#i intend to pick at those old scabs and see if i can make them bleed again <3

[fiovske]

wait no you can't do this do me.... you can't get me hooked on beaujes again...... my brain just freed me from my four year cr hyperfixation!!! i was about to move on....... but now i can't stop thinking about beaujes ten years later 🥲

the way i have almost written a fic very similar but i was always to scared to post about it,, you're braver than any us marine 🫡 but literally every point you've made so far i'm like. yes. yes exactly that is exactly what i imagined. anyway i can't wait to see what you do with it!!

i knooow like! I think all of us have, imagined something like this loosely in our heads even if we didn't write it down bc we all know that a) there is a catharsis pending and b) how the backlash would be fucking tremendous and we'd be so easily called all kinds of vile things bc it isn't the whole toxic positivity of cr's "aaaand they lived happily ever after!! the end" ... and tbh I myself was scared to write it down until recently bc I was afraid of backlash from the cr fanatics. they take it so personally when things deviates from the hivemind norm.

but. I got talking abt beaujes from that random anon the other day and I realized... I don't care. I don't care what those fanatics think bc this fic is purely self-indulgent and it's messy and. I am far enough away emotionally from the source material to be able to explore beaujes honestly again, without feeling bad about it.

I would love to hear abt ur fic, if u wanna talk abt it! I am so fond of stories that happen after the curtains fall, the behind the curtains take of an alleged 'happy ever after'... which is why I set the premise for this ten years later when both beau and jes and well into their upper 30s... having experienced the world outside of each other too, with their significant time apart from each other, which. presents an interesting avenue to explore and reflect on as older people now!

[puggledy-huggledy-is-not-a-pig]

If You Want To Get Warm You Must Stand Near The Fire (Parts 8 & 9)

Warnings: Angst (most of it mine :P)

Very Important Note: I have been staring at this for hours and days. I hate, hate, hate, writing sex scenes. I just feel so awkward doing it, and I hate it, because I want Hope and Guy to make beautiful love :( If anyone wants to write them for me, I will be grateful, give you credit, send you puppies, or whatever else you ask. For now, after spending hours reading other people’s erotica trying to breathe some life to my fossilised imagination, I’m just going ahead and posting this. I’m not tagging anyone this time, because frankly I’m too embarrassed and cross at myself that I can’t even do this in the privacy of my own mind. If you think it’s not completely cringe worthy, throw me a comment or a reblog. I promise I’ll try to get over myself and tag people next time. Ok you’ve all been encouraging nd lovely so I will stop being a giant infant and tag people for this too. Thanks, and sorry if I seemed to be high maintenance compliment-fishing!

After that day, Hope was amazed to see a side to Guy that she never expected. That night he showed up in her bedroom, smiling like the cat that got the cream; she moved to make space for him and he spent the night draped over her, much to the disgust of Falkor, who had been displaced to the foot of the bed. He did the same again the next night, and the next, and it quickly became a routine.

During the day they would potter along companionably, Guy slowly exploring and learning more about how everything worked. Hope had imagined that he would have a hard time with a lot of modern concepts and inventions, but to her surprise and relief, Guy was stoically accepting of most things. It seemed like, once he had fixed in his mind the fact that this was the year 2020, he just expected that a lot of things would not make sense. Guy, thought Hope, was the most practical man she’d ever met. He was far from unintelligent, but surrounded with all this newness, he didn’t bother with the how and why -he just methodically collected every new skill she showed him and moved on to the next one.

She also discovered that he had a really dry sense of humour, when he let himself show it. He had this habit of looking up for a reaction when he made a joke -Guy was a man who liked an audience, Hope was realising.

He never offered her any words of affection during the days, although in unspoken ways he was behaving very differently than he had before.

From being stiff and distant he became surprisingly tactile, always touching her back, running a hand down her arms, breathing in her ear... Then, every evening, they got in the same bed, had sex, and slept holding each other through the night.

It was a fragile equilibrium, and Hope was finding herself holding her breath. She was very aware that things couldn’t stay like this for too long. One way or another, Guy would have to move on soon.

Chapter 9

One evening, Hope was sitting up in bed with Guy’s head on her lap. She was ostensibly reading a book, but in reality kept peering over the top at his eyelashes casting a shadow on his pale cheeks, his long nose, his thin, clever lips. He was drowsy, looking relaxed, but his fingers kept dancing just under the hem of her shirt.

I’m getting too attached... she thought to herself.

He’s not some stray you can adopt, Poppet, Gran’s voice was in her head again, spelling out her thoughts like she had when she was alive. Hope sighed, and closed her book.

“Guy?”

“Mmmmm?”

“Sing me a song...”

“Mmm.” His fingers travelling higher, playing with her breast. “There are better ways to pass the time.”

“Come on, sing me a song!”

Amused, she flicked his nose, and he glared at her.

“I’m not a minstrel!”

“And I’m not Freddie Mercury, but you still got me to sing.”

“Ah, but that was for your own good.”

“So is this. I’m getting bored, I might leave in a minute,” she teased him.

“I don’t know any songs,” Guy groaned, then gave up when Hope pretended to be getting up.

“Paura pichona,

Perqué plorar?

Lo niu d'ironda

Va s'envolar.

Paura pichona,

Cal pas plorar,

Ambe l'aureta

Lo niu vendrà.

Paura pichona,

Consòla-te,

Lo niu d'ironda

Tornarà ben.”

“That’s lovely,” breathed Hope. “What is it?”

Guy blinked. “It’s a lullaby,” he said, “my mother used to sing it. I didn’t think I’d remember it.”

“What language is that?”

“Occitan. My mother was French.”

“Tell me about your life, before,” Hoped asked him, and Guy was torn. On the one hand, having someone want to get to know him better was a very nice feeling, and not one he was accustomed to. On the other hand he really didn’t feel like going back, even just in his mind. What good could possibly come from it? Everything he had worked for all these years was gone, and all that was left was the taint.

He compromised by shrugging and keeping it short. “Not much to tell. I worked for the Sheriff for years, ran things for him. I was...” (Feared? Loathed?) “...respected,” was what he settled on.

“Do you want to go back?” Hope hated how needy she sounded, but she couldn’t help herself. Don’t go back...

Guy shook his head. “No. Things got... bad. There’s nothing left for me there.” There really isn’t, he thought bitterly. All these years of putting up with Vaisey’s whims and humiliations, all the bits of himself he had had to amputate and shed in the process of rebuilding the Gisborne name and fortune, and there was nothing to show for it all.

“No... family?”

“No.” None to speak of...

Guy had had enough of these questions, now. What difference did it make, picking at the past like a scab? He had lost everything and had to start from scratch before, and, although he would never have chosen it, it appeared he had to do the same again. So be it. Guy was surprised to find the thought didn’t bother him as much as it should have. All the ambition that drove him for so many years had been burnt away, turned to ashes in the blaze that was Marian’s death, and in its place a need for revenge had grown like a twisted, blackened tree that had survived a forest fire. But now, after being away for just a few days, his appetite for revenge had left him. Let Isabella have Nottingham, let Hood have Sherwood. They could kill each other, for all he cared, he was done. I want to stay here... With Hope, Guy realised. Why not? He liked being around her, she had the means to help him, and she responded to him in a way that was very... flattering. She sure as hell was a better choice of someone to throw his lot in with, than Vaisey had been, Guy knew.

No one would accuse him of having a poet’s soul, but Hope reminded him of the sun-drenched fields in France. She reminded him of the Earth. She was generous, and nurturing, and warm, and vast, and heavy, and, Guy thought, she grounded him.

“Your turn,” he said, changing the subject. “And none of those songs about the men you killed.”

Hope giggled. “I’ve told you, that was Freddie Mercury. We’ve got to do something about your musical education.”

“Now seems a good time to start!”

“Right, ok...” Hope scrunched her forehead, trying to think of a song. “I know, this is one my dad used to sing to me when I was a teenager and got in a strop.

#In the crazy world

Anything can happen

If you will it to

I'm just a hazy girl

Blurring all the edges

Only seeing blue

It's a wild hope

A wild hope

A wild hope

Everything will be alright.”

“Wild Hope, hmmm?” Guy murmured against her neck. “I’d like to hear more about that...”

Guy is back in Locksley, about to get married.

“Are you married, Thornton?”

“I was. She died, years ago.”

“Did your wife... understand you?”

“I’d like to think so, yes.” The old servant’s kindly face twists into a mocking parody of itself. “We were both human, you see. So we could understand each other. No one understands you... because there is no humanity left in you, is there, Gisborne? No heart... Just the howling void.

Don’t look inside you Gisborne. You know what they say happens, when you look into the abyss... It looks back.”

Thornton’s face twists again, morphing into Vaisey.

“Lepers, Gisborne... You were always running after lepers. I wonder why that is, hmmm? Could it be -rot calling to rot? Like father, like son, eh?”

Maggots are squirming out of Vaisey’s eyes now, he smiles widely and his jeweled tooth winks at Guy. “My boy...” The Sheriff leans close, his carrion breath stroking Guy’s face like a promise. “I made you. I know you...”

“Nooooo...”

“What is it, Guy?” It’s Marian’s voice, and he opens his eyes and sees her smiling, looking down at him. “It’s just a nightmare, it’s not real.” She strokes his forehead with her cool fingers, and pulls up the blankets, tucking him in.

“It’s not real, none of it was ever real, you stupid boy... Only the sand, the sand is real and it gets COLD, Guy, I’m COLD, it’s COLD where you sent me.”

And the floor turns to sand, the bed turns to sand, it’s in Guy’s mouth, in his nostrils, and everything goes dark.

“Paura pichona,

Consòla-te,

Lo niu d'ironda

Tornarà ben.”

“Mother? I destroyed everything, mother...”

“Shhhh, Fiéu mèus. It’s fine. Nothing is destroyed, just changing. Lo niu tornarà ben, remember.

Look, the door is open. Go out in the sun for a bit, it will do you good.”

# It’s a wild hope,

A wild hope,#

“-everyone deserves to be loved-“

#A wild hope,

Everything will be alright.#

Hope started awake in the middle of the night. Guy was kicking her, tangled in the covers, obviously having a nightmare. She reached over to turn the bedside light on, intending to wake him up, but then he suddenly sat up, calling out her name.

“Hope!”

“Shhh... I’m here.”

Before Hope could ask what was wrong, Guy was on her like a starving man, kissing her desperately, cupping her breasts, pressing against her like he was trying to bury his whole self inside her. He was holding her so tightly that it was almost hurting her, but Hope couldn’t bring herself to care. Something had changed. Guy’s teeth and tongue were all over her, and Hope could feel him tremble. She had never realised how much he held back every other time she’d been with him. Instinctively, she put her hands on his face and kissed him back, keeping her eyes on his. She just felt like, more than anything else, he needed to be seen..

Guy pulled his head back and looked at her. His pupils were so dilated that his blue eyes looked almost black.

“Tell me you want to be with me,” he begged.

“I want to be with you.”

He moaned and reached between her legs, pulled her underwear aside and pushed inside her.

“Say it again.”

“I want to - Oh! - I want to be with you. I want you to stay with me. Guy! I love you...”

He rained kisses all over her face, thrusting, and it was all over so quickly; but that felt right, too. She stroked his face and kissed him, and Guy stared at her, lost for words.

“Hope... You deserve to be loved. I don’t know that there’s enough good left in me to do that.”

She kissed him again, and spoke his words back to him. “Hush. I know it’s hard. But it hurts more if you fight it.”

Notes:

*The Occitan lullaby is this one: https://www.mamalisa.com/?t=es&p=3877

Can’t say I’m sure how old it is, but I’m sure Ghislaine would have sung something similar.

*The song Hope sings is Wild Hope, by Mandy Moore.

*Fiéu mèus: my son

Lo niu tornarà ben: The nest will come back again.

Tagging: @whofriend @moony-artnstuff @fizzyxcustard @tigereyesf @guylty @xxbyimm @dumbassunderthemountain @aspookybunny @patanghill17 @ruthoakenshield

[a-yellow-book]

Favorite Things

In the years after Wei Ying's death, Lan Zhan poured all his heart and soul into protecting his legacy and raising A-Yuan.

I saw a fan-art of Lan Zhan standing in front of a bookshelf full of Emperor Smile's bottles and thought it would be hilarious if he openly displays them in the Jingshi for all of the Cloud Recesses to see instead of hiding them under the floorboard or something. Then it morphed into this. There will be a happy ending, I promised. We just gotta wade through some angsty moments first.

Part 1 of 2 

[read on ao3 instead]

Year One

Lan Zhan stumbled on a loose cobblestone and almost lost his grip on the bottle of Emperor’s Smile. The path leading back to the Cloud Recesses was in need of repairs, and Lan Zhan wasn’t strong enough yet to fly. While the wounds on his back had scabbed into rough and dark scars, the damages done to his golden core were not yet healed. Even so, Lan Zhan walked all the way to Caiyi Town and back to the Cloud Recesses to procure a bottle of Emperor’s Smile. He fully intended to smuggle it back to his room, rules be damned. It was Wei Ying’s first death anniversary, and Lan Zhan wanted to get his favorite things to remember him by. 

The two junior disciples didn’t say anything to Lan Zhan as he passed them, the liquor bottle tucked neatly inside his sleeve. As he got closer to the Jingshi, Lan Zhan heard an excited squeal coming from the gardens just beyond the gate.

“Father! You’re back!” A-Yuan ran toward him with his arms raised, expecting to be picked up. 

Lan Zhan bent over to grab A-Yuan after reminding his son, “Lower your voice while you’re in the Cloud Recesses.”  

“Sorry, Father,” A-Yuan said, leaning his head against Lan Zhan’s shoulder. “I missed you,” He whispered. 

“I missed you as well,” Lan Zhan replied. He brought both the child and the liquor bottle into the Jingshi. Brushing off the loose leaves that somehow found their way into A-Yuan’s hair as he played in the garden earlier, Lan Zhan set him down. 

“Father, where did you go?” A-Yuan asked. 

“A-Yuan, do you remember when I told you about your other father?” Lan Zhan lowered himself on his knees to be at eye-level with his son. 

“Father Ying!” A-Yuan nodded enthusiastically, “Is he coming to visit?” 

“No,” A pause, “He has passed away,” Lan Zhan said softly. “Do you know what that means?” He had tried to explain to A-Yuan before, when he first recovered from his fever - no doubt gotten as the result of hiding in a humid cave for days with no food or water, but the small child was quick to forget the things that hurt him. 

A-Yuan’s bright face took on a sad look as his eyes welled up with tears, “It means...It means he’s not coming back.” 

Lan Zhan pulled A-Yuan in for a hug, patting his head gently, “It also means that we get to keep him in our hearts forever.” A-Yuan snuggled deeper into Lan Zhan’s embrace, and he could feel his son’s tears seeping through the collars of his robes. “Will you help me to remember him?” 

A-Yuan brought his head up and nodded weakly. 

Lan Zhan showed him the bottle of liquor, “I left earlier to get this. Even though Wei Ying is no longer of this world, we can remember him through the things he loved. This is Wei Ying’s favorite wine.” Lan Zhan booped A-Yuan’s nose with his own and added, “And you’re Wei Ying’s favorite son.” 

That made A-Yuan giggled, “Are you Father Ying’s favorite too?” He asked amidst his giggles, not knowing how much that question weighed on Lan Zhan. 

“I am his keeper,” Lan Zhan said. “I protect his favorite things.” 

A-Yuan looked a bit confused at that, but before he could ask more questions, Lan Zhan stood up to place the bottle of Emperor’s Smile on the empty bookshelf. He didn’t care what others would say. There was no reason to hide what was the unchanging truth - his love for Wei Ying. 

Year Two 

It was a chilly afternoon. Lan Zhan was busy writing replies to the pile of letters on his desk when A-Yuan tumbled in. 

“Father!” A-Yuan cried out. 

Lan Zhan immediately dropped the brush and hurried over to his son, “What is wrong?” 

“Father!!!” A-Yuan cried louder as he ran right into Lan Zhan’s arms, “The others... they...” 

“A-Yuan, take a deep breath, gather your words, and explain to me what is wrong,” Lan Zhan said calmly, hand rubbing soothing circles on his son’s back to ease his cries. 

“The others... they... they were saying bad things!” A-Yuan said in between hiccups, “They were saying bad things... about.... About Father Ying!!!” 

Lan Zhan froze. He should have expected this. Although spreading gossip was forbidden in the Cloud Recesses, it was still impossible to stop the disciples, especially the younger ones, from doing so. Brushing the stray hairs from A-Yuan’s tear-stained face, Lan Zhan asked, “What did you tell them when they said those things about Wei Ying?” 

“That lying is forbidden in the Cloud Recesses!” A-Yuan said petulantly, “They were spreading lies about Father Ying and I had to correct them. But no one believed me!” He continued, no less tearful. 

Sighing, Lan Zhan pulled A-yuan into a hug, “I am sorry that happened. While it is very difficult to change the opinions of others, it is crucial that we do not let their hearsay dissuade us from our truths.” 

“It makes me so sad...” A-Yuan whispered, defeated. 

“I know - it makes me sad too,” Lan Zhan admitted

“Why do they hate Father Ying so much?” A-Yuan asked, sniffling. 

Lan Zhan froze, entirely at a loss on how to unpack years of resentment, misfortunes and political machinations that led to Wei Ying’s demise to a five-year-old. At the same time, Lan Zhan did not want to lie to A-Yuan; it would only make it harder when the truth resurfaced. 

“Wei Ying was a brilliant cultivator who surpassed everyone in his generation,” Lan Zhan began, “He also was unconventional in his thinking. Do you understand?” 

“Un..conv..?” A-Yuan tried to repeat the word, shaking his head. 

“Unconventional - it means that Wei Ying often did things that were different from what was considered normal,” Lan Zhan explained. 

“And that is bad?” A-Yuan scrunched up his nose in confusion. 

“No, it is not,” Lan Zhan shook his head. “Wei Ying followed his beliefs and did what he thought was the right thing to do, despite what others said at the time.” 

“Because lying is prohibited!” A-Yuan perked up, understanding dawning on his young face. 

“Yes, because lying is prohibited,” Lan Zhan smiled gently, heart warming that A-Yuan was able to connect the dots so easily. “So no matter what other people say, we will always cherish Wei Ying and all that he was, and is, in our memories.” 

A-Yuan nodded as he leaned his head against Lan Zhan’s shoulder, “Can we go play with the rabbits, please? They always make me feel better.” 

“That is a lovely idea,” Lan Zhan agreed. Then, with one fell swoop, Lan Zhan scooped a squealing A-Yuan up into his arms. “And I heard that there is a little boy who needs to be buried among the rabbits!” 

“Hehe...Father!” A-Yuan giggled and tried to wiggle free to no avail. 

Lan Zhan was grateful that A-Yuan was still young enough for these simple distractions to work. He knew it would only get more complicated as A-Yuan grew older, and there would be questions that required a more nuanced approach than this. Nevertheless, as he carried his giggling son towards the Rabbits Hill, Lan Zhan felt a rush of affection and a renewed sense of determination. No matter what, he would make sure that A-Yuan would grow up to be a brilliant man just like Wei Ying. And more importantly, he would make sure that A-Yuan knew how much he was loved and treasured. 

Year Three 

The Mid-Autumn Festival celebrations were in full swing in Caiyi with stalls selling colorful lanterns and sweets everywhere. A-Yuan, for all that he was trained to master the Lan’s brand of restraint, was still a six-year-old. So when he jumped up and down in excitement as they walked through Caiyi, Lan Zhan just nodded and smiled along indulgently. 

“Father! Look!” A-Yuan waved his arm and bodily dragged Lan Zhan toward a stall that boasted a huge display of beautifully painted lanterns. “Bunny!” He pointed at the ones with bunnies painted all over, “Can I have one? Please?!” 

Smiling softly, Lan Zhan reached out to touch the brushstrokes that formed a particularly fluffy bunny on the lantern closest to them. “We’ll take this one,” he said to the seller. Next to him, A-Yuan was practically vibrating with excitement. 

“Thank you, Father!!!” He squealed and grabbed hold of the lantern with both of his chubby hands. “I want to show Jingyi! Can I show Jingyi when we get back home please?” 

Lan Zhan nodded in agreement, and A-Yuan rewarded him with a bright smile in response. It lasted for a brief moment before A-Yuan’s attention was taken by other brightly lit stalls.

“Father! Look!” A-Yuan pointed at another stall selling lanterns, but this time, he pointed at the string of lotus shaped ones. “Can we get one for Jingyi please? He doesn’t have anyone to buy him things....” A-Yuan trailed off, frowning. 

Jingyi had come to the Cloud Recesses barely a season ago when both of his parents died during a night-hunt. His mother was Lan Zhan’s distant cousin and whom he remembered mostly for the troubles she got in while she was studying at the Cloud Recesses. Lan Jingfei and Wei Ying would have gotten along splendidly in another life. 

At first, stricken with grief and fear of an unfamiliar environment, Jingyi had mostly kept to himself outside of the classes and training sessions. A-Yuan, being a sensitive and caring child by nature, had tried to befriend Jingyi when everyone else had left him alone. It took a few rocky weeks of A-Yuan offering Jingyi treats, sitting next to him in classes, and eating meals with him before their friendship took roots. Lan Zhan suspected the final straw was A-Yuan showing Jingyi the Rabbits Hill, which had been off limits to other disciples. 

Honestly, Lan Zhan was glad to see A-Yuan making friends and showing his innate compassion for others. In time, Lan Zhan hoped that would dispel all the negative association the Wen name might have had on A-Yuan. 

                                                        *****

The moment they arrived at the Cloud Recesses, A-Yuan immediately ran off to find Jingyi with the lanterns in his hands. Lan Zhan went back to the Jingshi to meditate. Before long, the voices of the children drifted through, pulling Lan Zhan out of his meditation. 

He heard a soft knock amidst the shuffling of feet and whispered voices, “Come in.” 

Jingyi pushed the door open and stepped in. Bowing deeply, he said, “Hanguang-jun, thank you for my lantern.” 

“You’re welcome, Jingyi,” Lan Zhan nodded. The two boys looked up at him and smiled. 

“We’ve finished our training for the day, Father. Would it be ok if we visit the rabbits to show them our lanterns?” A-Yuan asked. 

“Mn,” Lan Zhan always found it difficult to say no to his son. 

The two boys quickly bowed in goodbye and headed out towards the Rabbits Hill hands in hands, the lanterns swaying along with their movements. 

[redfoxwritesstuff]

Of Dust and Ashes (chapter 25)

Sorry for the late posting, I intended to post it Friday but well, life happened. We're surprise moving at the start of next month so things may get a little crazy but I intend to keep at least biweekly posts.

Chapter warnings: Violence

Clint x ofc (Deanna). 

Series warnings: Legit, if it’s a trigger it’s probably in here at some point...

Rated: M for mature themes

Masterlist Kofi

Chapter 25: Into the City

Clint watched the world around them. Cold air bit at his cheeks and ears, made colder still by the breeze. Sun warmed the top of his head. He was alone on the roof with only the wind and the slight ringing in his ear to break the silence. Absently. he rubbed at his ear as if he could somehow rub away the sound that had been with in for much of his life. There were only so many blows to the ear and explosions one could experience without some sort of lasting damage. All things considered, he was lucky. It could have been worse.

