#in fragmented foreign languages

[divinehedons]

i won't hurt you.

navigation: masterlist

word count: ~1.9k words

summary: you meet joel in the aftermath of a terrible accident. reeling from the aftermath of the event, there is a looming shadow that complicates your relationship with the southern man you just somehow happened to meet 

warnings: explicit (but not graphic) content–MINORS DO NOT INTERACT! relatively dark(?)-ish joel miller, allusions to smut (not heavily detailed), graphic depictions of injury, some scenes include hospitalization (not in graphic detail), dubious consent, joel miller radiates mansplain / manipulate / malewife energy, men are trash in general wbk

note: oh. my. god. it has been far too long and i’m so so very sorry for just now coming back! i’ve hit a terrible writer’s block alongside very bad mental health and i’m just now recovering :’D thank you so so so much for 800 followers, it’s going to take a while for me to respond to everyone but i’ll be going through them! i love you very very dearly, mwah!

note 2.0: pls pls lower your expectations, 🫣 i am trying to get back into the groove of things!

You remember the screech of tires on frozen asphalt. A flash of headlights. Spinning, spinning, spinning. Your body ignited in pain. Then… darkness.

Darkness that seemed to spread before you for an eternity. Untethered and stuck in limbo, perhaps in another universe, you would call it the most peaceful slumber of your life. The misfortune comes when you wake. Lightning strikes shake you awake from the darkness of your subconsciousness. Electricity trembling in your chest as it shoots through your beaten frame. A light peers through your closed eyes. Brighter, and brighter… bigger and bigger. A ringing in your ears that almost deafens you.

The world shifts around you, and you wake paralyzed, staring at the ceiling in the warm sun that falls on your body lying there. Everything hurts. There is a humming in your head that you cannot seem to shake out of.

The solitude lasts for a beat. Then another. That’s when you see him.

A sleepless, roughened man looking at you with his warm eyes. Through the bleary vision of your own gaze, a shaky breath escapes him. His crinkled eyes looking over your features with a swift once over.

“Oh, Christ, you’re awake.”

And that’s how you met Joel.

–

In the week that followed your complicated recovery, Joel tells you he saw the crash. Tells you the asshole who ran you over was nowhere to be seen. He says most of it with his eyes averted. Yet you hold your gaze.

You will not be weakened by the shame of your misery.

It is two days later when you confess to him; your throat still rasping as the pain in your head boils and toils beneath your skull. You look at him when he arrives, paint-stained shirt providing evidence of a messy day of working. “I don’t want to think about what happened to me anymore, Joel.”

Your tongue grabs at words the way young children do with sticky fruit in the summer. As if language has become foreign to you.

Joel, keys in hand, meets your gaze with a furrowed brow. “Sure, sugar. Whatever you need.”

Maybe your eyes were tricking you, but you could’ve sworn you saw his shoulders relax from some kind of tension leaving his body.

–

Joel doesn’t know what he had gotten himself into. What he does know is that for some reason, he couldn’t bear the idea of staying away from you. You tell him fragments of what little you remember, your concussed consciousness blindly clawing at every last bit of beaten brain matter for some kind of answer. 

You sometimes cry from the effort it takes you to think, but he’s there. The first few times, he held your hand. As the hours bled into days, he held you as you wet his shirt with warm tears. Sometimes, when the nightmares reach him in his own bed a few miles out from the hospital, it feels like you’re bleeding into him.

From the moment he saw you, he had been marked. And no matter how many times he scratched at his own skin, he could never wash away the blood on his hands.

–

He’s the one to take you home to your quiet little apartment, having grown dust in your absence. You apologize, he waves you off. He watches you as you peer out of the window, comprehending a view that had once been so mundane, transformed into some shred of a miracle for you to still be there, witnessing it all. He’s behind you, ten feet away, tilting his head as your hair catches what little sunlight blessed you the day you left the hospital.

He says your name, and you look back at him with a curious smile. “My God,” he followed. “You look just like starlight.” He steps forward, and that’s when you know everything had fallen into place. Without another moment lapsing, he takes your face into his hands, pulling you into a searing kiss.

You apologize so many times. For the hospital smell on your skin. For your trembling knees. For the dizzying sensation of human contact without the involvement of medical processes. For feeling so unclean.

Meanwhile, he apologizes, too. For kissing you. For pulling you to him. For holding you. For carrying you to the forlorn couch grown cold from the absence of human warmth. So many times that there are times that you don’t know what is there to apologize for. You shake your head each and every time.

The tears roll down your cheek just as he pulls away and his eyes immediately soften. You shake your head, pulling him into another kiss as you whine.

There are many things you want to tell him. But you don’t dare tell him this: Sometimes being offered tenderness feels like the very proof that you have been ruined.

“Tell me to stop, honey, and I will,” he murmurs, holding your cheek as you pause between touches. You shake your head immediately. You want many things. You are hungry and untamed. But you do not want him to stop.

You tell him as much. “Joel, don’t you dare stop.”

And he doesn’t. Not when you’re naked and he sees your bruised skin, purple and yellowed in places. He looks to you just as your body tenses. His demeanor softens, kissing along your jaw and your neck with a shaky breath.

“I won’t hurt ya, darlin’.”

He keeps to that promise. Even when your legs are around his waist and he’s caught in your warmth. He says it again and again as you whine into the cool, quiet solitude of your home.

I won’t hurt you, I won’t hurt you.

–

Falling in love with Joel was both so complicated and so simple at once. Whenever you wake beside him, you wake up writhing from the pain of your injuries; sometimes crying from the nightmares that followed every waking moment. You felt marred by shame for putting so much of your perceived burden on his shoulders. He never departs from your side, his strong arms placating you while his lips press against your temple.

It’s all so simple, the way he cares about you. And whether or not you admitted it, you like the feeling of being cared for. Of having someone that cares.

Regardless, you cannot escape the fact that someone did this to you. And whenever the pain shocks your body, everything but rabid rage escapes your body. You curse the stranger, whoever they may be, for that cursed night.

Joel sees glimpses of this. He saw it most that one afternoon when the hospital called, saying you had been taken care of. By who, they didn’t say. Only that the stranger apologized for what happened.

You were on the floor, hands trembling in the fists you held them in. The hospital bill crumpled a few inches away. You do not see him. What you see is all red.

A wail escapes your trembling mouth just as your hands claw at anything they can touch. It is an uncontrollable surge of blinding, mouth-foaming, unbridled rage. He’s there, trying to hold you down before you hurt yourself. Each wail pierces another hole into his aching heart. Each struggle followed by his gentle shushing, trying to assuage you in the crest of your emotion.

“Whoever it was,” you told him then as you sobbed. “They ruined my life.”

“Darlin, darlin’...” He breathes in, cupping your face. “Maybe he’s around and he regrets-”

“No!” You claw at him, just as he holds you tighter against his chest. “If he could find me, then he could say it to my face. He wouldn’t be some coward who left me alone like this after he ruined my life!”

It destroys him. And you can see it in his face. All he can do is hold you as you cry against his chest. All he can do is shut his eyes, letting the waves of grief crest over and over your frame. Letting your sobs tear him open and burn him out.

He tells you nothing lasts forever. That he’ll be there for as close to forever as possible. You shake your head because you know better. He says nothing lasts forever. He doesn’t know he’s just afraid your pain can last longer than he is capable of loving you.

–

Perhaps, to the end of his days, Joel will regret that drunken night. He’ll regret following his bleary gaze through the quiet, sleet-slick roads. He’ll regret the fact that he couldn’t have stopped his truck sooner.

When he steps out into the cold just as he smells the acrid scent of burning tires, he sees your bloodied face in your car. So small. So undeserving. He muttered a string of cusses. The sudden shock of adrenaline washing away the last of his drunkenness. He looks back at his truck, horrifically beaten, his gaze doubling from his last bout of drunkenness.

He bargains that night. Calls up someone high up amongst the police rank to bail him out. He negotiated for ten minutes. Then he hides the truck somewhere off the side of the road for him to come back to and dispose of. And then, only then, did he call for help.

Only then did he reach you in the driver’s seat, blood now caked to your skin as he lay you out amongst the concrete.

You make some sound, and he cusses to himself.

His rough palms cup your cheek, trying to get you to look at him then. But you were too far gone.

He spoke, anyway. Just in case you’ll hear it.

“It’s alright, doll. I won’t hurt you.”

Even now, weeks after he stole your life from you, he holds you and tells you the same thing anyway. The same set of words that manage to calm you down.

He does love you. And it breaks him every day to know he was the one to endanger you.

I won’t hurt you, I won’t hurt you.

[thatshowthingstarted]

 Babylonian Map of the World, 8th or 7th Century B.C.

The Babylonian Map of the World (also Imago Mundi or Mappa mundi) is a Babylonian clay tablet with a schematic world map and two inscriptions written in the Akkadian language. It includes a brief and partially lost textual description.

The tablet describes the oldest known depiction of the known world. Ever since its discovery there has been controversy on its general interpretation and specific features. Another pictorial fragment, VAT 12772, presents a similar topography from roughly two millennia earlier.

The map is centered on the Euphrates, flowing from the north (top) to the south (bottom), with its mouth labelled "swamp" and "outflow". The city of Babylon is shown on the Euphrates, in the northern half of the map. Susa, the capital of Elam, is shown to the south, Urartu to the northeast, and Habban, the capital of the Kassites, is shown (incorrectly) to the northwest. Mesopotamia is surrounded by a circular "bitter river" or Ocean, and seven or eight foreign regions are depicted as triangular sections beyond the Ocean, perhaps imagined as mountains.

The tablet was excavated by Hormuzd Rassam at Sippar, Baghdad vilayet, some 60 km north of Babylon on the east bank of the Euphrates River. It was acquired by the British Museum in 1882 (BM 92687); the text was first translated in 1889. The tablet is usually thought to have originated in Borsippa. In 1995, a new section of the tablet was discovered, at the point of the upper-most triangle.

Clay, Height: 12.2 cm (4.8 in), Width: 8.2 cm (3.2 in)

Courtesy: British Museum

[littlesparklight]

What are the specific sources that say Helen went willingly with Paris? Was discussing with a friend but all I could remember was Sappho fragment 16? Ty!!

Let me start with a quote from the preface to Ruby Blondell's Helen of Troy: Beauty, Myth, Devastation:

"Though her [Helen's] departure is typically referred to as an "abduction", none of our sources claims that Paris took Helen by force against her will. Her complicity is essential to her story."

I could, in short, give you almost any and all sources possible, anon! Even the late sources like Dictys and Dares include mutual attraction and desire, even when Helen is, actually forcibly taken. And sure, some might protest about Aphrodite's (implied, usually) forcible meddling in Helen's psychology, but that is never what we really see and that is, secondly, not really how personal responsibility, even in the face of potential/actual divine interference, works. (In that case you'd have to absolve Zeus of a lot of his escapades.)

Anyway, I'll try to give you a selection, vaguely arranged in chronological order.

The Iliad - I could pick several different lines from here, and they'd all be from Helen herself. Sure, if one's interpretation is that she is not honest about what she's saying, you might not agree, but I'm going to insist on allowing Helen the agency she is claiming for herself. So, here, from Helen's conversation with Priam in Book 3:

"Honored are you to me, dear father in law, and revered, and would that evil death had pleased me at that time when I followed your son here, abandoning [...]" (trans. Caroline Alexander)

Elsewhere Helen uses "I went". But for this the pertinent thing is that "had pleased me" because the clear implication is that what pleased her back then was Paris, not death.

The Kypria; fragmentary, here's a quote from Proclus' summary: "Aphrodite brings Helen and Alexandros together. After their intercourse, they load up a great many valuables and sail away by night."

That "brings [them] together" isn't a language of force in the terminology used, and it's clearly both Helen and Paris who takes the valuables, not Paris alone. In fact, lets compare a directly comparable sentence from the (much) later Bibliotheke, Epitome 3.3: "Alexander persuaded Helen to go off with him. And she abandoned Hermione, then nine years old, and putting most of the property on board, she set sail with him by night."

'Persuasion', 'she abandoned', '[she] put most of the property on board', 'she set sail'. You see the point here. Helen is not baggage that Paris has picked up like an inanimate object and left with, no matter what its will. She is doing things.

You already mentioned Sappho 16 yourself, so let's turn to her contemporary Alkaios, fr. 283 (taking the translation of the quote of this from Blondell's book): "... and [Eros?] excited in her breast, the heart of Argive Helen; and driven mad by the Trojan man, the host-deceiver, she followed him over the sea in his ship."

The rest basically reiterates these opening lines, and you can see some of the similarity to Sappho 16, but Alkaios is a lot more condemnatory. Of Helen and Paris both.

Euripides next. Iphigenia in Aulis: "[...]and he, finding Menelaus gone from home, carried Helen off, in mutual desire, to his steading on Ida." (Agamemnon speaking.) and "[...]that Hellas might exact vengeance on the one who had fled her home to wed a foreigner." (The chorus speaking.) Trojan Women: "Their captain too, whom men call wise, has lost for what he hated most what most he prized, yielding to his brother for a woman's sake—and she was willing and not taken by force—the joy he had of his own children in his home." (Kassandra speaking.) I'm not going to quote all of Hecuba's speech in the agon against Helen, but her whole argument is that Helen went willingly... and some of Helen's own arguments are less to deny this idea of mutual desire/having left willingly and more to say Aphrodite is impossible to resist (but then we have to absolve Zeus, for Helen uses his vulnerability to Aphrodite as her thrust for as to why she should be excused).

Herodotus in his Histories is another that speak of abduction out of one side of the mouth and implies something far more willingly/mutual with the other (from 2.115):

"gave wings to and were gone with her"; the phrase really is that, quite literally, and I haven't been able to find anything that actually discusses this. (Another translations goes with "did stir her to desire" which, while that isn't what the text literally says, does, like, get the idea of something mutual happening/the usual focus on Helen's desire for Paris across to us better.)

And for something a little later, Gorgias' Encomium of Helen: like Blondell points out in her book, Gorgias' suggestion of actual force/violence as a potential factor in Helen leaving Sparta is quite singular. (In fact, all of his arguments turns into force/violence against Helen and make her basically an object who doesn't so much have no agency as no will or personhood that might react independently at all.)

And Ovid's Heroides certainly has Helen inviting Paris' attentions, even if she does so in a circuitous manner, circling up on saying "yes, come here, now that Menelaos has left".

Anyway, I could probably have gone on, but there's a couple sources, at least!

And I'd like to point out that whether one wants to insist that Aphrodite's potential direct influence means any "willingness" of Helen's is meaningless or not, there's a whole galaxy between "Helen went off with literally no thought to what this would cause or to her daughter and Menelaos and her family, and didn't care about the consequences/intentionally meant to cause all this destruction to both sides" and "she cares about this, and is/will be conflicted over it, yet is also attracted to and leaves with Paris".

