#haze is being mentally ill about the made up men again | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

a-froger-epic · 3 years

Note

tw: mention of eating disorders

hey i read something about freddie having an eating disrorder, and I hate asking this but could you please explain if you know anything about it. my poor baby :(

Hey anon!

I’m sorry it took me a while to reply. This is a sensitive topic for many, so I wanted to take my time and give you the nuanced reply it deserves.

I’ve talked about this a little before, but I might as well take the opportunity now to speak about it at length. This is only my personal opinion based on everything I’ve read about Freddie and many different takes I’ve seen others put forward.

So, did Freddie have an eating disorder?

The shortest answer to that, as far as I’m concerned, is... maybe?

Before I carry on, I’d like to say that I think everyone is free to speculate about this and make up their own mind, as well as creatively explore this in their writing, and I don’t consider my opinion to be any more correct than anyone else’s.

Why do people think Freddie might have had an ED?

There are a few things about Freddie and food which could be interpreted as ED behaviours. First off, here is what Phoebe has to say about Freddie and his eating habits:

His taste in food changed over the years I was with Freddie. When I started the group of us would make monthly visits to the restaurant Shezan, an Indian eatery, in Knightsbridge. Freddie never had a menu as they always provided his favourite selection of foods without asking. As his illness progressed, his taste buds could not take the assault of spicy foods and he tended to more bland foods. He also turned his eating habits around. He used to have a lighter meal at lunch and then have a big meal in the evening, usually at a restaurant with a big group of friends. Towards the end he would eat more at lunch and a smaller meal in the evenings.

Nothing much out of the ordinary here, as far as I can see. Freddie definitely had favourite foods he enjoyed, but then, a common misconception is that people with EDs don’t like/enjoy food, and that isn’t true. Phoebe also says this:

As I have said before, Freddie was a very light eater. Some of us live to eat, but Freddie was one of those people who ate to live. He was the master of moving food around the plate to give the appearance of having eaten a good amount. He did enjoy good food, but really didn’t need to consume very much. He loved entertaining guests at meals in the dining room at Garden Lodge and was able to disguise his non-eating by making sure everyone else was ok during the meal. Don’t get me wrong, Freddie always ate enough to keep him going, but I can’t remember one time when he leant back in the chair saying ‘I’m stuffed!’

Now here we have a lot of things to unpack. There are three things in here - moving food around the plate to give the appearance of having eaten more, disguising his non-eating and never eating enough to be full - which are definitely known ED behaviours.

However, people who just do not care about food all that much and are light eaters do also exist. In fact, I’m one of them myself. I did struggle with Disordered Eating in my teens and my early 20s, but I have a healthy relationship with food now and I never like to eat until I’m stuffed because it’s not a nice feeling, physically, to overeat. I’m also someone who easily and genuinely forgets to eat when I’m in a creative haze. Just as an example.

Also, seeing as Freddie most likely was made to finish meals all throughout his boarding school times, like many children in lunch halls, which is usually not a great experience for children who are picky or light eaters, the “moving food around the plate to make it seem he’s eaten” could well be an old habit stemming from there.

Either way, Phoebe doesn’t seem too concerned about Freddie’s eating, and even though people with EDs are very good at hiding them, Phoebe did know him for a long time and very, very well. Phoebe could also be withholding information that he considers too private. All of that is possible, all of that is speculation.

There are other things which point to the fact that Freddie was definitely preoccupied with his weight/appearance. In this interview in 1974, he says:

“Oh really,” he exclaims in disgust, “this paper has no flair - I mean to print this picture three times in succession … and just look at my arms!” He was horrified, “look at how fat they appear, now my arms aren’t like that at all - what do you think?” He rolls up his sleeves for me to inspect and I’d like to state here and now that the poor dear’s arms are quite, quite slender!

The photo Freddie is most likely talking about, is this one:

It’s not a very fortunate angle, admittedly. So I think it’s possible to see where he was coming from, but even so, he was worried about his arms looking fat at a time when he looked like this:

Yes, it is important to keep in mind that people were generally thinner in the 70s than we are used to now. (Brian, for example, was also incredibly thin.) But in this picture it really is evident that Freddie was very, very thin at this point.

Other things which are often brought into the discussion around Freddie’s eating habits is the account of him throwing a fit when Brian ate one of his biscuits once, choosing to walk after a meal at a restaurant while his driver drove alongside him and his friends, eating cereal on the floor in his dressing room, this picture where he clearly prefers salad to chicken wings (unlike Roger “What Even Are Vegetables” Taylor):

All of the above, to me, are things which can be heavily read into but ultimately don’t prove very much.

And there is this bit from Mercury & Me:

The Sun did later print a photograph of Freddie taken while he was performing at the festival, which he didn't appreciate. It showed off "Flabulous Freddie" with a slight paunch, wickedly describing it as his "midriff bulge". When he saw the picture he looked at me and shook his head in despair. 'It's typical,' he said. 'If I'm slim the papers say I'm too thin and if I put on a little bit of a belly they say I'm too fat. It's a no-win situation.'

Now, that doesn’t give off the impression to me that Freddie was particularly distraught about that article, at that point in his life. But it certainly appears to have bothered him to some degree.

So what’s the conclusion?

To me, personally, it seems quite likely that Freddie did suffer from Disordered Eating in the early to mid 70s. That’s really not uncommon, sadly, although it usually afflicts young women more than young men. But he was in the spotlight and had to care about his appearance. He was clearly very preoccupied with it, not only when it came to his body, but his looks in general - there is plenty of evidence regarding that. He was very selective about which photographs of himself he did and didn’t like. However, I find it impossible to say just how much this preoccupation affected him exactly. 1974 especially was also a very taxing year for Queen. Their management was shit, they struggled with money, they almost lost Brian, their touring schedules were brutal, the press was bashing them, Freddie was struggling with his sexual identity. There were a lot of immense stress factors, and he could have very well been someone who responded to stress by not eating - just like others respond to stress by eating too much. And Disordered Eating is not classed as an eating disorder. It is, if you will, the beginning of one.

Or, he absolutely could have developed or already had an actual ED which he was hiding fairly well, and it could have affected him a lot, but nobody would have ever known because he would have been unlikely to ever speak to anybody about it.

Both is possible. I simply don’t think that there is enough information to do more than speculate on the matter, beyond: He had a preoccupation with his looks and minded what and how much he ate throughout his life.

However, in the second half of the 70s as well as the 80s, he was still thin but had started working out and looked more “athletic” thin rather than gaunt. I think it’s entirely possible that whatever issues Freddie had with food were not a constant thing but something that may have been worse and better at times, depending on his overall mental well-being and his levels of confidence.

Or, it could have been something that he always struggled with.

Again, as far as I am concerned, both is possible and I don’t feel I can say for certain. And so, my take leans towards Disordered Eating when younger and less preoccupation with it later on. That’s the impression I get.

But I wrote all this out so that others can make up their own minds, and rather than share my exact opinion, I encourage you to do just that.

#Freddie Mercury #Tw eating disorders #meta #ask response

57 notes · View notes

maplecornia · 3 years

Text

chapter 21

𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔡 𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱: 3.72K

𝔰𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: You watched them from the sidelines ever since you were a young teenage girl. Now you’re grown up, they’ve returned after 2 long years and everything has changed. What happens when you pull back the mask and find the darkness within? What happens when you see that they’re broken?

𝔞/𝔫: in regards to the banner above...yes tae if i also looked like you i would want to kiss myself too

Some people are connected.

Aren't they?

When you meet them, it’s as though something clicks. Something inside that tells you some unimaginable being has brought you together. A hidden string tying you to the other, drawing you slowly across the universe just to meet each other.

And once you’re connected…

Do you ever really let go of them?

Groaning, Taeyhung turns over in his bed for the thousandth time.

Why is this so hard?

Letting out an exasperated sigh, he lies on his back, sheets and comforter scattered, as he stares up at the ceiling. Glaring up at it with his eyebrows furrowed tightly together, he purses his lip into a pout, his jaw set defiantly.

“This is your fault.” He mutters underneath his breath, before running his hand absentmindedly through the tangled locks of his hair. “I don’t know how...but all of this is your fault.”

When the ceiling doesn’t answer him, he gives it a look before rolling out of bed, not really caring if he brings the covers along with him. As they fall from the tangles around his body, and rest safely on the floor, he catches the reflection of his eyes in the full-length mirror he keeps expertly held on the sliding door which hides his clothes closet. Biting his lip, he hesitates a bit before heading over to the mirror and taking his reflection in.

He’s grown a bit taller...perhaps half an inch. Don’t worry Namjoon hyung, one day I’ll be as tall as you. Though he smirks a bit at the thought, it quickly vanishes as his gaze travels to more points in his reflection. His dark glazed eyes, his mess of curls resting on his head, his slightly pale lips. Almost despondent, he pulls aside the already halfway buttoned down shirt and presses his fingers against his stomach. He smiles back to when all that was there was a soft belly. When he didn’t care as much.

When did he start caring?

Was it when he saw everything that ARMYs felt about him? When he realized just how double sided they could be? Was it when he realized that they really did care what he showed them? That if he showed them who he really was…

They would just walk away?

He knows he probably shouldn’t have read those comments, that he shouldn't have seen what some people have said...but did they forget that he could see everything they said?

Did they forget how much he gave...how much he sacrificed for them?

And when he shows them all of him…

The good and the bad…

"Kim Taehyung seems a bit rude…

He doesn’t care at all about BTS.

You think he needs them? If he were given a chance he would just leave.

Kim Taehyung is too moody. He’s happy one moment but sad the next.

Don’t you think fame has changed him? He seems so cocky.

What’s wrong with Kim Taehyung lately? Doesn’t he seem depressed?

Honestly, if I had to put my money on it, he’d be the first one to leave.

He’s so untalented.

BTS is filled with a group of 6 very talented, beautiful, and handsome young men. And then there’s the roach called Kim Taehyung.

Why doesn’t Kim Taehyung just leave? If you’re really bored with everything by now, why don’t you just leave?

Do us a favor and stop pretending.

Just leave."

Taehyung winces at the overwhelming amount of bad memories slamming into his inner consciousness. He tries to forget them, but every time he looks in the mirror, he can see them reflected back at him. As though they were burned deep into his skin. As though the sign of hard muscle beneath his fingertips is a scar he can’t escape.

The only thing he can remember, the only thing he can think about when he sees himself, is what they have molded him into.

The beautiful, the perfect sculpture which they call V.

Defiantly, flames burning in his eyes, he meets his gaze in the mirror. Anger and hurt mixing together into one painful chaos inside his chest, his gaze darkens before he swings back his fist and rams it deep into the mirror. As the glass shatters and sharp, iridescent pieces dig maliciously into his skin, he breathes heavily and glares up at his broken reflection. Into the dull dim hue of his hazelnut haze.

Eyes which have changed from bright beautiful saucers that could only see the sky...

To a gap of emptiness which cannot be filled.

Reflecting the cold abyss he feels in his own heart.

As thick blood begins to numbingly ooze from the cuts in his skin, he hardly flinches. The iron taste playing sinisterly on his lips, he can’t help but relish in the pain. Is this what he deserves? Is this what they want now that he’s not who he was before? Now that he’s grown, changed even the slightest bit? He almost wants to push his fist deeper into the glass, deepen the pain, all to distract him from the roar in his ears.

The constant screaming inside his mind.

He did everything they wanted him to do. He smiled for them, hid the inner part of him screaming, brushed away any hateful comments, any people who hurt him, and laughed through all the pain. He became a bigger person and grew.

He did it all for them.

He did it all for the sake of BTS.

Because he loved ARMY. Because he loved his hyungs.

Because this was his dream.

He became the man they all wanted.

He became V.

So why?

Why is it the moment he starts to let go of the mask, the moment he starts to become himself in front of their eyes...

Why do they turn against him as though he had never existed in the first place?

As though they didn’t beg him to hide.

As though all his efforts…

Meant nothing after all.

The worst part of it all…

Was that he let go for them.

Because he wasn’t willing to say goodbye.

The soft ring of his alarm breaks him out of his thoughts and his hand falls to his side as he turns to the sound. Sighing, he runs his hand through his tangled mess of hair picking up a tissue on the way to his dresser, and wiping off the thin trails of blood the cuts brought forth. In the back of his mind, he scoffs at the fact that that’s the third mirror he’s broken this week. Perhaps he needs a break. Looking up at the ceiling, he takes a deep breath.

A break from myself.

Picking up the phone he quickly dismisses the alarm, and finds himself staring at the lock screen in dismay.

To this day, Taehyung still uses the Galaxy BTS phone made especially for them and ARMY. Jimin absolutely loved the thing, and Taehyung treasures it with a quiet wonder. When he finally moved everything from his old phone to this one, he used it daily, even if it wasn’t always in front of the cameras. Back then when they had to leave for a while, looking at it gave him strength to go on. To head back to them. To see ARMY again.

Looking at it now, he wonders if it’s actually real.

If the love ARMY gives them…

Isn’t all just a lie.

When the phone buzzes suddenly, Taehyung lets out a small yelp, fumbling as his phone flies halfway in the air. Luckily, he’s able to catch it before it falls. Letting out a small breath of relief, he checks the random message that has popped up on his lock screen, peering to see who it belongs to.

Eyes widening, he nearly drops his phone again.

Stumbling to catch it, he falls on top of his pile of sheets and blankets, but thankfully the phone falls in his outstretched hands securely.

It's you.

Why is it always you?

Shocked, he slowly unlocks the phone, opening your little message. As it pulls up on his screen, he softly smiles.

Good morning, Mr. Pan.

It's such a simple message. Such short, sweet words said out of consideration and kindness. You sent it as a second thought, somehow knowing that he might need a smile after the amount of trouble he must have gotten in yesterday. He doesn't know this. All he knows is that a mere mention from you has made everything all right again.

It clears his mind, allows him to focus, saves him from the darkness continuing to choke him in its hold.

He picks up his phone and presses a button, before holding it up to his ear. It rings into the dead silence for a couple of seconds, making Taehyung a bit nervous. For a moment, he doesn't know if you're going to pick up, but once he hears the familiar click and the steady sound of your breathing, he can feel a rush of relief spreading through his body and leaving nothing but happiness.

"Hello?" You nearly whisper, a bit in shock. He can hear it over the phone and, sitting up, he doesn't notice as the gorgeous smile grows.

It’s funny how he didn’t realize until he heard your voice, that his head and his mind was filled with thoughts of you.

On the other line, you smile softly, finding the same truth.

Was it only yesterday that your dream came true?

He finally did it. He spoke to you.

Things should be over right?

But you find yourselves wanting…

More.

"Good morning." He teases in response to your recent message and you have to refrain yourself from groaning in embarrassment. "Did you sleep well?"

Hearing his innocent voice and the deep lure to it so early in the morning makes you wonder if you're dreaming. Smiling on the other line, you cup your hands around your phone, pulling it close to your cheek and smile, unable to stop the happy pink hue from creeping onto your rosy cheeks.

"Yes." You reply, a bit of excitement creeping into your voice from the giddy fact that you’re talking to him. "I slept like a baby...what about you?"

You decide to keep from him the fact that you hardly slept last night. Your constant nightmares and terrors of panic scared you. They made you afraid, thinking that if you closed your eyes, you would once more be lost in a deep sleep. Trapped in the hidden corners of your mind.

He smiles on the other line a bit sadly, deciding to keep the fact that he didn't sleep half the night to himself, lost in the whirlpool of hateful comments and slurs towards him. Towards BTS. He decides to hide the truth that the only thing that was able to let him sleep that night was the sight of your phone number held tightly within his hands.

"Yeah...yeah I slept alright." He says, unable to mask the catch in his voice. Your eyes widening in concern, you open your mouth to ask if he's alright, but he quickly clears his throat and changes the topic.

“How’s your ankle?” Even though you know he asked the question to change the subject, you can't help but wince.

Your ankle hasn’t shown much improvement.

The swelling has gone down and you're able to stand on it, but every time you try to walk, numb pain still courses up your veins. It's still pretty bruised, but what is there that you can do? You've already slipped on an ice pack, wrapping it carefully around your ankle to prepare you for the day, but you know it's going to be quite the uncomfortable ride.

You hesitate, pondering whether or not to tell him this, but he continues on the other line.

“Yen?” The way he whispers your name makes you melt inside. So concerned and full of worry, you wonder if you truly deserve this small blessing. The blessing to know someone like him. “Are you okay? Does it still hurt?”

The blessing to be able to speak to him.

Smiling, you shake your head before responding, slightly struck speechless.

“Yes, I’m fine...your ice pack yesterday really helped so I’m all ready to head to work today. Don't worry, I’m fully prepared with an ice pack of my own in case the bruise starts to bother me…” You start rambling, trying to reassure him that everything will be fine, while on the other line, his eyes go wide with protective anger.

You’re doing it again.

Forcing yourself to continue, when you should be looking to take care of yourself.

Not the other way around.

“No.” He says interrupting your slight tangent, and you flinch, pausing and your grip clenching tightly around the phone. You knew this would happen. You knew that he would be upset. That’s why you shouldn’t have said anything. Somehow, this frustrates you. You know it shouldn’t, after all he’s just looking after you, but you can take care of yourself. You aren’t some damsel in distress that needs saving.

Trying hard to forget what you’d rather not remember, you sigh, massaging your temple.

“Taehyung, I’m fine. I really am--”

“I don't believe you. And even if you were telling the truth, you should at least rest it for a day at least! Do you want to worsen it because you decided to push yourself?” Shocked at his sincere and concerned tone, you really don't know what to say. You know he’s right, but you can’t help but feel that if you listen to him, if you rest easy for just today, you’ll be letting someone down.

Namjoon is waiting for you.

He doesn’t know that your ankle is bruised, nor that you could sprain or quite possibly break it if you try to come into work today. But you’ve already been late once before. Today was supposed to be your first official day on the job. He was counting on you to be there.

Hoping that he’d be able to rely on you.

You can’t help but feel that if you decide to stay...that you'd be letting him down.

You don’t want to let him down.

You can’t let him down.

Glancing down at your ankle, you grimace a bit as you bitterly smile.

This is just a minor bump in the road isn’t it? All you're doing is offering a small sacrifice so that you can be there for him. So that you can carry out your job, your obligation as his manager. He should know that you will always be there to help. Isn’t that what a manager should do? You have a duty, an obligation...a simple bruise shouldn’t get in the way of that. After all the ways you let him down yesterday, and the kind way he treated you in spite of that...isn’t that the least you can do? You can afford to give something in return...after all he’s given you already.

Yes...this is nothing…

Taehyung wouldn’t understand…

Right?

Taking a deep breath, you respond to him.

“Taehyung, I really appreciate your concern but…”

“If you say you’re fine I am going to come to your apartment and force you back into your bed.” He replies so steadily and sternly that it’s hard for you to conceal your burst of laughter. He hears, however and grows a tiny bit offended, not willing to admit that the sound of your laughter brought a little bit more light into his clouded mind.

“You think I’m joking?!” He shouts on the other line, and you can’t keep it back anymore, your laughter spilling over and melodiously carrying itself through the line and into Taehyung’s small, scattered room. He smiles at the fact that he was able to make you laugh, although it wasn’t his intention. That just like that...you were able to make everything seem alright again. It’s almost as though a mere smile from you, a simple laugh escaping from your lips…

Makes the world a little bit brighter to him.

“I-I’m sorry…!” You manage to gasp out between your small fits of giggles. “It’s just the thought of you walking over here all angry and trying to force me back in bed…” You break off at the end, your sweet melodic laugh ringing high in the air once more, and he can’t help but crack a smile, eventually laughing along with you. After a moment, once the laughter subsides, each of you glance toward the phone as though that would help you see the other's face, or at least imagine it as though you were standing right next to each other.

Taehyung smiles a bit before glancing away and closing his eyes in serenity.

“Yen?” he murmurs softly, his eyes opening a fraction of an inch as he stares into the distance, almost imagining your smiling face right in front of him. At the sound of him saying your name once more, your eyes flash towards the phone, a bit surprised. It takes you a moment, but you eventually answer, a small smile growing on your lips.

“Yes?” you respond, your hands once more finding themselves cupping around the phone almost as if you held onto it a little bit tighter he would magically stay with you just a little bit longer. Offer you this comfort for just a bit more.

Is that too much to ask?

You know it is and yet you can’t help yourself from wishing for it.

Wishing that you had...more.

“I want you to know that I’m saying this with the best interests for you in mind.” He answers, and your brow crinkles a bit, wondering what he’s going to do this time. Taking a deep breath, he ponders whether or not to say the words, but he decides to do it anyway. Your safety is the most important after all.

“Don’t come to work today. Please stay home, and take care of yourself. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

Startled, you open your mouth to answer, to refuse the kind request, to let him know that you’re going to head to work anyway, but he’s already hung up the phone, leaving you dumbfounded. Your heart pacing a million miles per hour, his last few words lingering in your mind.

I don’t want to see you get hurt.

“Who gave you the right?” you murmur softly, your hands rising furiously to hide the growing hot blush against your cheeks against your will. The hot tears that begin to push against your eyes, threatening to escape out of the cage you have held them in for so long.

“Who told you to care so much about me?”

Taehyung, after hanging up the phone, has completely forgotten about everything else but you. He smiles a bit sheepishly at the cheesy things he’s said and stares at the empty screen where your profile pic rests, safe in his contacts. He can’t help but wonder how you do it.

How with a few simple words…

You make everything okay again.

Turning to his closet, he starts to pull out a couple of clothes to wear that day, as he dials a number on his phone. Once it starts to ring, he places it on his dresser, putting it on speaker phone so he can hear the clear annoyed voice that answers, no doubt being distracted from an important source of work.

“What is it, Taehyung?” he snaps, tired and worn-out, and Tae smiles at the familiar greeting, as he pulls off his shirt, avoiding the cracked mirror beside him.

“Nice to talk to you too, Namjoonie. How's the album coming?” He responds playfully, and Namjoon on the other line can't help but smile. He adores that nickname, and it definitely puts him in a better mood. Just like Taehyung knew it would. Turning back to the screen of the computer, Namjoon can't help but sigh. There’s a whole lot of work to be made with the album...and such little time to do it in.

“Well...it’d go a lot faster without interruptions like this. What is it Taehyung-ah? This better not be a prank call or something for a Vlive…” Namjoon begins, his tone warning and Tae can’t help but laugh. He shakes his head, pulling down his pajama pants, and deciding to replace them with plain blue jeans. They don’t really have dance practice planned today, just a bunch of meetings and preparations for the album...maybe even a photo shoot.

“You know I try to stay away from Vlive’s nowadays.” Tae replies, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice, but failing miserably. At the comment, Namjoon can’t help but feel a stab of pity and regret. He knows that it’s a sensitive topic for Tae now...especially with what happened the last time Taehyung held a Vlive….he shouldn’t have mentioned it so soon.

“No it's not...Namjoon it’s about Yen.” Tae explains, and at the mention of your name, Namjoon sits straight in his chair, work forgotten, and mind focusing on you.

“What? Is she okay? Did something happen? Is she--” Voice heavily decorated with worry, Tae has to bite back the laugh that threatens to be released. Is this how he sounded to you? No wonder you started laughing at him. Smiling softly at how open and kind Namjoons heart is, Tae shakes his head once more, pulling on a grey hoodie.