In the cold, he sat watching and waiting. He’d left Dee on the top floor, inside and safe from the cold air to care for baby Elsa. It wasn’t a place for her or a baby, not when they didn’t need to be. The desire to protect her, to isolate Dee from any harm burned inside him. He'd rather her never be on this roof but she wanted to help. While he didn't like it, having eyes in the sky and ranged attacks would provide a useful distraction.

She didn't need to be out there right at that moment, at least. For now, she could be warmer and safer than he was. Later, he could show her what she needed to see. Right now, it was better that she rested and cared for the little one. Anxiety ate at him though.

He did the best he could to cut the top floor off from the rest of the building but there was only so much he could do. He did his best while maintaining his own path to get to the roof and back. He wouldn’t hear it if someone where to fight through his makeshift barricades and Dee was sleeping.  

He was proud of her for how well she handled the amount of walking they had done but now she needed to rest. They’d covered miles of ground today and would likely cover miles again tonight, assuming they didn’t die. She’d done little complaining and had earned her rest. It was a lot that she was putting her body through for someone who wasn’t a trained agent.  

In his pocket, his phone vibrated. Slipping it out, he looked at the name. 'Natasha' flashed on the screen next to a picture of a spider. In the top corner of the screen, next to the date he’d been trying to ignore was a small satellite symbol. They’d not gotten cell phone service returned yet but Stark's satellite phone services still worked.  

“Hey.” He hadn’t wanted to answer but he had been ignoring her for longer stretches of time. It wasn’t fair to her. It wasn’t her fault.  

Except, it kind of was.  

She was there. She was at the battle. She didn’t call him. She didn’t tell him. She went to space. She was there when he died. She saw his blood. She didn’t bring him. She failed to save them. She failed to bring them back. She failed. She failed.  

“How’s it going?”  

Clint cleared his voice, pushing the turbulent thoughts away as he always did. “It’s going.”

“I wanted to check on you.” She started, sounding more like she was talking to a wounded animal than a friend, comrade and the man who had at one point saved her life. “I know today’s-”

“I’m fine.” He didn’t mean to snap. “Sorry- Just a bit cold. I’m getting to be a grouchy old man.”  

“Are you sure? I can take a few days, fly out… I worry about you, being alone in the house and today’s-”

“It would have been 15 years.” Clint offered, knowing damn well that she was calling to make sure he hadn’t gone off the rails.  

“That’s a long time.” Nat offered.  

“Not nearly as long as I had planned on being married.” There was nothing he could do to keep the ice from his voice.  

“I know.” He could hear the regret in her voice. She didn’t mean to pick at the emotional scab. “I just worry about you. You don’t have to be alone right now.”

“I’m not.” His attention was divided between the phone call and the men walking down below.  

“You’re never worried.” Natasha teased, or at least tried. “But I mean it, you don’t have to suffer alone. I’m here for-”

“I’m not.” He snapped.  

Below, men pushed women out in the open. They had pots in their hands. One tripped and landed in a heap on the ground. What looked to be a soup or stew spilled onto the ground. Another woman tripped over the first and dropped the loaf of bread she had been carrying.  

“You’re not? Who’s with you?” He hadn’t told Nat a whole lot of what he had been up to.  

“It’s not important.”  

Men appeared to be yelling at the women. There was a stark difference between the way the two groups of people were dressed. The men had heavy coats, gloves and hats to protect against the bitter cold. The women, by contrast were lucky to have even a light jacket over their shirts. Many had rips in their clothes.  

Regardless of if they were men or women, all were dirty. Their hair was unwashed. Men kicked at the woman who had been carrying the soup. Mouths contorted in anger. The woman who had carried the bread was pulled to her feet only to be thrown back onto the ground. Clint watched as her head connected with the ground and her body went limp. The first woman was still being beaten by the others.  

“What have you been up to?” Clint asked. “How’s things on your end?”

“We’ve got order in the East coast established again.”  

“That’s good.” Clint sounded as if he wasn’t sitting on a roof watching a woman get beaten to death. “Was there much resistance?”  

“Not much.” The squeak of wheels pierced his ear. He could close his eyes and picture the exact chair she was sitting in. It’d always had the wheel that would squeal if it wasn’t oiled often enough.  

Tony would often get annoyed and take care of it himself though she was plenty able to ignore it. Tony was back and had made great strides in the physical aspects of his recovery. At least, that's what Nat had told him before. It seemed that he still wasn’t hanging around the compound enough to notice that Nat’s chair was crying for some oil. Or maybe he just didn’t care anymore.  

“How’s Tony?” Clint hadn’t intended to ask. What he wanted to know was more details about the state of things on the east coast.  

“Pulling away.” Nat’s breath washed over the phone in a sigh. Clint could imagine her leaning back in her chair, turning and looking at the wall behind her. “He came back and he just- for a while he was angry and shut down. And that made sense, you know? But then he started getting better. Pepper being pregnant seemed to help a lot. He’d get in the suit and even if he was going it alone, he’d go clean things up. Set up power for the hospitals and fire stations. It took a while to realize he was working himself into the ground.  

I don’t think we wanted to see it. I was doing what I could to locate the mayor or find the president or whatever. I could do that because Tony was doing so good making sure people in the city were not killing each other over Cheetos.  

I assumed everything was okay, that he was getting better. It was easier to assume that, I guess than question if he was ready. We didn’t really have time to question that.  

Once New York State was re-established, he slowed down, started pulling away from the service. He bought a house outside the city and has been decking it out. Sometimes we don’t see him at the tower for weeks at a time.”

“Pepper- she’s what, five months along now?”

“More like six.”

“Nat.” Clint shifted, almost falling on his ass. Below a feast was being staged by what he grew to understand were slave women under the watchful eye of guards. The stage where the bodies hung was not even twenty feet from where the chairs were being placed around a series of long folding tables. “He wasn’t ready. He wasn’t doing any of that to help others. He was doing it to help himself. He needed the area safe for Pepper. Now that it is, he’s got no reason to keep helping.”

“It’s Tony. He’s all about helping everyone else. That’s who he is.”

“That’s who he was.” Clint stressed. “And what did that get him? A fractured team? A world that wouldn’t listen to him? Half the goddamn universe turned to dust? A failed battle? Being selfless didn’t do shit except cause him pain, so why keep doing it?”

“Is that what you’re doing? Checking out and taking care of yourself? Letting the world burn? Is that why you won’t come back?”

“This isn’t about me. And for the record: In the last week we’ve saved a baby from freezing to death, provided food to a clinic and we’re getting ready to take down a man calling himself King and abusing people.”

“We?” Again, she pushed.  

“It doesn’t matter.” He dismissed her with those few words. “You didn’t hit a lot of push from those who claimed territory?”

Natasha sighed. “We did.”

“How’d you handle it? Don’t want to be undermining you.”

Seconds ticked by as he waited for Natasha to answer. She was thinking about her words, choosing them carefully. It was something she only did when she wasn’t sure how the one she was speaking to would react. It wasn’t a good sign at all.  

“The president offered them a way to keep the territory in a round about way. Many governors and mayors are just gone. Ones that we think survived abandoned their positions and so many others we can’t account for at all.”

“So what? You just give the position to who ever is in the area?” Clint was outraged though there was a part of him that tried to speak up, to remind himself that he’d probably do the same in her situation. The evil that you know is better than the one you don't in the short term. Once things were established again, they could go back and take out the trash and replace them.

The world wasn’t black and white and in the absence of leaders, they had to make do with what they had. There would likely be less death if they brought current leaders into the fold rather than challenging them and taking the power by force. It’s not like they had a way to be sure that whoever they did give the position to after wouldn’t try to take the land for themselves. He tried to reason with himself but all he could see was the bodies hanging from the beams down below. The United States government and the Avengers were giving power to what could be people like King Jacob.  

“We can challenge them later.”

“Right. Don’t spill blood yourself while you restore order. Wait until it’s convenient than take care of it if they abuse the power.”

“You know it’s more complicated than that.”  

“I’ve got to go, Nat.”  

“Clint-” He disconnected the call and pressed the power button on the phone before she had a chance to finish what she had been trying to tell him.  

The screen blinked once and went dark though Clint’s eyes were trained on the scene below. While he’d been arguing with Natasha, a woman had committed the grave crime of spilling some wine on the man Clint assumed to be King Jacob. The punishment for such a crime was a swift execution, Her blood stained the dirty snow in front of the table as the men ate.  

~~~~~<3

Cold bit at exposed skin. The temperature outside fell quickly as the sun set. Deanna sat alone on the roof with only the sleeping baby strapped to her back to keep her company. The weight of Elsa pressed tightly to her back under the heavy coat was a comfort even as the child slept.

Trust had followed Clint down the endless stairs, much to his dismay. It was a comfort to her at least, to know he at least had Trust to watch his back. Sure, the dog wouldn’t survive a gunshot but they both remembered well how the dog had loyally fought to protect her.

As far as she was concerned, the plan was beyond stupid. Clint had left her high up on the roof with a tactical bow so unlike what she usually used for practice. He’d told her that it would allow her to pull an arrow back and loose it with much more force than she normally would be capable of handling.  

He also left her with his arrows. They’d sat inside as the sun had set while he explained what each one would do. He drilled her again and again, making sure she knew which ones would explode on contact and which were simply sharp enough to split a hair on. He showed her how to use the scope and every single time she expressed doubts, he promised that she could do it.  

In truth, as he worked his way trough the dark city streets, admitted to himself that he wasn’t at all sure that she would be able to hit any intended target from that distance. But what he did know is that it would be hard for them to hit her where she was. That was what mattered most to him. Clint counted himself lucky to have convinced Trust to wait on the bottom floor of the building. Hopefully, if anyone tried to go after her the dog would be able to make enough noise to alert her.

As he moved through the shadows, Deanna did her best to keep her eyes on him. She watched as he made his way through the streets. There wasn’t much she could do when he would have to move behind buildings though. Each time she lost sight of him, her stomach would tie itself up in knots.  

~~~~~<3

Clint moved through shadows every chance he could. His hood was up, hiding his face within the darkness. Dressed in black from head to toe, he was easy to miss once the sun was down. Snow crunched under his boots as he swiftly made his way through alley ways and side streets.  

Anyone who caught sight of him and dared to make a threatening move was quickly cut down. He left men’s bodies in pools of their own blood, hidden only by the shadows. Turning a corner, he came face to face with a woman in rags. Her eyes went wide and she gasped a breath.  

His hand shot out, grabbing her and pulling her into the darkness. Another hand clamped down over her mouth as he pushed her against the wall without a single thought to how the cold brick would feel through her thin shirt.  

“Do. Not. Scream.” He waited until she nodded before removing his hand.

“What do you want with me?” She pleaded in a hoarse whisper. “Just let me go. Please, don’t hurt me. Please, I'll be good. Please.”  

“I’m not going to hurt you unless you give me reason to. There was a woman brought in not long ago- she had a baby recently. Do you know of her?”

“Rachel.”

“Is she still alive?” There was no denying that there was a very real possibility that she was dead.  

“Y-yeah. The King- The King liked her. He keeps her for himself.”

“Are any of the women here free to go? Or are you all kept women?”

“Some are, more kept than not. But the freedom they have is an illusion, I think. Why are you? Am- Am I in trouble? I don’t know you.”

“I’m not from around here.”

“I- I shouldn’t be talking to you. I’m sorry. I’m not allowed to talk to outsiders.” She pulled away from him but he held her in place firmly. “You- Why don’t you have a guard with you? I should leave. I- they’ll beat me if they catch me with an outsider.”

“When I’m done here, there won’t be anyone left to beat you. Where is Jacob right now?” She hesitated. “If you don’t tell me, I can’t cut the head off the snake quickly.”

“He’d be in his house, with his women.”

“For the rest of the night?” Clint asked. He’d caught sight of fire pits being set up in the town square park. He’d wholly expected that the night wasn’t over for the people under the care of King Jacob.

“No.”

“Then what next? I need to know.”

“When he’s done they come out. He passes his best women around to the men he’s close to. They- they- they-”

“You don’t have to say it. I’ve dealt with his kind before.”

“Any women who fight back are killed. Sometimes they kill so many that they have to go outside of the city to find more. They call it hunting. They bring them back in cages.”

“Are all of his men at the town square during this?”  

“Most. There’s a watch at the roads out of town. Always, as far as I know. But not as many now. Most people around are already dead or been brought in.”

“Are there any good men here?”  

“Some.” She chewed on her lips. “The ones that go to the town square are bad. Most of the good ones challenged things and were shot. Or hung. Now they just gave up.”

“If I let you live, will you do something for me?”

“I don’t want to die.” The woman whimpered. “I’ve been trying so hard, so hard to stay alive. Please. Please don’t kill me. Please.”

“Do not tell anyone I am here. Do you understand?” She nodded, tears gathering on her wide eyes. “Carefully, tell every person you trust to hunker down until morning.”

“What are you going to do?”  

“I’m going to cut the head off the sneak and drive out the rats.”

“How?”

“Not your problem. Go.”

As she scurried away, Clint jogged across the alley and slipped between two dumpsters. He waited in silence for a sign that the woman had betrayed him. Minutes passed as kept as still as possible but no one else came into the alley.  

After fifteen minutes came and went, he moved on. He took his time working his way through store fronts and alleys. There was no rush. He moved as if he had all the time in the world, as if he had the rest of his life to spend making his way behind the platform in the town square.