Like, just because she wasn't violently kidnapped against her will, and was/is actually attracted to Paris (which she is still in the Iliad! That is part of the point of her confrontation with Aphrodite!) and so on, doesn't mean there aren't a lot of nuances (as the Iliad itself shows) that can be put into Helen being attracted to Paris and leaving willingly in some manner.

[ifortom]

Champagne Problems - T.H.

Synopsis: Tom and y/n, a couple that used to be inseparable, now face a deep crisis in their marriage. Their daughter, Olivie, 4, is in the middle of this emotional turmoil. With busy lives, differences of opinion and fragmented communication, the love that brought them together is slowly fading. After the aftermath they must face their own demons, rediscover empathy, and find a way to rebuild the relationship they once shared. Not just for themselves, but also for the well-being of their daughter, who longs for a united family.

A/N: Well here it is, this is a rollercoaster of emotions and I hope you enjoy it. An important note: English is not my first language so I hope you understand if there are any errors, be kind and let me know if necessary and I can fix it.

W/A: +5k

‘’Where’s my sweet baby pie?’’ You heard Nikki’s voice before she even opened the front door.

‘’Grandma!’’ Olivie screamed loudly when she saw her grandmother and ran straight into her open arms.

‘’Hi sweetie! I missed you.” She said hugging the little girl tightly. ‘’Everyone was waiting for you.’’ Olivie smiled and made her way inside the house without looking back.

Nikki turned to you, as you walked in the living room and smiled opening her arms just like she did with Ollie, welcoming you into a warm hug.

‘’What about you, darling? It’s been a while since I’ve seen you.’’

‘’I know, and I’m sorry for that. Work’s been so hard lately, there’s a lot going on.’’ It wasn’t a lie, the last few weeks had been a pain in your ass with so much work since you got your promotion to chief editor at the publisher you worked.

‘’Yeah, Tom told me, that’s great news though!’’

‘’Its is, I’ve waited this for such a long time. But is complicated, Ollie is growing up and I feel like I’m missing out sometimes.’’ She smiled softly at you.

‘’I get it, just try not to stress yourself, that girl needs you... and you know, your promotion wasn’t the only thing Tom talked to me about the last time he was here... what’s going on with the both of you?’’

This was a question you really didn’t want to reply and this was a conversation you didn’t want to have, especially with your husband’s mother.

‘’I guess our relationship has seen better times but we’re trying. I’m just... I can’t have this conversation right now”

‘’I see... it’s alright sweetheart. I don’t want to intrude, just want to see you happy, the both of you. And that little girl.’’

‘’Me too.’’ You smiled at her, trying to hide the forming lump on your throat. ‘’I need to go, Tom is probably already home and we need to get ready.’’

‘’Of course. I’m going to find Ollie for you to say goodbye.’’ She walked out in the direction of the back garden.

While you waited, you took your time looking around the living room you’ve seen a thousand times already. Memories spread across the walls in the form of photos. Tom’s graduation day, Paddy’s first day of kindergarten, your wedding day, their family trip to Hawaii, Olivie as a new born. Memories you’re proud to be a part of.

The sound of small feet running to you woke you up from the small daydreaming.

‘’Mummy!’’ She hugged your legs and you bent down to her level to stare into her eyes.

‘’I’m going now, ok? Remember our deal?”

‘’Yeah, to be a good girl for grandma.’’ She said happily remembering your words from earlier.

‘’That’s right! Two nights, ok? And then we’re taking you home.’’

‘’You and daddy?’’ She asked playing with a string of your hair.

‘’Yeah, mummy and daddy.” She nodded. ‘’Alright, now give mumma a hug.’’ You tighly held her for a while, taking in her baby scent, the one you loved so much. ‘’Bye, babybug.’’ She let go of you and turned around finding her grandmother standing next to the couch. ‘’Bye Nikki, thank you for taking care of her. And please, say hi to everyone.’’

‘’Always. And please, have fun. You both need that”

...

Tonight was a special night. Tom’s company is hosting a party to celebrate a new partnership with a foreign company and, of course, as the wife of one of the partners, your presence is unquestionable. You need to be there to support your husband and keep the facade of the perfect couple with the perfect family. Because no one knows what goes on behind closed doors.

You stared at yourself in the mirror. The dark red dress you chose hugs your curves in all the right places, the small slit on the leg made it a little more daring but didn't lose the classic touch. It had been a while since you dressed up for a gala event, so you decided to take advantage of the opportunity and remember your features that have been hidden for a while.

Tom entered the room wearing his elegant suit. His hair was straightened and with every step he took he exuded class, and as you watched him in the mirror's reflection, you noticed his gaze fixed on your body.

 ''Woah, you look beautiful tonight'' Was the first thing he said. Tom hadn't had the opportunity to see the dress you had chosen before this moment, so it was definitely a surprise.

''Yeah, I wanted to try something today.'' You smiled, breaking eye contact in the mirror and going to the table next to the bed, picking up the necklace you had chosen. ''Can you put it on for me?'' You walked up to him and handed the necklace into his hands, turning your back.

Tom calmly analyzed the necklace and felt his breathing hitch. There was the necklace he had given you just before Olivie was born. Your pregnancy was not easy. There were many complications during the period and the risk of something happening to you or the baby was high. To this day, he is grateful that you two made it out of the operating room safe and sound.

The small, sparkling jewel dangled from the chain, reminding him of simpler times. He knew the moment he saw it for the first time that you would love it. It was simple, but it carried enormous emotion, love and hope.

He raised his hands towards your neck and noticed that they were sweating. And you felt his warm breath on your neck and his fingers delicately ran across it, making goosebumps run down your body. How long has it been since you felt each other's touch like this? It's impossible to believe that the two young people who couldn't live without having contact with each other for a long time became like two strangers afraid to touch.

Maybe a few years ago he would have come closer, placed his hands on your waist and left a kiss next to your ear. You would have thrown your head back leaning on his shoulder and the two of you would have stayed like that for a while.

But things changed and the two of you were no longer the same couple at the beginning of a relationship as you were before. Life happened and differences emerged, thoughts changed and opinions diverged. How could things be the same as before?

Instead, Tom put space between you and scratched his throat. His hand went to the back of his head. You looked in the mirror once again.

''I'm driving today, so if you're ready we can go''

You nodded and turned to him waiting for some reaction. Whatever it was. But what you got was him turning his back and walking towards the bedroom door. Holding back the cry that wanted to leave your throat, you lifted your head and followed him. Time to play the part.

...

The path to the venue's party room was silent. In the car, Tom let the music take over the space. As you mouthed the lyrics to a random song that was playing, Tom let furtive glances find you. But you would never know it.

When you arrived, a boy went towards the car while Tom opened his door. He quickly turned around and opened your door, extending his hand to help you out. Tom thanked the boy who entered the space he previously occupied and left with the car to park it.

You held onto Tom's arm as you walked together to the entrance of the already crowded room. Taking a deep breath, a smile appeared on your face as Harrison, Tom's best friend and one of his partners, walked towards you.

''You're finally here, what happened that took you so long?'' He said suggestively, making Tom laugh.

‘’No need to pry, mate.’’ Tom replied, now wrapping his arm around your waist. ''We arrived and we are fine, thank you for asking.''

''No defensiveness, Tom. You look great tonight, Y/N.'' Harrison said.

''Thanks, H. You don't look bad either.'' Harrison smiled and spun around as if showing off his outfit. You laughed at his mannerism.

''Well, some of the investors are already here and want to meet the person responsible for the partnership with the Japanese company.''

''Don't put all this on me, you were responsible too.''

''Wait, Tom... you didn't tell me that this came from you.'' You said resting one of your hands on his chest.

''What? Didn't he tell you? It turns out that if it weren't for this guy here, things wouldn't have happened. He was the one who stayed up working for hours and hours, making it impossible for the company to refuse the agreement.'' Harrison said.

How come Tom never mentioned this? Of course you knew something big was about to happen at the company but you didn't know that Tom was working so hard on it. So every night he took a while to get home, he was at work? Was the silence that came from him caused by this?

Tom looked uncomfortable, which was strange. Why was he acting like this?

A waiter approached the three of you and held out a tray with glasses of what looked like champagne. Harrison took one, while Tom did too and handed it to you.

''Aren't you going to drink?'' Harrison asked raising an eyebrow.

''I'm driving tonight.'' His hand returned to your waist and you felt his fingers lightly caressing over the thin material of the dress. ''Let's do this. I'll be right back, okay?'' He turned to you, who in response just nodded.

''Y/N, Sophie is near the bar. She was looking forward to your arrival.'' He pointed to where his wife was talking to two women unknown to you. ''She said that only you understand her in this place.''

''I say the same about her.'' You started walking towards your friend, who, upon seeing you, completely forgot about the two strangers she was talking to.

''I'm so grateful to see you. I was already starting to panic.'' She hugged you. ''Girl, and that dress! You look wonderful.'' She said looking you up and down.

''Did you like it? I think I made the right choice.''

''Definitely. I bet Tom went crazy when he saw you like that'' She said winking. Sophie was one of the only people who knew about how troubled your relationship was, and she certainly hoped that things between you would get better.

Just like your words to Harrison, she was the only person you could count on at the moment. Ever since their relationship began, just a few months after you and Tom became official, you two had been inseparable. The two of you worked together to help the two of them when they decided to start a company. And in this world made of appearances, you remained the same.

Obviously, Tom and Harrison have other partners who are married to snobbish and difficult to deal with women. And even though their husbands only have a small portion of the company, they act as if they are in charge of everything and everyone.

That's why you two stick together. Holding each other.

''It turns out that I was also expecting a reaction but I didn't get much.'' You say dejectedly taking a sip of the drink. Her hand affectionately roams your arm.

''I'm sorry, darling. He may not have shown it but I bet he won't resist and at the end of the night we know what will happen.'' The suggestive way in which she spoke made you laugh sincerely. ''We know what you have hidden there!'' You chuckled even though you weren't sure how this night would end and if it would go that way.

''For now I don't want to think about it, let's just enjoy it, okay?'' You tell her, holding her hand and pulling her close to the bar. ''Let's order a drink!''

And while you distracted the thoughts that disturbed you with what you were experiencing at the moment, Tom followed your every move, instead of paying attention to the compliments and questions he received.

''What you're doing for the company is great, Thomas! I'm sure it will grow more every day.'' Peter's hand, one of the investors, stopped on his shoulder, pulling him back.

''Thanks, but I wouldn't be able to do any of this alone.'' He said. ''None of this would be possible without the help of everyone who works at the company. Everyone, without exception.''

''And he's still humble. You really impress me, boy'' Peter laughs, making everyone in the circle laugh too.

''If you'll excuse us, we need to talk for a second.'' Harrison interrupts and pulls Tom aside, leaving the circle of middle-aged men. ''Mate, are you okay? You seem a little distant.''

Tom stares at the ground, trying to keep himself steady. His emotions were running high, and he didn't want to show it, at least not here and now.

''Yeah, I just need to have a glass of water.'' He replied walking towards one of the waiters who was carrying what he needed. ''This conversation has stressed me out. Harrison, I didn't do it all alone. You were part of it too.''

''Tom, I know that. Just accept the compliment, you know that's what they like to do. They're just interested in the money they're going to receive from all of this.'' Harrison says, resting his hand on his friend's shoulder. ''You do not need to worry about me. After all, I didn't lie about who actually stayed up late working on this project. The merit is yours, my friend.''

‘’Thanks, mate” Tom smiled and hugged his friend.

''Let's mingle a little bit more, okay? Then we can return to the arms of our dear wives.'' After Harrison's words, Tom's eyes went looking for you again. And they found you in the same place, laughing and enjoying the night, looking freer than before. ''Speaking of which, why didn't you tell her what was going on?''

''I think I was working too much and didn't want to worry her. She just got promoted and you know how Y/N is like. Always putting the needs of others above her own.’’

''Tom, she is your wife. Not to mention she's the mother of your daughter. She needs to know about things that happen, you can't deal with everything alone.''

''I know that.'' He took a deep breath. ''But this is not the time for that, shall we continue?''

Harrison looked a little disappointed but didn't want to step on any more toes, so he just agreed and they carried on with the night.

...

''I can't believe he did that.'' Sophie said shocked. ''What an asshole.''

''Well, you can believe it.''

''He promotes you and still has the courage to challenge you? Doubting whether you will be able to complete your tasks on time?''

Since you were promoted, your boss has been making comments about your work making you doubt whether it was a good choice or not. Which doesn't make sense because the decision to promote you was his. How can he doubt your abilities now?

''It's been exhausting but I've been trying not to pay too much attention to his sarcastic comments.''

''I bet so, but I'm sure you're doing an excellent job.'' She smiled. ‘’Seriously, you shouldn't care about this asshole’’

''Whoa, who's the asshole?'' You heard Harrison's voice, and turned around to find him and Tom approaching the two of you.

''Y/N's boss is trying to make her work life hell.'' She responded as Harrison hugged her from behind. At that moment you felt jealous of her. ''Hey, want to dance?''

''Hm, one of the bosses embarrassing himself on the dance floor with his lovely wife? Is this something everyone here would like to witness?'' He pretended to think for a while before holding her hand. ''I bet they wouldn't miss this for anything.'' He dragged her to the dance floor, leaving you and Tom standing next to each other laughing.

When the laughter stopped it was strange. They were there, husband and wife embarrassed to be so close. Tom broke the ice and got closer to her, who leaned back on a table. His hands went to her waist while hers went to his chest.

''I would ask you to dance too, but I don't know if everyone here is prepared to watch this disaster.'' The playful tone in his voice made her startle. She feigned shock.

''Are you sure about that? Am I the cause of disaster? Do I need to remind you of our first dance? How many times did you step on my foot that night?'' They laughed together and for the first time in a long time, you felt close to him. Almost complete. He was there, and he was yours. ‘’Tommy...’’

His heart missed a beat when he heard the nickname. Your hands went around his neck, your face slowly approaching his.

‘’Yeah, darling, I’m here.’’

''I really miss you.'' You say placing your head on his chest. ''I'm tired.''

''Do you want to go home?'' He asked, stroking your back.

''Are you sure? It's your party. I can go alone if you want. I'm not that drunk, I'm just really tired.'' Your voice was muffled but he could hear it.

''It doesn't matter, I won't let you go alone. I just need to say goodbye to some people, okay? And talk to Haz.'' He said, making you look at him.

''Okay, I'm going to the bathroom.'' He nodded and let you go. Watching your path before following his.

In the bathroom, you looked at yourself in the mirror and noticed how flushed you were. Not knowing if it was caused by the drinking or the closeness you were with your own husband.

