. He’d nearly forgotten he was free-falling, catching himself out of breath from landing hard on rooftop concrete. Conner. Cassie. They were there. He tried not to go, tried to stay away from New York, from the Brooklyn borough, from that warehouse lot decked to the 9s for the turning of the decade (which… in all technicality, it was not.)

Mistake number two.

He’d sat in the shadows, perched high above, scanning the area for familiar faces, heat signatures, anything matching databases he’d had on file. He wasn’t getting anywhere, doubted why he was even there, watching the party goers with the eyes of a hawk.

He lied to his best friend, saying he was still on patrol, saying he’d come out if he found the time to, and of course he believed him. Lying came so easy to him, too easy. He didn’t think about it too much, might scare him. It was part of the job, he couldn’t afford to be 100% truthful. No time to worry about the morality of white lies, just keep thinking about where it started, why it started. Find the source of the feeling.

His memory flashed forward.

Civvies were ridiculously hard to vacuum-pack into a utility belt, but somehow he’d managed to shove a few things from his wardrobe into the small compartments of the crossed belts. It was always just in case, just in case he needed to suddenly become part of the crowd, just in case he needed a change of clothes that wasn’t shredded, just in case he needed to attend a surprise party where his friends were having fun.

Fun, now there was a word. When was the last time he’d been fun? Sometime before the first red and black suit, muddled in there with the green tights and ninja boots. He’d tried to be a mini-Bruce, but the physically youngest, and usually shortest, member of their old team acting like the sternest leader of the League had only caused humor from his teammates. He abhorred it at the time, but thinking back he would give anything for that friendly teasing again, for him to accept it with a smile instead of the nearly trademarked scowl he still wore.

The slightly over-sized sweater covered most of the costume almost perfectly, the cape wrapped tightly around the cinched and belted waist of his Kevlar-spandex suit. It really was the final piece of the puzzle, a disguise over a disguise. Deceit blanketing a lie. So many lies, too many to count, why did he feel like he had to lie so much? To Him? To Himself?

He’d only go in for a moment, only stay and say hello to the people he knew and leave before people noticed one of the Wayne sons was there. That was the plan, and he wanted to stick to it. His emotions told him otherwise. He’d been brave enough to come all this way, his subconscious rationalized. He felt something bubble up in his stomach, a smile stretching his pale cheeks as he pulled the cowl off of his overgrown hair. To Hell with it all, it was New Years Eve, if he remembered correctly. They were both there, he was in there. He could confess, get it off of his chest, never have to say another word about it. If his hypothesis was correct, they’d both simply forget about it the next morning, or laugh it off like the bird himself had gotten too wasted to care.

If they didn’t think too hard about it, it could just go away and Tim wouldn’t have to worry about losing his best friends to his infatuation, his desire.

But it wouldn’t be that simple. Not by a long shot.

Mistake. Number. Three.

What a sucker, he’d been. What a fool.

He’d forgotten to note the time, or maybe was too ignorant of it to try to check. He was already numb from sitting alone outside of the festivities, all noise was white noise. He didn’t even notice Cassie, if she was even at her position when he sheepishly wandered in. Immediately, as always, he felt out of place, uncomfortable in his own skin as the world slowed down around him. Rich boy galas were one thing to attend, nearly pinned into a tight tux with a tie that felt like it could choke you the minute you proposed some outlandish idea to the wrong funder. City-wide parties were an entirely new beast, like a Gotham bar on Saturday night with a little less violence and a little more in the population. The drinking seemed to be of the same caliber, he could smell it radiating off some people who passed him by, taking little to no notice of him. He was probably drunk off his ass too, the party boy, Casanova, tail-chaser. Observing the other attendees led him to believe that Conner wouldn’t even remember he was there, or the texts they’d sent just minutes ago. He was about to simply leave and try his Hallmark speech of love some other time when he saw-

The sharp pang in his chest lit like a fire again. Tim nearly doubled over in his chair, clutching at his shirt and gasping for air. Don’t panic, don’t do this. You’re breathing, your heart is beating. You can feel your floor under your feet, the clothes on your back, your face, your hair, you’re still there, still here. Tim found his hands gripping at the raven mess on top of his head, slightly skewing the headphones gripping tight around his ears. He roulette-wheeled through his various breathing meditation techniques and found himself filling his chest with oxygen once more, the faded world around him coming through clearer instead of the molasses he felt like he’d just jumped into. He tried to settle himself back into the chair, slumping further down as his pulse pounded against his ribs, almost like it was trying to run away from the husk it sat inside. He was starting to believe that vital organ was more of a nuisance for rattling his core.

Don’t focus on that, you need a distraction. Remember the night. You’re a Detective. Start asking questions.

What happened?

I don’t...I don’t want to talk about it.

When did it happen?

New Years Eve. Stroke of midnight. It’s all in the briefing, you wrote it.

Who was there?