In truth, if it went sideways he would be spending the rest of his life on this walk. This wasn’t how he wanted to spend the last hours of his life and so, he decided that he wouldn’t. He didn’t care what he had to do, but he’d take down the rats in the city on his own and live to tell the world about it. He’d do whatever he had to do to go back home with Dee and keep the battle from her. He’d kill the whole city if he had to.  

~~~~~<3

Tag List: @winterisakiller​, @toozmanykids​, @tnystrk-exe​, @usedtobegoodfriend96​, @theoneanna​, @alexakeyloveloki​, @j-u-s-t-4​, @alcoholic-muffin​, @missaphrodite23​, @bambamwolf87​, @nonsensicalobsessions​, @tinchentitri​, @xoxabs88xox​, @queenoftheunderdark​, @coyotesongwriting​, @carissime72​, @myoxisbroken​, @faemapfae​, @jeremyrennerfanxxxx123​, @wegingerangelica​,

[unbefuckinglieveable]

Logan Bartender AU Prequel

  (( Wow okay so. Have a prequel no it won't be this dark the entire time. But character backstory and I had fun. It was going to be @apologieslogan holific, but i got a logince idea .however i told them that I would write this for them. And here we are :D enjoy

- Pandora

CW: verbal and physical abuse, manipulation, drowning, drinking,and suicide.

Danielle Croft didn't understand how her six-year-old was so smart, but it bothered her to no end. The brat was just like his father, fair complexion, sharp features, dark chestnut hair, growing fast, and a mouth that just wouldn't stop. It just wouldn't stop.  She may not have been so annoyed if she wasn't constantly nursing a hangover, and dealing with civil court cases.

    Much like how she was currently reading over a character witness, that was until her son burst in on the balls of his feet a book clucked in his little hands. Dark curls hanging in his face. Danielle had ignored him at first, she tried. However, he continued to shout about the stars of all things.  

    No doubt it was the North Star and Bible study that brought it up. Stupid religion and its dependence on holidays. Much like the one coming up.

    “ -And Neutron stars! Mommy they thpin and thpin and thpin they go 600 thpinth a second! And uh uh nobody-uff”  Logan huffed as he finally stopped spinning, trying to talk more facts with his mom, maybe she'd listen to this topic, dad would have liked it. He couldn't get the air in him fast enough.  Or talk slow enough to negate the lisp from losing a front tooth.

    “Logan, stop. I am busy I don't have time for you to interrupt me.”  The adult warned, patience worn thin, she pinched the bridge of her nose. Her eyes wandered to the Hem of his pants just coming over his ankles. ‘ugh, I just bought him those pants, come on!’  Logan's expression seemed sad and confused.  

   “ Bu-but Mommy, tharth are tho pretty and amazing,  did you know that-”

   “ Did you know! Did you know?  Logan, did you know that you are earning your way to no Christmas if I can’t get my work done!” Danielle snapped slamming a hand down on the table. Logan jumped frowning

   “ Even if we did have it you'd get coal.” The child grumbled defiantly his hands clutched the book tighter as he looked up into his mother's light hazel eyes with his own deep blue ones.  He hadn't anticipated the back of his mother's hand colliding with his face so hard it knocked him to the ground.

   “ You don't talk to me like that, Logan, and I never get coal because I am Santa. Go to your room.” Logan scrambled out of his mother's office with tears in his eyes, his book abandoned on the floor.  

   Danielle picked up the book and threw it into her fireplace, it was one less thing for him to bother her about.  She didn't think about the gash on her son's cheek from her old engagement ring. If she was honest, she didn't care.

   Later that night at dinner Logan came up to her and asked with a little plea tingeing his tone. “ Thanta ith real, right? You were jutht mad at me, right?”  Logan rubbed the scabbed cut on his cheek, as he looked at the person who put it there. He would never forget the smirk on her face like she felt good about what she was about to say.    

   “ None of the holidays are real Love,  I wanted to keep you happy, but I don't see the importance of lying to you, not if you love facts so much.” The child ran to his room and didn't come out for two days.  Christmas went by unmarked that year, and every year with every holiday.

   Logan's mother saw an opportunity, every time he would go off on one of his topics, she would tell him a fun fact about the real world some weren't too terrible. Other times it would be, “ Did you know on average one American dies every twelve seconds?”   Logan would leave with his head hung low, however, he did dive into his studies, there had to be something his mom would enjoy.

     There had to be something. Anything.

  Though her words left a mark, a burning sensation in his chest. It wasn't as bad as the scar left on his cheek from the first time. A diagonal thick line from his cheekbone to the right of the middle of his cheek.  She didn't backhand him anymore, but when he stepped out of line, he knew what he had coming.

   Her words would haunt him at the most inconvenient times, particularly, his first and last time at the coastline a few years later.  Logan was about eleven years old. Boogie boarding while his mom was busy with work and happy hour. Logan was having a blast so much he didn't realize that the current had pulled him out too far.  

   Before he even had time to process the situation, the waves came down over top of him knocking the board away,  the force strong enough to pull the Velcro apart. Leaving him to flail as he sunk. ‘ Did you know on average one American dies every twelve seconds?’  His mother's voice taunted in his mind as he thrashed trying to get to the surface    

   Logan felt his eyes droop while his hands clawed towards the sun.  Wireframe glasses sunk below him far from sight. He did the one thing he could think of. If he could survive twelve seconds, maybe he could survive twelve more.

    One…  his arms feel heavy but he continues to struggle.

Momma, help me!

    Two... His mouth opened exhaling his air in a huff. Involuntarily.

Please I'm scared!

    Three … he sinks deeper as water fills his lungs.

There's no air here!

    Four…  Exhaustion grips him.

I'm... I'm so tired.

    Five…  he stops fighting as the edges of his vision soften. Warmth. Surrounds him

You aren't coming...

    Logan was unconscious by six.

    After Logan regained consciousness, it still took five minutes for him to realize that he was not dead. That a girl named Rosaline had pulled him from the water and ultimately saved his life. The eleven-year-old had his hands feeling the ground for the slim wireframes that weren't on his face. “ Oh no,” the younger boy groaned which peaked Rosaline's attention.

   “ What? What's wrong?” She questioned as she tucked a curl behind her ear.

    “ I lost my glasses.”

    “ You could've died out there and you're worried about your glasses… I fear you may have lost some brain cells with them.”   

    “ You don't  understand, my mom is going to be so mad at me.” Logan protested.

    “ Nowhere near as upset she would be if you had died just now.”

    “ I don't think she'd notice too much, well, she'd notice but it would be followed by relief. Thank you for your help miss-”

    “ Just call me Ro, my friend's do.  I think even though she is a bit mean your mom might not be so angry when she found out how.”

    “ Your most likely right, thank you, Ro, have a nice day,”  Logan said calmly as he went to stand up through legs wobbled beneath him. Ro steadied him and held the younger till he had his bearings.    

“Thank you, again.”

    Ro smirked, “ Yeah Yeah, can you walk? It might be best if you laid down and got some rest.”

   “ I got it just give me a minute,” Logan said taking a few wobbly steps before he gets his act together.   “ Thanks again Roro,” Logan said calmly as he walked away, Rosaline sighed softly to himself.

   “Later…LoLo”

   Danielle was furious that her son had lost the one thing that she had bothered to keep up with.  She started packing up their belongings to leave. “ We aren't going to be able to come back for a while those were expensive glasses. And I have to scrape money to get new ones.”

   “ I understand..”    

   Logan didn't care if he ever came back, though he did enjoy Ro's company.   Maybe they'd meet again one day.

   Years passed, holidays were skipped, birthday's skipped, stars are forgotten.  Logan gave up actively trying to impress his mother instead he focused on his studies.  By fifteen his mom lost her job at the D.A, by sixteen her unemployment ran out. Logan started working at a restaurant, to support himself, and he supposed that he took care of her, in his own way.

   By the time Logan was set up to go to college his mother begged him to stay by her.   He chose a school by the shore they vacationed at when he was younger. It was a quality school, far away from her.  And he was firm when he left. She hadn't believed him the first four times he explained. At this point, he wasn't letting her play him off.

     “ I am leaving tomorrow, mother. There is a bit of money left in the pantry.  I look forward to meeting people, people of the functioning variety, that is.” The young adult warned as his mother stirred on the couch.  

     “ Logi-bear, why do you wanna go so badly? Take a year off.”  Danielle, or Dani as she went by now, lolled her head to the side,  Logan rolled his eyes in disgust.

     “Did you know, that I just don't care to do that.”

     “ Alexa, play ‘Mother Knows Best’, The Tangled soundtrack.”  Logan grimaced as the cringey soundtrack began to loft through the air.  

     “ No more like Alexa, play ‘Comfortably Numb’ by Pink Floyd, because that is you, always chasing a high that will never feel the same again.”  He crossed his arms glaring at her. “ I did try to make you happy! If you aren't there for me then I will find someone who is!”  Lo growled as he grabbed his coat. Walking to his bags by the door taking one in each hand.

     “ I won't stay, because I know you won't change. We'll be homeless by Winter. I do not intend on being there to witness your alcoholism consume you. Goodbye, mother.”

     “ Logan!”  Dani hissed shooting up from her seat and staggering to her son.  “ I'll change… I will stop drinking.”

     “ That is great, except, I know it isn't true. It is something that you would fight for the rest of your life. You couldn't even go to A.A to keep your job.”

“ Do you want me to go to A.A.  I'll go!” Dani pleaded as she stumbled to her knees in front of him. Her lighter red hair tousled about her sunken in the face as she glanced at the only strong feature of her life.

     “ Go to rehab,” Lo ordered quietly, to him that would be what it took in that moment for him to consider staying. She needed to give him hope. With Comfortably Numb playing quietly in the background his piercing blue eyes stared at her while she looked away.

     “ I- uh - wh- what? Young man you are the ch-”

     “ In your own words then, every time you went to the bar on holidays or birthdays, ‘laterz’. “

     He left with no intention of going back, that night his mother died, in the bottle and with steel on her temple. The night Logan's childhood died with her. He had received a stipend for the affair. Lo wouldn't spend it.  Logan started working an extra job, under the table. He wanted his education. And it was paid for, housing and food? It was a good thing he started mixing drinks at a young age. Now he got paid for it at least.

[aliceslantern]

Beyond this Existence, a Kingdom Hearts fanfic, chapter 3

Summary:  After Xehanort's death, Demyx finds himself unexpectedly human in Radiant Garden. With nothing but fragments of his past and a cryptic statement from Xemnas, he's left to figure out who he is. When Ienzo asks for his help with a project, the two find common ground, but the trauma and secrets in both of their pasts could tear it apart. Zemyx (Demyx/Older!Ienzo), KH3 canon-compliant

read it on FF.net/on AO3

The cut had stopped bleeding overnight, leaving a red, angry scab that cracked easily. Demyx woke up feeling absolutely exhausted. For a while he watched the silvery-blue petals of his little plant sway in the faint breeze, utterly at a loss for what to do.

He was going to have to deal with this sometime.

What was he going to do now?

No more Organization. No more obligations. But instead of feeling freed, mostly he felt… dangerously untethered. If he had Arpeggio it would be a completely different story. With it, he could write and compose and experiment to his heart’s content. But without it… he really wasn’t much of anything.

The slickness of anxiety caught in his throat again, but he choked it off. No. He was not going to break down again. He’d just have to… find someone to bother, something to do. Anything to escape this feeling.

I hate being human.

Demyx decided to explore the castle. Maybe he would feel better if he had a more solid grip of his surroundings. The place was huge, after all. Some of it had to be interesting. He thought of it like a recon mission. Maybe something would help him figure out how to get out of here.

But then where would he go? Home?

The thought sent a pulse of pain through his head. Where… was home?

His memories were muddy and indistinct, more of the same blurry colors he’d seen recurring in his dreams. Only this time there other people, four or five of them, men and women in colorful robes and animal masks--

-- legacy that sleeps within you--

He gasped and choked on spit.

I don’t understand. I don’t understand. I don’t understand.

Why had Xemnas told them that, if only to go and die right afterwards?

He went to Even. In the lab, he was stooped over notes, flicking through brittle, yellowed pages every few seconds, his long blonde hair draping over the desk in front of him. Demyx knocked on the open door with his good hand.

“What do you want?” Even asked, barely looking up.

For a moment, Demyx nearly left. He didn’t have to tell Even about this. But Even had more facts. Even could help him see more clearly. He was about to wonder if understanding was something he did want when Even caught sight of his bandaged palm.

“What did you do to yourself now?”

“Last night, at the dinner party. Cut myself when I was doing dishes.”

Even stood and approached him. He unwrapped the purple cloth. “Right across your lifeline. Some cultures would consider that unlucky.”

Demyx reached to take the cloth back, but Even held onto it.

“This thing’s filthy. I might not have any magic, but I can at least provide adequate care.” He opened a cabinet and pulled out a roll of cloth bandages and a jar of some sort of salve. He pulled on a rubber glove and rubbed the salve into the wound. It burned terrifically. Once the wound was cleaned and bandaged, Even turned away. “Well, if that’s all you came for, would you do me a favor and leave me be? I’m in the middle of something important.”

Demyx felt anger rising in him, but he quashed it down. “That’s not why I came. Remember how you told me to keep track of my dreams?”

“My memory is very good.”

“They weren’t dreams at all. They were memories. But I don’t think they were his.” He exhaled. “They were mine.”

Even didn’t seem happy. “Oh. Is that all?”

He grit his teeth. And then he told Even about that day in the Keyblade graveyard, about Xemnas’s bombshell.

Even was silent for several seconds. “Are you… quite sure?”

“Of course I’m sure!”

More silence. Demyx could heard the analog clock on the desk ticking softly.

“That was… from the time of fairy tales. Many, many years ago. I had believed that was all legend… but then… well, if the X-blade has been forged again, who knows what else might be true?” He crossed his arms. “Biologically speaking, you’re barely in your twenties. If that were all true, then somehow you would be hundreds of years old.”

Cold, existential sweat gathered under his arms.

“And if that were the case, then--how did you get here? And why?”

“I don’t know.” He thought he might be sick. “I barely remember… everything’s gotten so fuzzy.”

“I don’t believe it,” Even said. “It must’ve been some sort of ploy… something to give you neophytes purpose… then again…” He came close to Demyx, seized a handful of his hair, and pulled.

He yelped in pain. “Hey! What are you--”

Even took the few blond strands he’d harvested and put them in a small sample bag. “You’ve piqued my curiosity. Sit down. I need blood.” He rummaged around in the cabinets and came back with a different box.

He hadn’t heard anything more threatening. “What--”

Even seized Demyx’s bad arm and rubbed a cold, wet prep pad against his elbow. “I need samples. I wonder if there’s any dating technique that could tell us more about this situation.”

“...Dating?” he asked.

“For your DNA,” Even said, exasperated, as though it were obvious. “And to see how your other cells might have been impacted by whatever means of preservation  that brought you to current day. That is, if any of this is true and not some lotus flower Xehanort was feeding you. There must have been something. This is your original body, yes? I think I’d have remembered making a replica for you.”

“It better fucking be,” Demyx said. He flinched when Even stuck him with a needle, but didn’t fight it. As cunning and cruel Even could be, if he was interested he would do the utmost to figure it out. All Demyx had to do was comply.

He took six vials of blood in total, enough to make Demyx a bit woozy, considering he’d also lost a good amount last night. He took spit, nail clippings, cheek swabs, and some skin cells.

“I dearly hope this isn’t a waste of my time,” Even said. “But imagine the possibilities… and why you? Why not? I don’t pretend to understand Xehanort. Not at all. It’s an awful lot of effort for vessels he could have just made…” His voice grew softer and softer as he spoke to himself. “I’ve all I need. I let you know if there’s more. You may go.”

Dizzily, he went to the library. He knew the worlds had different time streams, but there was no way it had been hundreds of years since the first time he was human. Time streams were different, but not that different.

The library was so staggeringly full, each shelf crammed with more books than he could count, books in all different subjects; psychology, biology, chemistry, literature, multiple different languages, religion, theology, photography. The words started to blur together. He found the history section. Volumes and volumes about Radiant Garden, and some about a few other worlds that sounded familiar, but not much else. No lore. No legends.

“What is it that you’re looking for in here?” Ienzo asked. He was passing by the same section, carrying several books.

“I was trying to find something about the age of fairy tales,” Demyx said. “I want to know more about that time.”

Ienzo looked confused. “That sort of thing is oral history,” he said. “There are very, very few printed volumes that survive from that time. Ansem may be a collector of rare books, but even he could never get his hands on something like that. Why is it you ask?”

Demyx hesitated. He couldn’t even be sure what Xemnas had told him wasn’t a lie. Maybe he’d just completely made up those memories, or maybe they’d been planted when he was a vessel. He forced a laugh. “I was just bored, is all. Wanted to know more about what I just got myself out of.”

Ienzo nodded slowly. “It’s unfortunate, but a lot of history from that time is just… lost and shadowed in legend. Perhaps that’s why Xehanort was trying to recreate the Keyblade war. Perhaps he wanted to understand it for himself.”

“...Maybe,” Demyx said lamely.

“Ansem might know more,” Ienzo said. “He studied quite a bit of mythology when he began his experiments. I could ask him for you. I admit, I’ve never seen you become intellectually involved in anything.”

“I just want to know,” he said, a bit more sharply than intended.

Ienzo frowned. “Are you quite alright?”

“Yeah. I mean, no. I’m just…” Demyx exhaled. “Trying to figure things out. And I have no idea where to start. I don’t even have my sitar. I don’t really have much of anything. And I’m not meant to be here.”

He blinked. “Not… meant…?”

“Face it. I’m just here because you are all too nice to get rid of me. None of you even like me. I don’t share a past with you, and I’m not a scientist.” He was starting to get worked up again.

Ienzo seemed to be at a loss for words. “Do you really judge your own worth using others’ opinions?” he asked after a tense moment.

“Of course I do,” Demyx said. “How can you not?”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry you haven’t felt welcome.”

He shook his head. Tears pricked in his eyes and he blinked them back. “I have nowhere else to go,” he said. “I didn’t mean to dump this on you.” A strange emotion twisted inside of him. Words caught in his throat. He wanted, no, needed to talk to someone.

“It doesn’t bother me,” Ienzo said, but his voice was halting.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to lie. I’m not your problem.” He tried to force a smile. “I’ll let you get back to your work.”

The day passed in a sort of haze. He shifted from room to room in the castle, but the features and layout didn’t want to stick in his mind. His chest was hurting again, dully, and after awhile he realized the pain was anxiety. Demyx got himself spectacularly lost, and by the time he found his way back up to his room, it was time to eat. He heated some soup which sat in the old-fashioned fridge and picked at it.

He hated how quiet things felt.

He’d burnt out artistically a few times, awful weeks where he couldn’t compose anything worth listening to if his life depended on it. This felt just like that, but ten times worse. He felt as though he were… forgetting, somehow. He glanced down at the calluses on his left hand, partially obscured by bandages.

“There you are. I was hoping I’d see you around.” Ienzo had shed his coat, and the sweater beneath was a warm shade of gray. He held a sheaf of crumpled, yellowed, and brittle pages. “I asked Ansem about the age of fairy tales. He doesn’t have any texts, but after some digging, I found this. He doesn’t know I took it from his library. He’s been… somewhat unobservant lately.”

“What is it?” Demyx asked.

“I only saw the first page, so I’m not quite certain. Perhaps we may look at it together. Come to think of it, somebody should create some record of that time. We can’t repeat history a third time.” His voice was fast, excited.

“I smell a new project for you,” Demyx said.

“Yes. Perhaps. When I am done with my current research.” The joy in his expression drained, and he sat down across from Demyx.

“What's that?”

“...I'm… trying to help Sora,” Ienzo said.

“What’s wrong with him?” Demyx couldn’t help the bitter taste in his mouth; he had nothing but bad memories of Sora.

“He’s vanished. He overstretched his power… and disappeared from this world entirely. I'm hoping that something in our old research might help the guardians of light find him. I am not so sure. You can only meddle with the forces in this world so much before there are natural, irreversible consequences. The guardians are… naturally quite cut up about it. He and I had formed something of a rapport as well. As much as I wish for him to be whole… I don’t want to give myself false hope.”

“...Whoa,” he said, because he wasn’t sure what else to say.

“There’s never a moment wasted in researching,” Ienzo said. “For all I know, there’s some clue in these papers. And I think you can help me.”

“Me?” he asked incredulously. “What happened to “I’ve never seen you intellectually interested in anything?””

“Have a look.” Ienzo shuffled the fragile papers towards Demyx and opened to the first page. “While my scientific education has been excellent, admittedly it is somewhat lacking in the arts. I only have the most basic skills when it comes to music theory. This… seems more up your alley.”

It was a full-length musical score. Demyx touched the papers. It was some of the most intricate composition works he had ever seen; the meters were odd, all over the place, somehow flowing coherently. Trills, flourishes, complicated dynamics--just looking at it made his heart race. The way the treble and bass clef mingled was so graceful.

Beneath there were lyrics in another language he couldn’t understand.

“They’re ancient runes. I’ve studied them a little. But I recognize the characters for “Keyblade”, and they’re in there.”

Demyx read the score, his fingers itching to hear it out loud.

“Perhaps you can help me?” Ienzo asked.

“I need an instrument,” he said. “It’s too complex to sing.”

“There’s an old piano in Ansem’s quarters. We can have Aeleus and Dilan move it to an empty study space. I’m sure it’ll need tuning.”

“I can do that.” Something about this score gave him hope. He wasn’t sure what. “I’m in.”

[yes-these-obsessions-are-healthy]

Title: Masked Ball Fandom: Dragon Age Pairing: Solavellan Words: 3195 Series: [Talking To Yourself] Also read here: AO3

Tallin Lavellan x Solas | Post-Crestwood (memory of before) | romance | angst In one of the many instances of Tallin ruminating on her now-defunct relationship with Solas, she recalls the Winter Palace: The initial unkindness suffered at the hands of the nobility, an unnervingly out-of-character Solas, and a failed dance.

Remember the Winter Palace? Of course you do. That was a stupid question, sorry.

I was out-of-place. I knew. They knew. It was the first time that I could feel my vallaslin burning on my skin since the initial scabbing had sloughed off. Burning from..what? 

The human nobles’ eyes on me, just like back at Haven, just like in the courtyard of Skyhold. Waiting for me to do something. Do what? What did they want? I couldn't hide from them. 

Cullen told me you slipped in ahead of us, and you remained out of sight until it was time for me to be presented to the court and greet the Empress. Like Cole, you materialized without a word and remarked upon the task before us. I could only nod and try my best to not allow the glaring lights from the chandeliers and candles blind me, not fiddle nervously with my gloved hands, not forget to breathe as I descended the red carpeted stairs and crossed the ballroom floor.

Josephine told me to watch what I said, so I said nothing unless I had to, and I was so nervous that I just said what I thought. They wore masks. How could I possibly tell what they wanted to hear if I couldn't see their faces? You can fake so much with the mouth and voice. I was glad I brought Cole along. Not that I wouldn't have wanted to go with just you! Ah, n-not that I had forgotten why we were there! Not that I'd forgotten that this was the place that my people--

Ah, I'm sorry. You don't like it when I talk about Dalish history. I'm sorry.

They called me a savage under their breaths. The clan elders had talked about what the humans called us and how we should not allow those words to wound us like arrows as they were intended to, but it was the first time that I had heard someone use such speech to describe me. I told you I had never met a human before the Conclave. Or rather, I hid behind the aravels or ducked behind the halla whenever they approached the elders for trade and disagreements. I listened but didn't speak to them then, and those men were usually civil.

Ahh-haah, I suppose I should consider myself lucky that Cassandra never resorted to such words, even when she suspected me of causing the explosion at the Conclave. Roderick didn’t, either. He hated me, you know--of course you know, you were there--but he never insulted me like that...

So no, I truly had never been called such things before that night. I always fear that people speak badly of me when they think I am not listening, but it was only there, surrounded by those people weighed down by ostentatious amounts of silk and cotton and gilded metals that I realized that my nightmares had finally come true.

The words did end up hurting. I wasn't used to it, not like you were, not like you always were.

Very quickly I fell back to my old ways in order to paste together my quickly-crumbling composure. Rocking nervously on my heeled boots. Fixing my hair. Pretending yet again to look out one of the many windows so I could just practice breathing and collect myself. I could not blow this. I could not. I absolutely could not. I could not disappoint anyone, you most of all.

But I knew people were watching. They were watching every single second of it. That was what these gatherings were for, weren’t they, an excuse to pick people apart. Why are these noble humans so cruel, why do they find cruelty to be fun? And why is cruelty rewarded with more cake and tea?  

I resolved to find you. I needed you. Again, you had disappeared from the ballroom as soon as I concluded my self-introduction to Empress Celene. Ironically, it took a momentous amount of courage to leave the ballroom. If I was flagging so miserably here, surely other areas for the mingling of guests would prove just as difficult? 