You entered one of the stalls just as two women entered the bathroom.

''Did you see them today?" One of them said. ‘’They look so hot.’’

''Yeah, it's a shame they had those two clinging to their arms all night.'' The second voice said, Ava, you recognized it. She was Tom and Harrison's assistant at the company. The person everyone has to deal with directly before they can exchange a word with either of them. Normally, she is the one who decides which issue is extremely important and needs to reach them or not.

''Did you see Y/N tonight? I never imagined she could dress so well''.

''It was definitely just for the show.'' Ava replied and you held your breath in fear that they would realize that there was someone else in the same room as them. ''At least she looks pretty today.''

''And how do you feel about that?'' The girl asked cautiously.

''What do you mean by that, Izzy? Do you think I'm afraid of her?'' Ava mocked. ''You don't even know the half of it.''

''It's his wife.'' The second girl, Izzy, clarified.

''Do you want to know? Tom and I have become very close these last few weeks. Late one night, while we were at the office, he opened up to me. He was very honest saying that their marriage is not going well. Made it seem like he was tired of her or something.'' She said. ''What they did today was just to keep up appearances. I know what he really wants.''

''You mean he wants you?'' Izzy said and you felt your heart stop waiting for the answer.

''It's not that, I mean, we had a moment. This week, he was in the middle of a meeting when his daughter's daycare center called. Something about her fighting with a colleague over a pen, childish stuff, you know? I needed to act and since my name was on the list of people who could pick her up, I went.'' You felt dizzy upon hearing the information. How had Tom not told you this? ''I think he was extremely grateful, we hugged and well, we almost kissed.''

Everything was getting blurry, you couldn't believe he would do something like that.

''It didn't happen, so I don't want to say he wants me, but maybe he wants to get rid of her.'' She finished. ''Anyway, I wouldn't have a relationship with him. A daughter and an ex-wife? It is not for me. But that's it, looking doesn't take away anything.''

They left the bathroom still gossiping, but you couldn't hear anything else. How could he have done this? Not just exposing your relationship to a stranger and almost kissing her but hiding something about your own daughter? Trying to remember a moment that may have been abnormal, you remembered two weeks ago, when Tom called you informing you that he was already at home with Ollie earlier and that you didn't need to pick her up. This was unusual, and never happened unless you agreed beforehand.

Something happened at her school, little Olivie got into trouble and you didn't know about it. You couldn't discipline your own daughter because your husband decided to hide it from you.

After the shock, some things started to make sense and well, your husband almost kissed another woman. There's a lot going on and you're not in a good place to think about it. Your only goal now is to go home.

Leaving the cabin, you looked in the mirror and finally noticed the tears running down your face.

You quickly wiped your face and left the bathroom, encountering who you wanted to avoid. He was there, near the door, talking to the two women who had just exposed the biggest nonsense that Tom Holland could have done in his life. His eyes met yours and he was distracted, confused by your expression, soon the women also noticed that you left the bathroom right behind them.

And they knew what they had done. They said goodbye to Tom without looking back. He walked up to you and cupped your face with his hand.

''Y/N what happened?'' He said worriedly, you grabbed his wrists, removing his hands from your face.

''I'm going home.'' Was the only thing you said before walking past him towards the exit. Without looking at anyone, not even Sophie.

When you finally left the salon, the same boy from earlier was standing in front of the familiar car, waiting for the owner. He spotted Tom, who was behind you and handed him the keys.

He thanked the boy and stopped in front of you.

''Let's go, and we'll talk about what's going on.'' He held your hand only for you to make him let go right away.

''I'm not going with you''

''What? Y/N, get in the car.''

You shook your head and the tears came back. Soon your face was covered and you couldn't control it.

''No. How could you... how could you do this to me?" Your voice was increasing and Tom started looking around frantically.

''Y/N, baby, please. Let's go home.’’ Your hands went to your face, hiding it, embarrassed by this whole situation.

''You're hurting me so much, Tommy.'' Carefully he approached you and hugged you. And you allowed it. Because you are tired, tired of fighting, of holding this relationship alone, of holding a family alone.

Tom managed to guide you to the car and just like on the way there, the return was filled with silence. The only thing that could be heard this time was the sound of your sniffing.

When you arrived home, you were the first to get out of the car without looking back. Tom hadn't even parked properly and you were already outside. Sobriety overshadowed any drink you had this evening. With difficulty you found the keys to the front door inside your bag.

Finally inside the house, you took off your heels, leaving them at the entrance and made your way to the living room. You can hear Tom closing the door and walking right behind you.

''Can you tell me what happened to Ollie at school?'' You turned to him. ''Or are you going to keep hiding this from me?''

And so, Tom understood. He finally understood what had happened. You knew everything.

''She had a fight with a friend. Apparently, he took something from her and she tried to resolve it by pushing the child.'' Tom said as he ran his hands through his hair, messing it up. ''The child was not hurt and the parents understood that it was just a silly disagreement between the children. But the school called me to talk about her behavior.''

''They just called you, or called us both?’’

''Both of us.'' He said knowing where this was going. Your face contorted into an expression of pain.

''Do you know how that makes me feel, Tom? My daughter behaved badly and you omitted me to be responsible for it. She's not just yours, Tom. I need to know these things. What does this teach her? That it's ok if she hides certain things from me, because you did the same? And when she decides to do this with both of us? That hiding things is better?''

''I know I made a mistake, Y/N but I didn't want to burden you. I know the work has been difficult. Hell, you said that to Sophie today.'' He said trying to defend himself. ''I'm sorry for hiding it from you, but I did it thinking about saving you some worry.''

''Thomas, she's my daughter too. I need to know what happens to her. God, Tom, she's 4 years old.'' You try to reason with him, who just sits on the couch. ''I know that's not the whole reason you kept this from me.''

And when he looks up, you find him with eyes full of tears ready to collapse.

''I heard Ava's conversation in the bathroom, that's how I found out. I know she went to pick up Olivie that day. And for the record, I know she's your secretary but I want her off the list of people who can pick up Ollie.'' You say, moving away from him. ''I know what happened next. Between you two.''

Tom quickly stood up in front of you, his eyes begging you to accept whatever he was going to say.

''I don't know what she said, but you need to believe me when I tell you that nothing happened between us. I could never do that to you Y/N, you need to know that.'' And to his surprise you smiled softly. ''From the first moment you came into my life, I knew I would never need anyone again, no matter what.''

''Tom, what happened to us? When and why did we grow so far apart? Isn't this what we wanted, our family?''

''I know I've been distant but Y/N... things really aren't easy. We almost lost... we almost lost the company. Our accounts weren't good, there was a month when I thought we wouldn't be able to pay the employees. Me and Haz were desperate.'' He turned around as if he was embarrassed. ''We almost lost our investors. That's why I had to work twice as hard. So I spent a few nights away from home. In the midst of all this, all I could think about was the two of you. I needed to protect you no matter what.''

Your face softened upon hearing his outburst.

''It's been 10 years since we started this project and look at everything we've built. I had to do something. I know you work and believe me, you are the best at what you do, and your boss is just another asshole in this world who thinks he is better than others, but wouldn't be able to do half as much as you.’’

His face, like yours, was already full of tears.

''I'm sorry, I just couldn't let it all end like this. So, I did everything I could to rebuild what we have.'' He finished, approaching you once again, carefully his hands cupped your face. ''I'm sorry, my intention was never to hurt you. I would never do that.''

Without thinking twice, your lips pressed against his. You hadn’t felt them in a while. Your hands went to his hair while his went to your waist, pulling you as close as possible. As you deepened the kiss, Tom's hands ran down your back. His lips trailed down to your neck and collarbone, leaving open-mouthed kisses along the way.

Your hands found the jacket he still wore, removing it.

''Y/N, I don't want to... are you sure?'' He said with a hitched breath as you left small kisses on his lips. It had been so long since you had truly felt him.

''Yes I'm sure. I miss you so much, Tom, please.'' You said as you stared at him firmly.

He guided you to your room and as always, you let him, trusting him as you always did. And that night, Tom made you feel what you hadn't felt in a while, closeness to him. The care he always had, the affection. Skin on skin, sweat, short and mixed breaths.

...

On Sunday, two nights later, in the morning Tom told Nikki that you would be there for lunch and she could barely contain her happiness at hearing the news. Somehow she managed to notice the difference in her son's tone of voice and knew that things were working out.

Of course, you talked afterwards, for a long time, and agreed that you wouldn't hide anything from each other, especially issues related to Olivie. And you would always be there to listen to each other in any difficulty that may arise. That's what you promised when you exchanged rings and it would remain that way for a long time.

''Mumma, daddy!'' Olivie's excited voice was the first thing you heard when you arrived in the back garden of the Holland family house.

''Hi, baby!'' You said as Tom picked Ollie up. ''Did you have fun with grandma and grandpa?''

''Yeah, we made cookies.'' She said excitedly.

''I hope you left one for me.'' Tom said making the little girl laugh.

''I ate them all.'' She said jokingly. ''Sorry dad.'' Tom opened his mouth pretending to be shocked and you laughed at their mannerism.

This was what you missed, moments of joy and togetherness, happiness and love.

______________________________________________________________

Hope you liked it!

[mybeingthere]

In 2006, the artist Hayv Kahraman moved to the US, then occupying her homeland, Iraq, and began painting a woman who has been a fixture of her work ever since. With parchment-pale skin, a swoosh of raven hair, scarlet lips and strong brows, this figure recalls the characters set against unadorned backgrounds in 12th-century Baghdad’s miniature painting, while her apple-round breasts and cool, heavy-lidded gaze suggest a quattrocento nude, rendered with the clean lines of Japanese prints.

It is a composite identity its maker understands well. Kahraman was 11 when she was smuggled out of Iraq during the first Gulf war. Her family settled in Sweden, where she spent her teens; she now lives in Los Angeles. “As an immigrant, I’ve always felt on the periphery of society,” she says.

Watching her mother work as a translator for government agencies, Kahraman saw the demand for refugees to repeat their trauma. “It creates an economy of pain where suffering becomes a currency,” she says. “So how do we get unstuck? How do we not only survive but thrive?”

In the past 15 years she has used her painted women to investigate the refugee condition from often surprising angles. The figures have become contortionists; canvases have been sliced up and rewoven into abstract patterns, in an allegory of the fragmented nature of memory, culture and trauma. A recent Covid-centric series interrogated the martial language of immunology, in which the human fortress is seen to be “invaded” or “colonised” by foreign bodies.

https://www.theguardian.com/.../hayv-kahraman-i-was...

[sinligh]

Stable.

a presence that changes nothing I control nothing,

Not the rhythm of my breathing Nor that of my emotions.

I share my blood with a phantom of melancholy, a tempered shadow that shields me from grief

I sacrifice, as all women learn to do;

In this life, you either choose violence, or it comes knocking at your door

until your heart starts beating with its rhythm, erratically.. until you’re “hysterical”

But what woman hasn’t been called that at least once in her life?

today, i scheduled an appointment with death first thing in the morning

physiological or metaphysical, what difference does it make ?

around 4 hours between time and space.

I haven’t slept yet, this is my Eurydice and I know better than to look back; but I’m weighed down with grief, and rage alike.

what colors does it take? sometimes i believe it to be the exact shade of my eyes, dark brown, like blood that’s been accumulating under a layer of skin for too long

Or chocolate like...

I think I’ve tasted it; a lucid dream..

an early state of decomposition a tree with branches that are made of coping mechanisms and abandoned reveries taking up the place of my lungs

Grief like, it grows just as much as i do.

my age now is double what It was when i first discovered what grief means…

a decade of steps that i took while i try to redefine it, this time it felt like :

your last step was my first and now I live everything halfway through because I’m always concerned: what if I’m not missing you.

a lifetime of me trying to accept it, like a foreign organ that my body kept on rejecting until it failed, in a random day; and built it’s walls all around it

life with a core of undeniable death…

that’s the beginning of all that i am,

an exsanguination.

and at my weakest, i resent you for leaving me with no other option..

I don’t know when it happened, but subconsciously, I started associating the day I lost you with the day i was born

my reincarnation, unwillingly.

All those terms... bloodstains that I must leave behind

A temperament gene. Isn’t it clear ?

I stand still in the past, where my vulnerability lies in a grave

with all the unknown. and I think my greatest regret

was thinking that i needed more time, to come up with a language that we both understand to tell you that l love you.

and that’s of little to no value..

I regret believing i had time, now as a redemption, I’ll forever live as a skeleton of fragmented existence underneath a flesh that’s sewed on with patches of half chewed rage.

•••

• Quotes: Sophocles/Caroline M. Mar/ Taylor swift/ Nicole W. Lee/ Sara Luisa Kirk/ Sylvia Plath/ Louis Tomlinson/ Emilie Autumn/ Fyodor Dostoevsky/ Franz Kafka/Forugh Farrokhzad,

• Original context: Sinligh

• Art reference:

1. Painting by William Adolphe Bouguereau. 2. The Mausoleum by the Phantom Painter. 3. Louis Janmot, Fleur des champs (details) 4. Despair by Bertha Wegmann 5. Tristan et Isolde (Death), Rogelio de Egusquiza

[couldsewyouastitchandsavenine]

Dancing In The Dark [Javi Peña] 01

summary: Javier Peña knows all the answers to all questions but one... what if? pairing: javier peña x fem!reader  word count: 3.7K a/n: my first Javi fic. feedback is appreciated.

warnings: language, mention of self-esteem issues,

Part 01 Part 02 Part 03

Javier Peña was no friends with sleep.

To him, sleep was a dance he would consciously opt out of, never quite catching the rhythm—perpetually a step behind.

Throughout the years, Javier Peña had mastered the skill of pretense; with his eyes shut and body appearing relaxed and at ease, yet sleep remained a territory he intentionally steered cleared from.

For Javier Peña was all too aware of the things that lay in wait when he’d close his eyes.

The harrowing memories of what he had seen, all the horror he wished he could unsee, and the lingering cries that never seem to fade. Every ally he had lost, every enemy that had been born, and all the innocent lives entangled in the web he helped to weave.

The irony of it all was almost laughable.

By day, Javier Peña was the epitome of unwavering strength. His bravery unchallenged. Yet, when the night draped the world in darkness, he allowed himself a different truth; he was afraid, too hesitant to welcome the vulnerability that came with being asleep.

Thus, Javier chose to stay awake, inhabiting a space where he could maintain a safe distance from his inner demons. It might have been the easier choice, the lesser evil, so to speak. But, in his mind, it was still better than facing the ghosts that sleep would so easily usher in.

And it was in the midst of his self-imposed insomnia that Javier’s attention was abruptly drawn to an unusual sound that night. A strange, distinct rattling, right outside his door, slicing through the noise of the city’s distant hum and the intermittent barking of a stray dog that echoed from a few blocks away.