“Actually I wanted to talk to you about that.” Tae replies, as he pulls on his socks, and rummages for his jean jacket. Namjoon waits a bit impatiently on the other line, trying his best to be polite and wait for Taehyung to finish. Once he finds it, Tae lets out a small cry of victory before looping his arms through it and finishing his look. Picking up the phone as he grabs a plain white mask and heads for the door, Taehyung smiles slightly at his victory.

Try to refuse staying home after this, my Wendy.

Just as RM opens his mouth to demand a straight answer from him, Taehyung replies, leaving behind the mess he had made just moments before untouched and forgotten.

“Namjoon...could you do a favor for me?”

𝔫𝔬𝔱𝔢: this chapter was kind of sad...

chapter 22 here

check the Infinite Stars masterlist for more chapters

check my BTS masterlist for other BTS content

check out my masterlist for other kpop fanfics

25 notes · View notes

mrsalwayswrite · 4 years

Text

Say You’ll Stay - Chapter 8

Fury/Band of Brothers Crossover Fic

Guys, I’m so sorry its taken me so long to get this chapter out. My muse abandoned me and my laptop was being weird. But here we are! Let me know what you think!

Tag List: @happyveday @alwaysindecemberfeels @god-of-dramatic-death-scenes @saritanotserena

Series Masterlist // Next Chapter

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

The sunrise lit up the morning sky with an array of beautiful, pastel colors. Anna could only hope it was a good sign for the day. She rubbed a hand over her tired eyes as she carefully walked over the rubble on the city's streets, dodging icy puddles and mud. Gene was going to be quite upset with her later, but she tried not to think about that now.

Quickly, she hurried up the creaky steps of the old two-story home. It looked similar to most of the other buildings but its door was dirty and faded red with a rickety looking porch only half standing. She made a mental note to thank Boyd for his surprisingly clear directions, otherwise she knew she would have been wandering for a while and on these streets, that was far from safe. As quietly as possible, she pushed open the door and stepped inside. She had been invited here, actually forced to come here if Boyd's look yesterday said anything, but she still felt like an invader. The idea of setting foot inside the men's barracks was something her mind fervently refused to acknowledge; it just was not even a possibility in her mind. Though this building was not technically an army barrack in the literal sense, she still felt like an intruder because it was sleeping/housing quarters for the men.

Her grandmother would be furious if she ever found out Anna entered the men's quarters…. especially letting herself in. The thought tampered down Anna's nerves slightly as she thought of the horrified look on the elderly woman's face, if she ever discovered this. It lightened her mood for a brief moment.

In the room to her left, a soldier sprawled on a mangy looking couch with an arm thrown over his eyes. If she had not been able to see his chest rising and falling, she would have gone to check his pulse for how still he was otherwise. In that same room another soldier sat in a high-backed chair with his head tipped back, eyes closed and snoring like a chainsaw. Not recognizing either man, she guessed they were from one of the other tank crews. The sounds of movement and soft talking to her right had her quietly turning in that direction, hoping to allow the soldiers their well-deserved sleep.

She startled when a head popped around the corner, covering her mouth quickly before a scream could escape. The man had a face that reminded her vaguely of a bulldog, thick jaw and deep-set eyes. He scanned her for a moment in a way that felt more like an assessment than any kind of leering.

He grunted then jerked his head back the way he had come. "This way." He muttered only to disappear just as quickly as he appeared.

Through her heart still hammered in her chest from the unexpected startle, she took a deep breath in an attempt to steel her nerves. Sudden, frightened screaming would most likely get her or someone else shot. It was too early to be shot in her opinion. Best she try to suppress any girly screams for now. Or at least until after she got some sleep.

She followed the man around the corner only to encounter what most likely used to be a kitchen but was missing some key utilities. The faded, peeling wallpaper only added to the desolate feel. Just off center and close to a window facing the river was a table with three men sitting around it. Two others leaned against a countertop, mugs in hand. What quiet conversation had been going before her arrival ceased as she came into view.

"Anna?"

"Good morning." She attempted to smile but worried it came out more as a grimace. The need for sleep was beginning to claw at her mind.

"Sit down," Boyd immediately stood up, gesturing to his chair at the table. "You want some coffee? I reckon we got some left."

"That would be lovely, thank you." Knowing she probably would lose the fight, she went ahead and took his seat. Something she had learned about Boyd Swan over the past almost two weeks she had known him, he was a gentleman but beyond that…. he was stubborn.

Don leaned back in the chair next to her, cigarette between his lips. "Morning." He stated in a gravelly voice, lingering traces of sleep apparent in the sound. He must not have been awake long.

"Good morning." She flashed him a quick smile, willing the warmth to dissipate from her cheeks, or at least hoping no one noticed the blush. This schoolgirl crush on him was ridiculous, and she knew it. A peek of those blue eyes and her heart beat a drumroll in her chest that rivaled any band.

Boyd set a tin cup in front of her, steam tantalizingly drifting out of it. "Didn't think you'd be here this early. Why ain't you sleepin'?" Boyd asked.

She took a sip, the warmth delightful even if the taste was less than desirable. "Um, well, I'm supposed to be but I wanted to see y’all before, or you might come busting down the door again." She directed the last part to Boyd with a mock glare. He was lucky none of the medics carried guns with how he burst into the aid station demanding to see her.

He shrugged unapologetically. "Just wanted to make sure you was alright. We didn't know where you disappeared to. I see you got some new clothes."

"Yeah," she glanced down at the ODs she now wore. They were ill-fitting, clearly meant for a man, not a short nurse. She had to roll up the hems of the trousers and the sleeves multiple times and she swore she still looked like a child playing dress-up in their parent's clothes. On the other hand, they were far warmer than her nurse’s torn uniform and right now, that was more important. "Gene let me have one of their spare medic uniforms."

"Mmm… explains the patch here." Don touched the screaming eagle patch over her upper arm.

It was an innocent, teasing gesture but it still shot sparks through her system. Her eyes jumped up to meet his lingering gaze. He gave her a quick wink before leaning his chair back. The warmth of a blush reappeared on her cheeks. Quickly, she took a sip of her watery coffee, well aware of the others sitting or standing around quietly in the room.

"Gene? That medic with the southern accent?" Boyd asked, leaning against the wall nearby. His question was innocent enough but the scrutinizing look on his face said otherwise.

"Boyd…"

"He just seemed real protective of you, that's all."

She groaned, setting her cup down on the table and dropping her face into her hands. A few chuckles drifted from around the room but she ignored them. Actually, now that she was sitting still with her eyes closed, she could feel a wave of sleep threatening to crash over her and pull her under, with or without her consent. The coffee should have been helping to keep her awake but at this point, the warmth in her belly only made her want to curl up like a cat and doze off.

A conversation picked up around her, two of the men in the room speaking in a low drone. She recognized the sound of the man with the bulldog face, he made some kind of remark that had Don chuckle next to her before replying. Her mind refused to process the words though. The conversation became a background noise as she teetered on the edge of sleep and wakefulness. She should get back to the aid station. She needed to get back to the aid station to help Roe. Yet her body refused to comply.

"Anna."

The soft whisper of her name caught her attention from the sleep-induced haze. She turned her head slightly to meet Don's concerned gaze.

"When did you last sleep?"

"Mmm?"

He huffed at her noncommittal answer. "Did you sleep at all last night?"

"No…. I stayed up to cover so some of the other medics could sleep. I'm fine. I should probably head back."

"Doll, I just watched you fall asleep sitting right there."

"No… I was just… resting my eyes. I should get back."

"Like hell you are." He raised his gaze to look over her head, his volume rising from the whisper they had been speaking in. "Boyd, take Anna upstairs and let her have one of the cots or bed. We'll take her back once she gets some sleep."

"No, it's fine…." She weakly tried to argue but snapped her mouth shut when he turned his gaze back to her.

"If you don't walk up those stairs right now, I'll throw you over my shoulder and carry you up them." Don stated, then took a hit of his cigarette. The statement should have sounded like a joke but with his matter-of-fact tone and the way he watched her, Anna knew he was serious.

"Come on," Boyd put a hand on her shoulder. "We was gonna ask you to check Norman anyway."

That caught her attention. She whipped around to look up at Boyd. "Is he alright? What happened?"

"He's fine. Think he's got a cold.... maybe a fever too."

With that information, she more readily followed the gunner up towards the nearby stairs and up to the second floor. There were four doors in the hallway but he led her to the furthest one on the right. Inside was a bed big enough for two people, a large dresser, nightstand and a short couch off in the corner. What immediately caught her attention though was the figure lying in bed, curled up like a child and coughing with a dry and scratchy sound. Her own exhaustion was forgotten as she darted past Boyd to drop next to the figure under the thick quilt.

"Hey, Norman."

"Anna?" He blearily opened his red-rimmed, glassy eyes. He sniffled, wiping his nose on the edge of his sleeve.

"How are you feeling?"

"Ok…"

"Liar." She teased, running a hand through his hair gently after feeling his forehead. He felt mildly warm but nothing she was too concerned with yet. That cough had her more worried. "What all hurts, Norm?"

"Boyd thinks it's just a cold."

"I know. Running nose, scratchy throat, slight fever… anything else? Headache? Fatigue?"

"Uh huh." He mumbled, eyes closing as he relaxed under her touch, sleep guiding him away from awareness.

He looked so painfully young, lying in the bed. It broke her heart to know this was someone who was forced to kill people on a regular basis. He should be back home and going to school or flirting with his crush or playing baseball with friends. He should not be here. None of them should be here.

Yet here they were.

She looked around her and found his canteen laying just underneath the bed. Picking it up she was pleased it was at least half full.

"Norm, I want you to drink some of this before you fall back asleep. Can you do that for me, please?"

With a painful groan, he shifted enough to drink a couple of mouthfuls of the water before handing it back to her and slinking back down onto the bed. She stood up but was surprised when his hand darted out to grab hers.

"Don't go yet." He said just barely above a whisper. It was the pleading look in his eyes that convinced her.

"Ok, sweetie," she cooed, running her hand over his sweaty forehead again, "I'll stay a little longer."

She looked back over at Boyd, hovering near the door with an expression on his face she could not distinguish.

"Can you fill this back up and get him some of those crackers from your rations?"

Boyd nodded, moving to take the canteen from her hand. "Sure thing. Anythin' else you need?"

"No, I'll stay just for a little bit. Can you come get me in an hour or two? I really need to head back to the aid station."

"You also need to rest. Those bags under your eyes look like permanent bruises now."

"I will." She snapped then immediately felt bad and sighed. "I'm sorry, I will. I promise."

"S'alright. I'll come back in an hour."

"Thank you." She smiled, even if it was only a twitch of her lips. As Boyd walked out, she knelt back down next to the young soldier. His eyes were already closed, breathing slowing as slumber took hold once again. She rested her head on the side of the bed, carding her fingers through his hair. A hacking cough overtook him, startling them both. Once he settled, she continued her ministrations, humming softly. She hoped it was just a cold. That it was nothing more severe.

She made a mental note that when Boyd came her in an hour, she would make sure to ask Gene if anyone had found tea or honey laying around.

*****

Don watched Boyd and Anna go up the stairs. When he turned back, he saw a couple of the men's gaze lingering on the stairs.

"The nurse is off limits." He stated with such finality that had at least one of the men's heads snap towards him. As if his statement sealed an invisible decree, the men in the kitchen turned back to whatever they were doing prior.

Davis looked at him from his spot across the room, leaning against the kitchen counter. "She yours?"

"I thought you don't participate in gossip?"

The other tank commander shrugged, taking a sip of his coffee.

Don ignored the question, even if he could feel Davis' gaze frequently drifting to him. He focused on the map on the table before him. It was not necessary for him to study it but the action had become a habit of his whenever his crew moved to a new location. Knowing what other towns were nearby, rivers, roads, anything that could be of use later, he tried to memorize it. At this point, he figured by the time the war was over he would have most of Europe and North Africa geography permanently seared into his brain.

A couple minutes later, Boyd came back down and returned to his seat next to Don. He scrubbed his face with his hands and sighed deeply. "She's workin' herself too hard. Looks like she ain't slept in a week."

Don kept his thoughts to himself but he was loathed to agree. Exhaustion hung off her like a heavy cape making her feet drag as she walked. Witnessing how easily she fell asleep just sitting at the table did not help her case.

"Told her I'd be back up in an hour to get 'er."

Don raised an eyebrow, looking at his friend. "Are you going to?"

Boyd smirked. "I'll check on her but if she's sleepin', I'm gonna leave her be. Lord knows she needs it." He paused, glancing towards the stairs. "I'd bet my own Bible she's asleep right now."

"Mmm… Norman alright?"

"He's sleepin'. She's takin' care of him."

He was not all surprised. Since they had arrived in Haguenau, Norman's health had plummeted. Don worried for his newest crew member. The poor kid looked miserable and these were certainly less than ideal conditions for someone sick. The kid had a bed and a roof over his bed…. he would pull through. He had too. Don would not even consider the alternative. Especially with Anna now looking after him. The small nurse would mother the hell out of whatever is wrong with the kid. With a smirk at the thought, Don went back to studying the map.

Several hours later, he headed up the stairs to the room he shared with Boyd and Norman.

A runner had come from Captain Winters requesting his presence at noon at HQ. Don agreed, sending the runner back on his way. Boyd met his annoyed gaze and they shared a mutual sigh. So much for them having a reprieve before being sent back out.

Up the stairs he went and down the short hallway. The floorboards creaked under his boots; a sudden memory of his childhood home crossed his mind. Whenever he tried to sneak out of this bedroom as a child, he never could get far because of the damn loud floorboards.

He opened the door slowly, not wanting to startle the room's occupants. As he registered what he saw, it brought a small smile to his lips and he paused at the sight. Norman was still curled up asleep on the bed, mouth open and breathing loud. On the other side of the bed, Anna lay on her side, hands tucked under her face, hair a wild mess around her. Boyd had mentioned when he came up to check on them, he had helped move Anna to the bed with her barely rousing. Clearly more tired than any of them assumed.

Instead of waking her up like he intended to, he found himself closing the door quietly and just watching the two sleep. Yes, he knew it was creepy and if Boyd knew, the gunner would rightly smack him in the back of the head. Would not be the first time after Don did something stupid.

War brings people together in the strangest of way. After the…. accident...he thought he would never have family again. That because of his stupid mistakes, he was destined to be alone forever. Which he rightly deserved. But then he went to war. He was thrown into a tank with four other men who quickly became brothers.

If he needed to be distracted from commands and his own inner demons, he knew sitting down with Gordo would distract him for a while with his crazy stories of home and the shenanigans he did as a teenager. Gordo always had a joke or story to share to lighten the mood.

Grady respected Don as a leader but never let him run him over; he could just as easily return Don's anger-fueled fire as follow his commands. It had taken some time for them to trust and respect one another, their tempers too similar. Now there was an underlying understanding between the two of them, that they took the worst of the jobs, that they would carry the most blood on their hands to spare the others. If Don had to get into a fist fight, there was no one else he would want more by his side.

Then there was the man who had become more than a blood brother, a confidante, a best friend, a moral compass. Even in the first week of tank school, Boyd had looked over at Don one day, said he was proud to be by his side and thought Don was a good man. Don had laughed in Boyd's face but somehow it sealed a pact between them. Boyd's calm demeanor helped keep Don's temper down and even when it did flare up like a roman candle firework, Boyd was always there to rein it in. Neither of them drank so while the others went off to drink away the night, Don and Boyd found themselves sitting together silently and both were more than alright with that.

Norman reminded Don of his little brother so much it physically hurt sometimes. He despised himself that it was HIS fault the boy was forced to lose that innocence he carried. It was HIM that made Norman kill. But this was war, and if they wanted to survive, they needed to be merciless. Don knew he overcompensated by making sure Norman ate and rested when they could. He showed the young soldier how to disassemble and reassemble his rifle, how to stab and slash, how to survive. He refused to let the boy die even through his own stupid mistakes. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, the idea had been planted that making sure Norman survived this goddamn war would be his penance for his own failures.

Before two weeks ago, these were the four people that mattered most to him. Even more than what was left of his blood relations. Losing Red, Norman's predecessor, had felt like a knife to the heart, even if he masked it for all to see. He refused to let the others see him grieve, he had to be strong for them.

Now though, Anna had slipped past his heart's barriers and settled there in a place that he had not realized was empty until her presence filled the prior void spot. She remained in his thoughts more than he cared to admit. Her soft touch, her gentle spirit, those gemstone eyes, that faint scent… it all lingered with him like a summer's heat that no matter what you tried to do, day or night, you could not escape. He swore she was a siren, come to torment him. His life was proof enough he did not deserve someone like her, he never would deserve someone like her. She was gentleness and kindness wrapped up in a person. He was wrath and mistakes that cost people their lives.

Yet still her presence persisted.

Shaking his head, he pulled himself out of his thoughts and moved to her side. He hated to wake her. She looked so peaceful.

"Anna." He whispered. "Anna, wake up."

Overly aware of his actions, he squatted down to be eye level with her. He reached a hand over and brushed some loose strands of hair off her cheek. The sunlight coming through the dirty window made her red hair shine. "Come on, darling. Time to wake up."

He was unsure where the pet name came from but once it left his lips, it felt right. Before he could think too long about it, she began to stir.

She sucked in a sharp breath. Her eyelids fluttered open but once the sunlight hit, they slammed closed once again. "No…" she whimpered, scrunching her nose up in dislike of either the sun or waking up. Either way, he was positive he had never seen anything as adorable before… and he never used the word adorable.

Oh, he was so fucked now.

He chuckled. "Come on, Anna."

"What time is it?"

"Almost noon."

She peeked an eye open at him. "I told Boyd to wake me in an hour."

"Yeah, well we thought you needed some sleep."

Grumbling something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like "overprotective mother hen", she rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and sat up.

Movement drew Don's gaze over to Norman who was shifting around. His eyes blearily opened; it took a few seconds to come out of sleep. Once his mind seemed to realize Anna was still half laying in the bed less than a foot away from him, he sat up like he had been shocked with electricity.

"Don, I swear nothing happened. We just sleeping, I mean… I don't think…" a bout of coughing interrupted his frantic and hasty explanation.

At that, the tank commander laughed loudly. "I know, Norman." He shifted back towards the door, watching the two amused. Anna's cheeks were pink now but she gave no other indication of hearing Norman's sleepy mumbling.

"How are you feeling, Norm?" She asked, placing the back of her hand on his forehead.

"Alright, I guess."

"Think you can come down and eat?"

He nodded sluggishly. They both rolled out the bed, him moving a bit slower. The whole way out of the door and down the stairs, Anna walked next to him, occasionally putting a hand on his shoulder or giving a word of encouragement.

Don led the way back down, still smirking about Norman's hasty and confused comment. He would have to remember it to rib the kid later on when he was feeling better. Finally making it to the kitchen area, they deposited Norman at the table next to Gordo, who was nursing a cup of coffee. Boyd meandered over from reading on one of the couches in the common room, glasses still perched on his nose.

As soon as Anna saw him, she stomped over and punched him in the arm. "You were supposed to wake me up in an hour."

Boyd winced and tried to shuffle out of range of another strike. "Well, you looked tired."

"What every girl wants to hear, Boyd, thank you."

Don was not the only one laughing at the interaction.

Anna blushed as she seemed to notice the others about the area but ignored them, walking back over to Norman. "You just rest. I'll come back and check on you tonight. I'll see if they have anything to help at the aid station."

The kid nodded then started coughing again.

"Don't worry, we'll take care of him." Gordo said, wrapping an arm around him and giving her a quick wink.

She smiled back, cheeks still pink from her prior blush. "Thanks, Gordo."

Don figured it was time to speak up now. "Let's go, Anna. I'll walk you back." He was surprised when she followed him without hesitation after a quick goodbye to those from his crew.

Don and Davis were lucky to have found an unoccupied house on the western side of Haguenau for their crews, further away from the river and the Germans across it. Binkowski and Peterson and their crews occupied the building just behind them. Here they did not have to worry so much about the frequent mortars and snipers. Though some of the holes in the floorboards were concerning, but it was a roof over their heads.

The tank commander and nurse walked in silence past the other houses and buildings towards the aid station. The frost, hidden in the shadows, crunched under their boots. An unusual silence permeated the air, no shouting or sound of gunfire coming from the river. It made Don wary and he slowed down his typical purposeful stride to match hers, making sure to keep his body between hers and the direction of the river. He knew the action would be useless against a mortar but it helped alleviate some of his worry.

They stopped at the back door to the aid station, the couple brick steps still intact, leading up to a small stoop and the back, wooden door. Don remained on the muddy ground while Anna stepped up onto the first step then turned around to face him.

"Thank you for walking me back."

He hummed, glancing further down the road. "You make sure to eat something now. Can't have you wasting away."

"Isn't that my job to take care of others?" She said cheekily.

"Yeah, doesn't hurt to have someone looking out for you too."

It was a simple, truthful statement. If war taught anything, it was the need for others to watch your back both in dodging bullets and to share meals. War and death were malicious bastards, dragging down anyone into a black hole of melancholy before they could even realize they slipped in the first place. Yet as soon as the words left his mouth, the weight of them hit him firmly in the chest. Instead of meaning it as a comrade or friend, he realized he meant something more. Someone to look out for her in more than just the little things, but in everything. Shit.

Her head snapped up, her gaze meeting his in a way that sent a tingle down his spine. Neither one moved as they stared at one another. The world threatened to fade away around them. She was beautiful, it was a fact. Even in ODs that threatened to swallow her, she still managed to radiate warmth and kindness. He had caught more than one soldier eyeing her up. It burned him up on the inside but he had no right to fight them over their actions. She was not his…. even if he was beginning to wish she was. She was too good for him. Too pure. Too beautiful. His presence would only taint her.

He needed a distraction, something to break the hold they both seemed stuck in. He blurted the first thing that came to mind. "You still have the knife on you?"

She blinked rapidly as if awakening from a dream. "Yes." She stuttered then leaned over slightly to lift her right pants leg up.

He looked down and noticed it strapped to her lower leg, just above her boot. "Good."

Even though the conversation halted, it seemed neither one wanted to move away. Her eyes held his once again as if waiting for something. A sign? A word? A fucking billboard with neon lights? Hell if he knew. The problem was, he could feel it too. There was something shifting between them and it both terrified and elated him.

Before he could stop himself, he reached out and slipped an erratic strand of hair behind her ear. His thumb trailing down her jawline after, her soft skin like velvet against his own roughness. Fuck he had been dying to touch her again. Instead of alleviating the need, now it seemed to burn stronger in him.

"Don…" she whispered as his thumb hinted at touching her lower lip.

The way she said it in that breathy tone, the light in her eyes and the blush on her cheeks, all of it combined sent a bolt of lightning through him that threatened any self-control he had. He wanted to pull her small frame against him, to taste her and see if her lips were as soft as they looked, if that heavenly scent that surrounded her came from her skin or hair. He wanted her. Fucking hell, he wanted her. And if the way her eyes were dilated and her breathing uneven, perhaps she wanted him too.

The door beside them suddenly opened, jolting them both back to reality. Whatever moment they had, dashed away as a paratrooper glared at them then pushed past them.

"I should…."

"Yeah," he said, pulling out a cigarette. He needed to keep his hands busy otherwise he would be tempted to pull her against him. "I'll send someone to come get you later."

"That's not necessary."

"Maybe, but I sure as hell don't like you walking around by yourself."

"Fine." She stood up on her toes and brushed a quick kiss to his jawline, an innocent ode to the last time she kissed him. "Be safe, Sergeant." She whispered against his skin then quickly turned and ducked inside the aid station.