But I gingerly walked through the only open wing, past guards who did not so much as glance at me, and there I saw you.

When I saw you leaning against that statue in the guest wing, my heart flooded with a warm ache that was both suffocating and comforting. I thought we would be able to bond over how frivolous everything was. Being elves. Being outsiders. You were not Dalish, and I was, and though you knew so much of the world better than I, you dressed so simply, always, you spoke plainly, truthfully, you chose your words carefully to mean what they meant. I love you for it. Plain and simple and honest, like home. Like home.

I walked towards you, a beacon situated at the end of a long, polished floor. The sight of you, red and gold and blue, gave me strength to smile politely at the whispering guests as I passed them. I pictured what we would do together: We would laugh at them the same way they laughed at me, private jokes they would never get. You would agree it was all pointless but it must be done and how much better would the world be if this glittering one never existed?

But when I got closer, my hopeful smile had been wiped away: Tucked away in that corner, you were watching everyone, smirking. At first I thought you had started without me--what jokes would you have for me about what you had seen so far? Cullen told me you slipped in before us. How did you do that? You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. It was a stupid question.

When you saw me, the edges in your face--cruel, I thought. For only a moment, I swear!--softened. Somewhat. You were still shining with so much happiness, and a small fearful thought in the back of my head, a wordless one that speaking with you gradually began to give sound, whispered that you were happy because of them, not despite them. I saw it in your eyes, and you told me that you felt at home here. 

Here, among these humans that would scheme to keep lands from ou--my people? That would levy heavy taxes on their serfs, or kill each other over a perceived slight without a moment's hesitation?

And as you spoke, that glimmer in your eyes had only confirmed my fears. How much you reveled in the trysts and the gossip and the games the humans played with each other! There were lives at stake, and they cared about such silly things. Even Leliana! You were deriving amusement from this entirely different world than the one I knew.

You were always so reserved even when we were together, and it was rare when I managed to even make your teeth show in your smile. And yet these people, these cruel people who sneered at our race--they made you smirk, they pleased you in a way I hadn't yet been able to.

It was the first time I remember...doubting. Doubting you. You and myself. I don't know for what, but..

But I pushed those thoughts away. Because they suggested you were not honest, because they would lead me to question you, and I couldn't let that happen. Not now.

You asked what was wrong. I could not quite form the words, and instead chose to watch as you lifted a silver cup that had been perched on the base of the sculpture, held it out to the empty space to your left, have it be promptly filled by an elf servant standing idle, and then proceeded to take in a half-mouthful of the drink. All with the air of someone who had been born into gentility. Your eyes never left my face.

 My nervous stutter resurfaced in full force as I recalled all the things these people said with the sole intention to hurt, and how it hurt more because I was not brave enough to protest like you were, was not clever like Vivienne or Dorian and able to navigate their maze-like conversations. 

Another sip and a thin smile that had no teeth, not at all like the one you gave them. As you casually swirled your cup, you remarked that these people were quite inconsequential; I should not allow their words to poison my self-worth because I was far more honorable and accomplished. It is in the nature of humans to prey upon what they do not possess.

My throat clenched and I tried to swallow. Failed, but I tried. You did not offer me a sip of your wine, which I appreciated: My distrust of alcohol was established very early on in my childhood: the erratic ways it made people behave and speak was frightening. 

I wanted to stay near you despite this concerning change in your personality. We were there with an intent to save the Empress, but with people I didn't know whispering of my mistakes, my slip-ups behind their hands ... I needed you to ground me, protect me. I couldn't do it myself. I didn't want to be here, and now I was terrified that this would be yet another world that I could lose you in.

When you kindly suggested I eavesdrop on the servants, my mouth went dry. Your tone was amicable, but the words were dead nails in my ears. I stuttered, bowed my head because it was a scolding from an elder even when it wasn't. It was to me, so it was. No matter that I dared to think that we were together, I still hadn't allowed myself to think that, not yet, not yet. You were just being considerate to me, acting as a mentor, a guide, patient, patient, patient, patient with me when I never deserved it.

I remember thinking what a foolish thing I was doing, clinging to you like a child to her mother's dress. Foolish, foolish, childish.

Before I turned to return to my investigation..I don't know how, but I asked you if you would dance with me when everything was all done. Your voice held a tinge of surprise -- when I was forward with you, you were always taken aback. I still don't know where I got my courage in those moments. No, not courage. Desperation that bubbled over until I couldn't stop myself. I don't know, I don't know...

A small cant of your head and a softening of the creases at the corners of your eyes as the Solas I knew momentarily descended from his lofty libertine pedestal. “I would be honored.”

It gave me courage. I bowed my head and left you to weave between crinolined dresses and puffy shoulders to find Dorian, my other beacon of refuge, concentrating on keeping the tiny flame of a future reward burning in my gut.

After acquiring the key to the kitchens, you, me, Cole, and Dorian came together to further investigate the interior of Halamshiral. I did not expect how much more horrific the world of the nobility would reveal itself to be.

I tried not to cry when I saw all those dead servants. I did not scream when Leliana suggested we allow Empress Celene to die in order to draw out Florianne. I knew you would not approve of such an outburst that could jeopardize this mission, but also the calculated slaughter of a potentially strong ally. I did not want to do it in the first place, but I saw you in my mind's eye and I knew you wouldn't approve, so it's why I put my foot down. When Florianne was caught before the court, when I convinced Gaspard, Empress Celene, and Briala to work together for the betterment of the kingdom.. I was numb by the end. How I managed to rally the nobles to support these three powerful figures who were revealed to be just as untrustworthy and ambitious as the flocks they commanded, I don’t know. I don’t know.

Morrigan found me looking at the stars and trying to count each one so as to distract myself from the urge to cry. She was invaluable to the success of this mission, but I remained wary of her sudden presence even when she informed me of her new assignment to the Inquisition. I was grateful she did not pry into the reason for the misery painted on my face, nor my lack of enthusiasm for the celebration inside. She was gone as swiftly as she had come.

I waited for you with a quiet, pitiful desperation. My shoulders ached, my eyes hurt, my chest was hollow from the speech I gave as I addressed the people I had saved, the people that had scoffed and labelled me "savage" only two hours prior. They hadn't known me, and they still didn't, but now they were jubilant for something that did not involve the mockery or abject humiliation of another living being. 

And I just wanted to get away. I wanted to leave with you right then and there. But all I could do was stand on the balcony and try not to throw up while my face prickled and buzzed from the afterglow of all of those lying eyes staring up at me from the dance floor.

I cried again for a bit as I waited for you, I think some of those tears were out of fear that you had forgotten about what you promised earlier. Time stood still and circled around itself as I realized that my vision was blurring and the stars were turning into smeared firefly lights instead of concise pinpricks.

And then again, like a ghost, you alighted by my side and settled against the bannister as I had.

“I am not surprised to find you here.” Simple warm conversation with you, what I quietly wished for as my heart was buffeted unceasingly by the sordid words and threads of schemes interwoven by these unbelievably amoral people.

And now that the opportunity presented itself?

Silence as I stared out beyond the wide expanse of dark forest stretching into oblivion far beyond the grounds of the Winter Palace. Again, you offered a prompt for chatter by remarking upon the fickle nature of human nobility with that same wry tone. The purpose was for irony and consolation, yet it did not help as much as I wanted it to. My mouth didn’t even twitch with mirth.

Your fill of drink and sweets had not dulled you to the severity of my gloom. After a further few more minutes of me wiping my eyes and sniffling, you placed a hand on my shoulder. “Come.” 

The night had worn heavily on me, but there still remained the desire to make you proud, to not disappoint you or look any more juvenile than I already had. I wanted to dance, I really did, so when you offered me the chance... 

As we stepped back to allow ourselves more room, I mentally screamed at myself to drum up the enthusiasm required. Where had it gone? How could it all be snuffed away?  

You pulled me close and I smelled the wine you had earlier this evening on your breath. Tendrils of dull distress creeped beneath my skin. This was not you, this was not the hahren I knew. It was you but it wasn’t. It was not the right person.

I closed my eyes to shut out the world and my self. Doing so, however, helped bring attention that beyond the drink still remained the faint scent of forest moss that clung to you like a second skin. A faint flicker of hope cautiously kindled itself. After reassuring if I was okay, you began to guide me across the balcony. 

I tried my best to keep up with you, I did, I wanted to show you all the steps Josephine had taught me, everything I practiced for this night, everything I practiced hoping to impress you. 

But I faltered. I tripped, like an idiot, like a fool. A stupid, stupid Dalish elf girl out-of-place among the silks and fake smiles and sweet cakes and this treacherous world that entertained you more than I ever could.

You caught me before I could collapse on the ground, as my body was by now overflowing with despair. Give up, give up, give up.  

There was no means of stopping the tears from falling down my burning cheeks. “I-I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” I apologized to the shiny brass buttons of your coat. “I--I--I can d-do this.” And yet I wasn’t, not tonight, not with the person for whom it mattered the most.“I’ve b-been practicing,” I added weakly, shaking visibly in place. “I h-have--”

Your hand left my waist, and I hung my head in defeat as an entirely new wave of misery washed over me. I was beyond help, you realized in that moment.

The tiniest surprised huff of air left me when your fingers gently tucked my chin up. I sniffed, wet eyes wide with curiosity. “I know you have.”

You closed your eyes and turned your head to bring the back of my being-led hand to your lips. It was warm and soft. I sniffed. My ears picked up on the tiny sounds your kisses made as they were planted at random across my skin. This lasted for a minute, perhaps fifteen, I couldn’t be sure. 

“You do not need to impress me.” Hand back on my waist. A soft smile that reminded me of Mother. “Enjoy yourself, help me celebrate your diplomatic success.”

I tried to smile, to accept your optimism, but it hurt my mouth. You didn't shake me off when I stumbled again after only four more steps and gripped you tightly and once again whispered my stuttered apologies for ruining this moment we had together. I was done, I was done for the night. I couldn’t do this. No more. No more.

When it's you I can't think straight. Everything was already fuzzy and knotted that night and you made it--you didn't make it worse, don't think that, no, no I needed you then, I need you now--I made it--

I'm still sorry for ruining your evening, even though it seems so long ago. You told me you understood, you gave me the same look I remember Mother always gave me when I was small and didn't know why I was crying, only that I needed to for some reason, needed someone to tell me I could.

And you did. “Exhausted” as I was, “considering everything that had happened”...

You then took to meeting my numerous sorry’s with hushes. I said "sorry" a lot that night, but you eventually let me explain why I was sorry, and I managed to get in another sorry in for being so difficult. You gave me such an exasperated look then, but before I could start crying again your brows lifted and you said that I was too hard on myself and that you loved me, it was fine, you loved me, it was fine, hush, hush, hush.

I think I even napped for a minute on your shoulder as you held me close while we swayed in place as the violins began to slow. What was it like, to dance with a child?

That was the first and last time we ever did something like that.

[bigskydreaming]

Seriously, for fuck’s sake, I know that post was AT LEAST as far back as December, if not more, and it literally had less than ten notes just two hours ago.

But remember! I’m on a fucking CRUSADE! I just want to take away peoples’ rape fics and harmless kiddie porn fantasies and I just can’t respect the fact that as long as people just TAG their ‘herein lies my advertisement of the fact that hahaha, omg I think what happened to you is actually kinda hot and sexy giggle giggle aren’t I so TABOO????’ smut like lol okay, well that doesn’t affect me at all, I’m not remotely bothered by having to spend every single day wading through reminders of how much more fascinating people find rape than actual survivors of said things. 

I’m the one who has no idea how to live in a society with other people and suck it up and deal with the fact that sometimes, people do and say things that make us uncomfortable and we wish we could avoid, but just shut the fuck up and keep that to yourself, right? Don’t like....TELL people they’ve made you uncomfortable and are doing things that you wish they’d think about more critically, gosh, all that’s gonna do is make THEM uncomfortable then, why couldn’t you just kept it to yourself, how dare you think TALKING about problems is the solution?????

Yup yup, I’m clearly the one who has no boundaries and no regard for other people and can’t let people just have their harmless fun, their different opinions that don’t actually affect me, I’m the one who just can’t seem to stop from hunting down posts I don’t agree with and hopping on other blogs and resurrecting weeks or months old posts just to make sure EVERYONE KNOWS THIS POST WAS WROOOOOOONG. Lmao.

Well I’m very sorry for all that, now that mine eyes have been opened! Rape fics are harmless and this is all just fictional, nobody is actually affected in a negative way by anything being talked about here yaaaaaaay!

Anyway, I’m off to spend the rest of the night trying to calm down lolol because fun fact for people who love to talk about being triggered but have no real clue what they’re actually talking about and how that word was never meant to describe being like...upset or angry but rather the stimuli or situations that put survivors and people with PTSD and other mental disorders into actual goddamn panic spirals and attacks. And thus like, triggers are not as fucking obvious as some of you seem to think they are.

Like lol guess what, I actually can read a scene wherein someone’s raping someone in a scene that looks or sounds EXACTLY LIKE MY RAPE and it can be heart-wrenching and it can be graphic and it can be emotional and I can still not be triggered by that! Know why? Because shockingly, I AM aware that this is just fictional! That these are just fictional characters! That no fictional character and no real person has been harmed in the writing of this scene, because FICTIONAL CHARACTERS CAN’T BE HARMED! Know what else fictional characters can’t be? RAPED. Because rape is not a VISUAL, rape is not an ACTION, rape is not a SPECIFIC SEQUENCE OF EVENTS. Rape is a THEFT, it is one person STEALING another person’s ability to control what happens with their body, taking what they have no right to take, just because they WANT to, just because they CAN. And thus NO rape scene, no matter HOW well written or realistically depicted, is ever going to BE a rape scene, just like no ‘rape fantasy’ roleplay is ever going to BE rape because without an actual DYNAMIC of one person taking something the other person has no power to stop, when its two equally consenting partners or two flat fictional characters on a page, it is still nothing more than a SIMULATION of rape, and NEVER ANYTHING MORE THAN THAT.

And guess what? I can handle THAT just fine. THAT doesn’t trigger me no matter how much it reminds me of my own trauma, because I KNOW DAMN WELL THAT ISN’T REAL.

But you know what IS real? You know what DOES trigger me? The CONTEXT of the scene. The REASON it was written, the intended REACTION of the reader.

The part that makes me lose my fucking shit is when I’m forced to face the reality that this scene exists, was written, because somebody found it HOT and SEXY and wanted to share it with people who’d see it the same way. The reason I lose my goddamn MIND and my adrenaline ramps up and my whole body starts shaking as my fight or flight instincts kick in with no actual outlet because there’s no actual threat, just the phantom reminder of a threat I couldn’t escape from....THAT fun little adventure comes from looking or hearing about things that remind me of my rape, take me back to that fucking room and make me a terrified out of my goddamn mind dumbass nineteen year old all over again.....and knowing that this is HOT to the writer and readers, that this is  intended as sexually gratifying, that this scene, this depiction, this simulation of one person STEALING from another powerless person SOMETHING THEY WILL NEVER EVER FUCKING BE ABLE TO GET BACK AS LONG AS THEY LIVE, THE SENSE OF SAFETY AND SECURITY THAT COMES FROM BEING THE ONLY PERSON WHO GETS TO DECIDE WHO HAS ACCESS TO YOUR BODY....knowing that this little smutty fic exists so people can read this and be TURNED ON by this, so they can GET OFF to this, this thing they’re looking at in their mind, reading about, picturing as they stare down at their screen getting all hot and bothered....

JUST LIKE MY FUCKING RAPIST LOOKED WHEN GETTING OFF FROM TAKING THOSE THINGS FROM ME.

THAT is what fucking triggers me, THAT is what makes me feel unsafe and panicky, THAT is what traps me all over again in that fucking goddamn room and leaves me STUCK there no matter how many years its been and HOW far I’ve come in getting past it...

THE CONSTANT NEVER ENDING REMINDER THAT PEOPLE THINK ITS TOTALLY NO BIG DEAL TO FUCKING AGREE WITH MY RAPIST ABOUT HOW FUCKING HOT AND SATISFYING THE VIEW IS FROM UP THERE.

And all the fucking trigger warnings in the world don’t protect me from THAT, they just emphasize how little people actually give a shit, they just want the magic answer to how they can have their fun ‘harmless’ little rape KINK without having someone make them feel bad for the fact that the rank goes FUN RAPE FANTASIES YAY first and survivors who have a problem with that way the fuck last.

Anyway, so that’s what I’ll be doing all night! Links to my paypal and my ko-fi are on my main blog page if anyone’s ever felt informed or learned anything from any of my many, many, MANY posts about this stuff or any form of gratitude for the effort I DO or at least once DID put into sorting through my thoughts and making my points in some kind of way that actually addresses the usual conversations around all this.

Because guess what? It IS goddamn fucking emotional labor. It DOES take work! Its EXHAUSTING. It HURTS. I would give anything in the world to NOT pick at that giant fucking scab as often as I do, but I DONT HAVE THAT OPTION. Because not talking about it DOESNT MAKE IT GO AWAY. It doesn’t make LESS for me to have to navigate through every goddamn day of my life and you know what the suggested response to problems that you can’t fix on your own are? Problems with SOCIETY?

HAVING GODDAMN CONVERSATIONS ABOUT IT.

So excuse me for SAYING that as often as I do especially cuz every time I DO I get maybe ten notes of acknowledgment that anyone’s even fucking LISTENING but meanwhile here’s another fucking five hundred on a Batfam or X-Men shit post, now THAT’S the content people want from me!

Guess what! I WANT THAT TO BE MY CONTENT TO!

I would LOVE nothing more than to just be able to happily and comfortably shitpost about my favorite superheroes and write stuff I enjoy and that doesn’t have the flaws I rant about seeing in so many shows and books. I could talk for HOURS about fun thoughts and ideas I have in my head, I could banter back and forth with my friends about nothing of substance at all for DAYS, I don’t NEED to fucking retraumatize myself every goddamn day screaming into the void about this shit so I can feel IMPORTANT or have something INTERESTING to blog about or whatever the fuck people think is my reason for ranting about this shit. ALL. THE. GODDAMN. TIME.

But I can’t do that, because there is not a fucking day that goes by, not a DAY where SOMETHING doesn’t cross my dash, or SOMETHING isn’t on an Ao3 page I’m searching through for fic about a fave character, that doesn’t set me off and make my body start shaking with how deeply, fundamentally UPSETTING it is to constantly be bombarded with reminders of just how easy people find it to reframe my trauma as something hot and sexy and WAY MORE WORTH DEFENDING than the very thought of me going ONE FUCKING DAY without having to stumble across bullshit like that. Because I CAN’T ‘dont like/dont read’ as much is out there. I don’t need to click on a fic to see this is smut fic by an author who thinks rape is hot and judging from the number of kudos and comments and hits is definitely on to something! GUESS I DID MY RAPE WRONG THEN, cuz it wasnt fucking hot for me!

I would love to just ‘avoid’ it so I can actually ENJOY my fucking time on the internet. But I CANT. Because its EVERYWHERE. And god forbid I try and start fucking CONVERSATIONS about that so that maybe, someday, after we’ve done the work as a society to examine WHY PEOPLE ARE SO FUCKING INVESTED IN THIS STUFF, I or at the very least people like me, can someday enjoy one day on the internet where they DONT have to constantly wade through an endless swamp of that shit.

Honestly. Seriously. I have said it so often I can not count. I do not want to censor anyone. I do not want power over what people can read or write. I just. want. to TELL people that when they write this stuff, it has CONSEQUENCES, that there are people it DOES hurt, and have them LISTEN, so that at least, at LEAST the ones who are bothered enough by that realization to NOT be comfortable writing it when faced with the awareness of the fact that their writing HAS THIS EFFECT WHETHER WE SAY IT TO THEIR FACES OR NOT, that THEY at least can decide....hey. What if I just...wrote something else instead?

But what the FUCK am I supposed to do with the constant, incessant reminder that people would rather dig in their heels in defense of their RAPE FANTASIES than roll up their sleeves and do a little fucking examination of WHY they and society at large are so fucking invested in this shit that the very IDEA of ‘giving up’ content like this for the sake of people who have actually LIVED through it, is just....INCOMPREHENSIBLE to them? That they feel ATTACKED by the very idea?

(And don’t fucking come at me with that ‘some survivors use it to cope’ stuff. Yeah, well I used to get in bar fights as my coping mechanism. Didn’t fucking mean it was healthy, and it wasn’t fucking harmless to anyone I punched in the goddamn face, now was it? Also, if you’re not a survivor and you hide behind that line, FEEL FUCKING ASHAMED for thinking of it as a kneejerk response to another survivor telling you your “kink” fucking hurts).

I’m out. See you all later.

[incorrecteragonquotes]

Eragon Movie Recap Part 3: Eragon McProtagonist and the Sorcerer’s Stone

It’s time for the third installment of the Eragon Movie Recap!

We pick up where Part 2 left off. Roran’s gone. Eragon’s moping. Brom’s comfortable getting in trouble with soldiers. Garrow has life advice. The cool rock is entirely normal and definitely isn’t a weird egg.

After lamenting his cousin’s departure outside in the sunset, Eragon is continuing to mope indoors. Without warning, the cool rock on the floor before him begins to shake violently. It starts to crack. Eragon looks at it like it’s super gross but also a little intriguing.

The cool rock explodes, revealing tiny dragon, which immediately starts making cheerful little noises. Eragon smiles, and starts theorizing about the variety of non-rocks the creature before him could be. To his credit, he does identify the cool rock as an egg, though the impact is somewhat lessened by the fact that he proclaims “you’re an egg!” after the hatching, to a creature that is clearly no longer an egg. Said creature makes an admirable attempt at miming the word “dragon”, to no avail. Eragon decides that whatever the thing in front of him is, he simply must put his hand on its head.

There’s a big flash of light, and a few key characters awaken due to a disturbance in The Force. Brom clearly wasn’t expecting this. Galbatorix looks unhappy, but unsurprised. He appears to have been sleeping in the throne we saw him in earlier. Although, if we close our eyes and pretend those horns and neck-scale-looking things don’t belong to the arm of his oversized chair, we can believe that he may have been taking a nap with his dragon, Shruikan. That would have been a neat little detail. Arya, on the other hand, is looking a little smug.

Arya is lying on a table in some sort of dungeon. She doesn’t appear to be secured to it in any capacity, though I’ll give this a free pass on account of there being a powerful magical shade nearby who knows a thing or two about keeping people captive. Durza, too, has noticed that something’s up, and begins questioning his prisoner. Arya, as part of a perplexing new strategy, decides that this is a fine time to gloat about how the egg has already hatched.

Durza is displeased by this news. He retaliates by doing some weird shade magic that somehow extracts the details of the egg’s whereabouts from Arya’s mind. I’m still a little miffed that she even has those, but it’s also strange that this is how Durza gets his information. Maybe it’s just that Durza is putting extra effort into being mean, leading to a unique experience, but this doesn’t look anything like the telepathy that we see clearly later in the film.

Back in Carvahall, Eragon wakes up from a brief nap that may or may not have lasted the entire night? Time of day is really hard to follow in this movie. Eragon hears some echoes of Arya’s words to Durza, which he promptly ignores in favour of looking at the tiny dragon snuggling with him. He takes a look at his hand and sees a really weird rash. Instead of reacting with concern for his own well-being, he starts scolding his new friend for causing it. How he reached that (admittedly accurate) conclusion so quickly is beyond me. Suddenly, their talk is interrupted by Garrow calling for his nephew, catching their attention.

Before leaving, Eragon decides that he should feed his dragon. He fills a bag with milk, intending for it to slowly leak so that the milk inside can be consumed one drop at a time. The dragon has other plans, however, and decides instead to rip the bag open, spilling everything in the process. All seems lost until a rat scurrying around some corner begins to make a ruckus. The dragon jumps over to it and swallows it whole, making for a somewhat unsettling visual. Instead of being alarmed, Eragon decides that this is the perfect time to quip happily about vermin infestations.

Back at Galbatorix’s weird mountain rectangle, (no, I’m not making this up,) Durza reports back about the hatching of the cool rock. He tries to discount the threat by emphasizing that farm boys are not dangerous to kings, but Galby’s not having any of it. Apparently, it doesn’t matter how useless the new Rider is, only whether or not the rebels see him long enough to gain a little hope. This would, of course, lead to aggressive action, and dealing with that is just too much work. Galby (and his really weird fingernails, goodness gracious) orders Durza to stop Eragon and company from reaching the Varden by any means necessary.