Probably half of the population of New York City. And Him.

He’s important to you.

You don’t get to tell me what I already know. Keep digging.

Your memory stopped at a particular moment. How did that moment make you feel?

He slingshot himself back into the exact frame, frozen in time, zeroed in through a telescopic lens. How did he feel? It was such a simple question, but the answers sat brewing in his head before he could find the names.

Name the first feeling. Now!

Anger.

At Conner? Never, not truly. He’d get annoying, but at a point it had become almost charming. At himself? Of course, he was always angry at himself in one capacity or another. Tim was far from a perfectionist, but a people pleaser he certainly was. The need for approval always egged him on, even if he didn’t want to admit it. When he’d given arm and leg without any hint of positive effect, it brought him down. He was too smart not to recognize his own faults, he couldn’t afford to look at himself as perfect. Quite the opposite actually.

Damn. You’re good.

I know, keep looking. Name another one.

Remorse.

He didn’t say anything sooner. Maybe he’d be there earlier, snagged that picturesque moment for the few seconds he’d bore witness to it. Why did that matter? A strange tangent from his current thought process, his usual pinched thinking face further pointing into a tight squint. He thought they were looking for a feeling, a clue to this confusing panic he was putting himself in. But… why did it matter?

Keep. Looking.

Sadness.

It caked every bone in his scrawny little body, soaked into the trained muscles that he hid from his non-heroic acquaintances. He’d been sad for a long time, and he blamed no one but himself. The lingering tears that always dared to fall at a moments notice, the silent sobs he wished he could give sound to, the will seeping away as he would give into what felt like his whole core. There was a word for that, something any normal psychologist would smack him with until he exhausted his resources. Tim knew he was depressed, knew it wasn’t going to go away any time soon, and he didn’t need a therapist telling him over and over again. He just needed to talk, they’d say, about the trauma. They wouldn’t understand, couldn’t understand. What was the fucking point? Regardless, something that rooted couldn’t have just popped up so suddenly.

Dig deeper. What are you feeling now?

Things.

Be specific, damn it. You were before, don’t shut down on me.

Bad things.

Bad… the word echoed as his all of his mental visuals faded away. They were replaced by a flurry of clues, piecing together strange mental ‘evidence’ that somehow was his key to cracking his head case. He sat bolt upright, his eyes wide as he stared at his glowing computer screen, his mind’s eye making a cork-board with red rope, not too dissimilar to his walls in the dark room he was sitting in. One by one, the items tacked themselves in random orders, random places.

A question mark, a bloodstained cloak, neon signs, tights and gloves, pixie boots and scaly spandex, hair that flew away from a sickening smile as if the locks themselves were scared of its owner, an alien’s toxic rock. It hit him like a brick.

Green. Envy. Jealousy.

How could he not have seen it immediately?

Jealousy.

The same fire that festered in the pit of his stomach when the title he used to wear like a badge of honor was given without question to the ‘true blood son’. The same stabbing coolness when blue birds were let loose to fly free and he was caged for the mishaps of the past. The same rope, choking his words when he sees what he thinks are shattered hopes of something finally good in his Roman Tragedy play of a life.

A shocked breath comes out in a staccato heave, hands losing their grips on arm rests and hanging limp as the realization washed over him like a sign from some god out there somewhere. “Of. Fucking. Course.” The words came out of his throat slow and hoarse, and they almost surprised him. He’d nearly forgotten how to speak over the blare of noise in his ears.

Timothy Jackson Drake, you’re a selfish, jealous bastard.

Another groaning exhale, and he brought his limp frame back to sitting up again, an impulsive urge to throw his head through his keyboard growing stronger by the ticking seconds. Emotions running wild were bad, very bad. It jeopardized the Mission, that’s what he was told. It’s what got him into this mess, every mess, in the first place, basing things on emotions. Somehow, giving names to them all didn’t make it better, and he felt his stomach drop again.

So, Detective, you’ve found a conclusion.

A diagnosis / analysis .

What do you suppose we do about this?

Turn into a robot.

Negatory.

Turn someone else into a robot.

Double negatory.

An audible sigh, brows knitting together as he started to get annoyed with himself. One hand floated up to press under the messy locks falling at his temples, the screaming in his ears nearly matching volume with what he felt in his chest. Shutting his mind out for a moment, he carefully listened to the sounds actually coming through the headphones. He’d thrown on a shuffle, his own mind-melting playlists that bombard his senses with overblown guitar rifs and rapid drum beats. Okay, they usually numb him out. What was he even on?

Oh. Of course.