"Damn it." He muttered after his brain finally decided to restart. Such a simple touch should not make him lose all sense. He kicked a loose rock, sticking the cigarette between his lips and lighting it. The smoke curled in his lungs, helping solidify him into reality. He glanced back at the door, briefly wondering what it would be like to storm into the building and kiss her like he wanted too. But before he could do something stupid, he headed towards the regiment HQ, the lingering hint of lilacs danced in the corners of his mind.

#Fury movie #fury fanfic #fury 2014 #band of brothers #Band of Brothers fandom #band of brothers fanfic #Don Wardaddy Collier #Don Collier #Don Wardaddy collier x OFC #don collier x OFC #boyd bible swan #boyd swan #norman machine ellison #Trini Gordo Garcia #grady coon-ass travis #mzwrites

63 notes · View notes

starr-fall-knight-rise · 5 years

Text

Humans are Space Orcs “Behind Bars”

WARNING: VIEWER DISCRETION IS ADVISED.

Guys This is the beginning of an interesting new mini series that may deal with some pretty heavy stuff since it takes place in a human prison. If you think there is ANY chance you could be bothered or offended by the topics I might cover, than now is a good time not to read this. I am not going to go through and make a list of all the potential things you may not like, so I deffer to your own judgement of yourself to determine what is good for you.

Also another little side note, the way I portray law enforcement in this is in no way how I feel about them. I have close family member in law enforcement and respect the hell out of them, but the way I did it was done to serve the story, so just keep that in mind.

For those of you who choose to read it, I hope it’s interesting :)

“Gah, this place is a dump.”

“Yeah, just be glad you can’t smell it.”

“Why is that?”

“Urine, lots and lots of urine.”

“Ah, lovely.” Krill muttered making his next movements very tender against the dark clattering metal as if he could avoid stepping in anything unsavory. Beside him, a rather scruffy human appeared from the shadows, “scruffy” with an overgrown haircut, five o-clock shadow, eyepatch and an army jacket that had seen better days.

Commander Vir blended in surprisingly well with the grungy understreets of noctropolis. The city was Less of a city, and more like a series of tunnels bridges and rickety buildings built on and into the side of a cavernous rift in the ground. Once upon a time, the Tesraki had begun serious mining operations on the border moon’s surface causing some serious scars in the landscape which was then filled with the teaming underground life that the most unsavory humans bring with them.

Noctopolis was located on the furthest edge of the Milky Way galaxy, and seeing as the GA was based out of Andromeda, it was a very difficult moon to police. The UNSC had attempted to take over operations on the moon but had found only limited success considering their military had only been operating in space for the past few years. They didn’t have enough manpower to undergo such an operation, so the moon itself was left mostly unpoliced. Since then it had become home to the most unsavory of the Tesraki, the Drev, and the humans having enough economically or emotionally in common that they at least tolerated each other.

What understanding they had of the border moon had begun with the banning of interspecies relationships almost a year past. Since Noctopolis wasn’t particularly well policed, may counter culture groups had made their home here. While many of them were decent people attempting a little privacy away from the eyes of the law, other less savory groups had taken an opportunity to stake their claim.

The streets about them were littered with trash and abandoned cardboard and metal scraps. Their greatest source of light leaked down from the lively redlight district above, not only called that because of what it offered, but because it actually did bost a series of bright neon lights that could be seen across the city.

“Wanna tell me why I’m here again. This is kind of a Sunny and Vir thing.”

Commander Vir propped himself casually up against a wall slouching inside his jacket collar turned up against the sour wind blowing up from the cavern vanishing into darkness below, “Sunny had to finish requisitioning our new weapons system, besides, i thought it was about time you and I hung out. We haven't done anything together as friends in a while.”

“Ah yes, just how I prefer social bonding, Loitering through piss covered streets with an eyeless legless hobo.”

“Rude.” The human muttered glancing quickly around a corner.

Krill let the question drop instead moving onto the next topic of conversation, “Wanna tell me why we aren’t working with local law enforcement?”

The human dodged past a leaking pipe and the resulting black puddle, “Well there are a few reasons. If I plan on getting close to this drug ring, or even the suppliers, I can't have the smell of the feds one me, second is that the policing system here is only partially overseen by the UN, mostly they supply their own officers and their own laws. There are serious rumors about law enforcement corruption, but that can be expected considering the kind of people that hang out here. And then there is the issue of ease of access to fingerprinting and DNA systems. Mine have been temporarily removed from the system for this operation because the dealers tend to check before the sell, but if i was working with local law enforcement my identity might be leaked.”

Together they stepped onto one of the rickety bridges spanning the cavern. Krill tried not to look down into the gaping bottomless chasm spanning downwards into darkness tinted with the red haze cast from the neon reflection of the city.

“Why is this such a big deal anyway. Why waste you on a project like this.”

Commander Vir stepped off the edge of the bridge holding it steady for Krill as he followed.

“Because this guys are linked to the human hormone market.” Krill was a bit surprised. He had heard about the issue months ago. Certain species, the Tesraki and the Drev especially had neurotransmitter systems similar to that of a human, though somewhat dampened and were affected by the use of injected dopamine and adrenaline. On the street they had taken names like Dopie, Daddy, Addie, Joy Juice, and some other strange names. The biggest issue with the use of human chemicals as drugs is that even a single dose of the stuff could fry the circuits for any nonhuman taken in any sort of significant dose. In humans it occasionally meant sickness or even mental illness, but in aliens it could mean permanent flat affect or the inability to feel fear. The other issue was how the dealers got it, usually it involved kidnapping and harvesting the chemicals from humans, since many times the analogue drugs humans made for themselves didn't have an effect on aliens.

Krill shivered at the thought, and stepped through a tight alleyway just ahead of the Commander, who had to turn sideways to fit through the narrow space. He didn’t like fieldwork, at all, but having a human with you was one way to make you feel safe. The only creature that a human might not be able to fight off was a Drev, but even then there was still a possibility.

Together they cut across another street and towards their destination. They had managed to squeeze some information from the only informant still alive on the street, and that had been an address. At the back of the property they found a door padlocked shut though it had recently been cut.

Commander Vir held open the door and shoved inwards leading them into a long, dark hallway lined with debris. Krill stayed behind him as they made their way into the darkness jumping at every sound.

Ahead of him, the commander had removed an energy pistol from the band of his pants. Krill didn’t bother to point out to him, that it was difficult to believe he wasn’t law enforcement when he handled a weapon like that.

He held Krill back and then nudged one of the doors inward clearing the room with a quick sweep from corner to corner even stepping out to check behind the door. Krill peered in as the Commander grunted, “Just what we were looking for.”

Krill peered around his legs and then paused, “Uh….” The room was filled from floor to ceiling with strange glowing tanks of liquid a pale greenish in color. The ambient light gave the room a rather eerie glow. A glow that highlighted the strange instruments and free floating tubes with sinister intent. Nothing was currently in the tanks, but Krill shivered knowing what they would have held if they had been filled.

Human bodies.

The tanks cast much of the room into shadow, and Commander Vir took cover crouching behind one of the tank consoles. Krill followed him taking cover behind the human’s back. He didn't see what the man was so worried about there was one here. The human tilted his head listening intently scanning around the room. Krill was just beginning to speak when the man pushed him back hissing, “RUN!”

But before he could even take a step in another direction, he saw a flicker at the side of the room, and commander vir was lit up with at least ten points of green light all trained on his chest.

“GET ON THE GROUND.”

“PUT YOUR HANDS UP.”

“DROP THE GUN.”

“DON’T MOVE.”

Commander Vir reacted while Krill was still on the floor standing from behind his cover and stepping into the room. The Energy pistol clattered to the floor as he held his hands out to his sides.

“GET ON THE GROUND!”

Lights flashed all around them, and the room was illuminated by a painful burst of light and an eruption of movement. Men appeared from nowhere dressed in black tactical gear, faces and eyes completely obscured. Commander Vir was thrown face first onto the floor with at least three kneeling on his back.

Two came after Krill who squealed, to high pitched to be heard by the humans.

“GIVE US YOUR HAND!”

“GAH! Yes, yes just stop pulling and I will!. Shit…. I’m lying on it, let me up for a- OUCH!” From where he was being pinned to a wall, krill heard the ratcheting of handcuffs momentarily surprised not to hear the initiation of energy restraints.

“Shit, that's really tight…. Ahh… I can’t feel my hands.”

“STOP RESISTING.”

“I'M NOT RESISTING, I HAVE A PROSTHETIC AND YOUR STEPPING ON IT!” That didn’t do him much good as Krill heard the sharp thud, crack of someone being hit over the head. Krill understood what the captain meant about NOT being policed by the UN. Krill had meat peace officers on earth before, and while they could act the same, they generally had reason be reasonable to them and they would probably be polite to you.

Commander Vir was dragged to his feet hands wrenched painfully behind his back and pinned against the wall as they searched him, “Anything on you gonna poke me or stick me.”

“No, no.”

“You got ID?”

Commander Vir paused, “I…. well no.” One of the other officers ran a scanning device over his body, but it beeped negative.

“No implants.” Krill cursed internally…. They should have thought about that when they temporarily cancelled his ID….

“No ID, you know that’s illegal, don’t you.” The one officer said, sticking his hand into another pocket.

“I can explain. I work WITH you guys I-”

“No badge, no ID ... and ah, what is this.” Krill felt his heart sink as he watched the man pull the Adrenaline and dopamine sample from the Commander’s pocket. He held it up in front of the Commander's face, “And what is this.”

“That…. Isn’t mine.” He said lamely

The man pulled down the front of his mask one eyebrow raised, “Ah not yours eh…. Let me guess these are your friends pants, and you’re just borrowing them. You had no idea they were there. Oh oh, I know, you were just delivering them for a friend you don’t know what they actually are.” He reached into another pocket, “Oh and what is this.” Commander Vir groaned and leaned his head against the wall.

The small baggie of white powder was held up before him, “What is this gonna be, Cocaine, Meth, Heroine. You been trading a little Addie for a fix.”

In fact they actually HAD traded the drugs for information, along with a tracking device. Humans can’t use dopamine and adrenaline like other species can, so they traded it for the classic stuff.

“You can test me, I’m not high, I’m not a drug addict, I am also not who you think I am.”

“And who are you?”

“My name is Commander Adam Vir with the UNSC. I was sent here to HELP.”

They did not seem in any way convinced, “You have proof of that “Commander”. Look I saw the guy once, and he wasn’t half as fugly as you, also he was taller.”

Commander Vir yelped in indignation as they began patting him down for the second time, “Who you calling fugly you-” He bit his tongue, “I’m sorry OFFICER but I had my implants discontinued for this operation. Just look at me I’m missing an eye and a leg and im 6,2 just like the man you say I’m not, and I also let my hair grow out. GIve me five minutes on the phone and I’ll call my superiors for you.”

“Uh huh, because they’d have the fleet commander down here crawling through the dirt after narcos and tweakers. This is the army officers sit behind their nice shiny desks and let other men die for them.” Commander Vir was pulled away from the wall, “What are you his junki cousin, a brother?”

“I told you who I am.”

“Someone check the bug, see if he has ID.”

Krill stiffened as a wand was run over him, “Nothing sir. That’s strange, usually don’t see their kind around here.”

“I get my phone call, don’t I.”

“What do you think this is the 2000s. The hormone crisis is a level 5 threat, and we are not obligated to provide you with anything.”

“I'm pretty sure I still get a lawyer.”

Commander Vir was hauled to his feet and marched bodily towards the door, “Yeah but you'll have to get one flown in unless you want a Tesraki, and I wouldn't trust one of those bastards as far as I can throw them…. Uh disgusting little bats.” Commander Vir seemed almost irked at the use of the slur. Humans had a habit of that, they had a slur for each of other species weather it be bug, beetle, bat, dino, or just the general use of the word freak.

They were dragged outside, and around to where the vehicles had been hidden. Commander tripped more than once over the cheap prosthetic he had used to augment his look, and every time he was dragged painfully back to his feet. Krill wasn’t treated much better though he only received one of the human officers. Krill were thrown in the back of a cruiser with bars and energy shields over the windows. Commander Vir was thrown against the front of the vehicle, “As of now, you'll be charged with the possession of illegal substance, intent to sell, failure to identify, unlawful possession of a firearm, and resisting arrest.”

“What! I didn’t resist, and I DID identify myself. It’s not my fault you won’t believe me.”

“Someone get a spit shield on him.”

“What, I.” He was pinned even more forcibly against the hood as a female officer secured, a GA issued muzzle over his face. They had developed those after realizing what human spit could do to certain species, and what the human voice could do to others. Once on, The officer flipped the dial, cutting off the Commander mid protest.

Once done, he was thrown into the back with Krill gagged and restrained. Kril felt as if he was going to pass out, or just go right ahead and die. They had been captured by human authorities that even Commander Vir couldn’t talk down, and the ones that weren’t nearly as understanding as they were on earth.

Things could only get worse.

#humans are insane #HUMANS ARE WEIRD #humans are space orcs #humans are space australians #humans are spaceoddities #earth is a deathworld #Earth is space Ausralia

527 notes · View notes

kennyisscrewy · 4 years

Text

Playing Hard to Want II Webgott

Thank you to @speirtons aka Lily for organizing this #bobtogether fic writing event, and kicking a healthy dose of inspiration into me! You’re seriously a GIFT to this community

W/C: 5076

Prompt: There was only one bed

David was already not looking forward to seeing Joe again once he was finally let out of the hospital. Every day that he spent lying on that bed felt like a new nail added to his coffin, yet another tiny spike in Liebgott’s hatred of him. And truthfully Joe had hated David before he’d even done anything wrong, so now that he had… He shuddered at the thought. The street sign boasting Haganeu blared in his peripheral like a neon warning sign. Bitterly, he mulled over the unfairness that his one motivator as he was healing up (returning back to the 101st) was now something of a cold dread in his stomach. His friendship with Joe, too, had been shot in the dirt before he’d even gotten the chance to try.

The icy ball continued to roll around in David’s stomach as he called out to George Luz, so very relieved to see a friendly face that wasn’t frowning and somber and pitying, only to have the usually animated man respond tiredly. And it just got worse, and worse, and worse. He couldn’t seem to stop his big, fat mouth from opening; asking where’s Hoobler? How’s about Toye or Wild Bill? Where’d that cheeky little Julien kid get off to now? Nobody said a word, and it spoke miles. Finally Foley and Martin ground out something about how thin 2nd platoon had become, and David was shooed away like a buzzing gnat.

He swore under his breath as he walked up to the next Jeep and was instantly pinned in place by mean, dark eyes. The second Joe recognized him as more than just “anonymous annoyance”, he was rolling those glittering eyes, and David resented him for looking so pretty while doing it. It felt surreal to finally take in those near-black eyes that shone in the foggy french sunlight like pebbles in person once more, rather than just using his best memory to muse over them in his hospital bed.

David has had a long time to mull over those eyes that narrowed into repulsed little slits as some unfamiliar face finally yanked David up into the remaining empty space. Four months, according to that red sneering mouth, which was news to him. In the first month, he’d kept count, anxious to get back to his platoon and his friends (and Lieb, of course). But around the second time that the nurses had none-too gently told him that if he left, the infection would kill him before he got another chance to play hero, David had become disheartened enough that he just let the days and weeks roll by sluggishly. Joe’s pissy remark: “Must’ve like that hospital.” almost made him collapse into hysterical laughter.

That hospital room was never ending purgatory; solitary confinement. He lay there in his soaked through clothes and waited to die a meaningless, empty death. Dozens of times he’d pictured his father's reaction upon receiving the letter. Dull, bloodshot eyes would scan over the words: “died of his wounds”, and “taken off the frontline due to his own lack of awareness” and his father would chuckle meanly. Mutter how he’d been right to tell David he’d never make it out there, and “oh I hate to speak ill of the dead and say I told ya so!” The peeling off-white wallpaper and fleshy toned curtains plagued his nightmares still; Normandy felt like a tropical getaway in comparison. He opened his mouth to tell Joe that, and see that shit eating smirk slide off his pale face with satisfaction, but looking at him gave David pause.

Beneath those pretty, glinting eyes were heavy bags so purple they could’ve been mistaken for bruises at first glance. His O.D.s and face were dirty-which was nothing new- but seeing Joe’s hair a stringy, careless mess sent something of a shock through David. Kind of like Perconte’s dental fixation, David has always been able to spot Liebgott from a mile away simply because it was clear that, even as his bloody bandages soaked through, the man took a few moments each day to make sure his thick, dark hair was still soft and touchable looking.

...Alright, so maybe David was just projecting there.

Regardless, he looked like HELL. Which felt oh, so wrong. David has always admired how unaffected he’d seemed by the war, both physically and mentally, and his guts twisted as he watched those long, oddly dainty fingers bring a cigarette to his lips. They were shaking . And it’s not like it was exactly cold out.

Feeling nauseous, his gaze moved unabidden to Heffron. Unkept, ruddy stubble dotted the usually chipper replacement’s thin face, and the shine appeared to have left his bright eyes. Dirty bandaged fingertips poked out of olive gloves that looked like the kid had torn the fingers off of himself. And he was quiet; so fucking quiet.If there was one thing David knew about Philly boys, it was that you could never get them to stop yapping even if krauts were peppering them in an empty field. He was unsettled by not hearing Babe’s squeaking, weird little giggles or Bill’s cartoonish cackling carrying on the wind. Honest to God, it didn’t even feel much like Easy anymore. No Luz attempting what had to be the worst British accent he’d ever heard or Toye bitching about whatever new thing had popped into his head. None of Muck trying out an hour's worth of garish standup while Penkala and Malarkey giggled like prepubescent hyenas. Just empty uniforms and the stench of stale cigarette smoke remained.

Tracking down Lipton was a welcome distraction, as were the multiple near-death experiences on his way to the abandoned house he was posted up in. Something downright neurotic in him took comfort in the return of the bone rattling violence. Even as he was forced to dive away from a near-direct hit, which sent stabbing hot pains through his thigh, his heart soared with a sick kind of glee at the taste of dirt in his mouth. This solidified that he was really, truly back in the fight; it was as terrifying as it was liberating.

Lt. Speirs previously from Dog Company and Lipton signed David’s execution by reconfirming that, yes, he was being reassigned to 2nd platoon. And, as a bonus, he’d acquired a squeaky clean West Pointer to babysit! Oh joy. Well, at least by comparison, David no longer felt so much like a replacement. The moment he’d laid eyes on that fancy graduation ring, he was filled with a perverse sense of relief. Oh, the toccoa boys are sure gonna have a field day with you, Lieutenant Jones. David felt like a little kid who’d desperately joined in on hazing the new kid, all in the vain hopes that the other boys might pick on him a little less.

Any sort of relief David was feeling vanished as he faced down his former friend’s critical gazes, bitterness radiating off them in thick, rolling waves. Wordlessly, he tossed his bag unto an empty upper bunk, and took a deep breath before turning back to the men.

“This seat taken?”

For some reason, that had Ramirez chuckling and had Chuck swearing and rolling his eyes. Everyone in the little huddle swung their gazes over to Liebgott, who seemingly always had something to say, especially for Webster. He fidgeted anxiously as Joe took his sweet time sucking on his Lucky Strike like a popsicle, blowing a stream of smoke out of pursed, cherry lips so slowly that David dug his nails into his uninjured thigh.

“They’re all fuckin taken, Web. This look like a fuckin presidential fuckin suite to you? I know you’re so used to yer cushy hospital digs what with big canned nurses shaking their tits in your face-“

He walked away before he’d even heard the end of Joe’s rant, dripping with acidic hatred that made the blood in David’s ears ring. He knew if he stood around any longer that he’d punch Joe right in his handsome, artfully carved goddamned face. And as badly as Joe wanted it, he wasn’t the enemy right now.

Far fucking from it actually.

****

David could feel drying blood underneath his fingernails as he stumbled back into the dilapidated house, wondering if it were Kraut blood or Jackson’s. His head leant against the side of his/not his bunk with a dull thud that didn’t even register. Mentally, he was still kneeling by Jackson’s side, framing the sides of the boy’s head with his fingers as he pleaded for the kid to calm down. He’d told Jackson it was gonna be okay, that everything would be fine once Doc showed up. But jokes on them; Doc had shown up and Jackson was dead, dead, dead.

He repeated it aloud when they were quietly asked about the mission’s “success”. The mission’s fucking SUCCESS; god David had to laugh. Two German prisoners captured sure, but it felt like a monumental fucking loss from where he was standing. 20 fucking years old…

“Yeah we heard.”

Came Joe’s voice, breaking through the haze of blood and shouting and gunpowder. It was surprisingly gentle, softer than he could ever recall hearing him speak before. And for some reason that is what nearly made David crumple. Not watching a kid begging to live, not listening to McClung tearfully screaming and pointing a shaking sidearm at the German’s heads, just Joe Fucking Liebgott not treating him like a smear on the treads of his government issued boots for once. Quietly, David excuses himself, walked casually to the ransacked bathroom, and violently puked up bile until he couldn’t even feel the muscles in his throat.

A few hours of shaking and vomiting later, and he shuffled in the pitch black room towards the bunk beds. Blindly, he made sure to step as lightly as possible (which was quite a feat for the heavy-footed man), and reached out with searching fingers for his bed. The moment fingertips made contact with scratchy, piling sheets, David hauled his weary body on to the mattress, only to be met by the sensation of something sharp digging into his side. For one crazed moment, he thought he’d stabbed himself with a bayonet that wasn’t on his person, and his hand trembled as he flickered his lighter on expecting to see crimson staining through his jacket. Honestly, he’d have preferred the sight of him slowly bleeding out to what he did see bathed in the orangey dim light.

Half moon eyelashes so dark and thick they looked like ink blots curved against moonbeam cheekbones. Thin, dark eyebrows not scrunched down in irritation for once, and a smooth forehead oddly absent of worry lines. And of course, chapped but also sinfully flushed-looking lips, thin but shapely, barely parted and emitting sweet sighs. Liebgott, with his ridiculously bony elbows jabbing into his ribs he was so close, looking like a goddamned Rembrandt. Too stunned to speak (or even breathe), he gently grasped Joe’s elbow (“ Christ, so fragile; felt like it might snap if he wasn’t careful”) with the intention of putting some space between them. Cherubic, slumbering Lieb had other ideas, apparently, because the second David started to apply pressure, skinny little fingers were suddenly clutching his bicep and hauling David closer. Mary, Mother of Jesus , it took everything in him not to scream as the unconscious bane of his existence wrapped himself around David with all four of his sinewy limbs.

He whipped his head to the side fearfully as sleeping Joe wedged his thigh between David’s with such a kittenish little sigh it made David’s face flush neon. Small mercies, all of the other men were slumbering, albeit restlessly. Upon second glance, actually, David was relieved to see he wasn’t the only one sharing a bunk. Heffron lay curled up small and sad on Chuck’s big, barrel chest, but there was something distinctly platonic about the pair somehow. Unlike the little wriggling motions that Joe was using to systematically ensure David’s early grave.

He double, then triple checked that the slighter man was actually asleep and not fucking with David’s head in the most goddamned insane fashion imaginable as bony, calloused fingers knot themselves into his dog tags with a white-knuckled grip. This had to be a joke, or a hallucination. Maybe he’d been hit by some wayward shrapnel and he was actually bleeding out on the bank like that kraut.