Eragon, meanwhile, is out on the farm in some field or other. His weird rash is looking less angry. He seems to think it’s pretty cool. His new dragon buddy comes to visit him, and he voices some extremely unsubtle complaints, making it clear that he has a lot of abandonment issues in this movie.

Over in some fort or other, Durza is standing precariously above some weird, smokey pit full of bats. He summons the Ra’zac by saying “Ra’zac” a bunch of times and doing some enthusiastic posing. The Ra’zac obligingly explode out of the dirt in what appears to be a nearby forest, and are instructed by Durza to find and kill Eragon.

In the evening, Eragon walks into town to what looks to be the local outdoor cafeteria. A bunch of adults are already eating there, listening to Horst complain about how he has yet to hear from his recently conscripted sons. The cafeteria is apparently being monitored by soldiers so they can arrest anyone who voices too much dissent. Brom joins in on the complaining, as he reminisces about the good old days.

Brom launches into a little monologue about how the world used to be so much better, back in the day. Less cruelty, less suffering, more freedom, and more dragons. Eragon, on a mission to learn anything he can about his former cool rock, pays special attention. Of course, Brom only really gets to slander the king for about two more sentences before soldiers come over to bully him into submission. Eragon takes issue with this.

Eragon asks the soldiers not to hurt Brom. Interestingly, this seems to work, so he presses further to let Brom finish his conspiracy theory. In a baffling turn of events, this happens without question, and Brom says his last few sentences. This does incur further threats from the soldiers, which is an unusual strategy for them to be taking when they’ve already permitted Brom to finish speaking. He and Eragon make meaningful eye contact, assuming that Brom isn’t facing away from the cafeteria and everyone in it. Because Brom and the camera both moved, it took me at least a good five viewings to conclude that the eye contact was probably real. Regardless, it’s nice to see that little twinkle in Brom’s eyes.

Later, Eragon is running through a field with his little dragon, fangirling over Brom’s story. After a collective effort, the dragon manages to take flight, amazing both it and Eragon. It’s a triumphant moment until the dragon flies off into the distance, and Eragon realizes that it’s over. The adventure has passed him by. It’s just like Garrow said, some people are built for adventure, and he just watched his own fly away. I think this makes for a neat little moment, and a nice example of thematic consistency, so the filmmakers have my respect for including it.

Eragon stews in his disappointment for a bit. He breaks the silence by proclaiming that “she’s gone”, despite the fact that he knows nothing about his dragon’s gender. This detail bothers me because of how much emphasis was placed on it in the book. It’s far from important, but it stands out quite a bit.

Suddenly, moping hour is cut short - Eragon’s weird scab has begun to glow! In the sky, we see the dragon fly through some clouds, growing rapidly and explosively. In the space of five seconds, (yes, I timed it) the dragon has reached adulthood! It lands before Eragon and takes a moment to appreciate its own transformation.

Instead of voicing his questions aloud, like he has done up to this point, Eragon thinks them loudly to himself. The dragon joins the telepathic exchange, and joins Brom’s story’s fanclub. Eragon clarifies aloud that this is, in fact, telepathy. With that out of the way, the dragon introduces herself as Saphira, and proclaims that Eragon is her Rider. After recovering from his surprise at this revelation, Eragon begins scheming for the future.

That’s it for Part 3! Thanks for your patience with this one, and thank you all for reading! The feedback on the recaps so far has been wonderful. This part covered about 9 minutes of screentime. We saw a dragon hatch! We saw that same dragon come of age! They grow up so fast. I am sad to see our weird egg go, and I will miss having so many opportunities to use the phrase “cool rock” in the forthcoming recaps. Oh, the sacrifices we must make.

Remember to tune in next week when we visit such questions as “will Arya be reprimanded for her carelessness in the field?”, “does Brom possess any desire for self-preservation?”, and “is this the only time we will reference Garrow’s discussion of theme?”. See you then!

Bonus:

[rainymae523]

Perfect Storm

Every night is almost exactly the same in Rain’s mind, just roaring thunder, flashing lightning, a never ending storm. She just wants it to stop as the night wears on, and so does her storm. It’s only at night that she’s too tired to fight it into the back of her mind, as she has nothing to focus on anymore but darkness, her computer screen, and her endless stream of thoughts.

Thunder is screaming at everything. Lightning is crying. Rain is falling apart.

“Why do you miss the times when you were trying to be someone you’re not? It doesn’t make sense!” a thundering voice booms.

“Because I loved how he hugged me and smiled at me when he wasn’t upset… I loved being happy…” a more childish sounding, small voice sputters.

Rain shakes her head, closes her eyes, and groans. She decides she just can’t handle this alone anymore, so she grabs her phone and starts to text Creek.

Rain: Hey Creek… I could use some help

Creek: Hey Rain! What’s wrong? How can I help?

Rain explains what’s going on in her head, spilling every last detail. How Thunder and Lightning fight, and how she fights. Even how exhausted this makes her. She just lets her thoughts flow out through her fingers as she texts long paragraphs to Creek, as Creek tries to be a supportive friend.

Creek: What would happen if Thunder or Lightning gained control?

Rain: *ponders* Honestly, I have no clue.

Creek: Well, do you have any idea what they’re like?

Rain: A little, but I should probably just let you talk to them. Thunder is dying to be let out.

Creek: Only if you’re comfortable with it.

Rain: I just hope you’re ready for her.

Creek: I’ll be right over. And don’t worry, I’m ready. We can work through this together.

That’s when Thunder takes over. She is everything Rain hates about herself. She is completely unapologetic about everything, and everything is always about her or Rain, depending on whether she chooses to pick on Rain or not. Thunder takes over Rain’s body by turning her eyes gray and enveloping her in shadows, causing her golden blonde hair to become dull.

She makes her full appearance as Creek enters Rain’s apartment to see the shadows. She greets Creek with the biggest, fakest smile she can muster, “Well hello there! You must be Creek! It’s so nice to finally meet you as myself!”

Creek greets Thunder with a confused smile, “And you’re Thunder, I’m assuming? I mean you don’t seem like a Lightning, and you definitely aren’t Rain anymore. ”

Thunder smirks, “Why of course I am! I am everything that Rain hates about herself! I don’t even understand why you like her so much! She’s a total mess!”

Creek frowns, “But that’s what friends are for. To help pick each other up when we fall. She helps me when I’m down, so of course I’m doing the same for her. Even if she is a total mess.”

Thunder growls, “How do you have it in you to care so deeply for someone you barely know?”

Creeks laughs and shakes her head, “You really just don’t get it, do you? I know her more than you think, even if she hasn’t come out and told me things directly, I pick up on her hints of depression and anxiety and how much she just wants to make others happy. I just love talking to her and hearing about how excited she gets about her stories and her characters, as she gets so into it that I can’t help but be into it too! I love reading what she writes as I just see so much of her in it, and I know about how she talks to me about a lot of things she writes before she even writes them. But, Thunder, you will never understand that.”

Thunder is left speechless as the shadows that surround the body she’s borrowing start to spiral into a cyclone around her. She can’t process these emotions fast enough for a witty response. She shakes the extra shadows off, “Maybe I won’t. But I can’t help but think about how weak that makes her for throwing so much of herself out there at once.”

Creek just shakes her head again, “Oh Thunder, you’ll never learn. I don’t care how weak you think she is. I don’t care how weak you think I am. I only care that she trusts me enough to even let on that she’s hurting at all, and I intend to hold onto that trust as long as she’ll let me.”

Thunder’s shadows start to swallow her whole as she just can’t take this kindness, as she’s never experienced anyone like this before, “No one’s ever said that before. Normally, they’re all terrified of me.”

Creek just walks closer to Thunder and lays a hand on her shoulder, even if hesitantly, “I’m not terrified of you. I think you’re an important part of Rain. But, you’re as bad as everyone thinks. You’re just misunderstood, but it’s okay, I’m here.”

The shadows then just evaporate, leaving just Rain kneeling now in this body that no longer feels completely hers anymore. Creek catches her as she falls to her knees, looking concerned, “Hey, are you okay?”

Rain takes a shaky breath, “Yea, Thunder’s gone now. I’m Rain again. I can breathe again.”

Creek smiles, “Well, that’s good at least. Now just breathe. It’s gonna be okay.”

Rain smiles, “I really appreciate this, ya know? Not many would ever do this for me. Most think I’m a bit crazy,” She chuckles as she tries her best to breathe.

Creek helps her back to her feet as she smiles softly, “Well, for now, you should sit down, and I can grab you some water. You need to take care of yourself after something like that.”

Rain stumbles over to the couch, where she practically falls into it, “Thanks again, Creek. Really.”

Creek smiles, “Don’t mention it! That’s what friends are for!”

Creek goes to the kitchen in Rain’s apartment, finds the glasses, and grabs some water for the both of them as Rain just focuses on breathing, only to lose control again. Creek enters the living room to Rain looking quite a bit more cheery. Her hair is now a bleach blonde, and her eyes are a mucher brighter blue as she seems to even give off a glow to her. Creeks hands this Rain the water only for her to give her the biggest smile, “Oh Thank You! You must be Creek!”

Creek looks confused, but just goes with it, “Yea, of course I’m Creek! And you are?”

Lightning makes her appearance with this glow about her, “Well, I’m Lightning!”, She giggles, “I’m Rain’s other half! I’m everything she loves about herself! I’m also her inner child!”

Creek smiles at this, “Well, you’re a lot happier than Thunder, so that’s good.”

Lightning makes a motion to hide her arms as she glances at how she’s wearing pants, which she gives a small, almost unnoticeable sigh of relief to, “I’m definitely happier than that sourpuss! I’m everything that Rain loves about herself! She tells me about how much she appreciates you all the time! She loves talking to you!”

Creek tries to relaxes a little, but can’t seem to, “I’m glad she loves talking to me that much, but I’m nothing special. I just enjoy hearing her talk about her ideas, as they make me enthusiastic about hearing the full stories as she gets so excited and enthusiastic about them too.”

Lightning smiles even bigger, having to put an effort into holding her arms behind her back, “You’re the reason she gets so enthusiastic as she loves sharing her ideas with you! She loves everything you add onto them to improve them too!”

Creek smiles back, trying not to notice, “Aww, I don’t really do much to improve on them. She comes up with them, and I just enjoy talking about them!”

Lightning had to try really hard to hold her arms in place now as she covers it up with a smile, “She thinks you help a lot! She loves that you don’t think she’s crazy when she talks about some of these ideas! She also thinks it would be the coolest thing ever if you would ever co-write a story with her! Your writing style is so different from hers it would be so cool to see them come together!”

Creek smiles, flattered, “I’ve never had anyone want to co-write anything with me before. I mean, I don’t know if it would turn out well, but maybe someday.”

Lightning smiles at that, though the effort she’s putting into holding her arms behind her back is getting to her, “She would jump at any chance to write with you! It would be amazing! You both could find something I’m sure!”

She looks a bit nervous, “But, that’s just an idea.”

Creek looks concerned as she notices Lightning relax her arms a little, “Hey, Lightning, are you okay? I know I can come off a bit strong, and I don’t want you to be nervous around me. It’s okay.”

Lightning tries her best to recover her smile, “I’m okay! Don’t worry about me!”

Creek still looks a little concerned, but tries to shake it off, “Well, I’m a bit of a worrier. Call it Mom instincts, if you will. You can talk to me about anything if you need to, though.”

Lightning smiles and tenses up her arms again, “I’m okay! I’ll be fine! It’s not you, I promise!”

Creek doesn’t really buy it, but smiles anyway, “Well, if you say so. But, I’m always here if you need anything. Don’t be afraid to talk to me.”

Lightning smiles and softens her hold on her arms again, showing a bit of redness on them, “That’s very sweet of you, but I’m okay! I’m supposed to make you happy!”

Creek’s concern returns full force as she notices her arms, “Hey, what’s wrong with your arms? They look a bit red. Did you get a sunburn or something?”

Lightning looks down as she goes full force in trying to hide her arms again, “If I show you, you won’t like me anymore.”

Creek’s gaze softens, “Of course, I’ll still like you if you show me, but you don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

Lightning lets her arms drop to her sides, revealing both her old scars and new scabs that are puffy and red, “I just want to make everyone else happy,” She starts to tear up.  

Creek is in shock, “Oh Lightning, I don’t think of you any differently for those. I know you try to make everyone else happy, but what about you? You can’t help everyone else be happy if you’re hurting like this.”

Lightning starts to cry as she brings her arms out in front of her, “That would make me just as bad as Thunder, and I want everyone to be happy, even if it hurts me.”

Creek shuffles a bit, not quite sure on what to do about this crying child figure standing in front of her, showing her scars, “It definitely would not make you as bad as Thunder. But I know, I know you always try to make everyone else happy. But, would a hug help you? I just wanna help you be happy.”

Lightning nods as she lets Creek hug her, tears soaking into Creek’s shoulder, “This feels nice. I’ve never had a hug before. Thunder never lets me out for that long.”

Creek’s heart breaks a little more, “Well, you can always come to me for a hug. But if you really want to make people happy, you should take care of yourself. You can help even more than normal if you’re in a good mindset.”

Lightning looks up, “You promise?”

Creek smiles, “Of course, I’m always here if you need me.”

Then, the glow vanishes from Lightning as she returns to Rain. The scars fade away, just as the scabs do. Rain pulls out of the hug, holding her head, “Hey Creek, did Thunder come back, or was that Lightning?”

Creek takes a second to realize this is Rain again, “It was Lightning. She tries so hard to help everyone else that she hurts herself. But, she was more pleasant than Thunder.”

Rain apologizes as she groans, “Yeah, she’s my selflessness, among other things. I’m sorry for losing control like that. It’s just been a rough day, and I needed a friend here, just in case I did lose control to my own storm.”

Creek places a hand on her shoulder, hoping to help ground her, “Hey, it’s okay. I’m here for you, and you know that. I think it was pretty cool to get to meet these other parts of you. I also think it’s pretty cool that you trust me with these other parts of you.”

Rain looks up with a sad smile, “Yeah, most people get freaked out when I show them my storm in my head, but you, you never ran away.”

Creek smiles, “Of course I wouldn’t run away. I wouldn’t be a very good friend if I did! You don’t have to be afraid to be open with me. I won’t ever judge you for that storm in your head.”

Rain hugs Creek without warning, throwing Creek off balance before she joins in the hug. Rain just leans into the hug as Creek moves closer to her on the couch, letting everything just happen. Rain takes a deep breath, “Thank you, Creek.”

Creek smiles, “Like I said, it’s no problem. That’s what I’m here for. I just want to help you as much as Lightning wants to help everyone else besides herself. It’s okay to not be okay sometimes. It make you human, and that’s okay.”

Rain just takes in this comment, just letting Creek hold her. She can’t really believe that everything has happened and that Creek hasn’t left yet. But still, she enjoys Creek’s presence as she just lets her crumble, and it was exhausting. Before either of them really knew it, Rain had let her eyes close, and she was asleep. Creek just looked down when she realized Rain wasn’t talking anymore, but she smiled at how Rain was finally taking care of herself and resting the storm inside in her head.

@illyriashade56 (I hope I gave you justice! But, Thank you for everything, especially for letting me use you as a character in this story! But really, just thanks for everything, Creek.) 

[pepper---chase]

bathwater - self para.

i watch the bathwater drain, it’s never looked quite the same the weight comes back to my body, and i’m hopeless again.

Pepper stares at the wall of the shower, sunk into the water of the tub. She’s in Jordan’s bathroom, not sure if she can get away with opening up a razor and taking a blade. She settled for two minutes of shocking heat, scalding water and heavy steam, ripping the air out of her lungs. Now, it’s cool, soothing the skin on her back as she leans her head against the tile. She looks around the bathroom as she soaks in the water, contaminated by leftover sex and sweat and guilt and shame and self-loathing. The mirror features a few Victoria’s Secret underwear stickers. They haven’t been there long. Probably purchased since they started fucking. Her retainer case is hot pink with holographic Hello Kitty stickers, much more worn than the hearts on the mirror. There’s a bottle of Summer’s Eve on the counter. Pepper knows that Jordan knows it’s not good for her vaginal health, but even beautiful, shiny people like Jordan worry sometimes, look in the mirror and see a problem or think does my vagina smell good enough for someone to like me? To love me? The toilet is not much different from Pepper’s on the outside. Porcelain, white. But no one kneels in front of it to seek answers, help, perfection, acceptance. No one uses the pink toothbrush in the cup on the counter for anything other than brushing their teeth. And the razor is still a normal razor, used religiously for armpits and legs and a somewhat razor-burned mons pubis, never deconstructed for pain. Pepper wriggles down into the water, submerging her face, and listens to the heaviness of the water, her sins mingled with shampoo and Jordan’s Lush shower gel. She tries to let it strip away the memory of Jordan’s fucks and pleases and the drawn out yeee-eeeee-eee-ssss, the feeling of her heart fluttering, just barely, while Jordan kissed the back of her neck, fingers gently brushing her side, the adoration that constantly radiates from her stupid unconditionally-loving face. She tries to forget all of that, make it not real. Because she has to be loyal to Hanna or because she has to punish herself? She opens the drain and turns the shower back on, rinses the remaining soap and that question. She puts her hair in a wet ponytail, uses the toothbrush as it was intended,-- she can’t bring herself to defile what seems so pure-- puts on a pair of Jordan’s sleep shorts and a sweatshirt, and crawls back into her bed. 

i watch the twists and the turns, distract me from where it hurts it’s like i’m watching my life go past the point of return.

She wonders if her defibrillator has gone off in the past few minutes, sitting in a different tub, pink water and fragrant fizz and glitter surrounding the loosely-bound collection of bones and organs and newly bleached hair. She can’t get comfortable. If she moves to where her scapulae don’t dig into the porcelain, she’s too deep in the water and when things go south, she could slip and start drowning and add a whole new element to something that needs to be quick and nearly painless. She picks the knife up and puts it down about twenty times in the span of just one song. Every time I close my eyes, it’s like a dark paradise. Her phone speakers are maxed out, turned to the wall in an attempt for amplification. She doesn’t know if she’s going to cry or start freaking out or what, but if there’s any noise other than her femoral artery emptying, she doesn’t want anyone but her and God and maybe Hanna to hear it. She’s done this hundreds of times, just less severe. Shallow, quickly scabbed over, or slightly deeper, tiny white scars to remind her. Why is it so hard to 1) pick up knife 2) find the spot under her hipbone where this stupid thing should be 3) stab hard and deep, fast, get it over with 4) lean back, close eyes 5) die? The plan seemed perfect. She’s come this far. Stole the key card from Jordan, walked right out the back door to the garage, hailed a cab. Bought a bleaching kit, a new nose ring, and a Lush Pink bomb and Creamy Candy bubble bar, a ride to Montauk and a hotel room electronically. Thanks, Apple Pay. She went down to the beach, shivered the whole time, sweater pulled tight around her shoulders, wind breaking off the waves and pushing against her. ( Get out of here. Turn back. ) She went in the old ice cream store, just reopened a month ago during spring break, ordered a scoop of cinnamon toast and a scoop of blueberry muffin in a waffle cone, but it didn’t taste the same as it did when Hanna sat across from her and made fun of the inevitable smear of ice cream on her nose. She went back to the hotel, re-bleached her hair, opened the doors to the balcony and took a nap with the sea breeze blowing in on her. Ordered room service, three Belgian waffles with cream, blueberries, bananas, bacon. Tried to eat it. Enjoy it. The calories won’t matter when you’re dead. Her stomach twisted up. She got through one waffle and the blueberries before screaming curses at the entire fucking plate and her stupid digestive system and her stupid brain and God and whoever else was to blame for everything. Took a deep breath. Started the water, lowered herself in gently, placing the large knife from the room service tray on the side of the tub. Put in the bath bomb, listened to the playlist she’d made in the cab. ( Eyelids. Ride. Young and Beautiful. Together. The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face. Dark Paradise. Teen Idle. Medicine. Lonely Hearts Club. Control. Chandelier. Heavy In Your Arms. A Little Fall of Rain. Over the Love. Twinkle Song. Demon Limbs. I Will Follow You Into the Dark. ) When it repeated, she added more hot water, crumbled the bubble bar. Tried to be ready. She stares at the knife now, still concentrating. Do it. Do it. Fucking do it. What about HeatherAliceGinaJordan what about KarlBrett what about TinkaHeatherGreene what about Tess what about you what about you what about NO. She digs the heels of her hands into her eyes. The soap stings. That’s why her eyes water. That’s why tears start rolling. That must be why. “They’ll be better off without me,” Her voice is weak, barely audible even to her. “They deserve better than me.” whataboutyou “I deserve nothing.” No food, no kindness, no love. She looks up at the ceiling. “Help me!” She’s glad the music is loud. “I know you probably hate me but that should make you want to get rid of me! Help!” She grips the knife handle so hard it hurts her hand. “I want it!” Want what? To die or to live? “I want-- I want--” It won’t come out. “I WANT--!” Silence. “FUCK--!” She lets out a sob, leans over, tips of her hair dipping into the pink. “I have to do it-- I have to.” She repeats the mantra, tries to compose herself as she does ( ihavetoihaveto. ihavetoihaveto. ) She sees two futures in the water. One, stained with blood. Heather splitting open the skin on her knuckles, unable to cry anymore. Alice in the basement with stockpiled alcohol. Gina putting those old walls back up. ( ithinkmymom-- ) Jordan crying for weeks, months, that same horrible noise that came out in her bedroom. The other future is more distant. Heather having lunch with her somewhere, ordering bacon cheese fries even though she knows she’ll stare at them for ten minutes before allowing herself to eat one. Alice smiling, offering hugs and Oreos and cigarettes. She tries not to see the contrast in that and the next scene. Gina is waking up next to her, not in a twin bed. A big one, built for two. Jordan delivers a blueberry muffin to her somewhere, then says she has to go to work, runs off in scrubs and Vans Sk8-His. She blinks herself out of the alternate realities. One is what she could do. The other is what she could have. What she could be. She turns the knife over. Nearly drops it. FOCUS. ( ihavetoihaveto. ) She lifts herself up slightly tries to find the place. Femur to hip. The bones are easy to find-- the 100 on the anatomy test flashes back-- nothing but greatness is expected of you from now on! The blood vessel must be close. DO IT. She tries to aim. ( ithinkmymomkilledherself ) She slips back down, water hitting her in the face. The knife splashes into the pink, right between her legs. Stop--! ...You have to stay. She carefully finds the knife handle, tears blinking out fast, and slams it down on the edge of the tub. Hanna, somewhere above, breathes a sigh of relief. Pepper answers the question. “I-- want to live.” The words are so soft she’s not sure she said them, not sure she thought them. But she’s still sitting there when Jordan busts through the door, looks in and sees her, flings the knife across the room, nearly dives in the bathtub to hold her. She’s still there.

Pepper drops a Cheer Up Buttercup bomb in the tub after yoga. She carefully covers the new tattoos, a band-aid on her stomach underscored by the words i forgive you, and a slice of pizza on her ankle, then stands on the scale. She writes 106 on the mirror with a dry erase marker, adds a smiley face and hearts. She slips into the yellow foam carefully, exhaling. The words from the meditative instructor linger, always in the back of her head, mixing with those of her therapist. Release anything that is no longer serving you. -- Let yourself enjoy things. Give your body whatever it tells you it needs. -- Love yourself enough to decide you deserve more. She runs her hands along her body under the water. Feels a small roundness under her ribs. A tummy, she calls it, not gross, not ugly. Enough flesh to say I’m healthy. There are abs building above it and underneath it. It’s just a slight slope from her ribs to the top of her pants when she’s dressed, looking at it through a mesh top in the mirror. She keeps feeling. Two thighs, muscular now, toned, but they set off an alarm in the back of her mind when she sits down in shorts or leggings. She has to override, shut it off. They are fine. They’re strong, and there’s more than enough room for Gina to get between them when she wants to. You. Are. Doing. Great. You. Are. Good. She finds her breasts, no longer a pair of nipples on a ribcage. Real ones. 36A, but real. Hers. She finds her thighs again, moves up, closes her eyes. A gentle touch from her hand. She doesn’t imagine Hanna now. Doesn’t hate herself  after. Acts of kindness for Pepper by Pepper don’t have to be apologies for the past or encouraging thoughts. Sometimes she just sits in the bathtub and her fingers travel along her body and she takes the time to feel it. She stands up after the water is cold and rinses her hair, her body, dries off, flops down in front of the couch. She waits for Gina. Rests her hands on the small sloping tummy. What she has. What she is. 

[shamelessly4shameless-blog]

Another Way (pt 4)

Hi guys, installments will be posted here but the full fic is already up on AO3 along with all my other works. http://archiveofourown.org/users/RedStarFiction/works 

The drive to Fort Knox should take five and a half hours. The speed limit should be followed. There are a lot of ‘should’s in life. Mickey makes the journey in four hours and twenty minutes. He pulls in about half a mile away from the imposing looking main building and dials Ian.