Rising from his seat, Javier’s hand instinctively reached for the cold metal of his weapon, buried amidst the chaotic sprawl of reeking dust and aged ink that had consumed his days, perhaps weeks.

Each scribbled one, every photograph and file, all the tapes and transcripts, they all blurred the lines between his duty and existence, between the man that Javier was and the role he had assumed.

Advised to never bring his work home, Javier had not only brought it, but allowed it to become a tangible reflection of his overburdened mind. So much so that his modest apartment had long since ceased to be a sanctuary, but a vast repository for fragments of his professional life, making his few personal items seems almost foreign.

Moving with the kind of stealth and silence born of experience, Javier cautiously approached the door—the gun in his hand providing a near-comical sense of comfort. It felt like shaking hands with an old friend; familiar and oddly comforting in its solid presence.

Javier paused. Held his breath. Took a moment to collect himself before leaning in to peer through the peephole. As he did so, his eyes narrowed ever so slightly—a flicker of recognition flashing across his face.

With a swift, deft motion and a heavy exhale, he slid the lock open, pulling at the door-handle with more force than intended.

"¡Hijo de puta!" Javier exclaimed instinctively as his gaze fell on your figure on the other side of the brassy chain. "What are you doing here at this hour, nena?" he blurted out, stealing a quick glance at his watch while subtly tucking his gun behind his waistband. Even though he knew you were no stranger to the constant presence of his weapon, brandishing it now felt strangely out of place. "How did you even get here?"

Your response was a broad, unabashed smile, radiating a confidence that you half-suspected might annoy him.

"I biked over," you declared, stretching up on your toes. It was was as much an attempt to diminish the height difference between you and Javier as it was a reflection of your restless energy.

"You biked over?" Javier echoed, his tone a mix of disbelief with a touch of concern.

"Yes, I biked," you affirmed calmly, observing his eyebrows knit together in a frown. Then, with a quick motion, he unhitched the chain and opened the door just wide enough for you to sidestep into his world.

As you moved past his shirtless figure, Javier instinctively leaned forward in order to scan the dim corridor. Gripping the door frame with firm assurance, his gaze shifted right, then left before  eventually settling on your old bicycle, chained to a metal pipe outside. The racer, adorned with rust streaks, appeared strangely out of place in this setting—a seemingly uninviting target for theft, yet it was secured with a robust, heavy-duty chain as though it were a rare jewel.

Javier mentally noted to have a word with Murphy about giving you the bike. It was a foolish decision on Murphy's part, rivaled only by your own eagerness to accept it without hesitation.

"There's nothing wrong with biking, Javi," you called out with a nonchalant shrug of your shoulders as though navigating through the streets of Medellín in the middle of the night were nothing more than a casual evening adventure, rather than a flirtation with potential danger.

Javier reacted instantly to your casual demeanor. He closed the door with a resounding thud, a sound that echoed in the cramped apartment and made you flinch. Locking it quickly, he followed after you—his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose in either an attempt to fend off a headache or to perhaps stall his rising irritation.

"Do you have any idea how dangerous it is to be out at this hour?" he asked, his tone stern. "You could've been followed, robbed, or worse—"

"—Javi, please, look at me," you interjected, a blend of humor and seriousness in your voice as you gestured towards yourself. "I seriously doubt I'm anyone's top target for kidnapping."

Despite giving your best, your attempt to lighten the mood didn't seem to alleviate the concern etched deeply in Javier's features. If anything it only made him more annoyed with you—his posture rigid with unease.

Deciding to shift the conversation, you effortlessly took off your backpack and began unzipping it. “I thought you might want some food.”

Javier's expression then morphed into something almost humorous—a mix of annoyance and disbelief, tinged with a reluctant smile at your boldness.

"You brought food?" he echoed, his voice laced with surprise. "At two in the morning?"

“Empanadas,” you clarified, presenting the plastic container wrapped in a crinkled bag, as if the unconventional timing was an insignificant detail.

He opened his mouth to say something, perhaps to protest, but then as if realizing that it wouldn’t make any difference to you, he wordlessly accepted the food from your outstretched hands.

With the container now in Javier's hands, you slipped your own into the back pockets of your worn, stain-splattered jeans before following him to the kitchen, leaning against the chipped counter near the sink—its door hanging off one hinge.

"Thanks," he mumbled, breaking the quiet before opening the refrigerator, which gave a angry, buzzing hum. As he placed the container on an upper shelf, you noticed the rows of similar, mostly untouched containers inside, resembling abandoned relics in a museum dedicated to his usual diet of nicotine and alcohol.

You've seen those containers before. After all, it was you who meticulously packed them.

Strangely, the fact that he, more often than not, ignored the food you brought him, didn’t bother you. At least, not anymore. If anything, your tango of offering and overlooking has become an accepted, if not slightly amusing part of your friendship.

“Looks like Steve hasn’t been dropping by much lately,” you commented lightly, a teasing tone in your voice. "He's always had a thing for Lupe's lentejas.”

Javier acknowledged your comment with a grunt that seemed to carry more weight than a simple throat-clearing as he delved in the fridge, emerging with two bottles of cold beer. Using the edge of the kitchen counter to pop them open, he held one out to you, his lips curved into a half-smile, tinged with irony before walking towards the living room.

You grinned to yourself before following, navigating the path to the seating area with familiarity, only taking a halt once Javier paused to casually put on a crumpled tee.

As his muscles shifted under his tanned, taut skin, a routine gesture of always making sure to be dressed in front of you, turned into something more.

Something that made your gaze linger. Something that made your eyes trace the lines of his form—a reaction that hadn’t occurred before, leaving you momentarily unsettled.

The moment stretched, filled with the uncomfortable ripple that made waves inside your chest, before you quietly cleared your throat and looked away, a slight warmth rising to your cheeks.

"I was actually asleep," Javier said suddenly, turning to face you as he reached for his Marlboros on the cluttered coffee table.

His words seemed to hang in the air, their lack of conviction almost making them seem like an afterthought. They floated, as if trying to find a place to land, yet they never quite did.

You could tell he was lying.

Over time, you had come to understand Javier Peña in a way he might not fully realize himself.

However, you chose not to confront him about it. Instead, you opted to play along to his charade. "Oh, did I wake you? Should I leave?" you asked, injecting a hint of feigned concern into your voice.

Javier responded with a casual wave of his hand, brushing aside your question as he focused on retrieving his cigarette.

In his eyes, though, there was a resigned but silent invitation, a non-verbal cue suggesting you should stay. So, you obliged, sinking into the armchair that carried the familiar scent of tobacco and an unmistakable trace of Javier himself before letting the silence settle between you.

—

After over a decade of wandering through Colombian cities, it was in Medellín where you unexpectedly found yourself pausing, staying longer than in any other place you had considered home as an adult. Initially, you had no plans to stay beyond a few months. However, the deep, lingering sadness from your father's passing and a life that seemed to drift aimlessly compelled you to seek solace and stability with your Aunt Lupe.

Her declining health was another reason; the thought of leaving her to fend for herself while unwell was something you couldn't bear, had only further anchored you to Medellín.

In the warmth of her presence and her offer of a permanent roof over your head in exchange for some care and company, you found reasons to stay, to find some solid ground once more. Part of that plan involved attempting to re-enter school—an effort to piece back some normalcy and purpose. However, instead of classrooms and heavy textbooks, you ended up behind the bar of a local spot, nestled just a stone's throw away from the DEA's imposing presence.

The bar was like any other slightly rundown establishment in the area, with its chipping paint and a jukebox coated in a layer of dust. Yet, in this unassuming place, you found an unexpected sense of belonging. It wasn't just your haven, but also a refuge for the regulars who frequented it, and a slice of respite for those burdened by the weight of their badges—their holsters as much a part of their attire as the deep lines of worry, etched across their faces, narrating the tales of silent worries. Stories that were perhaps too deep, or simply too raw too be voiced

Among them was Javier Peña — a man as intricate and tough as the streets of Medellín themselves.

You quickly became acquainted with the rumors, swirling around him. Tales of his sharp intelligence, relentless determination, and a certain ruthlessness in pursuit of his professional goals seemed to float through the dimly lit bar, much like the cigarette smoke, lingering in the air. Then, there were other rumors; whispers about his private life—open secrets, passed in hushed tones from one patron to another, or shared among his colleagues in a blend of admiration and disdain.

A smooth-talker and a maverick, an enigma to some and an asshole to others.

Unpredictable.

A living, walking paradox.

Straightforward in his professional dealings, but layered in his personal life.

Tough, yet had a charm that was hard to ignore. And he wasn’t shy to use that charm whenever he pleased, especially with women who unabashedly flocked towards him as if he was the the flame to their moths.

The kind of man whose activities in both business and pleasure often took him to the darker corners of the city, the parts where questions were seldom asked and answers were rarely needed.

From the very beginning, your resolution had been firm and clear: maintain a respectful, cautious distance from Javier Peña, consciously steering clear of the seemingly endless procession of the lonely, the lustful, and the longing that perpetually trailed in his wake.

However, on a particularly quiet Wednesday evening, breaking this self-imposed rule felt as natural as pouring a glass of aguardiente: smooth, effortless, almost instinctive.

That night, he appeared different, enveloped in a visible weariness — his gaze distant and unfocused. It was a sort of melancholy that seemed to weigh heavily upon him, a kind of sorrow that the parade of drinks sent by hopeful women – who had become almost as much a fixture of the bar as the stools they perched on – could not dispel.

And that caught your attention. It stirred something in you, a sense of understanding. You knew what it was like to feel that kind of loneliness; it was a feeling you had become all too familiar with.

Without a second thought to the why or the what-ifs, you reached for another tumbler and the familiar bottle of amber whiskey. Weaving through the crowd, you moved with determined steps toward him, where he stood as a lone figure by a high table near the entrance.

“You know,” you started, your voice carrying a light, almost teasing tone as you poured whiskey into the glass you set down in front of him, “even without ordering anything yourself, you’re surprisingly good for business tonight.” The fact that his eyes only briefly met yours before drifting away again didn’t deter you. “Seems like you’re a bit lonely tonight.”

"For someone who needs a step stool to see over the bar, you sure keep tabs on everything," he shot back, a flash of sarcastic amusement in his eyes meeting yours for just a moment before he lifted the glass he was drinking from to his lips.

You grinned in response, casually gathering empty glasses with your free hand—their clinking a familiar tune to your ears. “Not here to force you do anything, but maybe a bit of appreciation for your admirers could lift your spirits,” you suggested playfully, hoping to break the awkward silence.

"Tonight, it's just me and the drinks," Javier responded, his shoulders dipping in a faint but unmistakable gesture of resignation. He took a moment, seemingly lost in thought as he studied the cigarette smoldering between his fingers before continuing, “Though, I might reconsider this one,” he mused. “So, whose generosity am I indebted to this time?” he asked, casting a half-hearted glance over his shoulder.

Briefly, his eyes, met those of a tall brunette at the other end of the bar. She held his gaze for a second longer than necessary—a playful, inviting smile playing on her lips. But his interest seemed to wane as quickly as it had been piqued.

He turned back his glass, seemingly unperturbed by the brief flirtatious moment.

"Oh," you responded with an easy shrug, noticing out of the corner of your eye a group at the bar trying to catch your attention. With a quick and familiar gesture of your free hand, you signaled that you'd be right with them, then turned your focus back to the brooding agent. “That one’s on me.”

Without missing a heartbeat, Javier’s gaze returned to you, less subtle this time, searching. His eyes dragged themselves over your silhouette and your hand-me-down outfit, as if trying to see what might be hiding underneath the layers of denim and plaid. There was a brief pause where he seemed to contemplate something, finally settling on whatever answer to his unspoken question.

And when his eyes met yours again, they carried an unmistakable glint—lips curling into a smile that held more than just friendliness. It was suggestive, loaded with charm that brought out his right dimple.

"And what's in it for you?" he asked, his voice a blend of curiosity and cautious probing—eyebrow arching in a silent, questioning challenge.

Your response was calm, accompanied by a small, knowing smile as you turned around, ready to walk to tend the rest of the bar. “Nothing, really. It’s just a drink, agent Peña.”

—

“C’mon, nena, out with it. Why are you really here?” Javier’s voice cut sharply through the quiet of the room, scattering your thoughts like fallen leaves. You made a mental note to collect them later, lifting your gaze to meet his. “You didn’t cycle all this way just to drop off empanadas,” he pressed, fixing his gaze on you.

Your reply came with a casual shrug as you rested your eyes on the bottle you were holding—your fingernail absentmindedly picking at its peeling label.

“You just haven’t been around much lately,” you said, not quite sure what more to add.

“Sounds like you missed me?” Javier teased, a hint of fatigue lacing his smirk.

Leaning back slightly, he took a long drag from his cigarette before languidly reaching over to tap the ash into a tray on a nearby table. His movements were unhurried, characteristic of someone who was comfortable in his own skin yet weary from the world.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Peña. Just got me worried, that’s all,” you grinned, setting your beer down on the table as your eyes caught a sight of a pair of women’s underwear, poking from underneath the coffee table. “But it looks like you’ve been managing just fine,” you added with a suggestive smirk.

“Sharp as ever, aren’t you, nena?” Javier shot back with a hint of admiration.

"Doesn't take a detective to notice, Javi, especially when you don't clean up after your... 'girlfriends'," you said, the word 'girlfriends' lingering a bit sourly on your tongue even as you managed a grin. Standing up quickly, you leaned over and deftly hooked the garment with your index finger, lifting it with a combination of amusement and feigned surprise. Settling back into your seat, you held up the red fabric, examining it. “Wow,” you breathed out, “this doesn’t exactly leave much to the imagination, does it?”

“That’s the point, nena.” He quickly reached over before smoothly taking the underwear from your hand, flinging it to the other side of the room with an effortless gesture—his demeanor unfazed and confidently indifferent. Looking back at you, he pinched the cigarette between his thumb and index finger as he leaned into the seat again. “Tell me.”

You started hesitantly, attempting to maintain a casual air. “It’s probably nothing,” but your voice betrayed a hint of uncertainty.

“It never is,” he countered, his voice holding an edge of seriousness.

You hesitated for a moment, feeling a knot of apprehension in your stomach. Taking a deep, subtle breath to steady your nerves, you glanced down briefly, gathering your thoughts. When you looked up again, your voice was casual, but your eyes were intently focused on the faded print on Javier tee, unable to face him.

"There were some people at the bar the other night. Not our regular crowd. They seemed... out of place, a bit shady."