David couldn’t have imagined this even in his four-month stockpile of wet dreams, which Joe had increasingly intruded upon (read: starred in). In those, it was never this based in reality. Usually it was just snapshots: a long, arcing throat with rather specific scarring; the sharpest and deepest Cupid’s bow lips he’d ever seen wrapping themselves around an insult (amongst other things). Dark, bottomless eyes half lidded and digging all the way to David’s core. A scratchy, hissing drawl: “And whattaya gonna do about it, Web?”

Actually feeling the faint press of those lips through the fabric of his t-shirt and those gorgeous, dark waves tickling the side of his throat made his head spin in a feverish haze. Not to mention the thin, surprisingly-muscular thigh that was occasionally flexing right up against David’s crotch. For the first time, he was thankful for the sharp stinging of his still-tender wound, as he was sure it was the only thing keeping his body from betraying him. Though, again, the downright coquettish way Liebgott was sighing in his ear was trying awful hard to overcome that hurdle. Blue eyes stared their own makeshift skylights into the slatted roof above their heads as David tried to freeze every muscle in his body completely. After the disaster of a patrol, he’d been pretty certain he wouldn’t be sleeping that night. But this little unconscious stunt of Joe’s had absolutely guaranteed that.

David woke up the next morning half expecting rust coating the back of his throat as Joe shoved his bayonet down it, or perhaps to the sight of the tendons in those skinny arms flexing as he strung David up from the nearest tree. Instead, David woke up shivering in an empty bed feeling oddly lonely. For 24 years, he had woken up in a bed by himself, but this is the first time it had felt wrong.

Carefully, he shifted himself into a sitting position and tried to shake the feeling of phantom knuckles brushing against his chest, and warm, moist air wetting his throat from lips that were no longer there. Christ, what was happening to him? Still feeling half asleep, he turned his head and was pinned in place by a bewildering sight:

"C'est bon, mon garçon, ça va. C'était un accident ... juste un accident."

Had he not had such a distinctive, thick accent, David would’ve found it hard to believe that was Doc pressed so close to Heffron. Sleep-hazy eyes watched, transfixed, as cracked, pale lips pressed sweet french notions into the crown of Babe’s trembling, red-brown hair. Babe’s gangly, long-limbed body was curled up impressively small, with what appeared like all of his weight pressing down on Gene’s chest. The medic, for all of his scrawny stature, hardly seemed to mind having his back flattened to the mattress by his fellow paratrooper. Dark blue eyes shone with so much love, it rattled David to his core. Did the two of them not know David was still in here with them? Weren’t they terrified of being court marshalled, or worse? His skin tingled, feeling starved for the ghost of Liebgott’s skin on his, as his gaze tracked Roe’s fingers carding through Babe’s thin locks. The two men were so tightly pressed together from chest to toes that they melded into one being. And just when David felt like his reality couldn’t resemble more of a fever dream, something impossible happened.

“Regarde-moi, ange.” Doc rumbled in a low, sleep-scratchy voice before slowly moving one palm up to cup Babe’s chin. And then, as though it were nothing, suddenly they were kissing. And the way the duo kissed, searching and deep….that didn’t look like the first time they’d done that before. His cheeks flushed when a soft, sweet little moan slid out of those pressing lips-he wasn’t sure which. Okay, so now David was almost positive Doc hadn’t spotted his sleeping form across from Babe’s bunk. He decided to take pity on the guys; this was obviously a very private moment that David had no business seeing. Shifting his weight and clearing his throat, he sat up very gingerly so as not to startle the men too badly. In spite of his best efforts, he felt like a real bastard as he watched all the muscles in Babe’s back stiffen, the redhead ducking his face fearfully into the side of Gene’s neck. “For a grown man, Heffron was weirdly adorable.” David thought to himself absently, unable to connect the small, fragile boy with the sharpshooting killer on the battlefield.

Gene slowly turned to regard David with a calm, unaffected aire that confused and frightened the groggy young man. The stony faced medic shushed Babe’s faint fretting while those strong, capable hands rubbed paths through fluffy, auburn hair and down the other man’s back. Those dark-washed denim eyes continued to pierce David’s gaze all the while, as though threatening David to open his big, stupid mouth. Of course, David intended to do no such thing (his nighttime activities from last night really gave him no grounds to) and he tried his best to silently convey that in his face. His mother had always told him “his face said everything for him”, so hopefully he’d be able to recall that skillset. Something must’ve clicked, because he watched the icy stare thaw and soften ever so slightly. And then, then: the smug bastard had the gall to wink at him. Well, that certainly went to show David just how threatening Doc Roe found him!

Once he’d scrambled out of the house with still-wrinkled ODs and a truly wild look in his blue eyes, David had been kind of counting on Joe not being anywhere near him. In his mind’s eye, he imagined the slighter man brooding in some distant alleyway all by his lonesome, smoking like a coal train with that patented scowl on his face. ‘ Probably brainstorming how best to kill me slowly and painfully…’ He thought stormily, feeling his stomach twisting yet again. He wasn’t sure why the thought bothered him so much; it’s not like that would be out-of-character or even unlikely that Joe had not been doing that from the minute they’d met. But somehow...after what they’d shared last night… the thought stung something fierce. This was what was swirling through David’s head as he clomped through Haganeu, startled out of his thoughts by bumping roughly into Martin.

“Webster, you gotta be pullin’ my leg. After that shit you pulled the other day?” The shorter man looked-okay, well, he always looked pissed, but this was a special brand of vinegar that made him itch to immediately cry uncle.

“Aw, Christ, sir. I’m terribly sorry, honestly, sir. I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going…”

“Clearly,” Johnny scoffed, but to David’s surprise, his tone softened as he mumbled, “Well, I’m guessing you probably didn’t get much sleep last night. I...I didn’t sleep a wink.”

He blinked dumbly at Martin’s abrupt change of heart. Sympathetic words from virtually anybody (but especially Srg. Martin) were so unfamiliar to him that they almost didn’t register to him. Tears threatened to prickle ludicrously at what might’ve been the only show of kindness David had yet to receive since he’d been cleared to go back, and he shook them off so he could offer Martin a respectful nod.

“I mean, if I said yes, that’d mean I was disobeying Major Winter’s direct orders.” He smiled cheekily, also feeling a bit of a rush addressing Dick by his new title. Inside, he wriggled and preened like a puppy when Martin replied with a faint grin of his own. With a faux-exasperated huff, Johnny reached up and rustled David’s mop of wavy, bed-messy hair before moving past him with a shake of his head.

The brief interaction made David feel a bit lighter, no longer feeling so weighed down by what he knew was coming: a complete and utter shitstorm. Just then, a nasally, california drawl spiked his eardrums; as if his thoughts had summoned the bastard!

“No, no, see, Bobby COULD get with any chick ‘e wanted to, but he’s a lil bitch!”

Oh goodie; Joe appeared to be in yet another scintillating conversation. David couldn’t quite make out Chuck’s reply, but he most definitely heard Joe’s:

“You daydrinkin’ or somethin’, Chuckie?! Iceman’s like, the most badass one! Cyclops is just posturing! He’s a goddamned nerd!”

Okay, so maybe David was struck slightly that Liebgott even knew what the word ‘posturing’ meant. And that surprise must’ve registered in his face as he did his best to inch past the cluster of 2nd platoon boys, because Ramirez suddenly called out:

“Somethin’ wrong, Webster?” with a mean, little smirk that had Grant rolling his eyes. David had always appreciated how little Srg. Grant tolerated the rest of his platoon’s relentless pestering of David. Not enough to speak up on his behalf, of course. After all, David was pretty sure that Joe was his best friend aside from maybe Talbert.

Liebgott’s eyes slowly swung over to acknowledge his presence, and David flinched in preparation for the barrage of insults he was sure were heading his way. Both parties had stopped walking, everyone apart from David and Joe shifting in slight discomfort as the staredown continued.

“You look like shit, Harvard.” Joe offered finally before bodily knocking his shoulder with David’s. And this one was purposeful.

The group marched on, gravel crunching beneath their feet in the silence while David stood frozen in the same spot. W-what? That was it? Joe wasn’t even going to-to acknowledge what they’d done?? No, fuck that, what JOE had done to HIM! It wasn’t exactly like David had crawled into Joe’s bunk and-and….

Oh.

Well, it was kind of like that. But, still! He’d been more than willing to leave and sleep on the frigid basement flooring, but then Joe had started rubbing and sighing and had latched onto David’s arm! Yeah...held him captive...with his slumber-sweet breath and surprisingly petal-soft skin. Jesus Christ, what was he kidding himself? Truth was, they were both at fault here, but only one of them had done so consciously. Did Liebgott think he was some sort of perverted creep now? God, he really wished that Joe had at least made some mention as to his feelings on the situation. Perhaps if he could manage to get the stubborn guy alone.

David saw his chances and took it after Dick had informed them that they wouldn’t have to do a second patrol that night, snagging Joe by that sharp, little elbow on his way out the door. He ignored the look of unfiltered disgust on Joe’s face for the time being, swallowing his nerve before he had a fucking heart attack.

“Joe, can we talk? Please?

He pleaded softly, ignoring how Babe was openly staring at them both as he brushed past them. The tips of his ears and high planes of his cheeks flushed at the sudden reminder that Babe knew . What made it worse was Joe’s gaze tracking the color as it spread across David’s face; he seemed unaware that he was even doing it.

“Why should I listen to anything you have to say, Web?” The question came out choked up, and obviously not as vicious as intended.

Rather than replying, he simply tugged on Joe’s arm and ushered him away from where Nixon and Winters were still idly watching the interaction. The pair shuffled into a nearby alleyway, and David bit his lip, struggling not to comment on how easily he was able to move Joe around. That undoubtedly would set him off, and cause Joe to storm off before they’d even had a chance to talk.

Instead, he let go of Joe’s arm hastily, and shifted so that his weight was pressing along the brick wall opposite him. Something on Joe’s face shuttered for a half-second, but his expression smoothed over into what he probably thought looked like apathy. Again, David fought off a smile; Joe’s face was always like an open book, and the older man never seemed to not be smouldering over some little thing. Maybe he was going insane, but David had always found it weirdly cute. If he wanted to really ensure his death, he might’ve even gone ahead and referred to it as a pout. That’s what it was really; Liebgott was never not pouting .

“The fuck ‘r you smilin’ for?”

Oops, guess he’d failed. He wiped the grin off bodily with his palm and tried affecting an air of seriousness. Clearing his throat, his sky blue eyes rolled heavenwards as he searched for the right phrasing:

“I wanted to...apologize, for my actions the other night. It was inappropriate of me-”

Joe prickled instantly: “Jesus- don’t you talk to me like I’m some skirt, Webster! I-you, it’s not like you took my innocence or-”

He seemed to register the words he was saying and his mouth shut with an audible clack. And David watched in fascination as Joe Liebgott blushed like an embarrassed little boy, shuffling his feet and looking away from him. He’d always thought a healthy flush looked particularly fetching on pale skin, the rosy color bloomed oh so beautifully, in his opinion at least. He continued to watch in baffled silence as Joe began to babble to fill the quiet:

“Not that- I’m not- and you, you didn’t… we didn’t- Look, nothing happened! Okay?”

His ears got much redder than the rest of his face, and David let himself think it freely now. Cute . It was fucking endearing, the way Joe continued to huff and puff, brown eyes fluttering around the dirty alley. He felt a surge of warmth in his chest, feeling perhaps a little gluttonous as he soaked in the way dark brown locks shone in the dimming sunlight. With Joe refusing to acknowledge David’s existence, he was free to admire the man to his heart's content, appreciative that he was here in the flesh.

A sharp, defined collarbone peeked out of Joe’s jacket where the hem had gone askew, and long, pretty fingers toyed with his dog tags subconsciously. His memory recalled how those fingers felt: not rough, like he’d expect of a man so used to heavy artillery, but soft as silk. David recognized, obviously, that Joe was plenty manly. He acted with far too much aggression and seemed to compulsively throw his weight around (not that he had much to speak of). But physically, there seemed to be a disconnect. Joseph Liebgott had been sculpted into a thin, delicate form that clashed harshly with his mean attitude and meaner words. Call a spade a spade, but Joe was pretty . Handsome, sure, but pretty was more accurate. Pretty evoked images of sculptures and artwork to David; something finely crafted and meant to be….

To be appreciated.

“Do you have any memory…? Of anything you did last night?” Anger quickly bled into concern across Liebgott’s delicate features, much to David’s confusion:

“Do? Shit, David, I...I didn’t do somethin’ stupid, did I? ‘S that what’s got you all upset?”

Wait, what? Now Joe thought he’d-ugh- taken David’s innocence?!? Any fondness he had for the shorter faded into irritation. God, he could be thick sometimes! He fought the urge to shake Joe, less inclined to fall through with this now that he knew how easily he could push Joe around. Hypothetically, of course. Although…

“Wha- I’m not upset, Joe!”

“The fuck you’re not!”

“But, really, I’m not-”

“You’re shoutin’ in my face, Webster! Clearly, something’s got yer panties in a bunch!”

He could feel his face heating up as his anger built, ticking upwards the more they shouted at one another:

“My p- You know what? Fine, yes, I am upset! Because you refuse to talk to me about what happened!”

“NOTHIN’-”

“WE SHARED A FUCKING BED, JOE!”

Joe surged forward anxiously and covered David’s mouth with his palm, and oh, touching was so much worse. In his haste, Joe’s body was pressing into his own from chest to thigh, and David tasted the acrid nicotine tang and salt of his fingers. As Joe hissed in a tense, barely-audible voice, their noses nearly brushed.

“Are you trying to get us both shot?? Shut the fuck up with that shit!”

He waited patiently until Joe finally removed his hand before saying: “So, you do acknowledge that something happened.”

He practically felt Joe holding himself back from smacking him, but David didn’t back down. Once more leaning his head back against the bricks, he stuck out his chin pointedly and kept his lips pressed together. Quick, clever eyes took in the picture of defiance he made, and something shifted in Joe. They landed on his lips heavily, blatantly, and David felt the backs of his knees starting to sweat. A sly, wide smirk stretched across Joe’s full mouth that made David feel small somehow, but he couldn’t tell if he hated that as much as he ought to. They were already so close, but Joe shifted his weight so that both sides were pressing him back into the rough, dirty wall rather than just the one. He could only follow along helplessly as he watched Joe’s hand come up to cage him in on the sides of his head, and what the holy hell was going on??

“So, what if we did? Hm, David? Would that upset you, if I did remember?”

He scoffed but it sounded weak even to his own ears, “Yeah right, Lieb. You were asleep.”

Joe hummed, pressing impossibly closer, until he could feel just the barest scrape of chapped lips up against his own, near-black eyes boring holes into David that shone with a delicious mischievousness that had him shivering:

“Guess you’ll never know!” He said brightly, pulling away like he hadn’t pasted himself to David’s whole body with ease, and with a wink, he was gone.

#bobtogether #bobfic2020 #webgott #band of brothers fanfic #...can yall tell just how badly I simp for Lieb istg #also COUNT how my frickin times i refer to him as DELICATE i hate meself #emma writes

19 notes · View notes

upstartpoodle · 5 years

Note

Hi! I don’t know if this really applies to the AU ask meme, but how about George and Dwight in either of these AU scenarios...a) George's presence at Nampara is noticed, after his escape from Trenwith, and he's taken in and given medical attention, or b) Dwight visits George at an institution after Cary reluctantly has him committed - Dwight, of course, will rescue George from this awful fate. I'm not very good at these ask memes, but your writing is so good and I'm a big fan. Thank you! : D

Hi! Thank you for these! First of all, I’m really glad that you enjoy my writing! I just wanted to let you know that I am working on the request that you sent me a while back, but unfortunately it’s got quite long and I don’t have a huge amount time for writing atm because of work. Hopefully I’ll be able to get on with it properly once the Christmas craziness is over, if not beforehand.

In the meantime, I hope both of these are alright. Since they’re both over a thousand words apiece, I think it’s safe to say that I was fairly liberal with the three sentence rule, but eh, they’re there to be broken ha :P. Since, they’re both a) long, b) angsty and c) have references to suicide and canon levels of mistreatment of a character suffering from a mental illness I’m going to bung them under the cut so as not to take over anyone’s dash.

The first thing Dwight thought upon seeing him there, pale and wan, dressed in nought but a thin, white nightshirt, was that he looked like a ghost. Later, when reflecting back upon the incident, the good doctor could only be grateful that he had reacted not as most men would upon seeing such an apparition, and freeze in their chair, shocked, and instead leapt from his comfortable place beside the hearth and rushed out into the gloaming that the source of his concern was rapidly retreating into. A call of the man’s name made his quarry falter in his progress, just enough for Dwight to catch up with him, and take him firmly but gently by the shoulders, turning him about to face him.

George startled under his touch, drawing back as much as the hands holding him in place would allow. Even in the low light of dusk, Dwight could see that he seemed very unwell. His skin bloodless, dark shadows pooling beneath his eyes, his curls dishevelled by the wind, he was a far cry from the neat, fastidious George Warleggan whom he was accustomed to seeing in public. Frowning, he glanced down at the man’s elegant, long-fingered hands, the tips of which had come to rest lightly upon his biceps upon being grabbed. His wrists, he noticed, had been rubbed red and raw, the skin having broken and bled in places.

“Might I ask…what it is that has happened?,” Dwight spoke, trying to keep his tone as low and as soothing as possible. If it had been Ross who had noticed him, he might have been inclined to demand answers of his long-time rival with no regard to the roughness of his manner, but there was a wildness in George’s eyes—born of pain and horror and an utter desperation which he would never have expected to see on the face of such a man—that told the doctor that what he needed was kindness and patience, not an interrogation. “Your uncle said at Killewarren that you had gone north on business.”

“He didn’t want anybody to know” George replied faintly—so faintly that, for a moment, Dwight thought he had imagined it. He frowned at the words, trying to discern their meaning. What was it that Cary hadn’t wanted anybody to know? Whatever it was, the words suggested that the man had attempted to keep it a secret—perhaps by informing any who enquired after his nephew that he was away on a matter of business, far enough away that they might accept the explanation without complaint? But why would he be so concerned that nobody question George’s absence? Whatever had happened, it was clearly something that the man had felt would harm the Warleggans’ reputation among their peers. A sudden memory came forth, unbidden, of overhearing Dr Penrose sneering at his proposed methods for the treatment of lunacy at Killewarren, of Cary’s response of “proven, you say?” in that odd, indecipherable tone, and the pair of them skulking away from the gathering afterwards. Then he thought of the state George had been reduced to in the wake of Elizabeth’s death, of the injuries on his wrists that looked all too much like the marks left from having been restrained. The pieces were beginning to come together in his mind, and he swallowed convulsively at the disturbing picture they painted.

“Know what?,” he asked, trying to keep his tone as gentle as possible. “What did he not want anybody to know?”

George’s right hand moved cautiously, timidly, to grasp at the lapel of his coat, but even as he held onto him, Dwight could feel him trying to shy away from the touch on his shoulders. There was something of a wounded creature about him—not unlike an injured bird that he had once stumbled across in the woods as a child—that was caught between clinging to some faint hope of further salvation and cringing away from the possibility of further pain. He made no attempt to answer the question, simply lowering his eyes to the ground, despair and exhaustion beginning to dampen the panic in his gaze. Dwight’s frown deepened as he took the sight of him. Whatever it was that had happened to him that day—whether his suspicions were correct or not—it was clear that the man was in severe need of both rest and the attention of a physician. Getting to the truth of the matter, that could wait a while longer.

“Will you come inside?,” he asked instead. “It is cold out here, and I should like to examine your injuries.”

That caught George’s attention. He shook his head, but his misery and tiredness somewhat dulled the vehemence of the action.

“No, I shan’t— I— Not with him—”

His speech was disordered at best, but Dwight knew well enough to whom he was referring.

“Ross shall not bother you if you wish to be let alone,” he assured. “I shall not allow it. But please, at least come inside to the warmth if nothing else. You shall catch your death out here.”

At this, George raised his gaze to stare up at him, a look of such hopelessness in his eyes that Dwight could hardly bear to meet them. A moment passed before he spoke again, faint and dull and deadened.

“Would it matter?”

It took all of Dwight’s willpower to repress the instinct to draw in a sharp breath at those words. Surely, he could not have heard correctly, or must have misunderstood the meaning behind them? And yet the look in the man’s eyes, haunted and despairing and lost, told him that he had made no mistake in that regard. It was this that worried him more than anything he had seen so far—George was as resilient and as stubborn a man as Ross in his own way, after all, and to think that he had been beaten down and broken into this – this shell… But he could not afford to dwell on that now, not when the man—so very fragile, so vulnerable in comparison to the haughty, aloof figure he usually struck in society—held carefully in his grasp was so clearly in need of help, of care. He was even more convinced of his course of action now—whatever Ross might say in protest, he could not let him out of his sight, could not risk leaving that little boy inside and his poor baby sister fatherless.

“It would matter to Valentine,” he replied softly, desperately hoping that the reminder would be enough to persuade him. “To Ursula. It would matter to your children.”

George stared up at him.

“My children” he murmured, and for just a brief moment, a little light found its way back into his eyes. Dwight tried his best to smile, nodding in encouragement.

“Yes, your children,” he said. “If not for your own sake, will you not come inside for theirs? Nobody shall do you any harm here. I only wish to help you—that, I promise you.”

“Help?” The word was spoken as if the concept were a foreign one, something he could barely ever imagine being extended to the likes of him. Dwight nodded again, slow and deliberate.

“Yes,” he replied. “Will you allow it?”

George lowered his gaze again, words having seemingly escaped him. Dwight thought that he felt a slight lessening of the tension in his shoulders, however, a lessening in resistance, and so, one arm held about his back and the other moving to take one of his limp hands in his grip, he started leading him gently back towards Nampara.

“Come,” Dwight said again as they headed back towards the threshold of the house; George made no move to stop him, head bowed in resignation. “Come and sit beside the fire. I shall tend to your injuries, and then perhaps you might tell me to me what has happened.”

He had given up on counting the days shortly after he had arrived at this awful place—days, weeks, months; he knew not how long he had been trapped here, when he had barely any measure of time to cling to, each moment blurred together in a haze of misery, of isolation, and restraints, and what the loathsome Dr Penrose had once cited as “the necessary application of discipline to lessen the grip of animal spirits upon the afflicted”. He had given up on resisting too, as much as it stung what little of his pride remained—such attempts achieved nothing but to earn himself rougher treatment, and it was hardly as if there were anywhere he could have escaped to even if they had been successful. Instead, he had allowed himself to be taken over by a kind of quiet, almost docile despair, of which he faintly supposed that his former self would have been ashamed, but that his current self could not find a way to claw himself out of.

He received no visitors, save for the men whom that thin sliver of pride did not quite allow him to think of as his keepers. His uncle did not come, no matter how much he prayed for release from this terrible prison, for him to step through the door and tell him that he could go home at long last. Nor did he see the children—his Valentine, his Ursula, who were now alone in the world without him—but that was only to be expected. He did not wish them to see this place—this place where no innocent should belong.

He didn’t see Elizabeth anymore, either.

His muddled thoughts told him that that was only natural—Elizabeth had no place here; she belonged where there was light and happiness, not darkness and misery. He had been told by others, however, that she had died. Though he did not wish to believe it—could not, when she had spoken to him, had been there and alive, he was sure, before these four walls and— But he had begun to suspect that something terrible truly must have happened to her, for if she were alive and well, then why had she stood by and allowed this fate to befall him? Surely she would have intervened, would have protested the decision had she been able? Surely, she would not have allowed Dr Penrose to even pass through the doors of Trenwith had she any inkling of what he would do to him, and what he would set in motion with is wicked treatments.