“Hey Mickey.”

Ian sounds out of breath and Mickey can barely hear him over the wind.

“Hey, I’m here. Where are you?”

“I don’t know.”

Ian giggles. Mickey bites his lip impatiently.

“Well that ain’t a whole lot of fucking use to me, Gallagher.”

“I ran, Mick. I busted that pricks face and I fuckin’ ran. I’m under a bridge. Want me to find out which one?”

Mickey makes an elaborately aggressive hand gesture and curls his upper lip at the stupidity of that question, glaring at the handset.

“Uh … yeah. That would be a useful piece of information for me to have.”

“OK, hang on ...”

Ian hangs up and Mickey uses up all of his remaining patience on not throwing his cell out of the window, driving back to Chicago and letting Gallagher sort his own shit out.

When his phone rings again Mickey’s answers it with a firm

“What?”

“It’s Hendersons Bridge. I’m under that.”

“Well fucking get over it and back onto the road so I can pick you up.”

“Are you really in Kentucky?”

Ian sounds like he’s about to laugh again and Mickey clenches his jaw hard enough that his teeth squeak. This isn’t like Ian. Even if the asshole was still pissed at Mickey, which the brunette reasons he probably is, this weird tweaker sounding crap isn’t like him. He sounds … vacant.

“Yeah for some stupid ass reason I’m in Kentucky and I’ve got about a quarter tank of gas left to get the fuck out again so can you please stop dicking around and get your ass somewhere I can come get you?”

“Sure. OK … um … you on the road to the fort?”

“Yeah, ‘bout half a mile out.”

“Cool, I ran about six miles so maybe just drive back along but drive slowly; you don’t wanna kill me do you?”

Ian laughs and Mickey narrowly resists the urge to suggest that he might actually be okay with that.

“Just stay on the main road, man. I’ll find you.”

Mickey grits the words with as much forbearance as he can muster and hangs up, swinging the car round. Fuckin’ Gallagher.

*

Mickey lets out a relieved sigh when a familiar figure comes into view walking on the verge of the road. He beeps his horn lightly and Ian turns around to face the oncoming car. His face is a damn mess and Mickey doesn’t feel so bad about his own split lip any more.

“Whose neck am I breakin’ for that shit?”

Mickey calls, leaning across to speak through the open window as he pulls up alongside the younger boy.

“No one. I took care of it.”

Ian smiles and gets into the passenger seat. He’s wearing his military uniform and Mickey can’t help but notice just how much he’s filled out even in the last few months. Ian wipes a hand beneath his nose, the blood is sticky but mostly dry and he gives Mickey a goofy grin.

“My knight in shining armour. Well, not shining, this car is a piece of shit!”

Mickey smiles despite himself and licks his lip, Ian’s eyes follow the movement and his smile fades to a frown as he takes in the scab.

“Woah. Someone hit you. What happened?”

“Are you kiddin’ me? The fuckin’ state of you and you’re worried about this little scratch? Unbelievable.”

Mickey frowns and shakes his head

“Do I look bad?”

Ian asks cautiously. Mickey gives him a side-eyed look, thumbing the edge of his nose awkwardly

“You’re covered in blood and you smell like horse shit, but no, you don’t look bad, Gallagher. Not to me.”

The boys share a shy smile and Mickey puts the car in gear, heading away from the fort.

“Alirght. Where do you wanna go?”

“Can we get a hotel?”

Ian asks and Mickey puffs out his cheeks considering

“I dunno man, I got like forty bucks and most of that is gonna go in this tank. Plus Svetlana will be pissed if I stay out all night.”

“Svetlana?”

Ian jerks backwards as if Mickey has slapped him and Mickey shrugs defensively, taking his eyes from the road to glance at Ian

“What?”

“Well … you’re here! I thought … How are you still married?”

“Don’t worry, she’s about as happy with it as I am.”

Mickey runs a hand tersely through his hair and bites his lip absent-mindedly. He doesn’t want to talk about his marriage right now. He just wants to enjoy being around Ian, no matter the circumstances.

“So what? You just told her you were coming to see your old … me?”

Ian finishes lamely, not sure whether to call himself a boyfriend, lover or some other stupid title. Mickey waves the question away and rolls his shoulders uncomfortably.

“Look it’s not like it’s a big deal, I can’t afford a hotel anyway but if you want I can bring you back to my place. My dad got arrested this morning so he’s out of the picture, thank fuck.”

“No thanks.”

Ian shakes his head and stares resolutely out of the window, jaw set firmly. Mickey rolls his neck and makes an exasperated hand gesture before saying

“Are you just gonna pout for the whole journey now?”

“I’m not pouting I just … it’s fine.”

“What? What’s fine?”

Mickey snaps, defensiveness making his tone sharper than he intended

“I can’t believe you’re still living with her. Does she share your bed too? You a proper happy couple now?”

Ian doesn’t yell but it’s a close thing

“She lives with me and I make sure she’s fed. That’s about the extent of it.”

Mickey answers and Ian turns to him, green eyes furiously bright

“Didn’t answer my question.”

“Shouldn’t fuckin’ have to! Jesus. I just spent my whole day driving across state because you made one damn phone call and you’re gonna sit there all pissed at me cause of somethin’ you already knew? Grow up, Ian.”

“Why won’t you just be who you are?”

Ian slaps his thigh in a fit of temper and Mickey scoffs dismissively, gesturing with splayed fingers to Ian’s bloody face

“Yeah, because that seems to be workin’ out for you real well.”

They drive in a tense silence for maybe twenty minutes until they come to a gas station and Mickey pulls in.

“I gotta fill the tank.”

“K.”

“You hungry?”

“Yeah.”

Ian nods but refuses to make eye contact with him and Mickey sucks in his bottom lip, eyebrows raised and eyes wide.

“Well? What do you want to eat?”

Ian’s answer is flat

“Whatever you have. Thanks.”

“You’re very fuckin’ welcome!”

Mickey slams the car door, taking the keys with him because Mickey doesn’t want to have to hunt Ian down and kick his ass if he takes off with the car. He tops up the gas, ramming the nozzle in and out with more force than strictly necessary, hoping that the clanging is getting on Gallagher’s nerves.

Mickey heads into the gas station, clocks the cameras and the guy behind the counter who looks more asleep than awake and saunters down the aisles, filling his pockets with first aid supplies and a couple of candy bars before sauntering up to the till to pay for gas and get a couple of hotdogs.

Ian shifts uncomfortably in the seat as guilt nags at him. He doesn’t want to be a prick but the hurt and anger he thought distance would wash away are ebbing back and forth amidst all the other mixed up feelings and he can’t seem to get a decent handle on them. Watching Mickey’s head bob up and down in the store window, Ian realises just how terribly he really has missed him. Even before the bullying, before his mind felt like it was unravelling, he missed Mickey with every fibre of his being and it hurts to know he is still with Svetlana, even though it is not a shock.

When Mickey gets back to the car, Ian accepts the food with another muffled thank you, holding Mickey’s as well while he pulls away from the pump and into a parking space beside the store. As they eat the tension between them lessens slightly and Ian allows his posture to soften just a little.

“You want the radio on?”

“Yeah sure.”

Mickey fiddles with the dial, grimacing as he shuffles through country music and sugary pop stations to get to a fairly okay station playing classic rock. Ian watches him eat out of the corner of his eye. He’s always loved how exuberantly Mickey chews his food, the way he mostly leaves his mouth open and really rolls everything around in there, openly enjoying himself and fuck whatever anyone else thinks.

“You got mustard ...”

Ian motions to the corner of Mickey’s mouth and when the older boy raises a knuckle to the wrong side Ian gives him a lopsided smile and reaches across and wipes the little smear of yellow away with his own thumb, the weight of it lightly tugging Mickey’s full bottom lip downward. The small touch is electric and both boys feel the shock waves ripple through them.

Ian notices Mickey’s pupils dilate at the contact and deliberately sucks the pad of his thumb, maintaining eye contact. Mickey’s tongue slides over the spot where Ian has just touched him and turns slightly in his seat to look at him properly.

“We … ah ...”

Mickey clears his throat as his voice cracks and shakes himself slightly. Gallagher does things to him that Mickey can’t explain but there is dried blood all over Ian’s face and they need to take care of that before getting distracted with anything else.

“We gotta clean you up. I got some stuff.”

He empties his pockets of the antiseptic lotion, cotton buds and band-aids and both the snickers bars. Ian glances dispassionately at the kit but his eyes light up at the sight of the candy.

“You still eat these?”

He plucks one of the bars from Mickey’s lap, his wrist grazing the snugly fitted denim.

“Yeah, they’re alright.”

“Must be. You got shot for one.”

Ian teases and Mickey allows a small smile to lighten his own face.

“Yeah I think that towel-head paedophile was real upset about me takin’ his candy.”

“Was the nut worth it?”

It’s a lame double entendre but those are kind of Ian’s speciality and Mickey secretly loves them, like he secretly loves so many of the goofy things Ian does.

“Your jokes still suck, man.”

Mickey flashes his teeth in a genuine grin as Ian punches his arm

“My jokes are awesome.”

He picks up the antiseptic stuff and begins to pull the plastic film off it. Mickey picks up the cotton pads and motions for Ian to give the lotion to him.

“C’mere.”

“I can do it.”

Ian protests but Mickey just frowns and takes hold of his chin, turning his head firmly to face him.

“Gonna sting.”

“I know.”

Ian wrinkles his nose as Mickey points out the obvious and Mickey bugs his eyes at him in retaliation.

“Well I’m just sayin’ because I don’t want you squirming like a little bitch and getting this shit in your eye.”

“You’re a good nurse.”

Ian teases, smiling that smile which turns Mickey’s guts inside out again.

“Okay, you know what ...”

Mickey tries to shove the prepped cotton swab into Ian’s hand but Ian refuses to take it, smirking at Mickey knowingly

“Sorry, sorry. Go ahead, Nurse Ratched.”

“Fuckin’ would lobotomise your cocky ass if I had the chance.”

Mickey grumbles but his touch is unaccustomedly gentle as he wipes the pad over Ian’s cuts and scrapes.

“So you ever gonna tell me what the fuck is goin’ on?”

Ian fixes his gaze on the cracked window frame behind Mickey’s left ear and swallows heavily.

“Group of assholes started hazing me a few weeks back. It got pretty bad, they wouldn’t stop. Messed up all my stuff, attacked me in the corridors. It felt like I was goin’ mad.”

Mickey grunts and turns Ian’s chin slightly to wipe blood from his hairline

“What made them start?”

“I thought… I thought one of them wanted me to kiss him … so I kissed him.”

Mickey’s hand freezes and Ian feels the fingers on his chin tighten a fraction.

“Well that was stupid.”

His voice is measured but there is an undercurrent of something that Ian can almost hope is jealousy but suspects is just incredulity at his idiocy.

“I think he was scared. He kept putting the moves on me but when it came to it he was afraid. He’s probably not a bad guy.”

“Bullshit. You can be scared of somethin’ without being a fuckin’ dick about it.”

Mickey snaps, he doesn’t want to hear Ian defend some asshole who has made his life miserable, especially not an asshole Ian wanted to kiss.

“Really? The wedding band on your finger and my chipped molar say otherwise.”

It’s a low blow and Ian isn’t surprised when the antiseptic lotion is pressed more firmly into a graze on his cheekbone, making him hiss through his teeth with the sting of it. Mickey knows Ian’s jibes aren’t exactly undeserved but that doesn’t mean they aren’t fucking annoying.

“What’s his name? The guy who started all this shit.”

“What does it matter?”

“It matters.”

Mickey says grimly and Ian knows they look in his eye all too well. In a bizarre twist of fate, Ian has gone from haunted prey to unwitting hunter and he realises that he very likely holds Private Stirling’s life in his hand.

“He was just some guy. I don’t even know his name.”

Ian lies and Mickey’s brows knit briefly together before he shrugs and decides to let it go for now.

Mickey finishes the rest of the clean-up job in silence and starts the car engine, pulling out of the gas station and angling the car back toward Chicago.

“Thank you for driving all this way.”

Ian says softly after a couple of miles have passed. Blue eyes flick sideways to meet his and Mickey grunts in acknowledgement. What Mickey wants to say is that he is glad Ian called him and that the distance is nothing to him but what he settles on is:

“It’s fine.”

“I was considering stealing a chopper to get out.”

Ian smiles suddenly and Mickey lets out a shocked laugh that makes Ian’s smile widen

“You know how to fly one?”

“No.”

Ian admits, running a hand self-consciously through his hair. Mickey’s tongues his cheek, eyes sparkling and Ian rolls his eyes, knowing he is being mocked.

“It can’t be that much different from a car.”

“You shitting me?”

“What? It’s just hand controls and buttons.”

“Yeah! Complicated ones! I bet you wouldn’t even have got the damn thing off the ground, more likely you’d have tipped it over and broken it.”

“Oh fuck you! I’d have been fine.”

Ian laughs as Mickey raises a slender black brow and tilts his head in the universal gesture of ‘yeah right’

“Gallagher, I’ve seen you drive. Even if you got it going, you’d have flown at like two miles an hour and stopped to let fuckin’ birds cross the clouds.”

Ian tries not to laugh but it bursts forth in a gloriously loud snort

“Damn you’re a classy broad!”

Ian raises his middle finger to Mickey’s nose, closes his eyes, and leans his head back against the headrest contentedly, feeling better than he has in weeks.

“Hey, listen, you sure you don’t want to go and fuck those guys up properly? I don’t wanna have to drive all the way back in a few days if you change your mind.”

Mickey lights a smoke one handed and then tosses the packet to Ian, who catches them but doesn’t take one.

“No, I don’t want to go back there.”

“Sure?”

When Ian doesn’t answer, Mickey chances a glance over at him. He seems to be nodding off so Mickey slows the car down a little, not enough that Ian would notice it but enough to draw the journey out. It’ll burn more gas and Mickey will probably have to find money to top it up again in the morning but fuck it. Money ain’t everything.

Mickey isn’t surprised that Gallagher seems so exhausted. It’s hard to sleep when you’re constantly waiting for the next shitty thing to happen to you. Mickey knows that very well and he is happy to let Ian sleep, nothing is going to happen to him now.

*

A little while later Ian jerks in his sleep and murmurs something. When he looks over, Mickey notices there are tear tracks on Ian’s cheeks. Whatever the ‘hazing’ was, it was clearly fuckin’ awful and Mickey chews on the inside of his cheek wishing he had the ring-leaders name.

Ian jerks again and Mickey lets go of his dark thoughts, reasoning with himself that Kentucky ain’t so far to come if Ian ever does tell him.

He reaches across the space between them and touches Ian’s shoulder, lightly shaking him.

“Ian? It’s okay man, just a dream.”

Ian blinks into waking and as his eyes meet Mickey’s, a sweet smile of recognition curves his mouth and he sighs.

“It’s you.”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

Mickey flicks his eyes back to the empty road ahead as Ian shifts himself to lay his head on Mickey’s bare shoulder.

“You smell good, Mick.”

He mutters and then sinks back into sleep, unaware of the effect his words have on the older boy, who blinks rapidly and twitches his nose. Mickey has no idea how four words from Ian can make him feel like the weight of the world is dropping from his shoulders but there it is. He feels better than he has in weeks and it’s all because Ian Gallagher is near him.

He waits until he is sure that Ian is definitely asleep and then leans down and places a single kiss on Ian’s temple, the feel of fine copper hair against his lips, as welcome as the warmth of the sun after a long winter.

“Missed you, Firecrotch.”

He murmurs, and eases his foot off the gas pedal a little more.

[thebabybrooklynriver]

Brooks&Bei || Dinner & A Movie

Who: Brooks & Bei Where: Apartment When: Jan 11 What: Some tears. Some wet shoes. Some kissing.

Brooklyn stumbled into the apartment after what had to be the just the longest fucking day. His feet hurt. His back ached.  He grumbled softly as he dropped his bag and stumbled over to the couch. He landed face first and cussed as he snuggled into it. He'd been overworking himself and knew it, but the money was necessary if he was going to go through with the lawyer... and he was. No matter how hard it was, how expensive. He'd given enough and his kids didn't deserve to suffer because he was a coward.

Back in the apartment, somewhere near the bathroom, a loud thud echoed out followed shortly after by a quick, hushed curse and the sound of shuffling steps.

Brooklyn's eyes narrowed as he turned his head, both to escape the suffocating heat of his own air trapped in the couch and because of the sound. He stood slowly, shuffling over toward the bathroom and knocking on the door. "Did you fall in the toilet again?"

Bei cursed behind the door and cleaned up his mess- which consisted of a shattered soap dish -before he finally turned to open the door. "No, asshole. That was one time- and my foot slipped when I was trying to change the lightbulb. Don't be a jerk about it. We can't all be freakishly tall giants."

"Are you hurt?" He asked with soft concern, "Or just startles with your hair doing that one flat sideway thing?"

He blinked then furrowed his brows in confusion. "...what?"

“Are you bleeding?” Brooklyn sighed as he moved to help him.

"No..." Bei replied automatically before he glanced down at his hands and noticed a small amount of blood welling on one finger. "Well- not badly." He grumbled before he turned to the medicine cabinet and started to dig through it.

He frowned and finished picking up the pieces before dumping them in the trash. He’d need to broom to be sure, especially with Finn but for now... “let me see?” He murmured and grabbed his hand.

"I'm fine, Brooklyn..." Bei protested as the larger man grabbed his hand. "It's just a scratch."

"I know," He murmured as he looked over the wound. Brooks smiled gently and washed his finger with a smile.

Bei let out an exasperated exhale, but he didn't fight Brooklyn. Instead he let the other wash his hand as he shift slightly by the sink.

Brooklyn licked his lips before looking over and kissing Bei gently.

Bei blinked, caught guard by the show of affection as he stared at Brooklyn.

He pulled back before grabbing a bandaid and putting over the cut.

"Brooklyn..."

"Yes, sir?" He asked as he looked over.

Bei froze and slowly lift his gaze to fix on Brooklyn once more.

He raised a brow over at him, "What did I grow a second head?"

"No... no. Just... don't-" He shook his head and looked away. "Don't call me sir."

"...wha- Whoa hey, I didn't mean to upset you."

"no... No. Not upset."

"Then... what's the big deal about saying sir?"

"just.. Don't?" He asked softly.

"Okay." He murmured as he ran a hand over his back, "I won't again."

Bei shivered and let out a breath as he closed his eyes..

Looking over him, kissing the corner of his mouth.

"Brooklyn..."

He thumbed at his neck as he hummed. "Want to go out?"

"out?"

"On a date," he murmured as he kissed his jaw.

He bit his lip and swallowed. "Brooks..."

"Yes, Bei?" He murmured as he cupped his face, kissing him tenderly.

He made a soft noise against Brooklyn's lips before he kissed him back.

He cupped his face and kissed him once more, slowly.

Bei stepped in closer to brooks.

He groaned softly before breaking the kiss. "So?"

"you're supposed to be getting over me... Not kissing me and asking me on dates..." He whispered.

"I think I might have gotten my signals crossed then, "Brooklyn whispered as he nudged their noses together.

"Brooks..." He breathed out weakly.

"Tell me no and I'll just go make us dinner." He smiled, "Or we can go watch The Greatest Showman."

"you know I've already seen that..."

"And I know you'd watch it again and I haven't seen it."

Bei laughed softly and looked down.

Brooklyn nosed along his cheek and planted a kiss there.

A smile settled on his features and he bit his lip. "you make it hard to say no to you..."

"Kinda my whole secret plan," He teased, "Make it impossible to say no."

Bei laughed again and shook his head.

"That's when I ask for another cat."

"No. That I will emphatically say no to. One is enough."

He pouted but smiled, "So yes to the other part?"

"I... It's just... we..."

"We?" He asked softly.

"We shouldn't. You shouldn't. You should get over me. You shouldn't be kissing me."

"Is that what you really want?" Brooks asked, hands on Bei's hips.

"What I want doesn't matter, Brooklyn."

"I think it does."

"No." He pulled away and shook his head. "No, it doesn't."

"Back to square one." He sighed, "I'm not going to drop out of your life." Brooklyn reminded him gently. "Either way. Movie invitation stands and also I made soup."

He moved to cross his arms over himself. "Haven't you even noticed? The trips- their getting more and more frequent. And I know at my next appointment with my Cardiologist their going to tell me the original prognosis no longer stands. Why the hell would you even want to be involved with that?"

"I have. I've been there. Not for all of them I know, but a lot. I try. To get off work and be there when you want me. Scatter when you need to brood." Brooklyn replied as he met his eyes. "I told you. While you're living I want in. And I know there might hit a point where you're strapped to a bed and it ain't really a life anymore, and I'll be there too. Letting you brood and be angry and wagging my brows to try to make you laugh, because you? You're worth it."

Bei felt tears sting his eyes and he pursed his lips as he tried to hold them in. After a moment though they started to fall anyway and he moved to dig his palms into them, trying to physically push back the tears.

Brooklyn didn't say more. Just wrapped around him, holding him close and to his chest.

He tried to fight at first, hitting against Brooklyn's chest with closed fists. After a moment though, he seemed to nearly collapse against Brooklyn as the sobbing grew and he buried his face in the other's shoulder.

He took the hits easily. Wanted to. The weight Bei carried day in and out wasn't something anyone else could begin to bear. He knew that the struggles were large and small. Slowly consuming Bei's life as the shadow of his death grew longer. And even the hope felt like another sentence. Ten years. Ten years was a drop in a bucket to what the man should have. He felt all that and could do very little to ease it. To make it lighter. But he'd walk beside him anyway, in any capacity he could. Because if his own life would be defined in the before, during, and after of his time with Bei, he'd do the most to be present in every moment they had left. A dog with a bone. Loyal to the grave. "I'm not going to stop living once you're gone, if that's what you're worried about." Brooklyn said softly against his hair. "I wouldn't do your memory a disservice like that. You brought me back to life, Bei. Let me it live it with you, as a friend if that's all you can bear, for as long as I can."

"I hate you." Bei sobbed into Brooklyn's shoulder. His fingers curled into the other's shirt, and he repeated the words over and over again as his knees went weak and the brunt of his weight fell into the larger man. "I hate you, Brooklyn."

Brooklyn's stomach swooped unpleasantly at the words, but he held on regardless. Caught him as Bei slumped against him. He breathed in against his hair before picking him up and carrying him onto the couch. "I don't believe you, mostly cause you didn't say my full name."

He tried pathetically to struggle when he was picked up, but the effort was quickly abandoned as new tears took hold. "I hate you." He whispered again and again and again into Brooklyn's now wet shirt.

"Yeah, yeah." Brooks replied, "I hear that a lot." He sat with Bei in his lap and cupped his face, thumbing away tears. "It's okay to hate me, sometimes I hate me too."

"You can't- you don't get to do this." Bei tried to growl, but the sound came out as a pathetic whimper instead.

"Free will and all that." Brooks replied softly, kissing his nose then playfully squeezing his ass.

Bei hit his shoulder pathetically before he reached up and rubbed at his eyes.

He huffed a little at the hit and moved to rub his back in small soothing circles.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why?" He repeated softly

"Why what? I said a lot of stuff. Or was it why grab my ass, Brooks?" He murmured softly.

"Why are you doing this? Why won't you just..."

"Disappear at the first of trouble? Do some sort of cost analysis and decide that this is supremely not worth it?" Brooklyn replied, "React like you expect and not defy your every expectation of all humans ever?" He asked as he tucked back Bei's hair, "That?"

"Yes."

He breathed out and in, shallow breaths then deeper before speaking. "I- I am often guilty of not fighting for things I love or want because of fear I am not good enough. I reached a point where the fear, shame, anxiety- the bad made me believe that my self worth is nothing and I deserve nothing." Brooklyn whispered, the honesty behind the words opening scabs and old wounds and everything in between. Vulnerability. A man who wore his heart on his sleeve only to have it torn time and time again. "But I realized that this particular instance had nothing to do with my value and had to do with what you perceive yours to be." He met his eyes as he said, very firmly and with every ounce of belief, faith, and love he had, "And you are worth fucking stars, Bei Huang. Every moment of you is worth fucking stars. And the world will not die with you but it will be poorer and less beautiful without you in it, so I intend to make every second of your beautiful catastrophe of a life fucking miserable, since you hate me so much, by being there till those stars flicker out."

Bei felt the tears in his eyes renew and he squeezed them shut, shaking his head as he tried to pull away from Brooklyn.

Brooklyn held him in place, thumbing away the tears as he cupped his face. "I want to be." He said softly, "Short and simple. I want to be. I will be." He leaned their foreheads together and booped Bei's nose with his own. "I want to be."

"You just don't... get it."

"Do you need to?" Brooks asked softly, "because I think you could spend days hearing me give a dissertation on reasons why I want this and you'd wave it away as... pointless."

"I had accepted it." Bei whispered. IT's a part of me. A fact I can't fight- and I spent years doing that." He whispered softly. "When I first got shipped back, I was angry. And scared. And I didn't want to even consider that my life had effectively been carved into half of what it should be. I fought it- rebelled, ignored it. It took what felt like centuries to be okay with it. To accept that at worst, I have a year... and at best, I maybe have ten. That's my life, it's all I've got. And I have to live it the best I can. Then when it's done- it's done. That took me years. And now... without even thinking about it... without so much as a second thought, you swoop into my life and make me feel things... feel things that make me that scared, sniveling idiot again. Make me afraid to die."

Brooklyn chuckled, "You woke me up to once. It's about time I got to return the favor." His eyes stayed serious, trained on him as he thought, processed, and swallowed. "You- Fearing death and wanting to live are different. Maybe you feel both. But I think that maybe you'd resigned yourself to half living for a while there. I'm not saying that we'll be able to beat the odds. That you'll live tens years, or twenty or more. Maybe you get one. Maybe you get months, but better or worse I'm here. Hopeful and hopeless. All sides of this. I'm here."

"You don't get it." Bei repeated and shook his head as he looked away. "How could you?"

"You're right. I can't." He whispered, "I can't. But I'll listen if you want. I'll try my damnedest and when that's not enough I won't tell you not to feel it. Or make it seem like it's not a valid way of feeling. You're your own person, Bei. I'm not seeking to change that."

He shook his head and grabbed a pillow from the couch, pulling it in tight to his chest.

Brooklyn sighed and nodded, continuing to rub his back.