He nearly smacked the cold coffee mug off the desk, throwing his hands on top of his face and rocking back yet again with a muffled scream. Back again, a pendulum in a clock, he caught his reflection in the screen. Dark circles made a mask around his icy eyes, a second mask to hide the horror he had become. Catching himself staring back was shocking, but he was transfixed and couldn’t move. When was the last time he really took a look at himself? And why the hell did it have to be over something as stupid as a kiss? He found his hand tracing the almost domino-shaped outline, wondering if it was a trick of the dim light, or possibly residual gunk from under the cowl. He could hope for the best possible outcome, but hope was yet again his downfall. Permanent. Dark. Hard as he tried, his thoughts and the mask just wouldn’t go away.

Another breath. Root. You’re solid. He’s solid. His feet planted on the ground as he pushed up and away from the desk, stumbling to the discarded costume on one of the mess piles. Specific mess piles, weakly placed where could find things in seconds regardless of the disaster it seemed (that sounded familiar…). Alfred, neat freak of a butler he was, wouldn’t dare disturb Tim’s organized chaos. This room was like a safe cell for Tim, and he was an adult damnit, he could make as much of a mess as he wanted. He dug one hand under the lazily thrown cape, finding the smooth metal of the collapsed staff just where he’d left it, and it felt surprisingly light in uncovered hands. Unlatching it from the bandoleers splayed out like spider legs, he tossed the short tube around until it landed firmly in his left palm. His knuckles stretched white as his grip tightened. A lifeline, a grounding wire.

Tim ripped the headphones off of his head, tossing them haphazardly on his desk. He hit delete, omitting nearly an entire 30 minutes of time in his notes he was just going to blame on travel time. Bruce would have to believe that, especially if he’d ceased radio signals the minute he’d stalked the event. He sent the page away, encrypted thrice and swinging through two secure data waves just for safe-keeping. He may be out of his goddamn mind and feeling things out his ass, but he knew better than to send anything to the big data store without preparing for any intercepting forces. He stalked out of his personal cave and wandered into the other one, the bigger one set under the manor, as deep and dark as the nearly permanent markings under his exhausted lids. It was big enough to make any super man feel small, maybe a super boy even smaller. His feet hit the training deck without him really noticing where he was, a faceless body facing him and his trustworthy staff.

The familiar, echoing clicks with the smallest flick of his wrist was too satisfying to say. He situated himself against the motionless statue, a one sided versus match. He wasn’t going for grace, he wasn’t going for style, and he certainly wasn’t going for finesse. He was going to channel his muddled emotions into one. Build the pressure and release, the extended staff a vessel for the pain he felt clawing at him inside. A release valve, a bomb fuse.

No faces, no names, no underlying motive.

Make it brainless, give yourself a break, give way to the horrible things you could do and focus them on one, non-harmful target.

Just hit shit.

#depressive thoughts tw #self diagnosis tw #violent thoughts tw #//if i miss any please lmk its just... a lot #//also fuck your 3k club :PPPP #「He’s not listening. He’s off in macholand.」- Self Para #★#✯

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winchest09 · 6 years

Text

Shatter Me - Chapter Seven

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Word Count: 5527

Summary: The Winchesters were your world. After joining their hunter ranks, you quickly became attached to the brothers. After a successful hunt, you insist on going out celebrating with the boys – only for a loose end to catch up with you. You’re trapped in a world without hunger, thirst and the Winchesters. With the brothers beside themselves, they make preparations to say goodbye until Dean starts to connect to you through his dreams. Little do they know that you’re much closer than they think…

Chapter warnings: 18+, smut, self smut, masterbation, fingering, orgasms, edging?, oral, female oral, fluff, angst, swearing.

A/N: So here is chapter 7! Hope you enjoy this now and if you’ve read the tags, then you probably can already tell there will be some fun stuff in this chapter! Just you wait till you see what i have in store for you! Enjoy my darlings :) Thank you for keeping up with this story!

Please let me know what you think, feedback is my fuel! I love reading your comments and any reblog makes me smile like a loon, it makes it all worthwhile!

Also any mistakes are my own, please do not repost my work anywhere however reblogs are fine and welcome :)

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Chapter Seven

After hearing what Rowena had to say when she examined you, it was a hard pill to swallow for Dean. His head was reeling with all the information that as swimming around. You were cursed, trapped and now deteriorating? He wanted to have hope, he needed to save you but every day there seemed to be a new hurdle that made it that little bit harder to bring you home. Feeling slightly defeated, Dean headed to the kitchen to make himself some coffee before joining the team to get stuck into some research.

Entering the library, coffee in hand, he was greeted by Sam and Rowena sorting through all the relevant books from the bookcases. Rowena already had a few books open, her long fingers scanning the pages as Sam placed new literature next to her.

Sensing Deans presence, Sam looked towards his brother “You alright Dean?”

“Peachy” Came his response as he rolled his eyes and sipped his coffee

Pulling a tight lipped smile, Sam went back to sorting through the books, eager to find the answer to bring you home. Dean started to look through the research pile, his mind spinning, unsure where to start. As he picked up a couple of books, Rowena looked over to him, her hands palm flat on the table “Dean, does Y/N remember anything?” She questioned

“No. I-I tried to coax her but she’s understandably emotional about the whole thing” Dean shook his head before remembering what he thought might be some key information about where she was “Although time seems to be different in there, she seems to think she’s only been there for a few hours”

“But it’s coming up to three days” Sam interjected, a frown etched in his brow.