Instantly, Javier's relaxed demeanor shifted. He straightened up, putting his cigarette out with a deliberate, careful motion. "Shady how? Did they talk to you? Did you interact with them?" His questions came quickly, his voice laced with a newfound urgency, the usual weariness in his eyes replaced by a piercing focus.

"They just made small talk, nothing noteworthy," you responded, maintaining a casual facade. "They seemed more interested in observing the crowd than engaging in any deep conversation. I ended my shift early, and Chema took over. That's about all I saw."

Javier’s expression hardened, mirroring his deepening concern.

“Listen, you need to stay alert. Those guys might be involved with the cartel, even sicarios.” His expression was growing more stern with each second as he looked at you intently. “You shouldn’t be talking to those types of people or getting involved in conversations with them,” he cautioned, his voice heavy with concern.

“I was just doing my job, Javi. I’ve been at that bar long enough to know how to handle different types of customers,” you interjected, a touch of annoyance creeping into your voice at his overprotectiveness.

"You know that it isn't that simple. You're in a prime spot to overhear things, see things. This isn’t about your experience at the bar, it’s about the dangers you might not see coming—"

"—I'm fully aware of the risks," you snapped back sharply, interrupting him.

Javier's jaw clenched in response, his eyes reflecting the deep-seated concern of someone all too familiar with loss and danger. "If you truly understood the risks, you wouldn't be so casual about this," he shot back, his tone edged with frustration.

Reacting to his words, you leaned back slightly, as if physically distancing yourself from the gravity of his concern. Your eyes momentarily shifted away in a silent display of rebellion, then returned to meet his gaze. You crossed your arms, not so much defensively, but as an instinctive effort to compose yourself under his intense gaze.

The room was then enveloped in a heavy silence, charged with words left unsaid. Javier’s intense stare didn't waver from you, betraying the whirl of thoughts behind his stern facade. After a moment of palpable tension, he broke the silence with a firmness unusual in your interactions.

"Okay, that’s it. No more biking around Medellín, not day or night. It’s too dangerous."

Raising an eyebrow, your independent spirit surged, laced with a touch of sarcasm. "Really, Javi? And what do you suggest I do instead? Are you going to be my personal chauffeur around town? Maybe drop everything mid-mission because Lupe needs her asthma medicine?"

Javier didn't respond, and you gave a self-assured nod, almost rhetorically confirming your point.

Of course, he wouldn’t, couldn't do any of that.

For a moment, Javier just looked at you, his expression a blend of concern, frustration, and a deep-seated sense of responsibility. But then, abruptly, he stood up—his movements decisive, cutting through the tension like a sharp blade.

"You're also staying here tonight," Javier declared firmly. "It's not safe for you to go out alone at this time."

The seriousness in his voice left no room for argument, you knew that, but you still immediately began to shake your head, ready to refuse his directive. However, his stance was serious.

“This isn’t up for discussion, nena. It’s too dangerous out there right now.”

“I can’t stay here,” you insisted firmly, hoping to assert your independence, but quickly softened your expression and your tone. “Can’t you just… drive me home?”

“No, I can’t,” he answered as he took a few steps towards the window, peering out into he darkness. “This isn’t about me being controlling. It’s about what I know, what I've seen out there. You may not be used to taking orders, and I’m not the type to give them, not to you. But when it comes to these things, I can’t compromise.”

You watched him, his attention still captured by the world outside the window. His usual confident posture was now replaced by a hint of weariness, revealing a seldom-seen vulnerability beneath his tough exterior.

"So, this is your 'saving the damsel' moment, huh…,” you trailed off—the dry response sounding harsher than you wanted it to be.

“Think what you like, nena,” he said, definitely done with conversation as he moved towards his bedroom. “The couch is yours for the night. You know where the blankets are.”

[max1461]

Something astute readers of my blog with notice is that I stick very closely to the following conventions in writing, even when I eschew standard capitalization and so on:

Individual words in an object language are italicized: a stone is a particular type of object you might find on the ground, whereas stone is the English word referring to such.

Of course, phonemic transcriptions are given in slashes /stoʊn/, while phonetic transcriptions (relatively broad or very narrow) are given in square brackets [stõʊ̯̃n̥].

References to orthographic characters or sequences of such are given in angle brackets: stone is spelled , which starts with the letter .

Loan phrases and non-nativized loanwords are italicized: per se, à la, de facto.

Diacritics are maintained in such, and in some nativized loans.

Diacritics are maintained in foreign names, except when there is a standard Anglicization of the name, in which case that form is used.

Conjunctions without a comma associate more strongly than conjunctions with a comma, thus "he was a writer, a painter, and a sculptor" brackets (semantically) as [ he was a [ a writer ] [ a painter ] [ and a sculptor ] ], where as "he was a writer, a painter and a sculptor" brackets as [he was [ a writer ] [ a painter and a sculptor ] ].

Multi-word phrases used in an attributive role are connected with dashes: I have object-level concerns are about the object level.

Punctuation in quotes is completely separate from punctuation outside of quotes, and a sentence ending in a quote will use both: the man asked "am I a fish?". This is widely regarded as looking ugly, but it is logically correct.

Similarly, block quotes, code fragments, display equations (or facsimiles of such produced using tumblr's formatting capabilities) and other similar things are embedded within a sentence and thus do not automatically require capitalization on the following line:

It has been said before that

All men are created equal

and I think this is true.

Block quotes and code fragments automatically induce a deletion of an immediately following external punctuation mark, but display equations do not. Thus a display equation at the end of a sentence should be followed by a period, and so on.

There may be more. Anyway, as far as I'm concerned, these conventions are Correct and should be used as widely as possible.

[thenhlteaissuperhot]

not disagreeing with you, just want to know how exactly is the bruins cabin the healthiest or what has chara done so revolutionary

Chara has banned the word "rookie" from the locker room because he believes that everyone on the roster is a part of the team in the same exact way, no matter whether someone has played hundreds of games with the Bruins and is going to be a hall of Famer with a retired jersey or is yet to experience his debut in the league and the team. Because of that, they have also banned the rookie lap tradition.

He has also made all the European guys, who don't have English as their first language, talk in English in both the locker room and on the ice so everyone would understand each other and there wouldn't be any language barrier or fragmentation among the guys, saying that they can talk in their native languages with their countrymen when hanging out with each other, but not when it comes to matters that involve the entire team - mind you, Chara himself comes from Europe, he is Slovakian, so this wasn't a case of an American being annoyed by the guys speaking Swedish, Czech, and so on around him.

To make the foreign guys feel welcome, he has also learned how to greet each player individually in their native language - a small gesture, but one that definitely is heart-warming in your eyes if you come to the NHL without confidence in your English language skills and homesick, hundreds of miles away from where you come from.

Back in 2021, Bergeron made the entire team sit down and watch the 25-minute TSN interview with Kyle Beach, saying that while it was hard for everyone, it was crucial to go through it together as a team to showcase that there is a safe space in Boston to come out with this sort of stuff and ask for help or counseling if anything similar happens to anyone of the team.

Brad Marchand has come forward on numerous occasions, standing up for and supporting the LGBT community:

"I want to stand up for what I believe in, and I don't think it's right when people say things or bash people because of their sexual orientation. I have friends who are in gay relationships, and I don't think it's right for people to be against that. Everyone is allowed to find love whatever way that is."

When he was asked if the Bruins would accept a player that has come out, he responded:

"Guys would accept that, no question. We're a team in the [dressing] room and a family. It doesn't matter what different beliefs guys have, or where they come from, or whatever the case may be. Guys would accept it. Again, in the room, we're a family."

Charlie McAvoy has also been vocally supporting the matter, even attending the Pride Parades in Boston, despite all the backlash many fans sent his way after seeing the photos.

You can hate Boston for how they sometimes act on the ice and how their fans act on social media, I don't deny that Brad is a bloody rat more than often, whom I would have detested wholeheartedly if he wasn't on my team, but you have to admit that Bruins have the healthiest environment in the cabin and the most mature and considerate core in the league.

Plus they play good hockey too and Boston as a city is gorgeous, so if I found myself being a professional hockey player in another life, the Bruins would definitely be my dream destination.

[the1975attheirverybest]

BEING FUNNY IN A FOREIGN LANGUAGE

Warnings: smut, pretentious SATVB commentary, also SATVB spoilers.

read all other chapters here

Chapter 2– “I’m in love with you- I -I - I -I-“

As Amelia rounded the corner, peeking through the glass windows of the hotel lobby, she spotted a familiar head of hair and reflexively smiled to herself. She’d know these curls anywhere.

“Hey, you,” she called out to him as she walked in, Matty’s head turning around at the sound of her voice. “What’re you doing, awake, and…” she scanned his table, noticing the drink in front of him, “drinking — alone, apparently, at this hour?”

“Couldn’t sleep.” He shrugged, eyeing her from head to toe. “What about you? You look like you had a fun night.”

Amelia smiled, recalling tonight’s activities with a flutter in her stomach, “Yeah, I was out with-”

“Your boy-toy?” Matty’s tone was unintentionally critical.

She chuckled, throwing herself into the chair next to him. “He’s…not my boy-toy.” Her objection was weak and more amused than defensive.

“Well, whatever he is, he’s not a gentleman. What, he let you go home, alone, on your own, at 2 in the morning?” Matty scuffed, as if waving him off. “you want me to buy you a drink, by the way?”

“No, it’s okay, I’d rather share yours.” she reached for his glass, taking a sip. “For your information, he invited me to stay the night. Insisted, even. But I didn’t want to.”

“Is that right?”

“Staying over after sex….it just feels serious. This is not meant to be serious.”

“My, my, my!” Matty gestured dramatically, “How the tides have turned.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“I’ve taught you well.” He giggled despite himself. “Mousy, inexperienced Amelia is all grown up now.” He placed a hand on his heart, faking sentimentalism. “I could burst with pride.” He was bursting with something else.

She rolled her eyes, holding back a smile, “piss off.”

When Matty stretched his hand out to reclaim his drink from her, Amelia noticed the notepad, with various scraps of paper sticking out of it, that had been tucked underneath his forearms.

“What’s all this?” she pulled the notepad towards her side of the table.

“Oh, it’s not much. just been trying to write a new bit for the show.”

“Oh?”

“So, part of the plan for this tour is,” he took a big swig of his drink, “that I’d sort of- like- add or tweak it every now and then. You know, to keep things fresh and unexpected.”

She nodded along as he spoke, recalling a conversation they’d had when he first started planning the show. He’d talked about how important it was for him that the show be responding to the audience in real time. A way to get around the repetitiveness of the performance, and the idea of people seeing it online.

“And? What’d you come up with?” She flipped through the pages, reading his scribbles.

“Nothing. I can’t seem to come up with anything.

Brain feels…..both full and empty at the same time.”

She heard the tone of defeat in his voice and looked up at him, not saying anything. He offered her the remainder of his drink, which she accepted.

Matty watched her read his unfinished drafts and fragmented sentences. The words felt heavy in his mouth. He wanted to say them. To free himself. To finally let her know. His lips parted, ‘just say it,’he thought to himself. No words came out. ‘Just fuckin say it. Just tell her.’ He waited a moment, hoping the urge to confess would pass, but it didn’t. He needs to just get it over with. Worry about the consequences later. He’s a grown adult. He’s going to tell her how he feels.

“Amelia-“

“Do you have any cigarettes left on you? I’m in the mood for a smoke.” She didn’t seem to notice that she’d cut him off.

“Oh.” He uttered. The sinking feeling overwhelmed him.

“Well? Do you?”

“Do- I…what?”

“Have any cigs left? Matty, are you listening?” She blinked rapidly.

“Oh- oh, yeah. I do. I do have some left.” He struggled to come back to his body for a moment. Slowly, his hands felt around his pockets. “You wanna go outside for a smoke?” He eventually rose to his feet. “C’mon, let’s go.”

****

“So,” Matty looked at her as she blew the smoke into the cold air of the night. “You and your….boy-toy-“

“Joshua.”

“His name is Joshua?” A smirk twitched on his lips. “That’s a slutty name.”

She giggled, amused. “What the fuck’s a slutty name?”

“Joshua!”

“No, like, how can a name be slutty?” She threw her cigarette bud to the ground and stepped on it with the heel of her shoe. “Cold.” She mumbled. “Can I have a cuddle?”

Matty did not hesitate to throw his arm around her and pull her into his side, hiding her under his leather jacket.

She wrapped her arms around his torso. “You’re warm.” Sighing contentedly and already feeling his body heat spread to hers. “What is it about me and Joshua?” She suddenly recalled that he’d started to say something.

“You were saying earlier….you’re not serious.”

“We’re not.” She rested her cheek against his body. “Plus, we’re leaving for the east coast soon anyway, right?”

Matty nodded.

“Yeah, so I won’t see him again after that.”

He remained silent for a while, taking her words in. He couldn’t help but be delighted. Should he try again tell her now? Should he wait until Joshua is old news first? What would she prefer, if she could choose? How can he make this perfect for her? “You’re freezing. Let’s go upstairs, yeah?”

“What a fine idea.”

***

“You’re exhausted, aren’t you?” Amelia sat next to him on the bed and reached out her hand to stroke his cheek.

He closed his eyes, leaning into her touch. He felt the cold metal of the rings on her fingers against his face and the scent of cigarettes lingered on her skin. “You’ve been asking me that every time you’ve seen me.”

“When's the last time that you had a full nights sleep?” She asked, her tone suggesting that she already knew the answer.

“What’s a full nights sleep?” He quipped.

With her face so close to his, Matty’s eyes studied her features, admiring her beauty. Her pretty eyes, the smudged, faded lipstick on her lips. He thought about how the smudge had happened. How, earlier in the night, her lips might have looked different. He hadn’t caught her before she’d gone out to meet Joshua. But he imagined the color sitting perfectly within the lining of her lips. Until another man’s lips had kissed hers. A man that wasn’t him. Had she let him touch her the way that she let Matty so often do? Had his fingers traced her skin? Had he made her feel good? Was she wet for him before he’d even undressed her? Did he make her weak? Had he heard her whine and beg? Had she been vulnerable for him? Did Joshua know that she preferred it when a little pain was delivered with her pleasure? A slight tug on her hair. An ever so slightly rough squeeze of her neck…had he learned her body? Had his name died on her lips, interrupted by her moan as she’d cum for him? Would Matty taste the remnants of someone else on her lips if he could kiss her now? Was it all the same? Just sex? Just pleasure, regardless of the source?

Did Joshua know how she liked her head scratched afterwards? Were they intimate enough for him to notice how shy she gets after the orgasmic high subsides and she feels naked and exposed? Does he rush to cover her up and shower her with praise as he had done, countless times before.

Amelia watched the darkness creep onto Matty’s face, as if suddenly visited by a waking nightmare.

“Matty, are you alright?”

Her gentle voice calmed his racing mind, pulling his thoughts away. He nodded. “Y-yeah.”