"I hate you." He whispered softly again, voice muffled by the pillow.

"Okay." He whispered back, kissing the top of his head.

He squeezed his eyes shut and buried his face into the pillow in his arms.

Spooky, being a cat, felt that this was the best time to make a home in the space between them. Nudging her head against Bei's over and over again in a demand for pets. "Spoops," Brooks said softly, using his free hand to pet her. "Not the best timing, buddy."

He shift, pulling away from the cat and instead sequestering himself further into the corner of the couch.

Brooks sighed, apologizing to the cat before moving her and moving to half lay on Bei. Hesitantly, he whispered. "Me too."

"... What?"

"Bei speak," He explained, stomach knotting in nervousness. "I hate you too. In Bei speak."

He lift his head and glanced up and over, gaze fixing on Brooklyn.

He swallowed thickly. And of course Finn had felt this was the best time to join them on the already full couch. Spooky hissing until she was able to climb atop him and settle down. Brooklyn laughed a little as he watched them and then looked up to Bei. "If I translated it right, anyway."

"Brooklyn..."

"Yeah?"

"I.... You..."

"Words, Bei. Use them. Unless you plan to do an interpretative dance."

He made a pathetic sound- something similar to a wet laugh as he lift a hand and rubbed his eyes.

He leaned in and kissed him gently, pulling his hands from his face as he deepened it.

He sniffled even as Brooklyn's lips met his, though he did close his eyes and lean into the kiss.

He cupped his face and tangled his other hand into Bei's hair.

Bei made a soft sound and leaned into the touch.

A beat and he broke the kiss, "Think you could eat?"

He pursed his lips before he slowly nodded his head.

"You wanna eat now or kiss more first?" He asked gently as he thumbed over his cheek, the line of his jaw.

"... Kiss."

"Good answer," He smiled and kissed him again, slow and wanting.

Bei kissed him back carefully.

He carded his hand through Bei's hair as he deepened it slowly.

He leaned into it and responded to the kiss in kind.

Brooklyn turned his body, chest to chest with Bei as he deepened it with his tongue sliding over the other mans.

A shiver slid through Bei when their tongues met, and it seemed to be all the provocation he needed before he moved, shifting on the couch till he was over Brooklyn, straddling him with both knees digging into the couch on either side.

Brooklyn stared up at him, licking his lips as his hands went over his sides. "Oh god." He whispered as he took Bei in, felt his body over him. "Beautiful." He murmured.

Bei leaned into the touch and bit his lip as he met Brooklyn's eyes.

He smiled, a little dopey looking as he kissed him gentled again.

Bei smiled back before he fell in against Brooklyn, kissing him back softly.

He ran a hand through Bei's hair, kissing him more and more deeply.

His hips rolled down slowly as both hands found their way to the sides of Brooklyn's neck.

He groaned softly before grinding up against him.

A quiet moan escaped him, the sound muffled by Brooklyn's lips as his fingers pressed into the hair at the nape of his neck.

"Bei," He rasped as he deepened the kiss once again.

"Yeah?" He whispered against his lips.

"Want you," He rasped as he kissed him once more.

"Surprise..." Bei teased before he kissed him back hard, teeth grazing against his lower lip.

"Shut it," He murmured back with his lip caught in Bei's teeth. Tugging it free, he kissed down to his jaw and neck.

Bei tipped his head willingly, exposing his neck to Brooklyn as he pushed a hand up into his long hair. "That's just rude..."

Brooklyn sucked a mark into his neck. "And?"

He groaned, fingers tangling and tugging on the hair that he'd grasped. "You... shouldn't be... rude."

Brooklyn shuddered, "Yes S-, Yes Bei."

Bei pulled back slightly, blinking as he looked at Brooklyn.

"What?" He licked his lips.

"S...?"

"Sir?" He flushed, "But you said not too."

He shivered and bit his lip as he closed his eyes.

"Bei?" He asked gently.

"...yeah?"

"Is that bad?"

"No... no." He replied breathlessly.

"Oh?" He flushed, "do you like stuff like that?"

He pursed his lips and shift slightly. "Yeah... that-... that, I do."

"Oh," He breathed out, "Like Norman and the harnesses?"

He furrowed his brows. "Huh?"

"He wears them... under his clothes."

"I vaguely remembering him mention it. Have you... and Norman?"

"No. We're friends. He showed me... Both bottoms, ya know?" He flushed a little.

"Two bottoms can sleep together, Brooklyn..." Bei laughed softly.

"I know... I'm not saying they can't.... I think our likes just run too similarly... I like... being topped. Dominating."

He smiled and nodded. "So I've noticed."

"That's why I don't generally top." He murmured as he glanced away. "The pressure to be in control..."

Bei leaned in and pressed a soft, careful kiss to Brooklyn's neck. "Everyone has their preferences."

He shivered as he felt Bei's mouth, hands grasping at his hips. "Bei."

"Yeah?"

"Please," He murmured gently.

"Please?"

Brooks nodded as he pulled him down for a hard kiss.

Bei groaned and leaned in, kissing him back.

He rolled his hips up as he groaned loudly.

Bei ground his own hips down against Brooklyn's as he tugged on his hair.

He moaned again, continuing to move his hips as he deepened the kiss.

The moan made Bei shiver and he tipped Brooklyn's head to kiss along the line of his jaw.

He pressed his head back against the couch, "Bei." He rasped in a moan, hand sliding under his shirt.

He rolled his hips once more and kissed down to his neck, leaving a mark there.

He groaned at the contact, his own hips pressing up to increase the friction.

He kissed along the line of his throat slowly, down over his shoulder as he tugged Brooklyn's shirt collar to the side.

"I can just... take it off." He pointed out as he shivered.

"I know..." Bei whispered against his skin.

"Don't you want me to?" He asked as he licked his lips.

"Not... at this moment, no." He whispered and shook his head.

"Why?"

"Are you in such a rush?"

"No?" He rasped out then shivered again.

"Liar..."

"I am," He chuckled as he moved to kiss him hard.

Bei groaned into it as he kissed Brooks in return.

"I am lying," He murmured between kisses, "I want you."

He smiled and nipped at Brooklyn's lip again slowly.

He shivered as he shut his eyes, enjoying the sensation. The feeling of him there and close and warm.

Bei pulled back and bumped his nose to Brooklyn's before he pursed his lips. "So..." He managed after a beat with a sly grin. "Movie?"

He whined but after a moment nodded, "Movie."

"I'm surprised you agreed." He laughed softly.

Brooklyn pouted but pushed back Bei's hair with one hand.

He leaned into the touch and exhaled.

“Would you like to go now?” He asked gently.

"Yeah... yeah." He nodded his head.

Brooklyn kissed him gently once again.

He sighed softly and kissed him back.

He pulled away, “come on time to watch you musical husband.”

"You can't tell me you aren't as infatuated with him as I am."

“Haven’t seen the movie to know,” he smiled.

"You have seen Hugh Jackman, though."

“I have,” He asked as he kissed him gently.

"And you're telling me you aren't infatuated with him?"

“I had more of a crush Magnus.” He smiled.

"Magnus?"

“Bane.” He hummed.

"...you mean the gay wizard from that one tv show?"

“The actor from the movie was hot as well,” he pointed out.

Bei rolled his eyes and got off Brooklyn's lap.

He grinned after him and pulled him back, kissing over his stomach and chest.

Bei fell back with an oof and laughed softly.

He hummed against him. “Eat first. Okay? I made soup.”

"...what is with you and shoving food down my throat?"

“I love you and I feed people I love?”

"Brooklyn..."

"Eat." He nudged him forward.

"I can eat there... or on the way... or after."

"Do you not like my soup?"

"Your soup is fine Brooklyn."

"But the movie is better?"

Bei glanced over and offered a sheepish grin.

He nudged him before standing, "Go. Shoes."

His grin grew before he scrambled to his feet and moved to the door.

Brooklyn went after him slowly, pulling on his shoes as he watched Bei.

His eyes narrowed, "First foremost."

"...what?"

"Are shoes more important than food?"

"Equal. We'll get food when we get your shoes."

"But I made food." Brooklyn pointed out.

"Then we'll eat when we get back."

"Promise?" Brooks asked as he grabbed his hand, lacing their fingers together.

Bei stopped short, looking from Brooklyn, down to their hands, then back up.

"Is that bad?" He asked, loosening his grip.

"No... no. Just..."

"Just?"

"Just..."

"No?"

"I don't know what... this... we..."

"Do we need to define it past I'm here for you, right now?"

"No... no."

"Would you feel more comfortable with waiting till we know what this is a little more?" Brooks asked, "Cause I... I think I could do with waiting if you could."

His brows furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"I mean.... I don't know what this is either. And I think I'd want a few dates before you decide whether to keep me or not." He smiled.

He laughed softly and looked down at his feet. "You know me, Brooklyn. You know I'm..."

"Poly?" Brooklyn asked, "Yeah I know."

"Yeah. Exactly."

"I don't expect that to change?"

"You don't?"

"Why would I?"

"I don't know..."

Brooks licked his lips, "Bei I don't... want something more than what we had... although the kissing would be nice if that continued."

"You don't?"

"It's not like I won't get jealous, just that... your happiness comes first. And jealous is like, ah I wish he was with me. Not like HE CAN'T BE WITH ANYONE ELSE."

"But you're not... you're not poly, are you?"

"I... don't know?" He frowned, "I haven't thought about it."

"Really? You've never thought about it?"

"I spent most of my adult life with one person." Brooklyn replied, "And I loved her so I was happy to be with just her." He inhaled, "Now faced with the possibility of more... I don't know."

Bei licked his lips and nodded his head slowly. "Yeah... yeah. I guess that makes sense."

"I think if I found someone I loved," Brooklyn replied quietly, clearly unsure of himself., "Or could love like I do you, I would like the idea of being with both of you."

He glanced up, lifting one hand to push it through his hair.

"But if I'm honest, I don't know yet."

"That's... that's fair. That's very fair."

Brooklyn huffed a little, looking at his feet and squishing his toes against the sole of his wet shoe. "I might not be poly, but I've become more and more educated on it since I moved in with you. And I am of the belief that there is nothing wrong or unnatural about it. I've reflected on it enough to know that the human heart isn't limited to a certain portion of love. So you do you, Bei."

Bei glanced up and bit his lip. Eventually he shook his head and pushed a hand back through his hair. "In the end I guess it doesn't matter anyway."

"Why not?" He frowned a little as he looked over.

"It's not like I'm actually going to date anyone anyway."

"Oh... That's fair." He murmured and squeezed his hands. "So is there like a payless near by?"

Bei looked up to meet Brooklyn's gaze and smiled softly. "I'm sure we can find one."

He leaned into him, bumping their shoulders before moving out the door with Bei in tow.

He let out a quiet laugh and kept close as he followed Brooks out.

[neubauje]

BEGT ch. 9

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9 AO3 mirror

The commute back home is a little more awkward than usual, with All Might's bare legs and trench coat combination earning quite a few more stares this time, the whole train seeming on edge about whether he's about to try to flash them all... Even Eraserhead leans against the wall this time, rather than Toshinori's side. He earns himself a bit of a tender shoulder from the rocking and bumping of the ride, but at least can pretend to not be associated with 'the tall creep in the trench coat' for a little while. Toshinori glances around with a grimace, recognizes it as a lost cause, and crosses his arms across his chest and hangs his head, catching a few Zs of his own. This time Aizawa is the one to wake him up with a nudge to the elbow, a few stops early to make sure he'd remembered the right one.

Once Toshinori is able to get changed back into some comfortable clothes, the two of them follow much the same routine as the previous night, albeit this time with a more proper meal cooked over the stove. Yagi perks up after dinner as he peels the gauze from Shouta's face, slowly breaking into a grin. "Well hey, your face looks a lot better than yesterday!" He leans in to get a closer look as he wraps the casts in plastic bags again, noting how the bruising is less purple and more yellow, and the gash under Aizawa's right eye has scabbed over and shrunken a little. "Yeah, that's probably gonna leave a good scar, but at least it's not infected." He also notes silently that the usually-scruffy teacher is getting especially scruffy today, with less 'stubble' or 'five o'clock shadow' and more 'nearly-full beard.' It might be time to try a few more grooming exercises. "Think you'd be up for a shave and a tooth brush, or is your jaw still too sore for that?" (more under the cut)

Aizawa, freed of his scarf and shirt once more, tilts and stretches his head and jaw, testing it out a little. "I could try. If not tonight, then tomorrow." He shuffles into the bathroom and cranes in closer to the mirror, getting a better look at what's been hiding under the bandages. Toshinori grabs the toothbrush and paste from the duffel in the bedroom, then follows behind and flips on the second set of lights, above the mirror, and sets the water running. Thankfully, the last round of healing has gotten rid of enough damage to be able to withstand the tooth brush, so they proceed with caution to the shaving cream. Hopped up on a new round of painkillers but unable to talk with a five-bladed razor against his throat, Aizawa instead lets his eyes sink closed as he holds still, slipping into a shallow, slightly-loopy meditation. The fingers against his bruised face and neck are sure but tender, their callouses catching on the stubble before it's scraped away.

"So, before all this happened... I'd been thinking about what you told me," Toshinori mumbles softly, still focused on the task at hand to make sure not to cut his guest, or poke too harshly at the bruising.

"Hmm?" Aizawa cracks open one eye, still trying to hold still. A quick glance toward the mirror shows Toshinori's lanky form looming over him, arms at awkward positions to get the right angle against the grain. They're about halfway done.

"About teaching the students to pick their battles. So they don't have to fight too far out of their elements." He grimaces, dropping his voice a little lower. "Like you did. I'm... sorry about that, by the way. I really should have been there to help."

"No." Caught off-guard at the firm negation, Yagi looks up to catch Shota's eyes in the mirror, "If you had been there from the beginning, their plan would have actually worked. You would have died. We probably all would have. This was likely the best possible outcome." Aizawa lets his eyes sink shut again, "But what were you going to say, about the teaching."

"Oh, right." Toshinori clears his throat softly, and spits a little glob of blood into the sink, rinsing it down the drain before continuing at Aizawa's opposite temple. "Well, I don't have the kind of stamina required to tutor all the students personally, but... I was thinking of a few ways to guide them through tutoring each other, in a way." He sticks the razor under the water and taps it against the sink, ducking in under Aizawa's chin to make sure he hasn't missed any spots. "What if we made an obstacle course? Like stringing along the different parts of the USJ, and challenging the students to get a best score as a team? It would be like they were working as Pros under the same agency." He scrapes off the last of the shaving cream and applies some aftershave, admiring the smooth texture along Aizawa's jaw.

Safe from the razor, Aizawa relaxes into Toshinori's palm with a soft sigh, savoring the brief pause. "Using the classroom to simulate an agency... that's a good idea. I'm not sure an obstacle course would be the best way to implement it, but it's a start." Lifting his head, the battle-worn teacher glances toward the shower, then applies a sudden burst of erasure-based telekinesis, lifting his hair, a nearby towel, and the waistline of his pants a few inches in the air, only to let them fall to the floor upon release. A little bolder this time, he leads the way and continues plotting out ideas with All Might for how to set up mock-agency simulations over the course of the next ten days.

Once they've finished in the bathroom and gotten the plastic bags removed and replaced with dry pajamas, the two teachers still have a bit of energy and time left over. Toshinori grabs the couch cushions and a couple pillows from the bed and sets the couch back up for sitting, along with the ice packs for each arm. "Let's see... we got Godzilla Vs. Mothra, or Die Hard, or... the first Captain America movie?" He glances back at Aizawa, who seems to be fussing with the pillows, trying to use one knee to scoot them over. "Shouta? What are you-"

"I don't care what movie. Just pick one." The shorter teacher seems satisfied and plops down onto the couch, on the opposite side from where Toshinori had intended to set him up. With a shrug, the host pops in the monster fight and settles in on the other side after making sure the ice packs are steadily strewn along the length of both casts. He squirms and lifts his left arm to accommodate as Shota scoots in closer against his side, pushing the pillow up onto his lap with the ice-laden arm atop it.

Toshinori takes a moment to sort out the bag of frozen peas about to slip off the other arm, then sighs deeply and sinks into the cushions with his arm draped around Aizawa's shoulders, like a softer, more casual version of their rides on the subway. "Comfy?"

Aizawa glances up at Yagi with a little smile, nods, and nestles into the crook of his arm, careful not to jostle into the giant scar on the other hero's ribs, now that he knows it's there. They hardly get into the first battle of the movie before the warm weight against Yagi's side grows to be too heavy to indicate anything other than the other man having fallen asleep already. Toshinori indulges in gently teasing his long fingers through Aizawa's even-longer hair, slowly combing the locks apart to help them dry. The smaller housemate barely stirs, mumbling softly under his breath before nudging in against Toshinori again. Yagi sighs and watches through the movie again, plucking the ice packs away to set on the coffee table when he notices them starting to thaw and drip. The older hero eventually goes back to toying gently with those long black curls even after they've finished drying, almost falling asleep himself until the big finale of the boss fight wakes them both up enough to get properly into bed, this time with just the one alarm set.

With a few hours to spare in the morning before they would have to get ready for work, All Might checks to make sure Eraserhead is still asleep before popping off to the mall again. Half an hour later, he returns with a set of old-fashioned walkie talkies, and a pack of little single-serving microwaveable bowls. He uses them as egg rings to make breakfast sandwiches, with lychee-flavored applesauce on the side.

The next day, he returns with brightly-colored headbands, wet erase markers, and two spare pillows for the bedroom, to replace the couch cushions they'd been using for props.

The day after that, a fold-up chair makes its way into the kitchen, across from where the laptop is set up with the other chair already, and a pack of disposable drinking straws and four pairs of scissors find their way to the podium in the 1-A classroom.

Before the week is up, All Might's 'bachelor pad' is looking decidedly more like it houses two, not just the one. All Might spends an extra hour or two keeping up with dishes, laundry, and general spot-cleaning (especially the mess that the bathroom tends to get into). Aizawa helps where he can, and drafts together a curriculum to build off of All Might's initial ideas. But his real assistance comes in forcing Toshinori to actually stick to the prescribed schedule of vigilant snacking and high-nutrient intake, and... it's starting to show. The Number One Hero, in both of his drastically-different forms, appears less gaunt in the face, with a more vibrant shine to his golden skin and hair, and more spring in his step. Eraserhead and Recovery Girl conspire in secret and congratulate each other on this remarkable improvement. Even Present Mic catches Aizawa aside during lunch one day, pulling him into the Teacher's lounge to talk for a few minutes.

"Eraserhead, my MAN!" Mic loops an arm around the bulk of Aizawa's scarf, that electric grin mere inches from his face. "Word's gotten round that you're staying with All Might the past few days? Is that right? Man, what is that LIKE! Gotta be super weird, I thought you didn't even LIKE the flashy celebrity heroes like him!"

Aizawa, his arms perpetually folded, leans back against the wall by the door, good-naturedly letting his old childhood friend talk his way circuitously to a point. "I may have originally been too quick to judge. It's been an interesting week." With his face obscured once more in bandages, Aizawa at least can rest assured that his expression won't betray him.

Hizashi leans against the couch arm, subconsciously mirroring the guarded (cast-reinforced) pose of his old friend. "I guess I'm just confused why you chose All Might to stay with in the first place. You know you could have come to stay with me, right, buddy?" He reaches up to pull off his headphones, fidgeting with them a little. "I mean, you're okay, right? He's treating you right? I guess I was just a little hurt that you didn't even think to ask me."

"Yes, Yamada. I'm fine." Aizawa tilts his head a little, contemplating the secondary question. "I went to stay with him because he offered. You never have. Simple as that."

"Oh, is that all! Well dude! Consider this your offer!" Mic grins and sets his headphones back on, clapping Eraserhead firmly on one (still slightly tender) shoulder. Aizawa tries not to flinch.

"Yeah, thanks. I'll let you know if anything changes." He turns to the door and carefully wedges an elbow into the handle, dragging it open enough to stick a foot in and pull it the rest of the way. Taking the hint, Hizashi leaps up and grabs the door, holding it the rest of the way as Aizawa makes his leave.

"Alright, then, have fun with your sleepover!!" Mic calls after the retreating form of Eraserhead, loudly enough for the whole hallway to hear.

Chapter 10 (rated M) - Chapter 11 (rated M) [...] Chapter 14

[sunken-standard]

Sherlolly Appreciation Week Day 4: First Sleepover/ Sleep Together

(Rated T.  Beta’d by madder_badder.  Set post TEH.  I had this started and just kind of hanging out with no direction, then the prompt gave me my ending.  Happy accident!)

*

"Sherlock?  Why are you, ah... here?  And dressed like, um—" her face did a thing, confused and groping for a tactful way to put whatever she wanted to say "—that?"

He was just as startled as she was; he'd planned on leaving before she got home from work.  It was probably a bit not good that he'd let himself in with the key she'd given him to use in the time after he'd died but before he'd left London.  He couldn't be sure if the offer of sanctuary had been open-ended to begin with, and now that there was the boyfriend (fiancé) in the picture...  Well.

"Too many reporters, too many gawkers pretending to be clients.  I have two years of crap telly and tabloids to catch up on and my flat was too noisy."  It was mostly true, if a facetious presentation of his reasons.  "Didn't want to ruin any of my other clothes climbing out the window, and it's not as though I could waltz out the front door wearing that stupid hat.  Incidentally, I may have bled a bit on your bath mat."

"Where is it and how bad?" she asked, concern clear in her voice, though not nearly as dire as the last time he'd heard that tone.  

She offloaded her handbag onto the entryway table and shook off her coat.  He set the laptop aside and stood, pulling up his t-shirt and hoodie.

She hissed through her teeth as she rounded the coffee table.  "How far did you fall?"

He wondered, briefly, how bad the bruising was.  The others had almost faded to nothing.  "Two, two and a half metres, maybe?  I got caught on the drai—"

"Drainpipe on the building next door," she finished, prodding the area above the laceration. He'd forgotten just how good she was at reconstructing the circumstances of an injury.  "Your last tetanus jab was before you left?"

"Mm," he confirmed.

"I want to get a better look at this," she said, stepping back.  She started toward the stairs, assuming he'd follow.

"Why are you home so early?" he asked, trailing after her.  It sounded like more of an accusation than he intended.

"On-call this week.  I had to go in at three-thirty this morning because they were bringing someone in and they needed me to dig out a bullet for analysis."

"Oh?  What was it?" Something interesting, he hoped.

"Not sure, to be honest. Seven-six-two, if I had to guess.  Ballistic tip, fragments everywhere.  It took me two hours and four x-rays to get them all."

Ooh, NATO rounds.  Sniper.  "Headshot?"

"Entry wound was right here," she tapped a spot behind her ear.

"Who's the lead?"  Organized crime hit, most likely.  It was no poisoning, but could be interesting.

"Greg.  But they think they know who it is.  They already had the victim under surveillance, he was a witness in some drugs thing, I think?  I wasn't paying a lot of attention."  She went about setting the necessary supplies on the side of the sink; apparently she was going to clean and dress the wound properly.

"Oh."  So much for that, then.  He wasn't up to speed on who the major players were, anyway; it may have changed in the last two years.

She ducked into her bedroom and he heard her rummage in the drawer of her bedside table before she returned with a torch.  He took off his hoodie while she washed her hands and struggled on a pair of gloves; she never dried her hands properly before putting on gloves and it never failed to amuse him to watch her do it.

He was reminded of just how much he'd missed her while he was gone, even though they'd been in contact sporadically.  

He peeled his t-shirt over his head and clutched it in front of himself, feeling more exposed than he'd like. He'd never had a problem with being unclothed in front of anyone, but Molly had a way of making him feel naked and he wasn't sure if that was good or bad.  Bit of both, really.

"Oh my God," she said softly, seeing the yellow-green bruises and the scabbed over remnants of his time in Serbia.  "Were you—"

"Caned.  And rather savagely beaten, repeatedly.  And yes, those are cigarette burns."

"Christ.  Cracked ribs?"

"Just bruised."  There wasn't really much else he could say.  Or much he wanted to.  He'd rather forget that it happened.  He'd been able to control his responses and compartmentalize the pain, but he'd been near his breaking point. Not that he'd ever let Mycroft know that.

"Please tell me you got some medical attention."

He chanced a glance in the mirror to his right; Molly stood stock still behind him, her fists clenched at her sides and head bowed.  Her jaw was set and her eyes closed; he couldn't say if she looked more sad or angry.

"Two days after the last of it."

She exhaled harshly, then picked up the flannel from next to the sink and ran it under the tap.  She put aside whatever she was thinking in favour of tackling what needed doing; it was a trait he'd always admired in her.  She was quite possibly the most level-headed person he knew.  

She was gentler than one would expect from someone whose only patients were in no position to complain when she ran the flannel over the area around the wound, careful not to disturb the cut itself.  She used a plastic syringe to irrigate, then exchanged it for the torch and clicked it on.

"This is probably going to hurt a bit," she said, apologetic.  She probed and prodded at the edges of the skin that had only just begun to scab over.

He glanced at her in the mirror again. She put the torch in her mouth and used one hand to hold the edges of the cut apart and the other to remove something with tweezers.  Not exactly sanitary; it hardly seemed like something she would do.  Then again, how much did he actually know about her?

Past what he could read from the things around her, he actually knew very little.  She didn't often volunteer information about herself, preferring to ask questions.

"Did you ever consider becoming a regular doctor?" he found himself asking.  He had so many gaps to fill.

She took the torch out of her mouth. "Did you ever consider becoming a regular detective?"