Dean shrugged “Somehow, time is different where she is” He stated.

Rowena shakes her head as she scoured some more of the pages in front of her “It’s not much to go off but it’s a start. I’m going to have to go through all types of curses Dean but unfortunately these things take time, it’s literally like trying to find a needle in a haystack” She mentioned, sympathetically.

“Time. That’s the one thing we don’t have” Dean quipped, his voice laced with emotion, the air becoming thick with tension.

Before anyone could say anything else, the fluttering of wings was heard and all three members of the bunker turned to see Castiel standing at the end of the tables. Dean let out a sigh of relief, hoping to whoever was in charge these days for some good news.

“Cas! Please tell me you’ve got something for us” Dean pleaded.

“Sam, Dean, Rowena” Castiel greeted as he walked closer to the huddle “Unfortunately not, I’m sorry Dean. The angels weren’t forthcoming with remedies, not wanting to meddle in human affairs”

“That’s bullshit” Dean snapped “All those dick angels do is meddle”

Castiel frowned “I understand that you’re upset” He tried to reason.

“Upset?! No Cas, upset doesn’t even cut it. Y/N is knocking on deaths damn door and there’s nothing I can do about it” Deans voice became rough, his eyes become glassy and he stared down the angel. The room growing silent once more.

Castiel sighed, he knew Dean was right and he did wish he could do more as Castiel cared deeply about you, you were his friend too after all. After a minute, his gravelly voice filled the silence “I can try to pinpoint her location again. If her state has weakened, it may allow me to locate her spirit”

Dean growled before throwing his coffee cup against the wall in anger “Enough with this state has weakened crap ok? She’s fine, she’s gonna be fine!” Dean roared, staring down at Cas.

Sam interjected quickly, placing himself between his brother and the angel. He knew Dean’s outburst wasn’t personal but the last thing they needed right now was a fight in the ranks. Sam placed his hands up in a submissive manner as he stood in front of Dean before slowly turning towards the angel “Ok, Cas why don’t you help us with some research, we can use an extra pair of hands”

Castiel nodded, walking around the other side of the table towards Rowena who already had books ready to hand to him.

Sam placed his hand on Dean’s shoulder in a comforting manner, trying to reassure him that everything was going to be ok but he just shrugged of Sam’s hand, storming back out towards the kitchen.

“I’m gonna get a stronger drink” Dean snapped, leaving an atmosphere behind him.

You tried to do everything you could to contact Dean. You were desperate to get your newly found information across to him, you knew it could help to free you from this dull prison. However, no matter how hard you tried, you just couldn’t connect to him. You tried to summon him with sheer willpower, you meditated, you even tried to sleep but you couldn’t seem to drop off. It was infuriating.

You sat in the middle of the double bed, legs crossed looking at the notes in front of you. Each one of them had little messy scribbles which seemed to be written in blood. As chilling as that sounded to you, you knew it was the only reasonable option to write anything considering this place was baron. No food, no water so of course, no stationary. You were wrecking your head trying to figure out these notes, trying to piece together the clues. The witch did this was scribbled on one. Well that you knew already. You’re trapped, there’s no way out. Again, this was something you’d already figured out and you absentmindedly touched the cracks on your arm. You need to escape.

“No shit” You scoffed, wondering who on earth would want to stay here in the first place. However, the last two notes made you furrow your brow. It’s a curse. “A curse” You whispered, trying to think of the curses you’ve come across before. Then you thought that the author of the note may have not meant it in the literal sense, just stating that being there was a curse in itself. You growled as you ran your hand through your hair. You just needed answers.

Love. The last note stated. “Love? What the hell kind of clue is that?” You mumbled, aggravated at the random words in front of you.

Throwing yourself back onto the bed, you ran both of your hands through your hair. You were slowly starting to go insane as you were bored, the only source of entertainment being Dean when he somehow appeared in the same place you were. You pulled yourself up and off the bed, standing in front of the full length mirror that was in the room. Looking at your reflection, you felt and looked a mess. Your hair was all dishevelled, your make up had ran down your face and your clothes had become dirty from your earlier skirmish in the snow. You rolled your eyes, Dean had seen you looking like this and you grimaced at what he may have thought of you. So much for the sexy look you were originally going for. Sighing, you attempted to rub the make-up from under your eyes only for you to smudge it further down your face.

“Eugh!” You grunted, your eyes falling onto the bathroom door. You were itching for a bath but surely the taps wouldn’t work. Shrugging, you headed out of the bedroom to the bathroom. With nothing but time on your hands, you thought you may as well try.