“You’re worried about the show, aren’t you?”

The show. Sure, that’s what he’s worried about. She’s not entirely wrong. The future of the tour weighed heavily on his shoulders. Not at this exact moment, though. “Yeah- the…show.” He mumbled.

She kicked off her shoes, climbing into his bed and making herself comfortable. Matty’s body ached for her.

“C’mon.” She patted the empty space next to her, urging him to join.

They each laid on their sides, facing each other, noses almost touching.

“So, tell me what you have in mind.” She smiled and his heart skipped a beat.

“Tell you what?”

“Isn’t that why you’re paying me? To help stage the show?”

“Right…yeah. The show! Yes! Of course…well, erm.” He cleared his throat. “I think we keep the naked body double—“

“Peanut. He has a name! Please.”

Matty laughed.

“How’d you like it if we all started referring to you as the clothed body double?”

“Fair argument….alright. So, I think we keep the Peanut bit. It’s kinda dramatic enough on its own. And it’s open-ended enough for me to, like, improvise as I go, you know? Like I don’t have to do the exact same bit every night. I can pretty much engage with it-“

“Him.”

“Engage with him in any way I like. Depending on what I’m in the mood for.”

She nodded. “Yeah, that’s true….I like that. It’s clever. So, what’s the problem then?”

“The problem is the other bit. The weight lifting and smoking and stuff.”

“Okay…” she was quiet for a moment. Matty found himself getting lost in her eyes, his heart beating to the rhythm of her blinking. “Well, let me ask you this: what’d you write it about?”

“Well it’s commentary on the old show, right? The raw meat eating ‘I’m a man’ stuff. But it’s also….a healthier version of that. So, it’s double edged like that.”

She nodded.

“I guess it’s just….well, part of the criticism that I’m meant to be responding to is that I took the performance bit too far, right?”

“Mhm.”

“I don’t think I’m addressing that adequately by shirtlessly lifting weights.”

Matty watched Amelia frown, deep in thought. She shuffled spring in bed, sitting up and propping up the pillow behind her back to rest against the headboard. His eyebrows shot up to keep track of her. He shifted to lay on his back and felt small next to her.

“Have you thought about reflecting the inadequacy of your response within the response itself?” She spoke after giving it some thought. “Like saying something to the audience about it even as you’re doing it?”

“Like commenting on the commentary?” Matty asked. “That’s meta.” He giggled. “Very matty-coded. I like it.”

She chuckled “matty-coded? God, you’re hot.”

“I am? I mean, yeah, I am, but-“

“I hate that I have a thing for men with big brains it’s so cliche.” She bristled, judging herself.

“I DO have a big brain, you’re right.”

“Get your head out of the gutter. I was actually referring to your brain, nothing else.”

“Oh. What a shame.”

“Don’t say it.” She commanded, looking down at him knowingly.

“I have literally said nothing.”

“I know you. You’re thinking about making a joke about how you have two heads. One up here, and one down there.”

Matty giggled, rolling his eyes. “I was not thinking about that.” He was. He so was. And he found it attractive that she could read him that well.

“Does it bother you that people thought you took the performance bit too far?”

Matty was taken aback by the question. Perhaps it was the abrupt change of subject, or just the fact that he was sleep deprived, and perpetually on the verge of telling her how he feels, but he felt a mix of emotions bubble to the surface. He remained quiet for a long time, contemplating his answer. The longer he thought about it, the more emotional he became.

“I’d love to say ‘no’ but yeah. Yes it bothers me.” He sighed loudly. “It didn’t at first. And to be fair, not all criticisms are valid. There are some objectively stupid tales.” He kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling as he spoke. “And those don’t bother me. I just— I expect Twitter to have something to say no matter what I do or say. That’s sort of a— an occupational hazard at this point. I guess what bothers me most is….people thinking that I did any of it maliciously, you know?”

She heard a faint strain in his voice and sensed that she’d hit a sore spot. “Matty—“

“Like some actually think that I set out to do this with the intention of hurting people.” He exhaled, blinking rapidly to keep from crying. “The concept of punching down in comedy….it’s just….it’s not great. And- I guess you could argue that - I did do that. To some extent?”

“Yeah, and you’re not a comedian. So there’s not really that context either.”

“I disagree.” The statement echoed for a long moment. “I do. I really disagree with you about that.” A few stray tears managed to roll down his face but he ignored them and carried on. “ I don’t think I’m a comedian like in a professional comic kind of way. I’m not like….fuckin Bo Burnham. But I think I’ve set up the persona as a bit of a jokester. Or at least I thought I had. I guess it came out of nowhere for some people.”

“It came off stage.” She corrected him.

“Right. But- metaphorically speaking everything’s a stage.” He gestured vaguely with his hands. “Well, you know what I mean. You’ve heard me say this before. About…..like social media being a performance and all that.” He shrugged. “Anyway, and then- then all that other shit happened and….I guess I’m public enemy number one now.”

“I’m so sorry-“

“It’s fine. It’s whatever.”

“Don’t say that-“

“No, no. I mean it. It’s fine. Like, this isn’t about feeling sorry for myself. I don’t ever want the show to become that.”

Amelia looked him straight in the eyes. “The show doesn’t have to become about that. But you’re allowed to feel however you feel.”

“It’s….I just need to man up and deal with it.” He shifted back to lay on his side again, his arms reaching upwards and wrapping around her, he buried his face into her waist, letting the rest of his tears flow.

***

Matty awoke in a panic. Suddenly jolting in bed and looking around him through squinted eyes as he sat up. “What happened?” He mumbled, his voice heavy with sleep. He noticed that he was in nothing but his boxers. His jeans were folded across the chair on the other side of the room. His shirt was draped over Amelia’s shoulders as she stood by the foot of the bed, sipping on what smelled like coffee.

“Mornin.’” She spoke into her beverage. “Bad dream?”

He nodded. “What time is it?”

“ it’s only 7 am. Go back to sleep.”

“Fuck. Shit. Fuck.” His head hit the pillow again. “I’ve gotta meet Ross at the hotel gym in a bit.”

“I’m sure he’d understand if you canceled just this once.” Amelia made her way towards the hotel coffee machine, rummaging through the complimentary supplies to make him some coffee.

“I figured it out.” He spoke over the sound of the machine, “I’m taking out the weight lifting bit. I’ll replace it with a speech. But it’s going to be funny. I’ll have to write something today. You and Tobias can help me figure out where I should be, onstage, when I deliver it. For lights and shit.”

“Is that what your dream was about?” She picked up his mug, walking over to his side of the bed.

“No. No. My dream was….much more terrifying.”

“You wanna talk about it?” She handed him the mug.

“Not really. Id rather forget about it.” He took a sip and hummed in satisfaction.

“Oh I know how to help you forget.” She whispered into his ear.

“Oh?”

“Have you decided whether or not you want sex yet?”

He stared through her, blankly. Nows not the time to say I love you.

With his eyes still fixed on her, he set his drink down on the nightstand, then he leaned forth and kissed her, wrapping both of his strong arms around her waist and pulling her on top of him.

She yelped, loudly, laughing and reveling in the kisses that he’d peppered her body with. Fuck, she’d missed him. He had a certain unforgettable touch that satiated her, yet always left her wanting more.

“Hold on tight for me, darling.” He whispered from underneath her.

She hovered over him, her hands gripping the headboard tightly, knowing it was necessary, and bracing herself. Matty lined his lips with her center, licking his mouth hungrily.

“You ready?”

“Yes, god yes.”

“What I like to hear.”

She gasped, breathless as she felt his tongue lick into her. Mouthing a silent “fuck yeah” up at the ceiling. His mouth was just as perfect as she’d remembered and replayed in her fantasies. He knew exactly how to move, he’d taken pains to learn the pace that worked best for her, and he took his time working her up: going slow at first, giving her time to adjust, making sure she’s comfortable before dialing up. He relished in the fact that he could tell how great she was feeling by the rocking of the headboard. As the sound of it hitting the wall intensified, so did his mouth, licking, sucking. His newly grown out facial hair grazing the insides of her legs, a new sensation she hadn’t experienced before.

She felt ( and heard) her own wetness covering Matty’s lips, dripping down his chin. He let none of it stop him. He delighted in it, in fact. Took it as a clear indication that he was doing his job right. He loved opening his eyes, seeing her breasts right there in front of him and had to fight the urge to reach over for a quick feel. As tempted as he was, he much preferred keeping his arms wrapped around her, both, for safety, and to keep her in place whenever she tried to squirm away, feeling too sensitive. He knew he’d gotten her right where she wanted when she began to shake and whine.

“Ple-please. Matty- please— I feel- you’re so- please?”

He waited for her to look down, locking eyes with him, then, without pulling his mouth away from her, he nodded, mumbling a “cum for me.”

Matty smiled when he felt her thighs clamp down around his head. She moved faster, carelessly, bouncing up and down, riding his tongue, and screaming out his name.

His grip around her tightened when she let go of the headboard, catching her as she collapsed on top of him.

The sounds of their heavy breathing filled the room.

“Yum.” Matty made sure to add into the heavy silence, making her blush and turn to hide her face in the sheets.

He rolled over to pull her away from the bed and free her beautiful, blushing face. “Pretty sure the entire floor knows my name now. So much for my ‘Adam Levine’ Alias.” He gloated.

“Stopppp. That’s not funnyyy.” She whined, hiding in the crook of his neck.

“Sorry, sorry. I forget you get weirdly shy after doing obscenely sexy things.”

He peeled her off of him, his fingers tilting her chin up. “Hi. Good morning.” He couldn’t help the grin on his face. “Kiss?”

“Can taste myself on you.”

“Don’t you taste amazing?” Matty reached for his lukewarm coffee. “Could put you in my coffee and drink you up.”

“Gross.” She rolled her eyes. “Wait,” she took his mug away as soon as it touched his lips. “Wanna ride you.”

“Uhh…what?”

“Who’s shy now?” She shot up an eyebrow as she set the mug back where it was.

“N-no. Not shy. Just….the last time we did that…well….”

“I cried and hid in the bathroom. I know. But I wanna try again.”

“Are you- sure?”

“Wouldn’t be literally asking for it if I wasn’t.”

“Fair enough- I guess.”

Matty’s body stiffened, head to toe, as soon as she moved to remove his briefs. She felt him tense up.

“You alright?”

“Mhm.”

“Matty, don’t worry. I’m fine. I promise this is fine.”

“Yeah, umm…yeah. It’s fine.”

She studied his face silently for a beat. “So….can I go ahead?”

“I- guess. Yeah…yeah, go on. Do it.”

Amelia was stunned to look down at Matty’s lap and find herself face to face with his flaccid penis.

“Uhh, Matty-“

“Don’t- I know- it’s fine.”

“Uhhu. So you keep saying. But I’m looking at it and- well, it’s not fine. Hey, no big deal! You’re not in the mood right now. You don’t have to be. I guess I just thought, after everything you just did-“

“I AM in the mood. I promise!”

“Does the rest of your body know?”

“It…knows.

“The dick doesn’t lie, Matty.”

He rolled his eyes.

“Sorry, just trying to lighten the mood.”

“Well, I’m not in the mood for that right this second.”

“Yeah, no kidding.” She nodded at his lap. “Sorry! Sorry! I think- I think I reflexively make jokes when I’m uncomfortable. I didn’t mean to-“

“Go to therapy, Amelia! Stop making dick jokes.”

“Soft dick jokes….okay, that wasn’t nice but I’ll let it slide cuz you’re having a crisis of masculinity right now.”

Matty pulled his briefs back up. “I am not!”

“I’m not saying that….that….failing to get it up — there I said it! Okay. We’re all adults here it’s fine! Except I guess Matty Jr. over there cuz he’s refusing to grow but…oh my god someone stop me!!!l” she got off the bed, pacing around the room and avoiding looking into Matty’s eyes. Then, once her brows had stopped sweating she tried again.

“I’m just saying, Matty. Failing to maintain an erection is fine. It’s not some weird measure of manliness or whatever. But you make whole shows about being a man and….I guess I just wanna say that it happens. It’s fine.”

Matty turned around around to sit on the edge of the bed, his feet touching the ground. He found his cigarette packet on the nightstand and began to feel around for his lighter.

“Amelia?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you leave?”

“What? Why?! Are you mad at me? I was joking, Matty! I’m sorry-“

“No, no. I’m not mad. It’s just….please leave? I can’t look at you right now. Don’t want you to see me like this.”

“Oh, for fucks sakes! You’re such a primate. What, are you a wounded jungle animal going off on his own to die with dignity away from the pack? So, your dick can’t get hard so fuckin what? They have drugs for that shit now. Pop a pill and shut up!”

“Leave.” Matty walked over to his hotel room door, pulling it open.

“Unbelievable.”

***

Matty stood in the far corner of the venue, sipping his wine and wishing he were anywhere but this after party. He knew that as Frontman, it reflected well on everybody for him to be there and to put on a smile, especially since they were leaving the west coast in the morning. This would be his last chance to thank and celebrate some local people who helped put this show on for the past few weeks.

His mind, however, was elsewhere. He couldn’t tear his eyes off Amelia. And as he looked at her, his nightmare from the other night replayed in his head. He’d dreamt that he tried to tell her that he loves her, but every time that he would approach her, she’d get farther and farther away, until she’d disappeared. Marty’s never been a superstitious guy, but, something about that dream left a bad feeling in the back of his mind.

‘I’m in love with you.’ Just tell her. Go on. Go up to her. Look her in the eyes and say ‘Amelia, I’m in love with you.’ Do it before you lose the courage. He gulped down what was left of his drink and marched in her direction. She’d been saying goodbye to a venue worker who’d helped her out of a few backstage emergencies.

“Amelia?”

She turned around at the mention of her name. “Matty! Hi! Oh, god. I wasn’t sure…I mean, I’ve been keeping my distance cuz…you know. You kicked me out of your hotel room after not being able to- well, you know. But I just wanted to say.”

“Amelia, shut up.”

“Beg your fuckin pardon?”

“Sorry, I just mean, forget all that. I’ve got something to tell you.”

“Oh? Go on. What is it?”

“Well, it’s simple, really, I-“

Amelia felt someone tap her shoulder and turned around. It was Joshua. He leaned in and greeted her with a kiss.

“Hi, you.” Matty noticed her hand squeeze his shoulder. “What- what’re you doing here? Come to say goodbye?”

“Even better.” Joshua smiled at her. “Here to give you the good news in person. I’m tagging along! On tour, I mean. If you’ll have me.”

“What?!” Matty yelled out before he could stop himself.

Both of the couples heads whipped around staring at him.

“Sorry, pardon. Private moment. I shouldn’t intrude…I’ll just- walk…away.”