But Elizabeth had not come to his aid. Nobody had, least of all Uncle Cary, who had stood by and permitted ever ounce of pain, fear and humiliation that the man had beaten into him. His vague recollections dredged up memories of begging him, more and more desperately with each day that passed, to send the doctor away, but all of his pleas had fallen upon deaf ears. In the end, it had been the unwitting actions of one of the maids, who, in undoing his shackles just enough to allow him to escape their harsh grip, had given him some small semblance of freedom to do what must be done. With the door to his bedchamber locked fast, his only recourse had been the laudanum which he had found at Elizabeth’s dressing table, enough, he had hoped, to send him into permanent sleep from which Dr Penrose and his wretched methods would not be sufficient to revive him. In the end, it had not been enough, and he had woken to snatches of conversation (“what am I to do? I cannot—”, “I fear that your nephew remaining here only…”, “what…nobody must know of this”, “fear not…discreet places which…know of such an institution at which…committed…”) that his overwrought mind had not been able to latch onto the significance of as he drifted restlessly in and out of consciousness. Then, before he could fully understand what was happening to him, he had been taken away from Trenwith, away from his home, his family, and into this…hell.

Sometimes he wondered if that were precisely what the confines of this room was, that he truly had died before the doctor could intervene, and that this were his very own place in Hell. There were times—in dark moments where he thought he might drown in despair—where he believed it with such conviction that he thought it could be the only possible explanation for why he had been left to rot here, for then at least he had not been abandoned to this place whilst living, if not well. It was of great surprise to him, therefore, when, some undefined time into his confinement, he was graced with his first and only visitor, and was forced, rather abruptly, to re-evaluate the likeliness of his theory. He could not think of a single thing, after all, which Dr Dwight Enys could have done to be deserving of damnation.

“George” the doctor said, his tone soft, his movements slow as he stepped through the door to his room and came to crouch before the chair in which he had been placed, wrists shackled to its arms, earlier that day, akin to the way one might attempt to approach an injured animal, likely to startle and panic at any moment. George stared at him, not daring to believe the evidence of his own eyes. Perhaps this was just a phantom of his strained mind, longing to find some sort of relief from his imprisonment. It was hardly as if the man had ever cared very much for him—how could he, when he was such a close friend to Ross? And it that case, why on earth should he be here now?

“D-Dr Enys?” he stammered, his voice hoarse and faint from screaming and crying and the long silences in-between. He half-wished that he hadn’t sounded so uncertain, so hesitant, but the rest of him, caught between a tentative hope that this might just be real, that the kindly doctor might really be here, might really be of a mind to help him, and the urge to quash that hope, unable to deal with the crushing misery that would undoubtedly come if it proved false, could not bring himself to care, as he once might have done, about how he appeared to this possible figment of his imagination.

“Yes,” the apparition said. One hand reached out towards the strap which held down his left wrist. George started at the action, trying, instinctively, fruitlessly, to jerk away from the unexpected touch. Dr Enys retreated carefully upon seeing his alarm, palms raised upwards in an attempt to calm him. “It’s alright. I shan’t hurt you.”

He moved forward again, slowly and cautiously; the way one might try to free a fox caught in a snare. George froze at his approach this time, watching his movements with wide, wary eyes. He fought the urge to flinch as fingers—real, solid fingers—brushed briefly against his skin as the man took hold of the strap. Then, with careful—real, real—deliberation, he eased the restraint from its fastening—real, really happening—and undid it entirely.

“Wh—?” George stared down at his freed wrist, not quite able to comprehend what was happening. He lifted his gaze to meet Dwight’s, the look in his eyes raw and bewildered and, despite everything his experience of this place was telling him, ever so slightly hopeful. “Wha—? Why are—?”

But Dr Enys’ attention had already turned to his other wrist. George focused on the sensation of the unyielding leather’s cruel bite lessening as the strap was loosened and pulled away—that, at least, felt genuine, tangible, not some cruel trick which his mind was playing on him. Both his wrists freed from his shackles, the doctor turned back to him, one hand held out for him to take.

“Come,” he said. “I am here to take you home.”

There was an earnestness in his voice that made George think that, if he truly were a figment of his imagination, then his imagination must be a very evil thing indeed. The hope which he had been trying so hard to suppress suddenly soared into his chest, so that he could not speak, could barely breathe. There were vague memories in his head of a time before all this, of a little Valentine tugging him along by the hand as he chased dragonflies by the pond, of his baby daughter, so tiny in his arms, as he asked what they would call her, and of her—Elizabeth, oh, Elizabeth—

“Home?” he asked, his voice cracked, barely audible, the word so bizarre on his tongue, as if it had lost all meaning to him. Dwight nodded and, when George made no move to take the hand offered to him, reached out and grasped his left very gently in his own, a determination in his eyes that almost made him believe that this really was real, that he really would soon be free.

“Yes, home. And I promise you, once we have left here, I shall ensure that you never need lay eyes on this place ever again.”

Send me a character and an AU and I’ll write you a fic

#poldark #poldark fic #dwight enys #george warleggan #poldark au #asks #fic #my fic #fic prompt #ticketybooser

15 notes · View notes

mariellewritesalot · 5 years

Text

Notes on the Romantic Narrative

As an homage to my favorite film of all-time “Silver Linings Playbook” finally being on Netflix, and a coping mechanism to everything I’ve been feeling as of late: I am writing to you about some musings I’ve been making and breaking for the past few months. About love, or lack thereof, in my life.

First, to give you an image of how I pay attention to detail in life and movies, I will start with a few reasons why I love this gem despite the huge changes they made on screen vis-à-vis the novel: 1) It portrayed mental illnesses in a way that didn’t feel pushy or overly-romanticized: healing is not linear, 2) Pat’s character development throughout the film was the epitome of his motto (and mine), “Excelsior”, 3) I love how the story sort of revolved around the Eagles and football to anchor the heaviness of the entire plot line, 4) The casting!!! I mean, wow, and 5) It makes you believe in silver linings, even in the safest sense of the idea, not too grand and definitely not perfect. Safe. Who could forget that scene where Pat runs after Tiffany with his letter? The relief we all felt knowing that her hard work and feelings were not for naught? If you haven’t seen it, I hope you have the time to. It’s a moving film, honestly.

Anyway, I digress. I am going to go personal in this bit and I might not like it, too. I am stating the obvious when I say that I am a hopeless romantic and that I tend to look at life in rose-colored glasses. Some probable reasons are because my parents have the kind of love story that really makes you believe in fate and second chances, plus the fact that I grew up with romantic films, songs, and books. I was sold to the fairy tale idea of happily ever afters despite the proof that it doesn’t apply to everyone in real life. I wanted my own story to tell. After all, I am a writer. I live for the things worth telling.

Nowadays, I also spend a lot of my time online where my timeline is bombarded with couples or romantic gestures, as if the algorithm is working against the realist in me. I can’t say I hate it, because one thing I get from this mindset is the tendency to highlight the good things, both in people or situations. The “too kind for my own good” complex. The only downside is that I may get disappointed more times than I should. It’s a tricky predicament if you think about it in my context: I grew up with mostly men in the house, in my own bubble, going through life thinking that somebody is going to sweep me off my feet, backed up by High School Musical films and the media pushing love teams down our throats...but then it hits me in real life as I grow older: movie moments do happen in real life, but they aren’t as common as they make it out to be, they’re the exception to the rule. They are as rare as they come.

Some of us aren’t as lucky.

In reality, when the hurt runs too deep, it feels almost impossible to rise above it. The hopeless romantic dies out and is replaced by a semi-angry realist, tired of how the world consistently proves that it moves in circles. They become someone who occasionally relapses into that romanticized haze every once in a while because it gets lonely. When you’ve fallen in love a few times in life, it’s hard not to expect yourself to fall into a trap, any moment now. The withdrawals grow stronger just when you’re starting to get the hang of things. It’s an exhausting ordeal, if you ask me, turning numb but knowing that you can’t shake off the romantic within when it resurfaces in the most inappropriate of moments.

I used to think that I’d be one of the lucky ones who meet the love of their life early on; someone who’s capable of being in a long-term relationship in college or maybe even after...and I still think I am, but maybe I haven’t met him yet. Maybe I have, but the timing is off or we just don’t know it until a little further down the road. Now I’ve been single for too long, and there is nothing wrong with it, just the fact that the trauma I went through has really soiled my chances of healing fast; more from the events than the actual person who did the hurting. Being here though, I am able to see how I am in a generation where #hugot culture is the norm, relationships are only as good as they are on social media, and 80% of young people are desperate to find love or at least a semblance of it. It’s nauseating, accidentally giving into the “sana all” culture and thinking I am incomplete if I don’t have someone who’s technically obligated to care for me, vice versa. I am not a fan of it, but it’s not exactly easy to exclude myself from a narrative I have been in for years. I wish it didn’t feel so off.

Because...hey, there are pros to being single. For starters: I am young. I don’t have to worry about it yet at least for the next ten years or so. I am not supposed to have the same timeline as other people. I can go to bed without worrying about somebody else. I don’t have to ask for anyone’s approval. I have more time for the things I love doing. I am not being emotionally abused or taken for granted or cheated on, which were common themes in my past relationships. It’s a treat, until I am once again hooked by the media I consume and made to think that there’s more to life than being alone.

Maybe it’s the fact that I spent half of this year trying to get over the one I thought was the love of my life, or how I’m spending the other half denying to myself that I may be having feelings for a person and consciously running away from them through various coping mechanisms I never thought I’d use. Love is a gray area right now because I don’t see myself being in a relationship anytime soon, but if I ever do, I’d want something serious. I love meeting new people right now, but at the same time, my comfort zone feels good. I find that it helps tone down my anxiety when I am in control. I’m proud of myself for choosing to navigate through life by my own right now, turning down people who want to become a part of it for my sake and theirs. I just have a lot on my plate. Although I do believe that I’ll never be ready. No one ever is, but I want to put my faith in timing. I just have to learn the ropes here first. I hate that everyone around me is rushing because I feel like I’m that person being squeezed into the middle of the crowd in a mosh pit. I am choosing to make sure I am a better person than I was first before I dive into it, head first.

So yeah. Lloyd Dobler is not going to blast In Your Eyes by Pete Gabriel on a boombox outside my bedroom window (though I’d love Closing Time by Semisonic more). Dylan Harper is not going to organize a flash mob to tell me he made a mistake. Patrick Verona is not going to hack into the school speakers and sing to me at the football field. Troy Bolton is not going to show up outside my window to apologize, armed with Margherita pizza and chocolate covered strawberries. Ted is not going to steal a blue french horn for me. Johnny Castle is not going to dance with me in front of everybody to prove our love. Chuck Bass is not going to buy me a ring and carry it around even when we aren’t together anymore, hoping for the chance to get me back. Augustus Waters is not going to show up with orange tulips and a trip to Amsterdam. Pat Soltano is not going to run after me with a love letter he wrote a week ago...and I’m okay with it. I don’t want to buy into the notion that I need saving, or that I can be swayed by gestures that can so easily be just a move to win me over with no follow-through. I don’t want to be put on a pedestal, anyway. Also...sometimes, it’s in the little things. We fall in love with the way people remember something we said to them months ago, the way they show up after a long day, and the way even the tiniest gestures feel so big it fills up everything else.

I feel like one day I’ll be given the love I deserve and I don’t have to yearn for movie scenes like the art geek I am. You see, what makes love stories unique is the fact that it happens when you least expect it. Grand romantic gestures are welcome, but they aren’t really the basis of how deep love could be. I could only hope to be with someone who speaks my love language or at least tries to understand it. Until then...I’ll keep relearning everything until I make sense of what I truly want out of love and its intricate mess of a web.

I’ll love; even without pretense, without hope or agenda, without expecting the universe to give me back everything like it owes me.

#daily life blog posts #romance #romantic movies #silver linings playbook #random thoughts #marielle fatima #mariellewritesalot #october 2019

10 notes · View notes

hithelleth · 5 years

Text

V Wars (S1)

Did I tell you all I watched V Wars? I did! It was last week when I was still in a recovery haze, which is actually the best time to watch things because you can’t be too bothered by details (and binging helps with that, too.)

It started so-so and then got better in some ways (and not in others.)

They sure as heck used a lot of women as props/for fridging:

Jess (mom-turned-monster, murdered),

Claire (suspect as to whether to be trusted, murdered upon finding out the answer was probably yes)

Rachel (mentally ill and therefore presented as an incompetent mom (figures!), although she then didn’t do a bad job in a crisis, as much as it was in her power)

and Sasha (the genuinely good politician who gets shoved away by the baddies, although at least I hope she’s still alive.)

Danika was interesting, although maybe not likeable, until she reconnected with ‘her man’ and then got completely watered down, wtf. Bit at least she hasn’t died. Yet.

I did like Mila’s whole vampire-who-hunts-vampires stick.

Ava? IDK, at least she was consistent and made sense. I get that she and co. would align themselves with a leader who promised them power and freedom. That’s an understandable choice. Even if I don’t like it. Both because of Michael and because I loathe Niklos with passion. (Also, IDK how I feel about her aligning with the same person who was until then spearheading the project of eliminating them. I would need a rewatch to sort it out, but I am not going to. )

Uh, the men.

It’s hard to really be into a show,when the main protagonist is… it’s not that he isn’t likeable, he sometimes is, he sometimes isn’t. My biggest problem with Luther is that he is dumb a lot of times — or the show is dumb — except when it serves the plot that he isn’t. Then again that is a problem a lot of shows have: making characters serve the plot regardless of characterisation.

Anyway, I was this close to quitting when the dumbass was in the middle of the court with all the media present and didn’t think of just outing the bad guys threatening him — but, thankfully he then wizened up and grew a pair and did it. It was the peak of the show, IMO.

Of course, the whole testimony was rigged to fail, so there was that.

There were also other dumb things in the show like conveniently forgetting being bugged and watched and listened to and only remember it when it served the plot (again!).

And why didn’t Sasha secure her own security team to be loyal to her/protect her no matter the orders? Oh, right, because she was the stereotypical naive good guy trusting the system and justice and all.

(Speaking of, Michael was also dumb and naive in this way.)

Which brings me to the thing I disliked the most: the whole shady government being shady and way too reminiscent of current USA governmental issues, I guess in a not-so-subtle way. Obviously, fiction reflects reality, but I like it better when it’s less in-the-face about it.

Oh, and, I liked Michael. (Figures!) Is he dead now? Maybe not? I hope not?

And Dez was okay. It’s often hit-and-miss with kid characters, but this kid was not annoying, not too dumb, just what a child would be like, so, yeah, I’m cool with him. I wonder what they’ll do with the trauma he had to go through in S2, though.

I think they already renewed it?

Anyway, this turned out way more negative than I intended, because the show was entertaining to keep me watching – especially the second half when it got better.

I missed dealing with more moral questions and explaining some details. For example, we know from what Sasha said that about a third of vamps turned to feeding from blood bags or loved ones, but we mostly just saw carnage and everyone hating vamps – I’d like to see that not just being told in a line.

And I’d like to see how Danika figured she can’t feed on people she doesn’t care about and how the toxin works.

Or Mila’s development from surviving to becoming a vampire hunter – we only saw her die and the next thing she was shanking vamps: what about the inbetween stages and reasoning?

I know this show is based on books, so maybe these things are dealt with in more detail in those and the creators expected us to be familiar with them already. I am not sure if I’m going to read them, though.

I do, however, intend to watch S2, because there are things I want to find out, so the show is at least good enough for that. ;)

#V Wars #v wars meta #my meta: v wars #i've forgotten a ton by now but still #also here there be spoilers for those who haven't seen it yet

3 notes · View notes

blankdblank · 6 years

Text

Please Stop - Fili/Kili Prompt Request

Took a bit of a twist in this one.

…

Tags –

@himoverflowers, @theincaprincess, @aspiringtranslator, @sweeticedtea, @ggbbhehe4455, @thegreyberet, @patanghill17, @jesgisborne, @curvestrology, @alishlieb, @jogregor, @armitageadoration, @fizzyxcustard, @here2have-fun, @lilith15000, @marvels-ghost, @catthefearless, @imjusthereforthereads, @c-s-stars, @abiwim, @jotink78

…

c-s-stars said:

Prompt Request 😊 Fíli/Mallory/Kíli if possible!

31 “Well, what can I say? I’m a badass.”

88 “You’re questioning my methods.” “I’m not questioning it, I’m saying it’s stupid.”

83 “Sometimes I question my sanity. Occasionally it replies.”

8 “This is all your fault.” “I hope so.”

Middle earth version

…

In a low growl Thorin broke the hushed conversation between the tallest and smallest member of the Company inside the frigid house in the middle of the lake barely a few miles below the goal of this entire Journey, “You’re questioning my methods.”

Turning your head his scowl deepened at the furrow of your deep red brows matching your crimson curls tucked under a knit cap from Dori when he caught your shivering to match the scarf Nori had wrapped around your neck over your well worn coat. “I’m not questioning it, I’m saying it’s stupid.” Only making his brows tighten, “I was right about the Forest so why are you wanting to take that armor back?!”

Thorin drew in a breath trying to keep his voice low to keep from being noticed from the neighbors and passing guards, “That armor was coating one of the guards that fell when Smaug attacked!”

Your hand rose, “I am not questioning that Thorin!”

He shrugged, “Then what is your objection?”

“Simply when you are choosing to make the theft. Wait until we get the mountain back.” His lips parted only to close as you said, “Thorin say you get the armor out but we signal a guard on the way out.” He nodded, “They outnumber us, you could die in the shadow of your home over a suit of armor, I understand he needs proper respect, but why not defend him when you can bring him home so his family can return to pay their respects properly.”

Thorin released a breath, “I see your point.” After a moment staring off at the mountain he nodded, “As soon as my Cousin arrives we will be marching on this city.”

You nodded, “And you will find no argument from me.” With that he gave you another curious once over then turned to rejoin his kin around the fireplace, still locked in hushed conversation about your managing to smuggle them inside the city within closed barrels as you and Bilbo managed to smooth talk the barge wielding Man, who was too distracted by your story of the travels so far to notice the extra weight inside them. Once in Esgaroth you managed to secure an empty house for the night you both snuck the Dwarves through the city into said home, on which they noticed the disturbing theft.

For all they did the Company could do nothing to ward off their worry at your pale complexion and weariness since your arrival in this city. No matter what they did you refused the extra helpings of the stew they had made and lack of sleep in what they assumed to be the start of your falling ill. Only once before had you been like this, just a couple weeks after leaving Bree, but right after a full day and night of flooding rains and the lightning storms rolling through had somehow cleared it right up. All eyes lingered on your tall form as they each recounted their moment walking into BagEnd seeing you there with your adopted friend Bilbo, who had found you unconscious on the floor of his home from your own world in your attempt in hiding from a long time foe that had discovered your location once again. No matter how little they knew you they refused to believe you belonged to a race of so called Mutants, and flat out refused to call you by your assigned title of Nibbles.

Months you had joined them, managing to convince even the most stubborn of mortals to your will with barely having to ask at all whole you adamantly battled wits with, but never without good reason for the safety of all the Company, all of whom noticed your discomfort when any of them found the slightest harm. The smallest scrape or nick seemed to drive you off alone for a small break every so often until they were covered and out of your sight, merely leading them to believe you were squeamish at the sight of blood or wounds. For your height you seemed to be easy to brush past leading to their extensive training attempts that all found you able to counter or anticipate and avoid all of their moves. Though one move you missed was the pair of Princes stealing a pair of kisses from you on your first scavenging trip alone for firewood.

The closer you got however the same troubles came up, this exhausting Journey was draining you much faster than you had been before with so many hours under the bright sun. Sure you’d learned how to control it back in your world, where you could hide away and sleep through the day and come out at night for sneak missions. Nibbles was your chosen nickname, out of sheer lack of imagination for another when you knew people would draw the same conclusion anyways. Both of your parents had proudly boasted of their abilities to drain the best of the best Mutants without even having to cross the room to do so, the powers leaving them grinning each time people would miss name them as Vampires. But honestly for all your weaknesses from your powers you could see the reason why.

The ability to persuade with a single glance, a voice that could lure anyone into any dangerous situation in a delirious haze, super sight, hearing, strength and speed. With irritatingly stubborn nails growing right back to their same short length allowing you to claw people if necessary, two slightly pointed canine teeth, needing to use twice as much energy to remain under sunlight, even in the shade. All leading to the piece de résistance, being able to drain enemies of their life forces, not just across the room but from the next room over. No need for blood or nibbling but when the clues were lined up you could see the double glances and shifting away each time a single cut or scrape they had not noticed before.

You couldn’t stand blood, not just the taste of it but the sight of it, but not for the obvious reasons. Once someone bled in front of you your mind instantly locked on theirs, a habit you’d yet to master, leading to you seeking solitude to recenter and break the link. It was on one of these instances when the Princes were wrestling after both being disarmed in a sparring match they received the small scrapes and caught just a flash of your swirling imagination while racing their every contoured rippling inch of their solid flexing frames in their battle of wills. Instantly they froze leading to their Uncles calling a deadlock through their scanning around for you only to see you walking to the stream nearby rubbing your face after mumbling to Oin about their cuts.

Your secret was out, or at least that one was to the pair who made it obvious to their kin, and for all their admirable qualities the one thing that drove you mad was their determination to try and get that mental link with you again. Leading to an all out barrage of advances, stolen moments at your sides and lingering gazes that gave them a small list of ways to just feel your mind tap theirs again.

…

“Back in the barrels.” The Dwarves all faced you only to sigh and one by one fill the barrels you managed to strap together and row to the edge of the lake with their aid using the snapped lids to each of them as paddles. On the rim of the front you sat with feet in Balin and Dwalin’s barrels helping to point out the directions to go after they insisted you rest while Bilbo sat in Thorin’s on the back row ensuring no Men were following or had noticed your group at all. Certainly they wouldn’t have to at the melodic hum you gave off in your passing through town lulling all the Men to a deep sleep until morning, but you let them imagine a possible threat to will them faster along in silence. The shore came soon enough and leaving your barrels behind to float back to town after reclaiming the rope and bags from inside you turned and started the long walk to the Mountain.

By nightfall on the second day you reached the ruined city of Dale. Everywhere charred reminders of what once was as your mental wall struggled to stay up at the flood of panicked memories trying to flood into your mind at once. Somehow you managed to drift off, bad idea, such a bad idea. The instant you did your mental wall dropped and barely ten minutes later, the eldest of the group watched your body jerk awake and stumble frantically to the rushing water in the channeled stream through the city formerly used to power a few of the workshops. On your knees you sat kneeling with your head against the marble trough with hands in the water above you breathing deeply trying to focus your mind on the water as you drew a bit of energy from the frigid liquid by spreading it across the back of your neck.

Quietly Thorin managed to follow after you and kneel at your side, “Mal?”

In a trembling tone you stated, “Just a bad, dream.”

Inching closer he stated, “I have had dreams tear me from sleep and they are far worse than simple bad dreams, jarring me for hours after. What was it? What did you see?”

Unable to take it any more your head rose and turned to lock your eyes with his, but you could not see him as he gasped at the clouds of red and gold crossing over your normally bright enchanting emerald eyes as you whispered, “I see fire.”