He caught her eyes in the mirror and they shared a sardonic half-smile.  He was hit once again with a deep sense of regret; he couldn't help but feel sad knowing he'd missed his chance years ago.  Life had other plans, as it always did.  Both of them were probably better off this way; she had the kind of man she needed and he could never be and his own attentions weren't divided.  Friendship was more valuable than any pretty words or sweet kisses ever could be.  Better to have not known love at all than to have loved and lost.

"I had a real job once, right out of school," he said.  He didn't know why he was telling her.  No one aside from his parents and brother really knew about it.  Well, old colleagues, obviously, but they hardly mattered.

She made a noise around the torch, something between 'never would have expected that' and 'huh, interesting, do go on.'

"Developing polymers for an adhesives manufacturer.  When I got tired of sniffing glue, I switched to cocaine."  He grunted in pain as she dug the tweezers into the open wound.  He was fairly certain it was deliberate.

He knew Mycroft had told her about his drug use.  Christmas Eve, years ago.  Didn't matter, it was firmly in the past.  At least, the cocaine and the opiates.  Other things were negotiable because they weren't nearly as good, so not nearly as dangerous.

"I hated it, so I quit, then I overdosed and ended up in rehab.  Mycroft tried to recruit me to work for him, but I refused.  I bounced around for a bit before I realized I could actually make a living solving other people's problems."

"My Mum's a GP and my Dad was an obstetrician.  Pathology was my act of rebellion."

He huffed a quiet laugh.  "Hardly a proper rebellion.  Smoking or dyeing your hair or getting a tattoo is a rebellion.  You were a swot," he said, keeping his tone normal.  He was teasing, though, which was new.  He might even be flirting; he wasn't sure, as he'd never done it before.  At least, consciously.  Or genuinely.

Harmless, he told himself.

"I did dye my hair.  I had red streaks in it like the girl from Republica.  It was 1996."

"Pics or it didn't happen," he said lightly, enunciating.

She smirked.  "You're the detective and you have a computer.  I'm sure you can find them without my help."  

He liked her like this.  She seemed more relaxed, open, playful.  He supposed she really and truly had moved on.  The irony wasn't lost on him.

"You're lucky you hit something sharp.  This could have been a lot worse," she said when the conversation lulled, exchanging the tweezers and torch for the plastic syringe.

"Mm," he agreed.

They lapsed into silence again as she finished patching him up; he was content to enjoy her gentle touch. It had been so long since anyone had touched him with that level of care.  The last person to do so was her, in fact.  Before that... well, probably childhood.

A wave of intense longing washed over him; it wasn't sexual or romantic in nature, but something even more primal, the base human need for touch, for connection, that of an infant needing to be soothed.  He was disappointed when she finally finished and her hands were gone.

He started to put on his blood-stained shirt; Molly stopped him with an absent hand to his forearm.

"I can soak it in the sink so the blood doesn't set, then wash it for you.  You can wear one of my shirts.  I mean, if you want.  I was planning on doing laundry anyway."

He covered all the weird emotions he was feeling with a look somewhere between sardonic and sceptical. "Molly, I wouldn't have been able to wear one of your shirts since I was twelve."

She gave him a flat look indicating she was not amused.  "Free t-shirts only ever come in one size, and that size is not mine."  She made the decision for him and took the shirt from his hands before he could protest.

She wanted him to stay, he realized. Even if she no longer had feelings for him, she still wanted his company.  Which he knew, intellectually, since she'd spent the day with him not even a week before.  The way they'd parted made him think they'd be seeing a lot less of each other now than they had in the past.  Maybe not, though.

He followed her into her bedroom; not much had changed from two years ago.  Surprisingly little evidence of the fiancé; they spent the bulk of their time together at his.  He wondered why that was; Molly had a nice flat in a central location, no obnoxious neighbours (unless someone new had moved in nearby), comfortable furniture.  Something to investigate, should he be so inclined.  Which he currently was not.

She opened a drawer and took out a t-shirt, second from the top; pyjamas.  He slipped the shirt over his head, thinking it strange that he was wearing something she slept in, something that graced her naked skin for a full third of a day at least two days a week, judging by the wear and its position in the drawer.  It seemed almost too intimate.  He'd worn Mycroft's clothes before out of necessity, and things he'd accumulated as disguises, but this was somehow different.  He chose to ignore that line of thinking.

"So what crap telly are you catching up on?" she asked, already on her way back to the bathroom.

"Oh, you know, Corrie, Strictly, Towie..." he said, stuffing his hands in his pockets and hooking his thumbs through his beltloops.  He'd spent a lot of time in jeans over the last two years; it felt more natural to wear them than it did a suit, almost.  There were so many things he felt like he had to re-learn.

He heard her laugh from the bathroom as she ran the tap; he smiled in return, even if she couldn't see it.

"I just got The Walking Dead Series Four on DVD, if you want to watch that.  Or, if you're not in the mood for American zombies, I've got French zombies or gay teenage zombies."

He wandered closer as she spoke, coming to rest in the doorway to the bathroom.  "I'm sensing a theme."

"You have just returned from the dead," she said, highly amused with herself.

Some things never change, he thought, her terrible sense of humour making him warm inside.

He raised an eyebrow and she smiled in that kind of impish way she hadn't done very often before, but was common enough now.  He rather liked it.

"I wouldn't think you'd go in for that sort of thing."

"Zombies?"

"Irony."  He was flirting. He was sure of it.  Maybe not so harmless.  Watch it, he warned himself.

She huffed a soft laugh and he had the thought that he could become addicted to it.  "It's like you and the hat.  I didn't start it, but it became a thing.  And, I mean, it's really all about being alive anyway.  The eternal struggle to survive in the face of our own mortality."

"I thought the brain-eating was a critique of the modern media and a commentary on consumerism," he said dryly.

She laughed again; his lips tingled with the urge to kiss her.  He swallowed against the impulse.  He really should leave, even if it meant facing everything that waited for him at Baker Street, and not just the reporters and looky-loos and clients.

"Do you want a sandwich?  I know it's a little early for lunch, but I haven't had anything other than a biscuit since dinner last night," she asked, packing away the last of her medical supplies.

Was he hungry?  Not starving; he'd had toast only two hours before.  Still seemed a bit rude to turn down her offer and make her eat alone, especially if he was probably going to be hungry in an hour or so anyway.  "If it's not any trouble. Thank you."  

He followed her back downstairs to the kitchen and sat awkwardly at her breakfast bar while she pulled out ingredients and offered a million choices; she started talking about a few of the most interesting postmortems she'd done over the last two years.  He was struck by the odd thought that he was reminded of being a child, watching Mummy or Mycroft make him lunch.  He liked the thought of being taken care of, just the littlest bit.

While they ate, he told her about some of the nicer things he'd seen while he was away; sunrises in Tibet and the fields of sunflowers in Ukraine, the cathedral in Prague and the packed streets of New Delhi.  He basked in her rapt attention; it was different than just showing off and being clever.  She had a faraway look, picturing everything.  He wished she could have been there for some of it, he wished he could have shared it with her.  He wished, selfishly, she'd been there for his darkest and most hopeless moments as well, as they probably wouldn't have been so dark and hopeless if he'd had her to... if he'd had her.  Which was something he didn't want to be thinking about when she was right in front of him.

"I'd like to travel more.  I never seem to have the time, though.  Tom and I were going to go to Greece two months ago, but we had to cancel because he had to go to California for work."  She twisted her ring; maybe they weren't as happy as he'd thought.

Maybe there was hope yet.

"I went on one of those National Trust tours of the Cotswolds instead.  It was interesting.  And I didn't get a sunburn, so there was that," she said, forced cheerfulness; defensive.  Feeling the need to prove that she sat around pining for no man.

If he thought she had a single mean bone in her body, he'd assume she was being cruel, throwing it in his face.  But, knowing her, she was simply trying to reassert her independence, her agency.  She wanted his respect; she'd always had it, but he'd done a poor job of showing it.  That would change, going forward.

"My parents live in the Cotswolds. It's nice.  Boring—though I suppose that's rather what they like about it—but nice," he offered.  

His parents were another thing he never talked about with anyone.  He didn't have that kind of relationship with John or Mrs. Hudson, and that was the end of the very short list of people with whom he shared any personal information at all.  He'd rather keep them at a distance; they could use their own imaginations.  If they thought his parents were strange or psychopathic or overbearing toffs, so be it.  It was better than them knowing the truth of what a terrible son he was.

Why was he telling her any of it?  He supposed he just wanted to be known.  Being a ghost for two years, a person that had ceased to exist to the world (with the exception of Mycroft, his parents, and her), had taken a toll he hadn't expected. He wanted very much to be alive again; he wanted someone, her, to see him for the flesh and blood he truly was.  He could trust her not to judge him, just as she didn't judge the dead that came across her slab.  He didn't want her indifference, though, but her acceptance.

"I bet it's lovely in autumn, when the leaves turn," she said.

"Mm, it is.  Mummy showed me pictures when they were here last week.  I don't know why she feels the need to take pictures when she sees it every day, but she enjoys it anyway."

"Sometimes you just see something beautiful and you want to keep it, I suppose," she said.

Yes, he thought, steadfastly not looking at her ring.  Externally, he conceded her point with a tip of his head and a look.

Lunch was finished and their dishes put in the sink, Molly told him to make himself at home while she went for a shower and got the laundry started.  He felt uncomfortably like a houseguest rather than just a friend hanging out (when, in truth, he was actually neither of those things, more like an interloper); he plopped down on her sofa and took up the book he'd been reading before he'd heard her key in the door.

He could leave while she was in the shower, return her shirt sometime at Bart's.  Probably the best course of action, as things had been going well and he didn't want them to turn awkward; it was only a matter of time before they did. He had to do this, though, force himself to be around her to rebuild the callous on his heart that had smoothed and softened since... Well, since he'd met her, probably, though the process had certainly accelerated since he'd been away.

His thoughts left him unable to concentrate on the (somewhat topical and highly Eurocentric) history of food preservation throughout the ages.  He put the book aside and browsed her shelf of DVDs for something else to do.  She had quite the collection; she was a bit of a homebody, especially when the weather was cold.

He picked a title he was moderately curious about for how often he'd heard people talking about it just about everywhere he went.  Pseudo-medieval fantasy wasn't really his genre (not that he had one, actually, though he enjoyed anything with high production values), but it might be worth a go.  If he got bored, he could sleep through it.  He'd become rather adept at falling asleep anywhere, anytime.

Was he presuming too much?  Did she actually want to watch telly with him, or had that all been the lead-up to her joke?  If he didn't wait for her to come back downstairs, maybe he wouldn't seem so...  whatever he was.  It would appear as though he was making himself at home, just as she'd said to do.

Yes, that would work.  He put in the DVD and stretched out on the sofa with the remote, burrowing his feet under the blanket at the far end.

He lost track of time while he lazed in front of the telly, allowing himself to relax into the warmth and comfort and safety of Molly's space once again.  

"Game of Thrones?  Really?" Molly sounded surprised and slightly... something.

"I haven't seen it, but I've heard about it.  We can watch something else."

She pushed his feet aside like it was an everyday thing, snatching the blanket before sitting.  "No, it's fine.  And it's got zombies in it.  And a lot of sex.  Not zombies having sex, though, thank God."  She swung her feet up to rest next to his hips, their legs pressed together from calf to thigh.

To make matters even more uncomfortable, she flung the blanket over them and tucked part of her end under his feet.  He felt compelled to do the same for her, his heart thundering in his ears for no good reason as he did so.  It was hardly some lurid tableau, more like the kind of thing siblings or close (female) friends might do.

"Can't imagine that would be very pleasant to watch," he said, trying for dry and hoping his sudden nerves didn't come through.

"I'm sure it exists somewhere on the internet," she said, wiggling herself into a more comfortable position.

"Oh, what a time to be alive," he replied, forcing himself to look back at the screen and not at her.

She huffed a sound of amusement and turned toward the telly herself.

*

He came awake to movement next to him; Molly was shifting herself into a sitting position while trying not to disturb him.  The flat was dark, lit only by the telly and the faint glow of the streetlights through her front windows.  His legs were uncomfortably cool without Molly's warmth.

"What time is it?" he asked rather stupidly before remembering he had a watch.  5:09; he'd been asleep for almost five hours.  He wasn't sure if he'd even made it to the second episode.

"I can't believe I fell asleep like that," she said, stretching.  He caught himself before he outright ogled her breasts, quite obviously without the constraints of a bra under her sweatshirt.  "Oh bollocks, I never  took the laundry out of the washing machine."

"It's only been a few hours, it should be fine," he said automatically, his brain still coming online.  She had, presumably, done laundry before in her life and knew that, making his statement unnecessary.  "I'll just wear this one home.  Unless you're afraid you'll never see your 'Girl Guides Women of Science Mentor 2013' shirt again, in which case, I suppose my jacket will provide adequate coverage in the dark of night to avoid an arrest for indecent exposure."

She laughed, which turned into a yawn, which set him off because he was still a primate, after all; then they both laughed at it.  It was so achingly normal he wondered if he was still asleep and dreaming of a life he could have had, had things been different.

"Would you like to stay for supper?  It might be dry by the time the meal's over."

I'd like to stay forever, he thought, only half-joking inside his own head.  

"Mm, no, I should check on Mrs. Hudson and see how she got on today with the reporters.  Probably going to have to take her to dinner to make up for it.  Thank you for offering," he said, standing and stretching.  It was mostly the truth.

"Alright," she said, collecting their mugs from the coffee table.  He remembered that she'd got up and returned with tea a few minutes after they'd started watching, coincidentally timed with the first sex scene.  She hadn't left for the others, though, which were much more graphic.  

He really needed to get out of there before he started thinking about the fact that they'd basically watched softcore porn (even if it was somewhat unsavoury subject matter) together while sharing a blanket.  He was sure he'd be playing that scenario out quite differently inside his head, however inadvertently, some night soon.

He shoved his feet in his trainers and made for the door; Molly trailed after him.

"Sherlock," she said as he slipped on his pea coat.  "If you ever need somewhere to go when it gets to be too much, if you just need the space... you can always come here.  I don't have a bed in the spare room, so you can sleep on mine if you don't want to sleep on the sofa if I'm, um, not here one night."

"Alright," he agreed.  Then, with genuine gratitude and warmth, "Thank you."

Her answering smile was soft and she looked so lovely that it broke his heart all over again.  He knew, though, that now that he had permission he'd find his way there more than he probably should, more than would be good for either of them. And he was looking forward to it.    

[mint-sm]

LOS CAMPESINOS! REVIEW/ANALYSIS: We Are Beautiful, We Are Doomed

Last time on the Los Camp review (suspenseful orchestral soundtrack plays), I went over “Hold on Now, Youngster...,” which was an excellent introduction to the band, but I don’t think was completely reflective of the refinement and impact it would later reach. While what was presented was impressive and lively as hell as is, and the foundation for a wittier, more poetic, more intelligent, more refined and diverse sound was there, they just didn’t have the a full-enough grasp on their visions to take advantage of it.

Well, just 8 months after the release of “Youngster,” the world was suddenly sucker-punched right in the face with “We Are Beautiful, We Are Doomed,” which had immediately shown a much firmer grip on that path. Bare in mind, prior to the release of “Youngster,” the band had already existed for 2 years, and that album was something of a compilation of different songs they had been performing in university clubs and internet radio shows. It’s an excellent compilation, and it’s still very well put-together, but it likely wasn’t the most precise voice and identity resembling what the band intended to jump for, at least for the future.

With “Doomed,” they finally found ground for their true calling, and it was surprising as hell. Starting things off, the album immediately hits you with “Ways to Make It Through the Wall" with its bombastic opening chords, grimy feedback, incredibly-banging and dense melodies, crashing cymbals and blasting violin, and even MORE shouty vocals from the band, including Gareth almost incoherently screaming “AND A ROOM FULL OF VACUUM AND A ROOM FULL OF AIR LOOK THE SAME!” during the bridge. On one hand, it still somehow manages to feel like the good ‘ol Los Camp we knew, and yet at the same time you ask yourself “This is the same band that just released an album with a song called ‘Drop It, Doe Eyes’?”

(HOW YOU BREAK THE RULES THAT YOU YOURSELF IMPOSED / THINK YOU'VE GOT IT IN FOR US, I THINK YOU'VE GOT IT IN FOR YOURSELVES!)

I kinda mentioned this in my intro, but I would personally divide Los Camp’s discography into 3 periods: A “Twee Indie Period,” followed by an “Noise Pop Period,” then a “Mellow Rock Period,” and “Doomed” is found kinda sandwiched in between the first two. A lot of the fresh-new-vibrant-indie-ness of “Youngster” can still be felt, but it doesn’t quite reach the more experimental and even more noisy magnificence of “Romance is Boring” that we’ll discuss next time. That said, this transitionary period still feels like a massive blow to the head with just how much more powerful the production feels now, but it’s really, really welcome.

While I don’t really think other tracks in the album reach as much of an impact as the intro, it still does consistently have a more consistently… not “tight,” but “punchy” feeling to it. Much of it feels in a way somehow messier than “Youngster,” with a more abrasive side, almost garageband-like than hipster-y (though looking it up, I just found out that “noise pop” is an actual thing. You can see why I’m probably not the most qualified music critic lol).

Later bangers (haha see that I'm an awesome reviewer look at my lexicon) on the album, such as “Miserabilia,” the title track, and "All Your Kayfabe Friends" all have this less-pure, but still clashing feel to them, with more distorted guitars, harsher-sounding percussions, and more compressed vocals, almost sounding cassette-recorded quality at times. Even their comparatively softer tracks, such as "You'll Need Those Fingers for Crossing" and “Heart Swells/Pacific Daylight Time,” still feel very feedback-y and dense, if that makes sense.

(WE GOT NOSTALGIC, ENDED UP FILLING SHOE BOXES WITH VOMIT / COLLECTED SCABS IN LOCKETS, HUNG THEM ROUND OUR NECKS LIKE NOOSES / NONE OF IT MATTERED, NONE OF IT MATTERS, NOBODY CARED)

Now this probably sounds like “Doomed” is maybe too messy or harsh to be really accessible if you’re coming from “Youngster,” but honestly, it’ll all feel surprisingly pretty familiar since a lot of the instrumental sensibilities from that record still shine through and are in the forefront. We still have a lot of those plucky, lo-fi keyboard synthesisers, we still have the violin and glockenspiel riffs, we still have the many call-and-response verses between Gareth and Aleks, and we still have the upbeat, catchy melodies and choruses.

Not much theory-wise has fundamentally changed in that regard, except maybe the softer, lowkey ballads have gotten more distinctive, such as “You’ll Need Those Fingers for Crossing,” which not only has a constant, but soft and occasionally punchy rhythm to it, but again, has that duet aspect, and it flows beautifully.

“Between an Erupting Earth and an Exploding Sky” is also this great, a bit dissonant, synthesized, little screechy, but also rather ethereal and floaty-sounding instrumental, a track that I honestly think is one of the band’s most visual-sounding themes, one that provides one of the most clear mental images, like maybe you’re splayed out while floating midair as both the earth and sky are already exploding beneath and above you all in extreme slow-motion, where everything’s all violent and impatient and tense and shit but at the same time weirdly serene and kinda cosy? It’s like experiencing a terrifying apocalypse and yet it feels like everything’s going to be okay.

There’s also “Heart Swells/Pacific Daylight Time,” which on top of just being one of the band’s very few honest-to-god love songs that’s surprisingly heartfelt (it’ll get more surprising when I discuss “Romance is Boring,” believe me), the muted vocals, the reverbed, feedbacked to hell background ambience, but very crisp guitar and percussion just paint this beautiful, but kinda fading image that’s honestly one of the most sweet tracks the band’s ever made, but also one of the most vaguely tragic.

(I DON'T WANT TO SOUND TRITE BUT YOU WERE PERFECT / THE WAY YOU LOOK COULD SERIOUSLY MAKE NATURE DYSMORPHIC / I WISH THAT YOU WOULD KISS ME 'TIL THE POINT OF PARALYSIS / THE WAY I FLAIL MY ARMS IN FRONT OF YOU, IT JUST EMBARRASSES)

And then we get to the lyrics, and like I’ve said, this is where the band has started to get much more flowery and descriptive, and honestly very funny in a sort of cringe-comedy-ish way, accentuated by once again, dissonant instrumentals. “Miserabilia” in particular is just like a really jaunty, upbeat and smiley-sounding track, and there is a definite playfulness both sonically and lyrically, but at the same time you go “wow, this ‘miserabilia’ (because get it, misery? Memorabilia? Miserabilia!) isn’t something I should cling onto, but at the same time, it’s pretty natural to do so, innit?” There’s also a really cute and funny lyric about “He whispered, ‘Oh my God, this really is a joy to behold’ / I thought he said, ‘It's a joy to be held,’ so I held him too close / It was a grave mistake, he never came back again!”, and I honestly can’t help but smile at just how absolutely DUMB it sounds when I hear it.

But on the more depressing side of sardonic, there’s the title track, and it’s probably one of my personal favorite cuts in the band’s discography, not just because how much it hits close to home for me personally -- it’s about a long-distance relationship falling apart, and how over time you start getting more and more resentful of them and their diverging interests and they get so much more unfamiliar it makes you wanna break their new friends’ teeth in no I’m not still bitter -- but also because how it manages to perfectly encapsulate that snide, but genuinely frustrated catharsis, not just with the banging instrumental or the gradual vocal escalation as the song continues, but the really specifically-vibrant vignettes Gareth provides to really build this mindset, like how “Absence makes the heart grow fonder / fondness makes the absence longer / Length loses my interest, I'm a realist, I'm insatiable / Swapped counting days until I fly, with hours before your reply.” Really, if you can only listen to one song from this band, it’s this one (even if it is for the climax, which is absolutely incredible if emo-sounding as fuck).

(OH, WE KID OURSELVES THERE'S FUTURE IN THE FUCKING / BUT THERE IS NO FUCKING FUTURE / I'M JUST PRACTICING MY ACCENTS, PICKING AT OLD SUTURES)

Admittedly, there are some times when the lyrics really elude me on their exact meaning, probably because I can’t really pin down what scenario or what context they were born from, unlike the lyrics to “No Blues” where I can say “Oh yeah, he’s just making a football reference, right” (we’ll get into that later). Like the song “It's Never That Easy Though, Is It? (Song for the Other Kurt),” which I think is about the narrator meeting with a girl, breaking up with her, and I think like the on-off resentment he gets when she snogs with some other dude? I think? I dunno, I’m reading the lyrics and I’m listening to who’s singing what line, but I still don’t really get a clear scenario.

Though like I said, Los Camp doesn’t USUALLY excel or at least specify in making images, and are more for crafting mentalities, mindsets, and atmospheres, and you still get this kinda-restrained giddiness juxtaposed with deep-seated resentment/fondness about a girl and part of her family, which is a theme that continues on for pretty much the entire second half of the album, like with “The End of the Asterisk,” or “Documented Emotional Breakdown #1,” whose exact meanings also elude me, but they have an obvious, kinda “twee indie”-style jauntiness to them, but haunted by an understated feel of darkness.

(THEY SAID, "THAT BOY'S TOO LAZY", YOU WERE CLEARLY FOREWARNED / A JEALOUS EX SILENCED THE ROOM, HE SAID THAT YOU WERE A WHORE / "DO YOU KISS YOUR MUMMY'S LIPS WITH THAT MOUTH?")

I think that just about sums up this album in a nutshell: Twee indie-style jauntiness with darkness haunting under them, like maybe say, an erupting earth and an exploding sky? It feels like Los Camp have finally identified an ominous, impending feeling of doom underneath their twee pop exterior and is slowly bringing that out with noisier production, more simultaneously specific-yet-vague subject matter, and a lot more honest-to-god atmosphere, brought out with much more concise and evocative lyricism.

It marks the true beginning of what I think the band is all about, and redefined what to expect from them. Once again, the feelings it provokes are a simultaneous yet somehow distinctive mishmash of wanting everything to be raucous and violent and you wanting to break down walls and shit, but also at the same time wanting things to be more emotional and down-to-earth, yet additionally being resentful and anticipating that fearful, inevitable doom.

It really is a great addition to the band’s discography, and it honestly feels like the perfect halfway point between the band’s innocent enjoyment of a time and scene gone by and the massively sardonic bitterness of the future. What happens then? Stay tuned! (suspenseful orchestral music ends) (4.5/5)

FAVES: “Ways to Make It Through the Wall,” “Miserabilia,” “We Are Beautiful, We Are Doomed,” “Between an Erupting Earth and an Exploding Sky,” “Documented Minor Emotional Breakdown #1,” “Heart Swells / Pacific Daylight Time”

PS, if you’re interested, I’ve also got an EEP released recently too! It’s electronica/chiptune fusions about a lot of cheeriness and sadness and shit! Thank!