Eyeing up the freestanding bath, you silently prayed that the taps would work. With a squeak as you turned the golden nozzles, you squealed in joy when hot water began to pump out. This was a win in itself and you couldn’t wait to soak your muscles in the water. You began to strip out of your clothes, placing them into the sink behind you. As your bath filled, you also filled the sink so you could at least hand wash some of the dirt out of your garments.

You placed a hand in the water to check the temperature before stepping and submerging yourself slowly. You let out a long pleasurable sigh as you loved the feeling of the goose bumps that erupted across your skin when the warmth encased you. You dipped yourself lower, sliding yourself under the water to wet your hair. As you rose, you pushed your wet strands away from your face and held your hands at the nape of your neck. For a moment, you’d forgotten where you were, you’d forgotten you were trapped but like a blast of cold air, reality dawned on you.

It also dawned on you that Dean could emerge at any time and here you were, naked in a bath tub with the bathroom door wide open. For a split second, you panicked. There were no bubbles to hide your modesty, no towels within reaching distance to cover your naked form if he were to appear at your doorway. But then that second passed and you let your mind wander to the possibility of Dean seeing you naked. How would he react? You bit down on your lower lip thinking of what could happen and you let your hand stroke down your body as you began to imagine your fantasy.

Dean was at the door, his green eyes growing dark and lustful from seeing your naked form wet and waiting for him in the bathtub. He was wearing dark jeans that made his ass look edible, a tight black t shirt with your favourite red shirt over the top. You closed your eyes, your hand grazing over your nipples. You imagined him stalking over to you, stripping himself of his flannel and top in one go, his toned torso coming into view. You watched in your mind’s eye as he unbuttoned the top of his jeans before kneeling beside you in the bathtub. Your hand ghostly trailed down past your naval, imagining it was Dean’s strong hand instead. You willed him to go lower as he used one finger to trace over your mound, you arched your back, willing for him to get closer. You saw how he smiled, licking his lower lip as he took all of you in.

You thought of him leaning over towards you, his lips nuzzling into the nape of your neck, stealing kisses before allowing his tongue to trace upwards behind your ear. You moaned, your hand dipping lower allowing your fingers to stroke between your folds. In your head, it was Dean’s fingers and you squirmed beneath them. He smiled a sly smile at how wet you were for him as he ran his thumb over your sensitive nub, his fingers dipping into you. You felt your body jerk at the sensation. He curled his fingers inside you, stroking that all important spot as you panted beside him, his thumb working overtime against you clit. You imagined his slightly stubble covered jaw grazing your shoulder as he planted soft kisses against your neck.

You worked yourself hard, chasing your blissful end, your fingers dipping in and out. You let out a shaky breath as you brought your other hand to cup at your breasts, thinking of Dean’s mouth instead. You closed your eyes as you felt his tongue swirl around your nipple, a pleasurable moan leaving his lips and a whimper leaving yours when you imagined his fingers leaving your soaked pussy. In reality, you were edging yourself.

Dean hooked ones of his bare toned arms under your legs, the other behind your neck as he hoisted you out of the freestanding bath. He hummed in approval as he placed your naked form on the side of the tub, using his large hands to spread your legs wide. Droplets of water cascading down your body, causing a puddle to go onto the floor. He sucked at his bottom lip, locking his hungry green eyes with yours. You shook with anticipation, knowing you would soon come undone to the thought of Dean’s mouth sucking and lapping at your juices.

Once more, you allowed your hand to travel south as you slowly circled your own bud, finding the thought of Dean being eye level with your wetness, exhilarating. You carried on with your fantasy, imaging Dean’s tongue lapping at you, dipping into your wet hole then flattening as he travelled all the way to your clit. You watched in your mind’s eye as he sucked and kissed the bud, his tongue becoming relentless to match the speed of your fingers that were currently working yourself. You were getting close, your toes were beginning to curl and that all too familiar feeling coiled itself within you.

Dean pulled away from your soaked pussy as he continued to fuck you with his fingers, his green eyes locked on yours, taking in your moans. The sight of you, all wet and orgasm ready made his erection painfully hard. You watched as he palmed at his dick through his now loose jeans as he moaned your name “Y/N”

You were blissfully unaware in reality however that Dean had manifested in the living room and was calling for you “Y/N?” He husked, looking around briefly before seeing steam seeping out from the bathroom doorway.

Still focused on your fantasy, unaware that the green eyed Winchester was metres away, you continued your pursuit to your pleasure, throwing your head back as you groaned his name “D-Dean” In reality, you were still in the bathtub with your legs spread wide, water splashing over the side of the bath as you chased your orgasm.

Dean had heard your breathy reply and his eyebrows shot up into his hairline. He didn’t know whether to be concerned or aroused. Either way, he crept closer to the bathroom door as he fought his conscience. Surely he couldn’t spy on you while you were bathing? He shook his head, you could be hurt, and you could have hit your head so he was doing this purely for your benefit. Or so he told himself.