Instantly his hands planted on your shoulder and he felt it, your mind snap onto his breaking your connection to the flood of terrors trapped in these stones, “You can feel it? From the stones? The memories locked here?” you nodded as a tear streamed down your cheek that he brushed away with a gentle smile, “It seems our kin are closer than I imagined. The young ones aren’t as in tune with stone yet to feel it, come, you can sleep by me, I’ll hold you if it helps.” Again you nodded and followed the King who had hold of your hand to his bedroll after he grabbed yours along the way. He joined them together and laid down, with arms extended he wrapped around you and tried to force himself to at least rest his body if he could not sleep leaving the others on watch for the night between their own attempts simply to ensure you got at least some rest.

Early morning however in a waking for a sip of water nearly led to the open mouthed discovery of the Princes’ intended in their Uncle’s arms. A sight nearly making the pair lunge and tackle him until Dwalin had grabbed them both and led them away from camp to explain. Leaving them to merely grumble and move to your sides and flop around the pair of you and snuggle their ways back to sleep mentally grumbling at the large frame blocking most of their favorite contours on your frame they had snuggled up to on the frigid nights passing around the large forest.

Awkwardly in its attempt to steal the pack of dried fruit from your pocket a thrush flopped onto your face waking you and startling it away, this jolt from you woke the men around you that all turned to see the irritated Hobbit in the center of the chuckling Dwarves. A pat on your back was all Thorin gave you in his rise to go claim the empty spot beside the Hobbit glaring at the bubbling stew in front of him doing little to calm his rage at seeing the foolish Dwarf with his face buried in the back of your neck while he held you tightly. Wordlessly Thorin fought mentally for words to express his devotion to the Burglar he’d still yet to admit his feelings to while you were led closer to the fire and waiting meal and nestled between the Princes watching the debacle. Without any luck at his search Bilbo’s eyes widened when Thorin simply picked him up, set him between his legs and hugged him tightly from behind nuzzling his head into the Hobbit’s neck and shoulders until having to break for the stew leaving the grinning Hobbit at his side again, though a good deal closer.

…

Around the mountain you walked peering out for any nooks or crevices possibly signaling a door until you froze beside Bilbo gawking up already exhausted at the sight of the three mile tall staircase in a massive carving of a Dwarf. Aloud you stated, “Thorin! Remind me to punch your relative responsible for those!”

Reaching Bilbo’s side he eyed the statue and chuckled, “Ah, well, he has long since passed, Miss Mallory.”

With a sigh you started the walk to the stairs grumbling, “Then I’ll just build a time machine, go back and punch him then.” Your sarcasm however amusing to Bilbo made Thorin and Oin lock eyes remembering the tale of their Grandfather’s best architect and sculptors sharing the tale of a mysterious tall woman one day just casually strolling into their workshop one day, asking for the pair of them and then just hauling off and punching them in the face. On their backs the pair simply watched her turn and walk away catching the light flashing off her radiant crimson curls inspiring some of their greatest stained glass sculptures revealed in the year after. Shaking those thoughts free they trotted to catch up to you as you stood looking up at the bottom step three feet above your head.

With a sigh you lowered to a crouch while Bilbo wet his lips and climbed on your back, his hand extended to steady himself on the wall as you rose up lifting him onto the stairs he pulled himself onto. Before you could turn Fili had gripped your hips and lifted you up next while Kili held your feet aiding in your kneeling position before calling up as you turned, “Keep going, we’ll get each other up.” You nodded and followed the first seven steps to their end at a wall beside Bilbo.

“What the-?” You turned around spotting the end of another set of seven steps, in what you had hoped to be a square pattern of steps at the distance you grumbled at the thought of having to climb seven steps then turn, step across the three foot gap to climb the next seven for the next few miles upwards. “Fuck every inch of this.” You mumbled to yourself spotting Bilbo’s hands on the wall in his first attempt in reaching the other set without any luck at all. Releasing his lip he watched you stretch out your leg and grumble at the stretch in your thighs before lifting and shifting him to the other side, where he gave you a gentle tug aiding in your shift to climb the other set.

Five sets in you had made quite a rhythm but by the 40th you were burning in every inch of your body. Under the direct sunlight at high noon you bit your lip and panted through shifting Bilbo yet again before Fili’s and stole the next cupping of your ass to tilt you to the other side while the men would fall forward and use the foot holds, you had not noticed in your ignorance of their obscure crafting to blend into the rock wall, to complete the distance their legs could not reach. With bruised knees and elbows over their poorly withheld pants and muttered curses as you neared the belt of the statue holding a ledge, much like the one you had passed at the knees, the Dwarves behind you bickered at whose idea it was to let you set the pace.

Following their tradition of putting the weakest and slowest first they assumed you would guide them at a fair pace with common breaks every so often as any other below you would have done. But in their constant bickering and reminders of your need to not hold them back on the journey you had forced yourself on assuming the kin of the crafters could easily climb these stairs in their sleep. So ignoring your own misery you pushed on, nearly to your breaking point until you found yourself on your stomach underneath the Princes, who had lost their resolve when they saw you ready to continue on. In shared agony they panted around you while their relatives moved to circle you and settle for a well needed break as snacks and canteens were brought out.

Lowly Gloin growled out, “Two miles! Two miles of stairs you led us up!”

Mid pant you moved your arm form your face replying, “Well, what can I say? I’m a badass.”

Gloin scoffed as Dwalin but him off, “Two miles! Mahal only knows why you didn’t stop at the knees!”

Tilting your head you locked your eyes with his, “You wanted to stop?”

Dwalin scoffed back, “After a mile of stairs? Who wouldn’t need a breather? That’s why that ledge was there!”

“You never said.”

He blinked at you while Gloin fired back, “Why would you assume we would want to climb the full distance in one go? What do you take us for?”

“Dwarves.”

Thorin’s brows ticked up as he leaned forward into your view asking, “What?”

You rolled over onto your side, “You lot are always boasting about your abilities and how frail I seem, I just didn’t want to slow you down.”

Dwalin, “You still could have stopped, even you can barely move after two miles of stairs! The leader sets the pace, why we put you first so you could stop when you needed and wouldn’t get left behind.”

“Well you should have said that. I thought you put me first to keep me going.”

Thorin again asked, “What? Why would you assume that?”

You shrugged, “What else was I to assume, you have all these rules and customs you never share and then somehow have the gall to be irritated with me when I cross or ignore them.”

His lips parted then closed before he nudged Dwalin’s side, “Dwalin will guide us to the elbow after our break, then I will take the lead for the last stretch.”

Painfully you stretched out, easing only at the weight of the Princes above you helping to press on your aching muscles calming their throbbing just a little.

Atop the ledge you laid on your back watching the blood orange sky as the sun set through the frantic scrambles of the Company. Raising your head you tilted from side to side watching the stream of golden light through a hole in a jagged column at the edge of the ledge atop Thror’s carven ax. Extending your arm you tilted your head back asking, “Thorin? What’s that?”

Turning ready to shout at you he followed your arm to the same cutout before he wet his lips and turned in a circle and grabbed one of Kili’s arrows from his pack and tried to line it up, sliding the key along the wall at the end of it until he felt a smile stirring dip. The key sank in and turned freeing a relieved chuckle from him and the Company as you laid back trying to relax only to be lifted into the Princes’ arms in a tight elated hug ruining your resting.

Forcing out a chuckle you teetered to the now open doorway with Bilbo at your side as Balin described, at least in Dwarven terms, what might have passed for a decent description of the fabled stone you were to search for. Shaking your head you led the way, thankful at least that you were going down the stairs ahead instead of up, though leaving the hall you groaned at the rail-less flights and bridges ahead of you earning a repeated whisper of, “Fuck every inch of this.”

Painfully you trotted your way down following Balin’s directions until you were outside the treasury. All but spent you teetered through the door staggering to stay upright as you felt your fangs inch out more at the pulsing hoard of energy buried in this golden haze. A few steps later however against the urging of Bilbo’s silent arm flails you fell heavily from the platform into the gold below. A pained groan later died as the gold shifted making you sink slowly a couple inches into it opening a giant eye shot open as your mental wall dropped, unable to help it your abilities kicked in and you mentally locked onto the hoard of power between you and Bilbo and with each panting breath absorbed it while your hands clenched around the gold at your sides in the euphoric rush through the surge of power now coursing inside you able to fuel you for years to come.

The effects of your powers were missed by you but not the wide eyed Hobbit watching as you, with purple veins and golden eyes, glittered skin, with fangs extended between pants through the shrinking of the giant beast formerly sleeping now floating in a golden glowing orb of light until your fangs shrunk again while your veins and glittering vanished. Calmly you laid now staring up at the ceiling, still in pain from your fall while Bilbo eyed the small puppy shaped Dragon now darting across the gold to you. Winding his arm back he threw the emerald in his hand knocking Smaug into a roll to crash into your side, where he scrambled onto your chest and let out a far from intimidating growl, “This is all your fault.”

Weakly you replied, “I hope so.” Turning onto your side you wrapped your arms around him and felt your eyes drooping shut for a well needed nap.

Smaug squirmed in your arms, “I AM FIRE! I AM DEATH! UNHAND ME!”

Bilbo chuckled spotting the stunned expressions on the Dwarves’ faces as they peered in, unable to wait any longer in the growing storm outside. All moving closer to witness the tiny furious Dragon that finally managed to squirm free that curled around a pile of gold he formed with his wings again shouting, “I will not part with a single coin!”

Heavily Thorin walked to your side gently brushing your curls free from your face, “Exhaustion has tempered your sanity. There are far softer places to sleep.”

With a shrug you replied, “Sometimes I question my sanity. Occasionally it replies.” He chuckled then watched as your arms extended, “Carry me.”

With stern gazes Fili and Kili walked around Thorin to pick you up, Kili steadied Fili on the path back to the stairs to find a place to sleep with Balin leading them leaving the rest to follow after when one of the stones Bilbo had tossed aside was picked up by Thorin with a chuckle. Crossing the hoard Thorin got to Bilbo’s side and held the stone into his view only to hear with a shake of his head, “Already saw that one.”

Thorin grinned, “Bilbo, this is the stone.”

Bilbo froze, dropping the stones in his hands and stood up wetting his lips while he straightened his vest and turned to peer up at the King with his hand raised, extending a finger for each item he listed, “Big, white, that was it, not shimmering, not, that!” Thorin chuckled stirring an uncommon growl from the Hobbit, who pounced on him tackling him into the gold stirring an even louder laugh from the Dwarf under him in his gripping the fur lined vest across his chest.

Though in his inhale to say something Thorin’s hand had cupped his cheek, the warmth urging Bilbo’s cheek to press into it while fingers traced along the edge of his ear into his glowing curls in the light cast off the gold, in an elated chuckle Thorin replied, “Right you are, Bilbo. My divine Burglar.”

“Di-..” His words died in Thorin’s rise up to plant his lips to his beloved’s, showing him finally in a wordless expression of his undying love for the stubborn Hobbit now melting across his chest into the deepening kiss across the gold while the Company cheered. All but Bifur of course, who snatched up Smaug in his scurry to claim the arkenstone. Turning back to the others Bifur stumbled and caught himself on a knee giving the Dragon a chance to leap up and focusing what strength he had on the ax imbedded in the Dwarf’s skull. A scratched cheek later after the ax slipped free Bifur staggered backwards with hands to his forehead watching as Smaug fell onto his back on the gold only to have the ax fall blade down slicing through his neck silencing him.

In a race into the gold the lovers split for a moment joining the others in circling Bifur as Oin in inspecting his wound. A few dabs of an alcohol dipped cloth later it was being bandaged as Oin said, “Just watch you for the time being. Doesn’t seem to have harmed anything.”

In a low mumble Bifur stated, “Just an ax falling out of my skull, what could it have possibly damaged, already cannot speak.” All eyes widened as Bifur’s hands planted on Bifur’s shoulders wordlessly urging him to speak again, unsteadily it dawned on him and he mumbled, “You heard me.” Bofur nodded and was tackled into the gold through his laughter hugging his Brother smiling through the Dwarves piling on around him before going up to find the four of you to share the news.

…

Thorin grumbled again as he peered across the war room table at you on the ground level floor, in the plushiest wheeled chair they could find for you in your still stiff and aching state after realizing you had severely sprained your knee and dislocated your hip in your final fall. Horns filled the air and you were wheeled by Kili after Thorin to greet the entering King and his men who all entered eyeing the Company and you especially. Though the greetings were short lived when the Elves had arrived. As you sat in the war room with a bowl of peeled oranges that had been gathered by Bilbo from what remained of the orchards in the small farming peak between Erebor and Dale you watched the tension in the room build.

Quietly you sat as the Company all stood when introduced, at least until you stirring a rise in the Elf King’s brow until you wheeled back a couple inches stating, “I’d stand, but, ya.” He nodded his head as you inched back again and returned to enjoying your fruit.

The meeting continued into the night moving you up to the Royal sitting room when you had started drifting off in the meeting alerting the trio of Kings to their unsuccessful lack of an agreement. With tea in hand you sat near the fire while the Elf King sat across from you eyeing you carefully in the firelight before he stated, “I remember you.”

A playful glimmer flickered in your eyes as you replied, “Oh really? It must have been a hell of a daydream your mind drew up, we haven’t met before.”

With a smirk he replied, “Even so, I would not have expected you to admit to it, only one person has ever been foolish enough to punch my Father. Quite a weighty punishment for hitting a King.”

With a weak chuckle you replied, “Must have been a weighty grievance then, for him to have earned it.” Thranduil’s eyes narrowed playfully as you added, “Can’t imagine he’d have done it again.”

Thranduil shook his head, “No, he never got the chance to. We only got the one night together.” In his eyes you caught a hint of the memory of that night making you smirk as you realized who he was referring to.

Hit by an atom scrambling projectile you were torn into three versions of yourself and had to find your other selves and rejoin before you were going to die. With Magneto’s aid you finally managed it just in time and for all your attempts you were unable to see just what the other halves had been up to or where they had gone, but you knew at once arriving in this world parts of you at least felt at home.

When your cup was emptied you were rolled to your bedroom and moved onto your bed where you laid staring up at the canopy above until a door was opened behind a tapestry on the wall. A smirk eased onto your lips as the Princes climbed into bed around you and began the same timid first few kisses from the pair on your lips and cheeks hoping to continue what Balin had interrupted earlier that morning.

#Fili/Kili x Reader OC #Hobbit #lotr

44 notes · View notes

diego-hargreeve2 · 5 years

Text

light in the dark

Part Sixteen

Fandom: The Umbrella Academy (Netflix)

Ship: Diego Hargreeves x Original Character

Warnings: Language, abuse (emotional and physical), mental illness, violence and, in later chapters, smut.

It felt odd to hand over bills to Al at the door - every time Eudora has visited the gym on these fight nights before she’d been Diego’s guest. Often, she’d been in the gym before it even began, in the room he called home in a post-coital haze before heading out to meet his friends and watch the glorification of violence. To have come in from the cold and pulled cash out to hand over for the privilege of watching two men punch one another - a sight she had seen more times than she cared for, and normally intervened to stop - was a strange situation for her. But of course, she hadn’t really come to watch.

Hands sliding into her jacket pockets she scanned the room, searching for a familiar face - and finding it. She wove through the crowd to Diego, studying him curiously with an eye experienced both in assessing people and understanding him specifically.

He looked happy. These were the nights Diego seemed the most himself, Patch had always thought that. The bitter edge and old anger that tainted his soul when he was on the streets was gone. Surrounded by friends in a setting where he excelled those hard edges fell, and you could see who he might have been in a different life - somebody with a ready smile and quick tongue, who laughed easily and made others laugh too, a wide, almost sloppy grin crossing his face frequently. Without realising it she was smiling, her own expression nostalgic.

Whilst Diego was tall, six foot in his bare feet, she’d guess his new girlfriend was maybe five foot five and she had to get closer to spot her tucked under his muscled arm. Patch remembered how...almost clingy Diego could be, eager for touch and bodily contact in a way that she had found frustrating at times, but Eve looked content. She was leaned against him, one hand lifted, and fingers entwined with his that dangled from her shoulder. Her hair was pulled up today in a ponytail, away from her face, and the fear that had kept her expression taut last time they met was gone. She still looked nervous, her own smile close lipped and her body tucked close into him as though seeking shelter, but it seemed more like somebody not used to crowds than somebody outright scared.

It was the others that spotted her first, his friends who’d grown used to her presence in the past, and they greeted her by calling out her name, a clamour of attention enveloping her and drawing her into their circle of conversation. Diego flashed a grin, only Eve’s expression was neutral at the sight of the detective even though she offered a polite, mumbled greeting.

“What brings you down to this part of town - slumming it, Eudora? Or just missing me?” Diego asked, throwing her a wink - but Patch watched Eve more closely than her ex, the way she tilted her head up to study Diego’s face as though to determine how she should react, a flicker of confusion crossing her features.

“No chance Hargreeves. I just came to see how you’re treating Eve - thought I’d see if she needed rescuing from your brand of trouble”. It was phrased as a joke, and drew laughter from the rest of the group, but she had some serious intent behind the words.

She didn’t miss that as the excitement of her arrival settled and the group fell into several conversations, his friends taking the opportunity to catch up on her life over the past couple of years since the end of her relationship with Diego, Eve remained silent. Because of Patch’s presence? She thought not, nobody seemed surprised at the fact she listened rather than interjected.

When Al began to announce the first fight Diego stepped back, the others wishing him luck, as he took Evie’s hand in his and headed for the changing rooms to get completely ready.

“She doesn’t watch the fight with you guys?” Patch said, nodding to Eve’s retreating back and Nigel’s girlfriend Zoe shook her head.

“Evie doesn’t like the fighting. First time she came here she ran off. She waits out back and when Diego returns, she’ll be with him”. The comment contained clear judgement, the redhead rolling her eyes, but to Patch it fitted with what she had guessed about the blonde.

She bided her time waiting - and during the second round of Diego’s match Patch excused herself, muttering something about the bathroom, but once she was away from the group, she headed down the stairs out the back of the gym to the boiler room. Nothing out here had changed, except to get shabbier, as she approached the old door. Rapping her knuckles against her she didn’t wait for a response before easing the handle down and opening it up.

At the noise Eve had tensed - it couldn’t be either Diego or Al on a night this busy - but she didn’t have time to wonder or worry before Detective Patch appeared. Nothing about her relaxed at the sight, the visitor unexpected even if recognised.

“Hey Eve” she said, not crossing the room to where the blonde sat cross legged in a chair. Patch stayed near the door even as she closed it behind her, leaning on the railing, her elbows on the crossbar and her hands clasped loosely in the air. “Zoe mentioned you don’t like the fighting; figured I’d come keep you company”. It was intended to sound friendly, but it clearly was less than effective.

Evie watched the other woman nervously, offering a hesitant smile before realising that it was her turn to speak. Her mind churned rapidly, attempting to find a suitable response.

“Okay” she managed after a moment, inwardly cursing herself.

Patch tipped her head slightly, considering, and even though she had thought the comment Zoe offered which was so clearly judgemental and unimpressed with Eve was harsh…she now wondered what Diego saw in the girl. He’d never shown a preference, or any particular interest, in quiet girls before.

“So, you’re not a fan of boxing then?” For a moment Evie looked at the other woman, pulling her sleeves slightly to tug the tight sleeves down and cover her palms and fingers, lest they glow and betray her, while she considered a response before shaking her head.

Revealing that she’d seen more than her fair share of violence in her life – and been the subject of most of it – was more than she cared to admit. Patch was Diego’s friend, she accepted that. But she was a cop as well. The same people that hurried her along as though she were an inconvenience and an eyesore, instead of a young woman just trying to get some rest and who might be in need help. Police turned a blind eye to the abuses the Elder inflicted on the church; when she left, she and Sarah had tried to raise it at the local station and the sheriff just brushed them off. Trusting somebody who was part of that institution felt unsafe, and Eve didn’t dare share her history.

“How’d you meet Diego?” Eudora asked for a moment, hoping an outright question would be easier for the blonde to respond to than a statement or leading remarks.

“He saved me” she offered after a pause, figuring from the first time she met Patch that the police officer knew exactly what Diego spent his nights doing. “Some guys were harassing me. He stopped them”.

“That didn’t seem strange to you? Didn’t ring alarm bells?” Eve shrugged again.

“I’ve read Vanya’s book. And I can put two and two together. I figured out who he was” she admitted. Patch nodded, considering that. So – quiet, young, scared of people and fond of men with a superhero complex. It still raised many questions. She nodded toward the chair facing Evie, wondering if the physical distance between them was adding to the difficulties and the blonde shrugged and then nodded. She would have preferred Patch left in truth – but she wasn’t going to outright insult Diego’s friends. Or, in truth, make an honest statement which could lead to confrontation. Patch moved, coming to sit in the other seat, one leg draped over the other.

“How long ago was this? How long have you been together?”

Eve calculated, clearly counting on her fingers from the way they folded and unfolded themselves. Her education had been limited, and even these days math was not her strongest suit.

“We met…about five and a half months ago? And we’ve been together…just over three months…I think”. Dates were not of huge importance in her world, she didn’t have to sit at a desk and ensure she accurately recorded things, didn’t think about payday or when bills were due. But she was reasonably sure in her estimates.

“Still early days then” Eudora said with a smile.

“How long have you known him?” Eve asked. If she was being questioned, she supposed it was fair game to turn it out, and even though Diego had told her she was interested to know Patch’s side. Relaxing against the chair back the brunette exhaled slowly as she cast her mind back.

“Eight years now? Yeah, it must be eight” she said, remembering police academy. Eve caught the look on the other’s face that seemed nostalgic, reminiscing, and decided to pursue the matter – even if only so that she wouldn’t have to come up with answers to questions herself.

“What was he like back then?”

There was a chuckle before words as Patch remembered.

“Even spikier than he is now” she admitted. “Fresh out of his family home – he was all sharp edges and anger, and everyone rubbed him up the wrong way. He was always picking fights” Patch said, turning her gaze back to Eve and noting how the blonde’s expression had lost some of the guarded look. More stories about Diego then. She could manage that.

“I mean – if you think he can be bad with people and bitter now – seriously, this is the new improved Diego” Patch said, deliberately trying to turn it into a joke and feeling mollified at the way Eve smiled. So, there was a human in there.

“If you’ve read the book…I mean, all those rules? It’s no way to raise kids. And Diego’s response to rules is to decide they don’t apply to him. At the academy, there are a lot of rules and he spent a lot – I mean, a lot – of time running laps and doing press ups as punishment for testing all those rules”.

“Did you all know who he was? That he’d been one of the Hargreeves children?” Eve asked, warming up despite herself.

“Yeah. It came up early on. Back then…now, the idea of the Umbrella Academy…it’s been gone for years. But it was still recent news – and so local – that yeah, we knew. There were a group of guys who seemed to think they had to teach him he wasn’t a hero anymore. Called him the Kraken all the time and winding him up. They ended up getting beaten up by him. Four on one and he still won” Patch told him, watching Eve’s face, the way her eyes had lit up at these stories Diego hadn’t shared. The way she was actually very pretty when she lost that wary, watchful gaze.

“For that, he had to run laps for two hours. That’s how I met him”.

“Were you in trouble too?”

“Me?” She laughed briefly. “I was just training. Unlike Diego, I believe in rules”. Taking advantage of Eve relaxing slightly she tried to turn the conversation back to them. “So how many guys did he take on to save you?”

“Three. I didn’t make him run any laps though” she said, deadpan. That made Patch laugh properly.