As he walked away, Matty thought, THIS must be his dream. His nightmare coming to life.

[brewed-pangolin]

The Midas Touch

Gif credit to @collinnmckinley

Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish x Fem Reader

This little fic is an extension of a Soap headcanon I did recently about Soap being sensitive to touch. Never judge a book by its cover. And if you ever want to get into Johnny's, it's easy. Touch him.

Warnings: Just a little bit of angst amongst an absolute heep of fluff. And ALL the feels!

Word Count 2.8k

--

If there were a more eloquent word to describe the afternoon before you, it was in a foreign tongue. Nestled into the cushions of your couch and surrounded by pillows and blankets, it was nothing short of blissful perfection. 

The soft ticking of the clock in the foreground like a rhythmic heartbeat of the day, accompanied by the echoing calls of birds outside your window, it combined into a soothing scene of comfort and tranquility. Even the dull sounds of the television seemed to add an extra layer of soft buffering to the world around you. 

It was all in the background as your focus was on the book in your hands; a twisted tale of romance and espionage that pulled at your heartstrings and made your body ache for more. Lost within the lines of dialogue your mind pushed out nearly all distractions as your mind flooded with imagery the endless words created. All except one.

That one distraction was him. Johnny. Soap. To be more specific it was his breathing. The longer you listened the more distinctive it became. Every inhale was labored. Every exhale drawn out to its last molecule, expelling whatever burrowing demon he had brought back from his last mission. He had barely said a word since coming home overnight, and even as he sat motionless next to you, his body language spoke volumes. 

Without taking your eyes off the pages, your hand instinctually traveled to the back of his neck, the sudden connection causing a hitch in his breath. Cupping your hand into the crook of his neck, your fingers danced across his flesh as he pulled his head back, begging for more connection. Your eyes withdrew from the pages and turned towards him as the tips of your fingers felt the tension beneath them almost immediately. 

“Jesus, Soap. You’re stiff as a board.” Your abundantly honest quip hit a silent nerve within him. 

“Aye. Sorry, hen. Jus’ tired. Las’ one did me in, yeah.”

Soap’s voice was quiet, somber, and riddled with silent regret wrapped within his usual jovial disposition. He slowly turned his head to face you. His distinctive bright blue eyes were dim, faded with a grayish hue encroaching from the softened edges. And you could see within the visible lines of his face he was broken. 

This had become your routine. Soap would leave you on a mission whole and come back in fragmented mental pieces of a Johnny you almost didn’t recognize. Some more so than others. This time was no different. He could never tell you the details of his deployments, and you preferred it that way. The less you knew the better, you had told him over and over again. You were his lover, and you knew your obligation to him through and through. Solace.

Softly you caressed the hairline on the back of his skull with your thumb, while simultaneously adding more pressure to the fingers along the length of his neck. A light squeeze to his flesh was all it took for a soft moan to escape his lips. 

His eyelids fluttered closed as he melded into the cusp of your hand, and with every breath you began to feel his muscles loosen beneath your delicate touch. There was progress here, but more needed to be done. 

Through years of deployments and countless trial and error endeavors, you had found the sequential breakthrough to get to Johnny within the reinforced walls that was ‘Soap in the field’. It took time, patience, and the delicate workings of your skilled hands to untether him from within the tight bindings of his tormented mind. 

Like the intricate workings of a corset, you began with the silken thread tied at the base of his skull; light pressure of your fingertips descending into the crook of his neck, a soft ripple of release flowed within their wake as your hands traversed their way up along the same path. The perpetual ebb and flow permeated beneath his taut skin and within a matter of moments the barriers of Soap began to crumble, and within their darkened crevices the bright light of Johnny slowly began to bleed through.

“Fuckin hell, bonnie.” His weathered voice was barely above a whisper.

“C’mon Soap. You know the drill.”

At the trailing of your words you released him from your soothing embrace, moving to face him within the corner of the couch and relaxing into an Indian sitting position. A whispered moan escaped his lips at the sudden detachment of your fingers, the soft sound reverberated within your chest and lit the fiery need to give him the relief he so desperately craved. Placing one of the many pillows that surrounded you into the gap between your legs you gave it a light tap before beckoning him to lay and relax beneath you. 

“C’mon now. Get comfy.”

“Yes ma’am.” 

There it was; your first tendril of Johnny had made its way through the concrete fortress. Those two words were the safety net to bring him back into the light and send Soap into the realm of protected hibernation. As he twisted his tophalf to face away and shuffle back, your hand shot up to quickly halt him in his progression.

“Wait, Soap. Shirt. Take it off.”

“What?” He asked in a baffled tone. 

“Just take your damn shirt off, Soap.” You were breaking from the usual narrative, and Soap was all but lost in your divergent undertaking.

As he turned his head you were met with a perplexed look with a questioning furrowed brow. You reciprocated with a tilt of your head and deliberate ‘go on’ gesture of your hand. Being the good soldier he was he followed your order without question, lifting his shirt over the crest of his head in one fluid motion. 

“What’ya got in mind, hen?”

“The usual, Soap. Just changing it up a bit. Now c’mon.” 

“Okay, okay. Donnae got t’be so bossy, hen.”

“Shut it. And toss me that blanket by your feet.” 

You were blunt, yet held an undertone of tenderness embedded within your words. It was an elegantly choreographed repartee that you used to counteract Soap’s use of humor as a smokescreen. There was a silent tremble in his skin as he passed the blanket and immediately you opened it up, laying it upon him as he shifted back towards you.

As his body descended into the softness of the couch, your hands moved to cradle the curvature of his neck and gracefully guided his head down into the plushness of the pillow. He tilted his chin slightly upward to meet your gaze, his crested head divoting deeper into the fabric of the pillow. And those cerulean orbs flashed a momentary brightness as more of Soap dissipated into the foreground of his mind.

“Hiya, bonnie.” 

“Hey there, Johnny.”

The bindings had come undone. The tight grip of Soap released. He laid before you open and exposed, a vulnerability you had earned and would never take for granted. 

“Close your eyes, Johnny. Just relax for me.” 

As much as you hated to part with his baby blues, you knew he had to close off certain senses to remain open to you. Touch was paramount to Johnny; as important as it was for him to his partner, it was just as influential to his own well-being. 

At the closing of his eyes he shifted himself further into the comfort of the couch, leveling his shoulders onto the length of your calves. Once you felt him begin to relax and deepen into your grasp your fingers gracefully began to outstretch over the circumference of his neck.

“You good, Johnny?”

“Aye.”

“Good. Now, focus on your breathing.”

You watched as his chest rose, he held the breath deep within his lungs before slowly expelling it through his slightly parted lips. It was a cleansing breath, you could feel it within the tips of your fingers as his skin loosened and muscles began to unwind beneath the veil of his flesh. Focusing on where you had left off, you applied light pressure to the back of his skull and in a languid motion moved up and down the curvature of his neck. 

Each pass up mirrored his inhalation. As he held the air within his chest you pressed firmly into his skin, gradually making slow concentric circular movements that melted away the tension beneath your fingertips. At the first sign of his exhalation you released the pressure and gracefully flowed down and followed your previous upward path. 

Like the constant rhythmic motion of the tide you worked out the vice-like grip of his muscles along his upper spine. Each steady pass removing layers upon layers of war-torn cemented sediment, and as the tenseness within him eroded your grip along his skin slowly began to relax.

“That’s it, Johnny. Loosen up for me.” You whispered, the quiet approval eliciting a soft moan from within his chest. 

Johnny’s neck was always the most difficult portion for you to work out. It was the reinforced base to the levee of his psyche. Yet within your skilled workings once there was even the slightest crack within it, he would begin to crumble within the palms of your hands. And just as expected as you chiseled your way through to his inner turbulent sea, the waves of regret and remorse seeped through before ultimately breaking into a deluge of comforting relief.

You read the waves of his release like braille underneath the pads of your fingertips, following within its wake as it traversed down into the curve of his neck before bellowing over the flesh of his broad shoulders. A cascade of goosebumps erupted over his bare skin, the change in tactile texture sending a satisfying surge of triumph coursing through your veins. 

“C’mon, Johnny. Come back to me.” You tried to quell the quiet desperation in your voice as you beckoned him, but it was of no use. 

It was nearly impossible not to react to Johnny’s progressive mitigation. The energy of the room began to shift, the very air itself lifted like a welcoming breeze following a summer rainstorm. 

Fresh. Clean. Rejuvenated.

Yet still held the sparks of electrical charge within its flowing currents of air.

You understood the transition, comprehended its meaning through years of study with him. This was his breakthrough. Figuratively and literally you forced your way into him, bending over as you delved your hands beneath the weight of his shoulders towards the muscular curve of his mid spine. Clenching your fingers your knuckles pressed into his flesh and with measured tenderness followed its path back up towards his shoulders. 

“Fuuckin hell, bonnie” He hissed through clenched teeth, turning his head towards you. His forehead becoming flush with the flesh of your right cheek, the tips of his mohawk caressing the soft skin of the back of your neck. 

You remained in your crouched position, cradling his head within the nook of your shoulder. Words were meaningless to you now. You spoke to him through the intimate connection of your combined skins. Coaxing. Pleading. Liberating.

As the tight coil within him began to unwind, your fists slowly relaxed. Opening and spreading over the curves of his supple flesh. The heat within them radiating, melting, smoothing out the muscular rigidity that densely wrapped around him. You studied him, watched for those tell tale signs to Soap’s restful disintegration. 

Your eyes paid close attention to the movements of his chest. The soft tremble within its descent, the silent quiver wrapped around his audible exhale. And as your focus shifted upward, you recognized the softening lines beginning to flow across his face. Clenched eyelids relaxing, jaw loosening from its tightly hinged junction, and a soft red hue forming within the apple of his cheeks.

This was your cue. The last hurdle towards Johnny’s final threshold.

“Come on, Johnny. Up ya get.” 

You moved quickly to resting on your knees as he reared himself into a sitting position. An audible moan of relief rumbled within him, followed by disdain at the loss of your delicate touch. Moving forward you cradled his shoulders within the realm of your chest, letting his head once more softly connect with yours as your hands traced down his spine to rest within the small of his back. 

As your fingers lightly caressed at the sensitive flesh, he turned his head and began to nudge his forehead into the flat of your temple. His soft lips grazed over the curve of your cheek, warm air quivering down your neck as he gently coaxed you to face him. 

He was searching. Desperately. He craved that final connection; to willingly fall apart within your arms and come undone to the soothing consolation of your welcoming lips.

“Bonnie.”

“I got ya, Johnny. Come back to me.” The tremor in his voice made your heart ache, and you reciprocated it with a loving verbal embrace. 

While his neck and shoulders were his levees that you so exquisitely chiseled away at, your nimble fingers on his lower back were the swinging wrecking ball that would ultimately set him free. And as they worked their final magic within the depths of his flesh, your lips at last touched his for the first time in months. 

“Open your eyes, Johnny.”

Solace. Deliverance within the blaze of a cerulean flame. 

Your hands immediately flew to cup the curves of his jaw, supporting him as his arms wrapped tightly around your midsection. The connection of your lips was nothing short of explosive. A supernova of passionate energy flowed between you as your bodies molded together. 

You broke the kiss only to scrutinize his face, validating that your subsequent labor had been accomplished.

The exultant smile that danced across your face was thankfully returned within the brightness of his eyes. Their color unmatched and without explanation in a world of need and understanding. 

“Hiya, Johnny.” 

He didn’t answer immediately, choosing to take in the details of your face as though he hadn’t seen it within a milenia.

“How ya do it, bonnie? How ya get me outta my own head like that?” The tremble in his voice had all but disappeared. He was calm. Confident. Steadfast.  

“You were lost, Johnny. Sometimes you gotta be lost if you wanna be found.” Your quiet response brought a tranquil smile to his face, his eyes continuing to soften as they gazed upon you.

“Aye. And tha’ Midas touch a yers. Donnae think I’ll ever get tired a that.”

You couldn’t restrain the chuckle that left your chest. Never had anyone ever referred to your touch in such a manner.

“Midas touch, eh? How long til I turn you to gold, huh?” You were confident enough in him to begin your usual banter. Soap had all but disappeared into the nether regions of his mind, and your Johnny had returned with full force. 

“Bonnie, in yer hands I’ll turn hard as a diamond.” His playful quip went straight to the core of your lower belly. You knew he needed time, he could be playful in mind but his body required more to regain its usual strength. 

“We’ll test that out later, Johnny. C’mere.” 

You wrapped your arms around his neck and brought him down as you laid back into your cushioned palace. He buried his face into the valley of your chest, and never one to miss an impromptu moment he had to give his approval to the comfort they always granted.  

“Steamin Jesus, bonnie. Even th’finest Glasgowian pillows can’t compare ta this”

“Shut up, Johnny.”

His arms wrapped around you once more, his body relaxing against the radiating heat of your own. Your hands moved to the crested hawk atop his scalp and gracefully began to comb through its thickened mane. A quiet rumble of relaxation bellowed within his chest, signaling the last remnant being expelled from your freeing conquest. 

Effortlessly he closed his eyes and you slowly began to focus on the dull sounds that echoed around you; the rhythmic ticking of the clock, the quiet song of the birds outside, even the soft hum of the television was a welcoming reprieve. They all began to move into the background as your mind tried to recall the book you held in your hands earlier. But you were distracted once more by him. Johnny. Your Johnny. More specifically it was his breathing. Soft. Measured. Peaceful. You decided the book could stay lost for now, you had found your new twisted romance. And it was unlike anything you could find at any bookstore. It was your own.

 

@deadbranch

@sofasoap

@punishmepunisher

@d3athtr4psworld

[lesbianchemicalplant]

Sooner or later, however, the colonized intellectual realizes that the existence of a nation is not proved by culture, but in the people's struggle against the forces of occupation. No colonialism draws its justification from the fact that the territories it occupies are culturally nonexistent. Colonialism will never be put to shame by exhibiting unknown cultural treasures under its nose. The colonized intellectual, at the very moment when he undertakes a work of art, fails to realize he is using techniques and a language borrowed from the occupier. He is content to cloak these instruments in a style that is meant to be national but which is strangely reminiscent of exoticism. The colonized intellectual who returns to his people through works of art behaves in fact like a foreigner. Sometimes he will not hesitate to use the local dialects to demonstrate his desire to be as close to the people as possible, but the ideas he expresses, the preoccupations that haunt him are in no way related to the daily lot of the men and women of his country. The culture with which the intellectual is preoccupied is very often nothing but an inventory of particularisms. Seeking to cling close to the people, he clings merely to a visible veneer. This veneer, however, is merely a reflection of a dense, subterranean life in perpetual renewal. This reification, which seems all too obvious and characteristic of the people, is in fact but the inert, already invalidated outcome of the many, and not always coherent, adaptations of a more fundamental substance beset with radical changes. Instead of seeking out this substance, the intellectual lets himself be mesmerized by these mummified fragments which, now consolidated, signify, on the contrary, negation, obsolescence, and fabrication. [...] Seeking to stick to tradition or reviving neglected traditions is not only going against history, but against one's people. When a people support an armed or even political struggle against a merciless colonialism, tradition changes meaning. What was a technique of passive resistance may, in this phase, be radically doomed. Traditions in an underdeveloped country undergoing armed struggle are fundamentally unstable and crisscrossed by centrifugal forces. This is why the intellectual often risks being out of step. The peoples who have waged the struggle are increasingly impermeable to demagoguery, and by seeking to follow them too closely, the intellectual turns out to be nothing better than a vulgar opportunist, even behind the times.