You are that dangerously close to your euphoria that you’re delightfully unaware of what was happening around you. All you could concentrate on was your fantasy of Dean between your legs. You looked down to see him lapping at your clit, to see his fingers fucking you and your pussy clenched around them. “Dean” You breathlessly moaned. You were so close, your feet pressed hard against the porcelain tub to ground yourself, your fingers working overtime.

Dean stopped just outside the door, his knuckles getting ready to rasp on the wooden frame to make his presence known but hearing your breathless voice made him hesitate slightly “Y/N, you ok?” He cautiously called, his head leaning forward slightly to wait for a response.

You heard him in your head but your sense of clarity was well and truly lost. All you could see was him between your legs, relentlessly fucking you with his tongue and fingers. You groaned, you were close, so close “Dean…D…I’m” You stuttered, your stomach tightening, toes curling.

Dean stood straight, panic taking over “What Y/N, you ok?!” He questioned urgently, making the decision to move into the bathroom, thinking you were in distress.

It was at that moment when you realised that Dean was there, not just in your fantasy, but in reality and your eyes shot open. Your hands scrambled to cover your naked form, the water splashing more so over the side of the bath, just as he entered the room “DEAN!” You squealed, trying to save some of your modesty.

Dean’s eyes widened “Oh my god” He muttered under his breath, his eyes quickly roaming your figure before slapping one of his large hands over his eyes and his slightly pink cheeks “I’ll just be...yeah” He clears his throat and points outward towards the living room, blindly reaching for the door handle as he left the room.

You didn’t know whether to be extremely embarrassed or to feel liberated that the man you have had feelings for had not only seen you in the nude, but also possibly getting yourself off. You wanted to hide in this bathroom and never come out. How were you meant to look him in the face after you’ve moaned his name? You knew he heard you. He acknowledged his name and came in to you as if you called for him. You groaned, this time in frustration, into your hands. You’d gotten yourself into this situation, you needed to get yourself out.

“and I didn’t even get to finish” You muttered under your breath as you pulled yourself out of the bath and quickly wrapped yourself in a towel. You grabbed your wet clothes out the sink and proceeded to give them a quick hand wash, all the time wondering what on earth you were going to explain it all to the man currently in the next room.

Dean paced outside the bathroom as he tried to calm himself down. If he said that his body hadn’t reacted to seeing you wet and naked, he’d be lying. He was currently sporting an erection that was straining tightly against his jeans. Running both hands down his face, he tried to get the picture of you out of his head but he couldn’t. The image of you, with your hand between your legs, thrashing in the water was going to be engrained in his mind until the end of his days. He let out a shaky breath, the image of your breasts that peaked above the water was taunting him. He was fighting everything he had to not throw caution into the wind, storm into the bathroom and fuck you against the wall. His dick twitched as he replayed your moans in his mind, the moans of his name and he stopped pacing. Were you thinking of him? Was he your sexual fantasy? Before he could ponder on the thought anymore, the bathroom door swung open and you came walking out, sheepishly looking at the floor.

Dean sensed her embarrassment and tried to break the awkward tension in the room “Sorry I – I didn’t know you-”

“Hey no it’s fine, why would you know” You cut him off, briefly looking up into his eyes as you held your towel tighter with one hand.

“Gotta admit, wasn’t expecting to see you in there” Dean smirked, remembering once more as he placed his hands his jean pockets “…thrashing about…” He continued, his shoulders coming forward as if he was an awkward teenager rocking on his heels “…having fun” He continued, a cheeky grin becoming evident.

You just stood there like a deer in the headlights. He basically just called you out on you masterbating in the bath so you knew you could play this two ways. Admit it, or deny it with some terrible excuse you know he’d never believe. You went with option A. “Yeah well a girl gets bored and I was cold” You shrugged, squaring your shoulders and looking him boldly in the eyes “Plus I just felt filthy so…”

“Yep” Dean strained, trying not to look at the beads of water travelling down your skin into the valley of your breasts, it wasn’t helping his erection situation. Then again, neither was the conversation he apparently was insisting on continuing. Seeing you standing there in just a towel, with what he just witness, was like torture. Like rain in a drought, he needed you, he wanted you.

He wanted to know what your legs would feel like wrapped around his waist, what your lips would feel like against his, what his dick would feel like buried inside you. He heard his name, there was no denying that so he dared to ask the question that was eating away at him.

“Were you thinking…” Dean cleared his throat as you raised your eyebrows at him. You heart beating a million miles a minute, he HAD heard you. Shit. Dean took a step closer, bringing one hand out of his pockets and scratched at the back of his neck “I just…I thought I heard you say my na-”

“Dean Cain” You spluttered out, thinking on your feet as fast as you could, eyes wide. It was the only other person you could think of on the spot who had the same name as him.