She had hoped Diego’s fight would go the full twelve rounds and give her a chance to learn more about Eve. Unfortunately for her Diego’s opponent tonight was not aware of his part in her plan.

He was light enough on his feet they hadn’t heard him on the stairs, the first realisation that the match was over was him bursting through the door, shirtless and dripping with sweat, his lip split, and raised his fists over his head in victory. Both women smiled at the sight of them; it was hard not to be touched by how genuinely pleased he looked with his triumph.

Spotting Eudora stopped him in his tracks, and he dropped his arms, confused. He had intended to come and tell Eve about his victory, but the sight of Patch threw all that off.

“What’re you doing down here?”

“Nice to see you too Hargreeves” she responded dryly. Diego grabbed a towel, rubbing the fabric along his arms as he walked down the steps, coming to stand beside Eve’s chair. She stood up, one hand on his arm as she guided him to sit down and he threw her a brief grateful smile as she perched on the furniture’s arm and he took her vacated seat.

“Not an answer to my question” he pointed out, draping the towel around his neck, one hand moving to settle on the curve of Eve’s hip. His gaze briefly hovered on her ass, so close to him, but he shook that thought away. Later. When they were alone and could properly celebrate his victory.

“I came to check on Eve. I hear she’s not fond of boxing and thought I’d keep her company”.

He narrowed his eyes slightly, suspicious of her intentions still and her intense interest in his new girlfriend, his fingers hooking onto Eve a little tighter as though to protect her. Diego knew Patch wouldn’t be out to hurt anyone intentionally, but it was still a strange situation – a first for them both though, they hadn’t had to deal with either one having a new partner since their relationship ended. She always said she was too busy for dating, and he’d been too hung up.

“You’re not a big fan either” he pointed out and Eudora shrugged, standing up with a suppressed smile. Her goal had been to speak to Eve alone, with Diego here that was no longer possible. Alternatively, she’d have settled for getting the chance with talk with him properly but discussing Eve in front of her face wasn’t going to look good, not when he was clearly so protective. Patch had manners, even if he didn’t.

“All the more reason for me to come down here and chat with her” Patch said, her voice tired. There was something here that she hadn’t figured out yet, she was sure of that. It concerned her on Diego’s behalf, but he was so unused to anyone looking out for him he would get prickly if she tried to explain that. If she’d had more time…she shook her head very slightly to get the thought out.

“I’ll go catch up with the others. See you in a minute” she said, offering Eve a smile before leaving the basement. No sooner had she gone, and Diego’s was turning Eve to face him, pulling her legs onto his lap.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine” she insisted.

“What did she want?” he asked, frowning very slightly.

“Like she said – she came to keep me company. Asked how long we’d been together, how we met, just stuff like that” Eve assured him. “So – you won?”

“Knock out in the third round” he bragged. “What’s my prize?”

Leaning down she kissed him.

“That’s all you get for now. You’ve got friends waiting”.

@lovinglydiego @klausbutgayer @reblogserpent @me125 @fatbottomedcurls @mrsdiegohargreeves @carryon-doctor-lock @rhymesmenagerie

#light in the dark #diego hargreeves fanfic #diego hargreeves x oc #tua fanfic #tua oc

17 notes · View notes

idesignedthefjords · 6 years

Text

RSS Fic: Picture Perfect Bride

Recipient: @thestraggletag

Prompt: Arranged Marriage Modern AU

Notes: It’s my very first fic ever, so I hope you like it :) I had a really good beta; @avatoh who saved the day XD

Summary: Maurice French, no longer wanting to take care of his daughter auctions her off on a mail-order bride website. Mr. Gold responds to the ad.

Belle was standing in the middle of her luxurious hotel room, looking at herself in the mirror. She looked beautiful in her wedding dress. It was a lace dress with a plunging V neckline. The bodice accentuated her slim waistline and had cap sleeves. Her soft skirt had lace flowers with tiny dots made of golden thread in the middle. Her hair was in a messy braided bun, with some baby’s breath braided in. She did not recognise herself. True, she looked like a typical beautiful blushing bride, but her face told a different story. She already had to redo her make-up 3 times, because she kept messing it up with her tears. Her lips were sore from gnawing on them; she had already drawn blood.

Just two months ago, her father decided that he had enough of her living in his house. He was dating a new woman, just two years after her mother passed away. He wanted to start a new life with her, and Belle was taking up precious space. “I just want a fresh start, Belle!” he told her on the same night he introduced his girlfriend He also had admitted that he didn’t think she would be able to live by herself. Yes, she had some mental issues in the past, she had been admitted to the hospital when her depression took the best of her. But that was in the past and she was building a life for herself; going to college, making friends. Maurice on the other hand, still believed she wouldn’t be able to cope by herself; “You aren’t getting any younger Belle, and neither am I. I can’t take care of you forever and you are nearly 25! It’s someone else’s turn now. Why don’t you get married and live with Gaston? He can provide for you; his family has money. You won’t have to look for a job anymore or go out with your shady friends to some disgusting bar.” She became so angry with him that he threatened to lock her up in the hospital again. “You are leaving this house, with a husband or a straightjacket and that’s final!” When she still refused to marry Gaston and screamed that she would rather marry a stranger, her father put her picture on some mail-order bride website. She still felt her cheeks burning with shame when she thought about it.

She had never expected him to do such a horrible thing, but she saw the page he had ultimately created for her, complete with a few happy pictures from her past and a brief description about her studying Library Science and a few of her hobbies which he had made up to appeal to possible suitors. Her father showed her the page with great pride even. “Look Belle, already multiple interested men! I’m going to pick the richest man though, only the best for my daughter!” Belle was so disappointed in her father. She couldn’t believe he would treat her like cattle; to be sold to the highest bidder. No wonder he thought Gaston was a suitable option for her; they were both equally misogynistic. She sort of accepted her fate in some strange way. If marriage was the way out of her father’s house, then so be it.

After a month of being on display on this awful website, someone with enough money had responded and her father agreed to make a deal. The man could marry her, if he would pay the rent for Maurice’s struggling flower shop for the next 5 years.

Her life was being exchanged for some bushels of roses..

--------

“Do the brave thing, and bravery will follow,” Belle thought when her father guided her down the aisle. She held her head up high, and stared towards the end of the aisle, keeping her eyes focused on the priest. She didn’t notice, or pay much attention, to the other important person on this day; the man she was about to marry. He almost mirrored her body language when she finally looked at him. He too was staring at the priest, his back towards Belle. She could see the tension in his back; he was also nervous about this whole situation. His legs were slightly parted and she could see he was leaning on a cane. He looked vaguely familiar but she couldn’t see his face.

When they reached their destination at the end of the aisle, Belle turned her head away when her father tried to kiss her cheek. She vowed she would never speak to him again after this day.

When she turned to face the groom for the first time, a shock went through her. It was Mr Gold! Mr. Gold was going to be her new husband! He wasn’t a complete stranger to her, afterall, but she knew his reputation and it wasn’t good. He was the owner of the pawn shop in town and her father’s defence lawyer when he was being sued for copyright infringement regarding his shops name, “Game of Thorns”. She had seen him a couple of times but hadn’t really spoken to him except for the occasional ‘good afternoon’ and ‘good evening’ when she ran into him around town. He had been nice to her in the past though. So he was the one she was being sold to. She knew more than enough about his reputation and the gossip surrounding him, and for a moment she was even more scared of him than of Gaston. But at least Mr Gold was smaller than Gaston and he had a limp. So she could outrun him is she needed to.

She was still in shock when they spoke their vows and it all went past her like in a haze. She didn’t realize it was over until she heard the priest say “You may kiss the bride.” Belle’s eyes went big with fear and she tensed up. She was going to have to kiss him! Gold gave a tiny, shy smile when he looked at her he finally leaned over he gently kissed her next to the corner of her mouth; nobody else seemed to notice he failed to kiss her a few inches shy of her lips..

Her friends weren’t invited to the wedding, so soon, she found herself in the backseat of a limousine. Mr Gold, her now husband, was sitting next to her playing with his flip phone. The wedding went by her so fast that she didn’t even hear a thing.

They arrived at their honeymoon location at the Boston Harbor Hotel an hour after they finished up signing all the papers to legalize their marriage, Mr Gold checked in while Belle was waiting by their suitcases. She was worried about what would happen on their wedding night. Would Mr Gold would expect something to happen between the two of them? Perhaps this is why he had wanted to marry her all along… Belle shook her head. He had a bad reputation, but he wasn’t a bad man, from what she knew of him. If this was the cost of her escaping her father, however, then it was a small price to pay.

When they reached their hotel room, she noticed there was, as you might expect from a honeymoon suite, only one bed. There was, however, a small sofa in the corner by the window and a desk. Mr Gold walked over to the sofa and suggests “I can sleep here on the sofa tonight, if you’d like-”.

At the same time Belle blurted out “-So how do you want to do this?”

“Excuse me?” Gold asked surprised.

“What?” Belle was confused. “I assumed you wanted to have a... “proper” wedding night. Consummate the marriage? I mean, that must be what you were after. Why else would you marry me? I know your reputation, Mr Gold. You find weakness in people and exploit them for your own gain. Me having had a mental illness is a weakness. And when my father put me on that awful website, you knew I was vulnerable. You found me and knew you could exploit me,” She spat at him angrily. She wanted to cry.

Mr Gold sighed and sad down on the sofa looking tired. “Belle, I’m disappointed you would think such things of me.”

His use of her first name made Belle feel powerless. She still had yet to know his.

“You see the good in people and I expected you to be better than just go by some rumours when judging someone.“ He started to explain: ”I saw you on the website; Maurice sent the page to every single one of his business relations. I was disgusted he would do this to you; selling you off to the highest bidder like that. So I decided to marry you just so you could get away from Maurice. Because I know you are capable of so much more. I just needed to get you out of that house. I wasn’t exploiting your weakness Belle, I was exploiting Maurice’s weakness; his love for money and his carelessness for you. I couldn’t sue him, because these mail-order bride websites are technically legal and I had to get you out of that house as fast as possible.”

Belle was even more confused now. “But where do we go from here? You got me away from my father, but now what? I have nothing to give you in return. I have no job, I’m homeless, I can’t even go back to college because father stopped funding it.”

Gold walked over to her and placed his hands on her arms, trying to reassure her. “You can have a home with me. I have a spare room for you in my house. And soon you will have a job. You’re studying Library Science, correct? I’m in the process of securing funding for the Storybrooke library, in the meantime you could help me out in the pawn shop. I have a lot of antique books that need to be catalogued and sorted. And if you want, you could save up some money to finish your degree; I’m not going to stop you” he laughed, “You can have all that, that is, if you spend just this one night with me.”

The blood drained from Belle’s face. So he did want to consummate this marriage. She tore herself away from his touch and took a step back. Gold realized his mistake “It was a quip, dearie. I didn’t mean… you misunderstand. I meant we have to sleep in the same room together. I can take the couch, it’s fine.”

He immediately limped back to the couch, to make sure she would understand that he was indeed intending to sleep there.

“No wait!” Belle apologized. “You don’t have to sleep on the couch, especially when you have been so kind to me. We can share the bed. It’s big enough and I trust you. Unless you don’t trust me?”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” Belle had made up her mind.

They took turns using the bathroom, and when they finally settled in their shared bed and the lights were out, all the emotions from this day washed over Belle and spilled out. She had started to cry again and hoped Gold wouldn’t notice her silent sobs, but she suddenly felt his hand searching for hers and he carefully held it, drawing circles with his thumb in comfort. Belle hadn’t felt this kind of kindness for a while now, and she rolled over to him in a hug. He tensed for just a moment, but relaxed as he rubbed her back. Soon they both fell asleep. They could make this work.

AO3 link

#rumbelle secret santa #thestraggletag #rumbelle #rss #rumbelle fic

33 notes · View notes

thehiddenlawyer · 6 years

Text

Mother’s Milk

Before you read-- please keep in mind that I’m REALLY not mentally...stable enough to write coherently so y’know. Enjoy <3

Apparently, the only way to untangle what my brain’s going through is to realize that my experience of Mother’s Milk isn’t just from the perspective of Patrick a survivor of sexual abuse, but also the addict, the potential alcoholic, a potential mother, a lover of difficult men and situations (these last two are Mary), and the helpless outsider looking in (Robert), and someone who is completely horrified of messing up so badly that their preventive measures completely backfire and bring full-circle (Patrick again).

During my first reading of Mother’s Milk I found I didn’t connect to it as much as I had with the other books in the story and I’m not sure why. I think my brain focused so completely on Some Hope and the aspects of Patrick as the survivor trying to find his way into the world that Mother’s Milk was too abstract for me to understand.

I kept thinking, even after I reread the novels, that the reason I wasn’t able to connect to the fourth novel was because I’m not a mother, and I have a pretty healthy relationship with my parents. I think the world of my parents, they’ve given me more than I could ever hope for, they’ve sacrificed and have continued to sacrifice, for my sisters and I on a profound level. Like all parents, they’re human and they made mistakes, they’ve given me my fair share of baggage again, like all parents, no matter how careful they are.

So I have continued to read the book as a fan of literature and found myself enthralled with Edward St. Aubyn’s representation of motherhood and childhood, and the understanding of the child of his mother and father, and eventually his sibling. It’s such breathtaking, pure prose, an imaginative take on Patrick’s children. If you’ve read the novels you know that the perspective shifts a lot, that we see the point of view of different characters, not just Patrick. So when the baby narrator talked about his father who couldn’t stop talking in the hospital room, I remember my heart in my throat wondering if the baby’s father was Patrick!

Imagine my surprise last night when I watched Mother’s Milk and found that I connected so much more to this bit of the story than I’d imagined earlier. I still don’t think I fully understand what happened, and I don’t understand my reactions to a few bits of it—I just know that I reacted, and maybe as I verbally vomit all over this post I can figure out a few things through my exhaustive question for narrative exhaustion.

This was also the biggest deviation between the book and the show by the way, the book is so complex because it’s mostly cerebral, a lot of it is Robert’s understanding of his father and his father’s situation and the relationship his father has with Eleanor. The book shows Robert’s sympathy more, Patrick doesn’t fail as viciously as he does in the show. But the show does capture Patrick’s desperation to be a better father and to protect is children from the poison of his past and his own life, but he tries so hard that it backfires and he comes back full circle. There’s this gorgeous scene in the book when they’re in a shitty hotel room in New York (after having gotten kicked out of a few others because Patrick is David’s son and he has to get them thrown out of a few places first) where Thomas and Mary are sleeping in one room but Robert can’t sleep so he goes to the living room where Patrick’s supposed to be sleeping on the sofa bed but he’s in this manic state, caught between insomnia and drunkness and he simply absorbs his father’s verbal vomit. Robert tells Patrick to stop because he’s frightened and Patrick does, and he apologizes and winds up reading to his son instead.

While the books are filled with loving, touching moments like that, I think the episode really lacked that bit of humanity that Patrick has.

I’m starting to realize that I’m disappointed with this episode.

It conveys what it needs to convey, it highlights everything it should highlight, especially Robert’s understanding of Patrick but it does it contained in an hour long tv episode. I think they could make a full length feature film with Mother’s Milk with all the correct details and I’d watch it a million times.

The Addict

Through therapy and research and counselling, I’ve discovered that children who suffered trauma or specifically sexual abuse at a very young age tend to have addictive personalities. It’s a coping mechanism, it’s something comfortable and familiar, something easy to turn to when everything else is up in the air. If you take the alcohol and drugs out of the connotation of addiction, you’ll see that it’s simply repetitive, comforting behavior, something to blur the edges of reality not through chemical haze or a high but the simple psychology of doing something to distract you from your own thoughts.

I have a very addictive personality and it shows itself in a lot of ways. I call it stubbornness, my family and friends prefer to think of it as a healthy sense of curiosity and a thirst for knowledge. But once I get a…noun in my head, I have to pursue it and I have no control over it. And I say noun because it can be a person (BC, Nick Cave, AB, even people that I latch on to like @sobeautifullyobsessed) place (Fort Point in San Francisco, Baker Beach, Half Moon Bay, London, Molly’s flat) or a thing (alcohol, cigarettes, writing….writing is the biggest one) or an idea (Sherlolly, any idea I’ve ever had to write any story or a character that inspires my thoughts like Patrick or Christopher Tiejens).

It’s HARD.

I’ve tried my best to let go of these distractors because I can SEE I’m out of control when I’m in one of my “manic states”. When I’ve latched onto this noun so hard that’s permeating everything I do, everything I think, everything I say. These nouns distract me from work, from school. You’ve SEEN my posts where I should be studying but I can’t stop watching something or reading something or writing something. Through therapy and meditation, I noticed that I latch on like that when the past bubbles too close to the surface, where the violence and shame that whispers across my skin is a little too close to the surface and I need something else to occupy my brain for those moments.

That’s addiction explained in general, now I want to talk to you about alcoholism before I connect it back to Patrick.

I struggle with alcohol. A combination of my addictive personality and the chemical affects of alcohol have been a lure since I was a teenager, and I’ve been very painfully aware that it’s a rabbit hole waiting to swallow me up. I made a conscious decision when I was 16 that I wouldn’t touch alcohol until I turned 21, and once I turned 21, I tried to never buy alcohol for myself but in my family and my culture it’s always present so I’ve always been around it. When I moved it, I’ve been living with foot on solid ground and one in the rabbit’s hole. With my health crises, I swore it off completely and succeeded for a while to stay sober but I’ve been predictably failing miserably these past few weekends.

I’ve tried to never drink alone but I’ve done it several times and secret, which is a warning bell. The problem is always that it’s a secret, and I drink to pass out.

I drank A LOT last night during the wedding, I felt myself slipping away and had exercise some control and stop. I am aware that I was giggly and talkative like I always am when I’m sloshed—I don’t know if it’s a gift or a curse. No one ever knows I’m drunk, and I’m never a sad or angry when I’m around people. When I’m, alone that’s a different story.

And drinking helps you disconnect from you skin, lets you float away from things you don’t want to confront, things that you’d rather go unthought.

For someone who has lived through trauma (and let me enumerate for you what I have been through: sexual abuse by multiple parties as a child, becoming a refugee when I was 8 and being forced out of my home to come to a country where I knew nothing and no one and my parents knew nothing and no one, I’ve lived through life-threatening illness and recently, having survived law school, my body tried to kill me again and I’m still dealing with that bit of reality) you can see why drinking and disassociation and addiction is such a lovely thought for us.

I would much rather look at my life objectively. I sometimes like to imagine what it’s like hearing my story as someone who doesn’t know me, who hasn’t been around me. How can one single person experience being raped as a child, becoming a refugee, cancer, suicidal thoughts and addiction, and still function?

Well…you can, it just comes with a lot of extra little side effects that you probably aren’t aware of.

Like Patrick can be a husband, a father, a survivor of being raped repeatedly by his father with an indifferent mother, he can be a drug addict, an alcoholic, and a barrister.

He can be all those things.

The side effects are when you’re not careful, the smallest notion, the smallest idea or thought can push you over the edge.

I can sit here and have conversations about being raped and function perfectly but one day someone will something small and (I loathe this word) trigger me and I go down to a spiral. I drink, I seek my other addictions, because I need to not be me for a little bit, I’d rather just watch someone else deal with being me.

You can fight it and fight it and fight it. You can lay awake nights dreaming of that escape that you KNOW ruins your life and you someone make it through one more second without it until you just can’t. until one tiny thing pushes you over the edge and it’s a house of course that falls. You drink too much, you smoke too much, you neglect your responsibilities, you push away everything that is good about yourself because you need to wallow in the bad, to convince yourself that you are a shitty person because shitty things happened to you.

I do that all the fucking time, I’m doing it right now. I should be studying for the Bar, I shouldn’t be drinking, I shouldn’t be smoking, I shouldn’t be writing, I shouldn’t be reading anything that’s not related to the Bar. But I’m not, because it’s comforting self-destructive behavior, it’s something I know how to do, it’s easier than all the rest of it.

For Patrick, it’s the same. I’m not asking you to excuse any of his behavior, because I can’t forgive him for giving up on himself because I feel like he’s propelled me to giving up on myself too (I really have these past few days just thinking about Mother’s Milk and At Last) but this is urging you to understand why he fails so miserably, why he flushes years of sobriety down the toilet, why he can’t stop making his parents mistakes and adopting them as your own.

The harder you run, the easier it is to fall and that’s what happens to him.

Potential Mother

My ideas about motherhood are laden with trauma and feminism, they’re this psychotic, bipolar, schizophrenic blend of narcissism, selfishness, abject fear of failure as a mother, fear of lack of control over what happens to my child, hating the idea of becoming nothing but a stay-at-home mom after working so hard to become more…so reading and watching Mother’s Milk the potential mother in me is watching it in terror.

Because all I can imagine is finding the man I love, the man I adore, the love of my heart and soul, predictably attracted to his darkness and intensity, trusting him enough to let him father my child only to come to the realization that he’s not as strong as I need him to be, that I’m going to have to step up to bat and be everything to our child because he’s failing.

The thought of leaving that potential love in favor of my child’s wellbeing sickens me to my stomach. I can’t bare the thought and that potential mother shrivels at this unlikely hypothetical.

God I don’t even want to think about what that’s like.

I can’t bare to think what Mary goes through! (And yet I do, as @sobeautifullyobsessed has been reading via my extremely random ass prose)

So we circle back to Julia and what happens with Patrick and I again preface this with a few things- these are my thoughts based on my own background and prejudices, my own life experiences and my understanding of the characters in the novels and the show. This is my opinion based on addiction and personalities and trauma, my understanding love.

Julia is a very, very, very messed up individual. She every bit as pompous and unbearable git as Patrick is. The difference is that Julia enjoys the cruelty of their world while Patrick takes comfort in the routine of it- it’s a world he knows, disappointment and anger are emotions that he understands better than happiness or forgiveness. It’s easier to default to negative emotions rather than positive or productive ones (as I’ve been learning these past few days).

Julia should not have encouraged Patrick. And Patrick should have walked away.

But they didn’t because they’re both damaged individuals.

There’s no excuse.

There’s no excuse in claiming that Mary was being cold to Patrick, there’s no excuse in saying that Patrick was feeling lonely and bored and needing sex and Julia was available.

If he really wanted to, he could have found Mary, could have told her, could have confided in her.

GOD the way he clings to her in the beginning after he tells her he’s been disinherited, the smile on his face when he’s in bed and she tells him they’re going to pick up Kettle, the way they lay on the couch together and talk about needing a holiday from their holiday….he actively, consciously, with malice aforethought pushes her away. He’s confused between wanting her so much he can’t stand it and wanting to push her away just in case he makes the same mistakes his father did, same mistakes his mother made. And while attempting to run away from all that, he makes his own, fresh mistakes with Mary. He knows it too, he says exactly that while he’s on the poolside with Julia.

He could have turned to Mary but she’s new, the joy she could bring him, the promise of peace and forgiveness with her standing beside him is too much light for someone who knows darkness like an old friend.

He should have turned to Mary.

As for Julia—let’s go back to their relationship shall we. In the books, when they first meet, she’s underage and talks him into having sex with her. In the show, the only positive thing she does is show up at the end of Never Mind and put her hand over his forehead. In Some Hope she tries to break his heart and his best friends heart by forcing him to fuck her when he’s in no condition to make a rational decision Here, she does the same thing. She should’ve pushed him away.

A good person in her shoes would have pushed him away.