You saw Dean frown slightly “…who?” He questioned, his brown furrowing.

“You know, he played Superman. Also, he’s in Supergirl too. That show I watch sometimes” You ramble, trying to play it off as best as you could, hoping you were being convincing enough. You dared to make eye contact with Dean again and you watch as he raises a brow. You continued “Does it matter?”

“No…no” He replied with a tight lipped smile. If you had to take a guess, you could have sworn that he had looked a little disappointed as his shoulders sagged a little. You just put that down to your wishful thinking.

“Anyway” You wanted to change the subject and quickly, so you decided to walk towards the bedroom to grab the notes “I’m glad you’re here, I’ve found something” You announced as you grabbed the notes off the bed.

Dean swallowed the lump that was in his throat as he watched you walk to the bedroom. Of course you weren’t thinking of him you thought, he wouldn’t be that lucky. At least he still had the memory of you however, even if he couldn’t have the real thing, he’d definitely be storing that in his spank bank. He smirked slightly at the thought, he was still human after all.

Watching you walk out with all of these bits of paper in your hands, he looked at you with confusion as you passed them over. You explained to him everything, what each one of them said, what you suspected they were wrote with (to which Dean grimaced) and where you found them. You also told Dean about what you remembered from when you were with the witch, the words she uttered to you.

“This is” Dean smiled, feeling some weight being lifted, daring to feel hopeful “This is really good Y/N. We have something to work with”

You smiled back as you made you way to the fire, stoking it to keep the flames alive before sitting down on the rug next to it to keep warm “Yeah. I hope so. You going to remember everything?”

“Notes and altum somnum. Got it” He smiled, pointing to his head as he walked over to sit on the couch.

You leant back on your hands, letting the warmth of the fire wash over you and you felt a little at peace, despite not reaching your blissful end earlier, you could always finish yourself off later. You closed your eyes, tiredness creeping up on you after the eventful day you’d had.

You heard Dean speak up next to you as if he had read your mind “I need to tell you as well that we’ve worked out that your time here is a quarter of our time back home. So if I sleep for 4 hours, I only get one…here with you” He sat forward slightly, his hands encased together as he tried his hardest to not let his eyes roam over your figure.

You sat up slightly, opening your eyes to look into his “How…is that possible?”

“We don’t know sweetheart but we’ve got Rowena on the case now. She’s helping” Dean said softly, as his eyes broke contact with yours. You noticed how they quickly looked over your figure before he stared at his closed hands.

You smirked slightly, was he checking you out? Was he enjoying the view? Normally, you’d dive to cover yourself up but being sexually frustrated, you decided to put on a show. If he wanted to check you out, you were going to make it impossible for him to resist.

“So what’s she doing?” You questioned, as you rolled onto your side, back to the fire with your head resting on your hand. The towel had risen slightly, showing off your long legs which were bent fractionally at the knee, your other arm placed strategically in front of you just under your breast.

You saw as Dean ran his tongue across his lower lip before rubbing at his forehead, his throat bobbing as he tried everything he could to look anywhere but at you. He tried his best to explain what Rowena and Sam were doing back home but to not look weird he had to look at you and when he did, he felt his throat close up. Your towel was starting to come loose around your breasts and you weren’t doing anything to adjust it. He was convinced that if he sat at the other end of the coach, he would have a perfect view of your pussy and he groaned internally. Was she knowingly teasing him?

“Y/N, are you not gonna get dressed?” He questioned, his voice coming out huskier than expected. God, he didn’t want you to get dressed but he knew that if you stayed there looking like that any longer, he might effectively ruin your friendship.

You coyly shrugged, enjoying the effect you were having on the hunter in front of you. You felt empowered “I have no other clothes Dean and the ones I do have are currently drying after I washed them” Well…it wasn’t a complete lie. Your clothes were currently on the edge of the bath drying after you hand washed them but then you could use the duvet or a blanket to cover yourself up “I was dirty and so were my clothes” You smirked, the pun intended.

Deans lips went tight as he smiled, rubbing at his jaw. His self- control was dwindling and his erection that he was desperately trying to hide was becoming painful. He needed to do something, he needed to release this tension but he was trying to figure out just how to do that.

In the bunker, Sam strolls into the library, his third cup of coffee in his hand and one made for Rowena. The desks were covered in books, everyone having their own little research stations. Castiel was currently looking through a handful of spell books, Sam had lore and curses and Rowena had the grimore and ancient rituals.

Gratefully accepting her cup of coffee, Rowena looked up at Sam from under her thick eyelashes “Is your brother planning on joining us any time soon?” She questioned, one eyebrow arching.

Sam smiled slightly, scratching at his head with his now free hand “He’s uh…he’s passed out in the kitchen” He muttered, earning an eye roll from Rowena before he settled back down at his desk “Just me, you and Cas for now I guess” He stated, sipping at his coffee.