I cannot and will not deny that Benedict Cumberbatch the actor and Jessica Raine the actress have wonderful chemistry together and they’re so sexy together, they’re interactions are stunning, crackling with energy.

But but BUT the toxic relationship between Patrick and Julia should NOT be sexualized or idealized. Cheating on your devoted and loving spouse is NOT sexy. Taking advantage of someone with clear emotional issues, struggling with sobriety, hanging on to it by a thread, is NOT sexy. It can never be sexy, and it should never be sexy.

Christ my heart hurt for Mary. I’ve been seeing discussions on here and on twitter about when Mary knows that her husband is being unfaithful—she knows the second it happens. Watch her the morning after, when he stands next to her and says “now we can have fun!” The poor thing knows and she tries to excuse it away because she loves him, and she understands the pain he’s in, the confusion he’s experiencing.

In this love triangle, only Mary Melrose comes out in tact. Julia and Patrick…they mess up big time, and Patrick knows it.

And instead of stopping, instead of trying to find someway back to being a husband and father, he pushes Mary further and further away because it’s so much easier than confronting their life together.

God he wants to be with her so much but he doesn’t know how.

There’s a feeling of decapitation, like missing a limb, losing the words that you want to say but they’re not there, they’ve flown the coop.

I want to confess, I want to live in your heart, I want the warmth of your soul, the warmth of your smile but darling it’s easier to push you away now because what if I disappoint you again, what if I break your heart again? I need to cut you my love, before you cut me.

I’ve had that conversation so many fucking times man….

Love me but I need you to hate me to function.

Love me, be my escape, but I need to make you hate me because I don’t want to see disappointment in your eyes.

-----------------------------

Guys, I’m completely certain I’m not making any sense because I’m really in a bit of a free fall right now and there’s no landing in sight.

I might add more to this, make it more coherent but this is all I got. And I’m not making sense.

#mother's milk #patrick melrose #benedict cumberbatch #edward st. aubyn #my thoughts #my opinions only nothing else

68 notes · View notes

jack-jupiter · 7 years

Text

I was twenty, the first time I hurt someone. I was coming out of the mall, clutching a bag of comicbooks, when I heard my least favorite word thrown at me, like a knive in my back. “Psh. Fruitcake.” I stopped on the sidewalk, but I didn’t dare turn around. I hate using the word “thug”. As a black man, it hurts my spirit. The word crawls, mettallic, over my skin. It gives me goosebumps. But that’s what they were. Not quite “fresh” from high school, but not yet seasoned in life. Twenty year olds, like me, but they wore the clothes of the social elite, the watchdogs of performative masculinity. They noticed that I had froze. And just when I was about to continue on and cross, the same voice cackled. “Nigga, I bet when you shit, fruit loops come out!” My ears began to ring. I became hot. In my homosexual hyperviligance, I tuned into my surroundings. There were two families sitting at nearby tables, watching, not intervening. And why would they? Again, I froze. I was crushing the binding to my new purchases. Anger feels like sleeper pods that were planted throughout your body, suddenly all coming alive, at once. I was losing control of myself. So what did I do? I disassociated. I hovered over my body, feeling nothing, dreaming, and in that dream-like haze, I watched my body turn around.... "What?” he shouted. I don’t remember how I got on top of him. In my astral state, it took me a while to register what was truly going on. But I was breaking his jaw open with the edge of fist, until finally it shattered into three pieces. I don’t know if it was shock that kept his friend at bay, but when my body had finished mashing his disfigured face into spittle, I kept his head forced on the cement with my wet hand and went to town on his ribs -- pounding, pounding, pounding -- waiting for something to break beneath me, to shatter, when the security guard pulled me off. That’s when I learned about the three pieces. He would have to get his jaw wired back together, just like my aunt had. The security guard was talking and I was compliant, but I was still dreaming, wondering if this made me as bad as my uncle, because the feeling of bones breaking beneath my knuckles felt too good. It was too satisfying. I had never harmed someone like that in my life. I was the nice child. The responsible child. The artist. My dad paid whatever was on the guard’s slip, and eerily, he seemed happy about it, like I had finally made a man out of myself. My whole childhood, I wasn’t allowed to cry. I couldn’t sing Whitney Houston songs without changing the pronouns. And when I came out, he tried to buy me a sex worker, to prove it was “just a phase”. (I was still a teenager.) So when even that proved futile, he resigned himself to the same sentence, the only damn sentence he would say if my homosexuality came up: “If you were really gay, you wouldn’t need my approval....” Just like that, I was crucified, and now here he was, jolly that I’d broken some kid’s jaw in three pieces. My father wasn’t a stranger to domestic abuse, just like my uncle. He’d struck my stepmother while she was still pregnant, and it wasn’t really that long ago. It made washing the blood off my knuckles feel weird, like I had joined some ancestral mass karma; but I quickly withdrew back to my apartment, back to dreaming. But then, a few years later, someone turned their back on me. I turned them around, forcing them to face me, then after a breath, I punched them in the mouth. I found out that though I had resigned myself to feeling unreal, my violent alter-ego deeply resented being ignored. I didn’t dislodge any teeth, to my comfort and dismay, but I was satisfied. They knew never to ignore me again. I was a rational person. It’s not like I go around pummeling strangers for nothing. I was just making things fair. It wasn’t until I was in my late twenties that I knew I had a problem. I was uncovering all my childhood trauma, and truly unearthing how deeply my childhood emotional neglect had affected my life. I had never had sex with a man. I could count how many men I’d kissed on one hand. I had slept through my own urges, because I didn’t trust anyone with my body. I found myself fantasizing about Paul, wishing to return to simpler times where my sexuality wasn’t so confusing. But the older I got, the more complex I discovered my psyche was. And what was worse, I was getting triggered everywhere I went. I was triggered when people ignored me. I was triggered when men tried to touch me. I was triggered by police brutality. I was triggered by homophobia. I was triggered by any racial discussions, and it was frightening how much rage ebbed beneath my disassociative reflex. When words would crawl over my skin, I could feel my alter-ego being aroused, waiting. So I created a room inside my mind, locked him inside, and became a “nice person” again. I nurtured my relationships, ignored my impulses, and steadied rocked boats like my life depended on it. I had grown wise among my peers for my self-control, but the more I ignored the anger writhing in that room, the more I lost my sense of self. I didn’t know that our anger provided clarity to definitively set boundaries, or that anger gave one agency to make changes in one’s life. I was too frightened to release my alter-ego. I feared what my new family of friends would think. It felt more righteous to suppress such raw, unpleasant emotions in favor of harmonizing the social equilibrium. But it did not help. The rage found its escape from behind my eyes. My gaze became hypnotic and arresting. “It’s like you’re looking into my soul,” they would say. But what I was looking for, were threats. I was projecting the very intensity that I was trying to mask. But if I wasn’t hypervigilant, someone might rouse the other me. So I pre-emptively scanned and scrutinized everyone in my aura, to protect them -- and myself -- from my own other self. When taking over my eyes didn’t work, I started getting tremors and digestive problems. It was as if there was a force inside, thrashing to get out, and sometimes I would forget the cause and wonder why. I tried to fix it with vitamins and exercise. I would soak in epsom salt tanks and get massages. But no matter what I did, everyone would still ask, “Why so tense? You’re usually so laidback.” And that was the secret to my laidback effervescence: it was devoid of polarity. My personality was a half-truth. But even with my alter-ego locked up in my body, there were still coincidences. The co-worker who took my parking spot would suddenly become ill. The restaurant with the racist waitress was forced to close down. Once, while a friend and I were walking toward a supermarket, in the dark, my shoulder collided with someone leaving. “Watch where yer goin’!” he shouted as he continued toward the parking lot. I took a deep breath and kept walking, and before my friend could make a snide comment, the man behind me had doubled over. He was vomiting. My friends began to catch on that bad things happen to people who mess with me, and honestly, I liked the rush. My shadow was protecting me, even within the confines of my mental prison. I had developed a spunky but righteously passive persona, so it gave me a newfound feeling of dignity. Until, I had an argument with my uncle, about Trump, on the internet. I let myself get upset but concluded that I should just block him. What should I expect from my white uncle? When I saw him next, I righteously apologized, but then we argued again, about the US colonizing Mexican land. I decided I just can’t talk about politics with my uncle. It would just end badly. Next time I saw him, I’d just tailor the conversation away from any landmines. But... I never saw him again. He died of a heart attack. To this day, I don’t believe I killed my uncle, but the thought frightened me beneath my bones. I wasn’t close to my uncle, but I still had regrets about our last encounter. I wished that things were different. It wasn’t until my grandma died that I really became afraid. I used to be my grandmother’s favorite, but I had put some distance between us. I was upset as an adult by how abusive and one-sided our relationship was. So I moved to Oakland and rarely visited. When she called for Thanksgiving, I didn’t call her back. I had gone to the woods, alone. Holidays brought up a lot of trauma for me, so I thought I was practicing self-care by putting myself first.... But Grandma ended up in the hospital, and later died that Christmas. I never got a chance to apologize. She was in a coma throughout her stay at the hospital. After her death, my tremors got worse. My panic attacks became more frequent, forcing me to find private corners to cry in. With my new awareness around mortality, I thought my body was failing me. I thought I was going to die. In a panic, I’d jog around my block, just to make sure my heart kept pumping. I could feel something thrashing inside of me but I’d forgotten what it was. I thought I was alone. So when I turned my jog into a brisk walk, I looked up at the sky, and I cursed God. I demanded answers. While I was walking in the city’s darkness, cursing under my breath, people would walk behind me, friends laughing and making jokes, interrupting my concentration. “Would y’all shut up,” I hissed silently. Then I heard a loud smack, and the rustling of cardboard. They had dropped their box of donuts all over the sidewalk. I kept walking. “So I’m not allowed to get angry, huh?” I seethed toward the night’s sky. “I’m just not allowed to feel anything?” Suddenly, a car’s tire bursted on the other side of the road. The pop echoed through the street like a gunshot. I flinched, then clenched my fists. It was unfair. What kind of life was this, if I’m not allowed to feel anything? I returned to my car, and I broke the handle... Now, I’d had enough. I stormed back down the street, re-entering the night. I was going to get answers. I shouted at the sky angrily. “And tell me in a way that I can understand!” I demanded. “Why is my life so terrible?” What happened next, I can’t really explain. It happened so fast, and there was no threshold for the event, just the clear blue streak of recognition. In that moment, I saw myself. The other me.... I was angry. But I was beautiful. And in that moment, for the first time in years, I felt whole. The door to the room must have come open, for within my psyche, I was confronted with the truth of who I was; and though it was wild, it was also comforting. His eyes were direct and piercing, just like mine. I knew that if I stared too long, I would be hypnotized, that eventually I would be able to see into his world, a world of vengeance and magic. Within him was held all the agency that I had denied for myself. Within him, within me, between us, was true power. In that moment, I felt real; and I realized that by denying my anger, I had not only lost myself, but I had hidden the wounds in my heart from my loved ones, and from all the men who had tried to love me. I was scared to show this new side of myself to people. I was so laidback, wise, and charming to be around. Integrating my shadow side would make me more decisive, more dominate, more mysterious and difficult to read. It meant I wouldn’t be putting up with half the bullshit I dealt with now. Ultimately, my shadow was unsettling. He disrupted all the harmony of the social membrane, and he rocked the boats that I was always so desperately trying to settle. It meant saying what I really felt, doing what I truly wanted to do, and ignoring the rest. It meant committing to myself and the continuity of my story. It meant remaining real. And beyond that, there were secrets, secrets that my shadow side knew, about the world, about people, and about magic. Do I dare? So I began to work with my shadow, but in solitude. The two of us together discussed current events, made art, and deeply harnessed the powers of the occult. As we became one, all my symptoms of illness went away, though the coincidences continued for anyone who crossed me. I felt dangerous, but oddly more whole. In truth, I had always been dangerous. The danger had just been locked in a room. Over time, I was taught how to contact and make peace with my grandma, and with my uncle. I could finally feel a semblance of peace. I hadn’t revealed my shadow to any of my friends, and definitely not to my family, but I was doing my best, and my shadow understood. Some traumas were healed. Some triggers simply went away. But I was still stuck within certain patterns that I couldn’t escape. I hadn’t hurt anyone, but I wasn’t living the life that I wanted. The dire economic realities of this world were really starting to affect me. I knew that I couldn’t reach my full potential without some kind of stability. And there was the issue of romance. I was nearly thirty, and even without some of the blockages I had cleared, love and sex still seemed elusive. I knew I wouldn’t be able to forge much farther alone. I was going to need a teacher.

8 notes · View notes

autistickitten · 7 years

Text

(added a readmore)

This is going to be long and ranty, and my Asks tend to get eaten by the piece, so I thought maybe a Submission would be better…

Anyway, I’m kind of…distraught? I’ll try to make this as brief as I can… I’ve been trapped in an abusive household my whole life. I’ve come to this blog several times for advice and venting, but now I’m at a point where I realize I don’t have to deal with it anymore. And because of that, I’m also thinking about how I can't do it anymore.

I’m the anon who has come here to ask if I was sexually abused by my older brother because I didn’t want him to run his hands down my thighs when I was eleven. I am the anon who has come here to ask about helping my younger brother after he hung himself to “prove to me that suicide isn’t pretty” (5150 anon; I did save him). My older brother continues to violate my boundaries, and gets upset when my mother tells him to not, and my father gets mad at me for denying my brother’s hugs. My younger brother is the very one who will say that he’s probably autistic while spewing the most ableist language and ideals at me (again, not saying he’s not autistic, but if he is, he’s a pretty ableist disabled person, which makes things ten times worse). I cannot repeat anything he says with mixed company because of how horrible it is (he might as well be Right Wing, ironic enough for a Latino mentally ill, possibly autistic, man). I am the anon who has come to vent about my anti-vaxxer father who shut me down when I tried to tell him that vaccines don’t cause autism, claiming that he “knew more about autism” than an autistic person, his autistic daughter.

I have put up with being told I couldn’t understand how people could be mean bigots because I was “young, naive,” God Forbid, “r*tarded.” I have been put down all my life by these men, and then berated for wanting to leave this family, this existence, because it “wasn’t the right thing to do” or “selfish.” Like, how dare I be affected by things that hurt. Why can’t I just put up with it for the good of the family?

I am also the anon who just recently came to share the love story about me and my partner, the one who loves me for me without the “despite the autism” rhetoric. We have been making plans that will be a little slow, but because we are being as practical as we can and we trust each other, I am certain that we’ll be able to pull through.

So… Just recently, something came up. There was a family gathering at my place, so pool and water guns and all that fun. Except, I started the day with a haze when I thought about how much I hate this town I have been trapped in all my life; I hate it because of all the abuse I’ve gone through here. I didn’t want to engage in the pool and water gun fun, but I joined everyone because they were expecting me. My older brother shot me with a water gun, and I just left. I was already not in the mood, so I needed to remove myself to decompress. I could hear my mother explain to him that I did not want to be shot with a water gun. The next thing I know, everyone is asking me, “Awww, what happened to him, is he okay? :(” or “Did you say something to him? Cause he’s in his room, crying.”

I will admit, I am bitter as all hell. I have cried my eyes out because of something hurtful that was said to me, by my father or one of my brothers. I have had tears fill my eyes, with no one noticing. Not even if they were right in front of me. Someone tells my brother that I don’t want to be shot with a water gun, and he goes to his room and cries. Now everyone is so concerned for him that the party fun is interrupted.

I lost it. That was the first time in a very long time I had the gall to remove myself from my own house. But as I was leaving, my cousin and father were trying to talk me out of it. My father kept saying it “wouldn’t be right.” I almost snapped at him. “You know what’s not right, is all the bullshit you’ve subjected your children to.” But I kept it to myself. My cousin asked me if I needed a moment. I told her I needed to go, lest I explode and fuck everything up. Like I always do. Because I’m so selfish.

For once in a very long time… I had a place to go. I went to my partner’s and decompressed. We watched Breaking Bad. He made sure I was okay.

When I went home like five hours later, I unloaded in my room. I saw that my older brother had left his prized novel on my computer chair and…my heart sank. I’m 24 years old, and at a point now where I’m finally saying, “I can’t do this anymore.” And he’s finally trying to say, “I’m sorry.” It hurts because I know he has nothing else he could possibly give me to tell me how sorry he is, though I’m not sure he knows exactly what he’s apologizing for. All his life, he was never told that there were consequences for violating my boundaries. It was always my fault for getting mad.

I am going to work on getting some form of employment (it’s been a while) before I go anywhere. But I may have to stay with my partner for a while.

I guess the one concern I have is… I don’t know if this is ironic or not, but what will become of my family once I’ve left. I don’t just mean to stay with my boyfriend for a while to get away from it all, but once I’ve made my own life. I’ve always thought about it growing up, but now that I actually have that option available to me–the option of finally breaking free and leaving–it’s…strange. Like it’s almost not happening, it’s just a weird dream, no this shouldn’t be happening, what happened to me caring for my family…

I’m also wondering what I could possibly say to them by the time I am ready to leave. Is there anything to say? And I tend to get a little nervous about the idea of…cutting them out of my life. While I’m kind of hoping that some distance between us will loosen the tension, I’m almost not expecting them to change for the better… I don’t know. Guess we’ll see when the time comes.

Most people reach an age when they will leave the familial home. Some people even break ties with their families, for their own good. I don’t think there’s much of substance to say besides “I’m ready to move into my own place now. I’ll see you (or I won’t.)”

It’s okay to wonder about what will become of your family after you leave ! It’s even okay to care for them. But it was never your responsability to hold the family together. You’re the child. You get to leave the nest and build your own life, on your own terms.

Hang in there and I wish you all the luck !

- Sister Cat

#Autism #Story #Actually Autistic #Submission #submission #abuse cw

8 notes · View notes

infernoroleplay-blog · 5 years

Photo

DAMIAN ISAIAH

FIFTY. LOS ANGELES’ MAYOR (2013--PRESENT). NEUTRAL.

MATURE THEMES AHEAD.

WARNING FOR MENTAL ILLNESS, SUBSTANCE ABUSE.

He learned young that with enough of anything, you can grow numb. The taste of fear had long left his tongue by the age of ten, the sense of self-preservation became constant adrenaline to the point of obscurity. The foster system of LA had been cruel in his youth, even more so than it was now. From home to home he was passed, hand to hand grazing his face, his outstretched palms never being filled quite enough. Cruelty had been brought to his forefront with such ferocity that it was impossible to ignore and Damian had been forced to learn that even freedom still wasn’t fair.

Too many faces, too many names to count but time and time again he found kinship in those in which he shared a room with. Others who shared a doomed fate of neglect and desperation, a fate of failure and within all of those with whom he grew close he watched bitterness eat them away. He watches as defeat tore through their veins and they continued a cycle of disappointment, of evil.

He handled it with a solemn silence. A child too helpless to even speak. Some homes would prefer the easily dismissed shell of a boy but the state found some truth in the matter, he needed to be helped. Help did not come in the way it needed to though. Diagnosis of bipolar, ADD, autism, depression: The list grew with every visit as did the amount of prescription pills he was to take. They were supposed to help and in a way, they did. All thoughts that threatened to break the heavily guarded walls of his already numb mind simply ceased to exist. There was no more struggle, no more cares. In more ways, than he thought possible, he was free.

The years all blended by in a myriad of messy memories. He finished school on the honor, took advantage of free college, found a broken down apartment he could afford with his bartending job. Time stopped existing until it didn't anymore. It was hard to forget that day, the day he met Jess. She made the world spin again and for the first time in nearly twelve years, he didn't want to be numb.

A rich girl, cared for and wealthy since birth, Damian saw no parallels between the two of them and yet, they shared opinions. They both saw a malice and injustice world, bonding over this distaste with legal studies papers and news articles from the paper. It took almost no time at all for the two to fall in love, sharing a justified cynicism and claiming to do nothing but better. Soon the falsified mental illnesses he had been diagnosed with got cleared and with much effort, he gained a place at her family's dinner table. It took months of top grades and show of ambition that was often forced but eventually, even that stuck, found a place within his psyche.

Caring nature, intelligence, and a new found ambition crafted the politician he is today. Jess and her family pulled the string and his passion would push him forward. Damian flew through internships, positions, and promotions. By the age of 30, he was so integrated into the system that he nearly was the system. Things were going well, his life found a stable drum to beat to and peace filled his heart, even if only for a brief time.

It all came to a crashing halt the day Jess announced she was pregnant. Everyone else expected it, hoped for it even. Nothing but a heavy dread crept through Damiens' veins. This one agreement had been the heart and soul of their relationship. With their views, the way they knew the world to be, they both never wanted children. Jess though, seemed to have a change of heart. The previous months had existed in near constant argument over the concept and an even more constant was Damian's answer. No. But Jess clearly had enough, found a donor and chose to wait to deliver the news in hopes for a better reaction. Two months later the two were legally divorced.

Things seemed to move in reverse at a rapid speed and suddenly he found himself in the same numbing state Jess had found him in. The drugs were street bought now though, heavier and more effective and still, it never felt like enough. Depression and cynicism found him once more and somehow in his haze he found himself elected as mayor. Clearly, his public appearances were being kept up and anything that was even close to a slip, Jess' family covered seamlessly, their investment in him still heavy though hardening.

Becoming mayor put him in the position to push his agendas, to fix the system that was so badly bent. Damian wasn't able to get far though before new issues arise, issues he didn't want to deal with. Gang issues had always seemed a minor thing, a thing for the law enforcement but the two that held down Los Angeles were growing too powerful and if Damian knew anything, it was that powerful men tended to collect people; people like him. The Polish and the Russians had both made offers one way or another and the more their feud grows the more insistent the two become. To choose a side would mean almost certain corruption of his goals and morals but he knows it's only a matter of time before he doesn't have a choice. He just hopes he can choose the side that will bring his city peace.

CONNECTIONS

DOMINIK PRUSZKOWSKI: The man is a mad one. Damian fears the day when Dominik takes full control of Inferno and betrays the Russians himself -- he knows Dmitri is to be feared, but people underestimate the power of Dominik’s wrath as well. With the Russians coming at full speed to take what’s rightfully theirs, Dominik has been pushing Damian to pick a side... and it won’t be pretty when Damian succumbs to the pressure. Either Russian or Polish.

ISABELLE CHAPMANN: She’s a family friend -- a pretty young thing lost in Hollywood. Damian doesn’t want her to find out who killed her father. Partially because he’s at fault too. He saw it coming, and did nothing to stop it. He knows the Polish-Russian mobsters had something to do with it, and when she finally gets her vengeance against them, Damian won’t be sitting on his throne watching. He might just be in jail as well.

ROSA SERRANO: Something about Rosa reeks of corruption. The kind that Damian stays away from. He knows very well she rose to power by being a Pruszkow associate, but he’s not a snitch.. And besides, if he tells on her, she might just tell on him as well. It’s a dangerous game they play, one of cat and mice... Pretending not to know one another’s secret, pretending not to know one another.

EVANGELINE GOODWIN: He knows better than to be close to a TV news anchor, especially one that feeds on death and destruction. But Evangeline is a compassionate woman -- or so it seems -- and they’ve become good friends along the way. Business is business, and he doesn’t hold it against her when he pops up on the news... but so far they’ve managed to keep their careers apart from their friendship.

FACECLAIM: SHEMAR MOORE (NEGOTIABLE)

#lsrp #lsrpg #shemar moore fc #damianbio #damian isaiah

0 notes