“Typical, I think I’ve found the counter curse and the boy drinks himself into oblivion” She sassed, her Scottish accent coming out strong.

“Wh-what?!” Sam spluttered into his coffee.

Rowena smirked “It’s all here in this little wee book. The curse itself talks about binding a soul whilst the host sleeps deeply. Next to it, is its reversal” She tapped her nails against the Latin, her smirk turning into a smile.

Sam beamed, his hands gesturing towards her on the table “Rowena that’s amazing, what do we need?”

Standing up, Rowena took the open spell book over to Sam, placing the ingredient list in front of him “Do you have all that?”

Sam nodded, hope blossoming in his chest “Thankfully, yeah. Yeah we do”

“Then I’ll meet you in Y/N’s room pronto” Rowena replied smoothly before she went to gather her things.

Sam looked over at Cas who was also smiling before he offered his assistance with gathering the ingredients. Luckily it wasn’t much or anything exotic so everything they needed was scattered about the bunker. After about half an hour, they had everything they needed and they took it to Rowena who had set up in your room. Red candles littered each one of your surfaces, they’re flames portrayed a warm glow. As Cas helped arrange the ingredients next to Rowena, Sam darted back to the kitchen where Dean was currently passed out, face down on the table.

Shaking his brother, Sam hoped that he would wake but it didn’t seem to be working. “Dammit Dean” He muttered under his breath, his expression one of disgust as he takes in the empty whiskey bottle next to him. He knew his brother was struggling with this but drinking himself into oblivion was not going to help anything and at any moment, you could wake up and Dean wouldn’t be there to greet you.

Sam tried one more time to wake his brother, this time slapping him hard on the back but all he got was a grunt. Sam had no choice but to leave him to it, they had to perform the spell before your body deteriorated anymore. They had to bring you home.

As the youngest brother entered your room, Rowena had already started the spell under Cas’ supervision. She started to chant the reversal, the ingredients in the bowl sparking, and the candles in the room flickering. Sam kept clenching then unclenching his hands as he stared down at your still form on the bed, his nerves on pins at what the outcome of this spell would be. As Rowena placed the last ingredient into the bowl, her eyes turned lilac and the bowl exploded with a blue flame causing all of the candles in the room to burn out.

“Bollocks” The witch muttered. The spell hadn’t worked.

You were still lying on your side, basking in the warmth of the fire as you and Dean made small talk. It was the only thing that Dean could think of doing to try and take his mind off wanting to take you there and then in front of the flames. You both laughed at a story Dean was telling about him and Sam when they were younger, you always loved hearing about their childhood, even though it was limited. You admitted how Dean looked after Sam, how he practically raised him. It was a quality in him that you admired.

“So…this seems to be the longest you’ve been here” You noted, playing with the hem of your towel.

Dean nodded as he rubbed at the back of his neck “I uh…might have knocked myself out”

“What?” Your smile fell, concern immediately flowing through you at his admission.

“Full bottle of whiskey, good vintage and percentage” Dean half chuckled, knowing that you’d be deadpanning him right now “Pretty sure I went KO on the kitchen table”

“I can’t beli-” You couldn’t even finish your sentence when you felt like all the wind had been knocked out of your lungs. You pushed yourself off the floor so you were sitting up as you tried tour hardest to catch your breath.

Dean noticed the change and immediately grew concerned “Y/N? You ok?”

You didn’t even have the opportunity to answer before a familiar searing pain soared through your body and you let out a piercing scream. Dean rushed over, placing himself in front of you as he scanned the room quickly for danger before looking back at you. Your screams didn’t stop as you clawed at your right arm, clinging tightly too it as tears streamed down your face. Your skin was burning, throbbing and you tried desperately to stem the pain.

Dean noticed the source of your pain and tried to pry your arm from your grip so he could inspect it. Although he didn’t have to move your hand to see what was causing the pain. Thick black cracks were crawling from your wrist to your elbow, the skin around them an angry red as your skin burned with pain.

“Please help me” You sobbed, your eyes fleeting from your arms to Dean’s concerned eyes.

Dean felt his eyes glass over, swallowing a hard lump in his throat when your pleading eyes bore into his “You’re gonna be ok Y/N” He whispered, brushing the hair gently from your face and the tears from your cheeks.

“Stay with me Dean” You pleaded, the pain was too much and you were scared. Looking down at your arm, you loosened your grip so you could fully inspect the damage. You were falling apart, the curse draining you, piece by piece.

You’ve never been terrified before. You’ve been scared, nervous or apprehensive but never downright terrified. The look on Dean’s face said it all, the worry etched in his features as he held your face in his hands “Please don’t go, please don’t let me go” You begged him.

Dean felt his resolve break there and then. He pulled you into him, his strong arms wrapping around your frame, his head resting on top of yours.

“I’m not going anywhere sweetheart”

A/N: ... well...there we go! Hope you enjoyed!

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