In the field of visual arts, for example, the colonized creator who at all costs wants to create a work of art of national significance confines himself to stereotyping details. These artists, despite having been immersed in modern techniques and influenced by the major contemporary trends in painting and architecture, turn their backs on foreign culture, challenge it, and, setting out in search of the true national culture, they give preference to what they think to be the abiding features of national art. But these creators forget that modes of thought, diet, modern techniques of communication, language, and dress have dialectically reorganized the mind of the people and that the abiding features that acted as safeguards during the colonial period are in the process of undergoing enormous radical transformations.

This creator, who decides to portray national truth, turns, paradoxically enough, to the past, and so looks at what is irrelevant to the present. What he aims for in his inner intentionality is the detritus of social thought, external appearances, relics, and knowledge frozen in time. The colonized intellectual, however, who strives for cultural authenticity, must recognize that national truth is first and foremost the national reality. He must press on until he reaches that place of bubbling trepidation from which knowledge will emerge.

[...] The colonized intellectual is responsible not to his national culture, but to the nation as a whole, whose culture is, after all, but one aspect. The colonized intellectual should not be concerned with choosing how or where he decides to wage the national struggle. To fight for national culture first of all means fighting for the liberation of the nation, the tangible matrix from which culture can grow. One cannot divorce the combat for culture from the people's struggle for liberation. For example, all the men and women fighting French colonialism in Algeria with their bare hands are no strangers to the national culture of Algeria. The Algerian national culture takes form and shape during the fight, in prison, facing the guillotine, and in the capture and destruction of the French military positions. We should not therefore be content to delve into the people's past to find concrete examples to counter colonialism's endeavors to distort and depreciate. We must work and struggle in step with the people so as to shape the future and prepare the ground where vigorous shoots are already sprouting. National culture is no folklore where an abstract populism is convinced it has uncovered the popular truth. It is not some congealed mass of noble gestures, in other words less and less connected with the reality of the people. National culture is the collective thought process of a people to describe, justify, and extol the actions whereby they have joined forces and remained strong. National culture in the under developed countries, therefore, must lie at the very heart of the liberation struggle these countries are waging. The African intellectuals who are still fighting in the name of “Negro-African” culture and who continue to organize conferences dedicated to the unity of that culture should realize that they can do little more than compare coins and sarcophagi.

[...] The awakening national consciousness has had a somewhat similar effect in the sphere of ceramics and pottery. Formalism is abandoned. Jugs, jars, and trays are reshaped, at first only slightly and then quite radically. Colors, once restricted in number, governed by laws of traditional harmony, flood back, reflecting the effects of the revolutionary upsurge. Certain ochers, certain blues that were apparently banned for eternity in a given cultural context, emerge unscathed. Likewise, the taboo of representing the human face, typical of certain clearly defined regions according to sociologists, is suddenly lifted. The metropolitan anthropologists and experts are quick to note these changes and denounce them all, referring rather to a codified artistic style and culture developing in tune with the colonial situation. The colonialist experts do not recognize these new forms and rush to the rescue of indigenous traditions. It is the colonialists who become the defenders of indigenous style. A memorable example, and one that takes on particular significance because it does not quite involve a colonial reality, was the reaction of white jazz fans when after the Second World War new styles such as bebop established themselves. For them jazz could only be the broken, desperate yearning of an old “Negro,” five whiskeys under his belt, bemoaning h is own misfortune and the racism of the whites. As soon as he understands himself and apprehends the world differently, as soon as he elicits a glimmer of hope and forces the racist world to retreat, it is obvious he will blow his horn to his heart's content and his husky voice will ring out loud and clear. The new jazz styles are not only born out of economic competition. They are one of the definite consequences of the inevitable, though gradual, defeat of the Southern universe in the USA. And it is not unrealistic to think that in fifty years or so the type of jazz lament hiccuped by a poor, miserable “Negro” will be defended by only those whites believing in a frozen image of a certain type of relationship and a certain form of negritude.

[…] We believe the conscious, organized struggle undertaken by a colonized people in order to restore national sovereignty constitutes the greatest cultural manifestation that exists. It is not solely the success of the struggle that consequently validates and energizes culture; culture does not go into hibernation during the conflict. The development and internal progression of the actual struggle expand the number of directions in which culture can go and hint at new possibilities. The liberation struggle does not restore to national culture its former values and configurations. This struggle, which aims at a fundamental redistribution of relations between men, cannot leave intact either the form or substance of the people's culture. After the struggle is over, there is not only the demise of colonialism, but also the demise of the colonized.

Frantz Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth, “On National Culture” (1961)

[yellow-yarrow]

D.e. fascist quest and Saint Miro parallels.. the nuke thing has been pointed out before, but I find it interesting that it sounds like fascist Harry has to give up love and the past, to become "the icebreaker"and how Miro is doing the opposite of that apparently (but still nukes an entire city so I'm not saying grandpa's option is more preferable lol)

I don’t pretend to know what terrible beauty is to you. The secret of your heart.

(..)

You could never quite tell what that was. Even when your eyes were rolled back and staring straight into your head, you couldn’t tell. A ghost, she slipped into all the lost places, into the irreversible. I’ll give her to you to take, her smell in your hands, a sacred and terrible smell; now rub your face with her. The pale, she is ripe with colour, seeping through the grubby slits; I open the blinds and the intermediate frequencies, all the terrible lost colours of the past come out. Everything is  again.

Endurance - Remember: Kingsmen are not born, they are made. And the only thing that can unmake us is that which drove us to rise above in the first place. We keep that thing locked in the deepest cellars of our mind. So deep we forget what it is.

Volition - Does this thing *unmake* you, or does it heal you?

Endurance - We keep it buried like a horrible secret. We feed it through the cracks in the floorboards out of a sickening sense of nostalgia. Just enough to keep it alive. And yet it still comes to us in moments of weakness, unbidden, a source of shame and panic...

Conceptualization - This is a horrible allegory for... whatever is on the other end.

And then it comes to you: to reach the end of the Motorway South is to be *unborn*.

Endurance - There's a lever in front of you. Pull it, and atomic fire blankets your beloved Revachol. Millions die in an instant. But you are spared. You, and the voice in the payphone.

Pain Threshold - That voice... so warm and sweet...

Inland Empire - No-no, not the voice! Make it stop...

Endurance - While the world burns, the two of you, together again, ride an aerostatic into the sunset. Maybe it will work this time? Spare Revachol and you'll never hear from her again. Will you sacrifice a second chance at love to keep Revachol safe?

I attack. Revachol, then Graad and then further. It never ends. I open front after front. Then when all who are not with me are dead, and the pale sweeps over the world, have at it!

Foreign language news programs speak with anxious professionalism, all jumbled together. Her cosmopolitan mind grasps only horrible fragments of it: “Mesque aggressor”, “Saint Miro”, “Revachol”, “atomic weapon” and “half the population”.

[endlessnine09]

Luo Yunxi left a deep impression through one hit drama after another, creating vivid characters who are out of the circle. He is now the representative of the “beautiful man in ancient costume” and “walking man in Hanfu” who is discussed on both domestic and foreign platforms.

When acting, Luo Yunxi is good at handling complex character interpretations, and has the ability to bring fragmented and labeled “character/s that only exists in paper” to life. All of these require a keen sense of art and an insight into human nature.

With the broadcast of dramas such as “My Sunshine”, Ashes of Love, Love is Sweet, Light Chaser Rescue, actor Luo Yunxi as broken into the eyes and hearts of many viewers. His progress is very steady. In the 2023 costume drama Till The End of the Moon, he plays the three roles alone, allowing the audience to see a different acting style from the past. It’s a very enjoyable drama for him to film. “Every day I feel that my potential is being developed.” While exploring the possibilities of his role, he is also exploring his own possibilities as an actor.

In autumn, the ginkgo trees turn from green to yellow, the falling leaves cover the ground, like brocade and embroidery. Luo Yunxi as dressed in gorgeous Hanfu, pacing while playing the guqin and holding an umbrella. He is like jade, which makes the scenery even more picturesque.

In Mr. Mossie (Xixi’s self produced variety show), Luo Yunxi and hanfu enthusiasts talk about etiquette, and explore the reasons behind its culture and popularity. This video clip was also selected for the 2022 UN Chinese Language Day and the Second Overseas Video Festival and was recognized by the United Nations.

When he came to Xi’an, Luo Yunxi, dressed in Hanfu, looked like someone who had stepped out of an ancient painting. This time he was not a character in the play, he was himself.

Accumulate the experiences brought by each role, slowly absorb and it becomes your own, and constantly improve yourself.

Luo Yunxi hopes that every attempt will bring new progress, gain additional experience from the role and life, and enrich himself more.

Some of my fave excerpts from National Geographic Traveler for Xixi 💜

[memoriae-lectoris]

Nineteenth-​century translators frequently left common words and phrases in the original (but mostly when the original was French), though this device is rarely used by contemporary retranslators into English, however “foreignizing” they may seek to be.

When Gregor Samsa wakes one morning and finds that he has turned into an insect overnight, he does not exclaim, Ach Gott! in any modern English version; nor does Ivan Fyodorovich say Это вот как in any available translation of The Brothers Karamazov. Had these novels been written in French and translated into English by the conventions of the 1820s, we can be fairly sure that Gregor Samsa would have said Oh mon Dieu! and Ivan Fyodorovich would have said Alors, voilà in the English translation.

Things have changed, not in French, German, or Russian, but in English. In the language culture of today, English-​language readers are not expected to know how to recognize conversational interjections such as “Good God!” or “Well, now” when spoken in German or Russian; whereas within the language culture of Victorian and Edwardian Britain, educated readers were familiar with French expressions of that kind.

A genuine educational and social purpose can be served by maintaining items of the source text in the translation. It allows readers to acquire what they had not learned at school, or to refresh their memory of half-​forgotten lessons.

[mihstar]

This constant noise all the time (or 'Ellie dies instead of Joel' oneshot)

Hey! First of all I just wanted to say that I'm not a writer and didn't even intend to post when I wrote this. But yesterday, someone here was talking about the possibility of Ellie dying in Joel's place, and and I said something about this little draft of mine, and two people said to me that they would read it and it would be cool if I post... And now I'm babbling, sorry. Anyway, I hope you like it. @ranna-alga thanks for the boost of courage <3 And English it's not my first language so sorry for any mistakes.

Summary: Winter arrives for the residents of Jackson, bringing a snowstorm, foreigners survivors, and darkness.

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Since a little after Ellie was gone, Joel felt heavier.

He would wake up in the morning, surrounded by the walls of his room. Or sometimes in her place, something he's been doing a lot lately. He can tell Tommy worries every time he sees him walking some nights to there instead to his own house, his little brother thinks it wouldn't bring no good. Maybe it wouldn't. But he does anyway - let the warm scent of the sheets make it's way into his nostrils 'til his body feels numb. - He would eat something. Lukewarm coffe with some old toast or bittersweet fruit. Or sometimes nothing. Some days, he would get up and go through the day. Dutties. Patrols. Plans. And some other days... Some of them he wouldn't even leave his porch. Or the inside of his house. Would be still all day, waiting for it to pass so he could close his eyes again. Sometimes, he has dreams with her. Things they did together and things he wish they did. Those are his favourite.

Another times, he would wake up in the middle of the night sweating and calling for her name in the dark. Crying and sobbing. Skull cracking noises ringing vividly in his ears. Choked throat and heart overflowing with bitterness.

It was strange, kind of.

When Sarah died, Joel closed and locked up himself like a door, becoming a heartless man that would rather spend his time killing his way to Boston and fighting with his brother than to remember any fragment of his dead daughter. But now at the dead of his second one, Joel found himself revisiting all of his memories, fragments, anything that would feel like his Ellie again. Maybe because then, Joel couldn't alow himself to be vulnerable about Sarah like that while trying to survive the first years of the outbreak. Not that he wanted to survive by that time, though. He was trying for Tommy. Now, Joel feels like he isn't quite the same. Part of it is Ellie's fault- That kid changed him in so many ways. That blinding rage that used to take control of his body doesn't make him impulsive like it used to do. Salt Lake is still his last big sin in his history. Instead of, he was letting this, his girl's ghost haunt him 'till the rest of his days.

He's not sure if remembering her stops him from putting a bullet into his brain or just kills him slowly like a cancer. Maybe both. But he can't fucking help it.

He can't help but try to remember every single freckle of her face, the way her little bony fingers would strum the guitar he gave her. He tried to remind himself of every single joke or random facts about space she read somewhere. The sound of her laugh was his prayer that he would imagine in his head everynight. Keep with him like a treasure and make sure he would never forget that sound. He couldn't forget, she deserves to be remembered.

Joel also usually thinks about the day before Ellie was gone too. He wasn't hoping to see her at the Community hall that night when Tommy invited him. He saw her almost everyday, but after their fight, there were times he would look at her and feel like he haven't seen her in ages. Like he lost too damn much. By the years, ellie got taller and her features matured with her age. She lost some of her baby fat and she was beginning to look more like the adult folks in town - even when all Joel could see when looking at her was the little girl following his steps on the road, years ago. His heart aches to think he would never see her turn into the beautiful woman she sure would have been.

Remembering about their last day in Jackson was the memory that most hurts to think about. Because of the fact that, in that day, none of them knew what would happen in the next one. She was dancing with that kid Dina by the sound of a song about God, not having an ideia that it would be her last dance, her last night, her last kiss. If she knew about that, or at least had a bad omen, would she have done diferently and opened up her feelings to that girl before It was too late? Before she would end up being burried in dirt at Jackson's cemetery?

And Snow, he recalls thinking it when they buried her. When he buried her. Small and heavy weight wrapped in a white sheet. Too limp and quiet in his arms when he found it too hard to let go-

When winter arrived for the first time after they settled in town, Ellie would always be a little more cautious about this particular season of the year. Not that she used to say to him, because she didn't. Even If he asked to. He doesn't know if It's because that would be breaking the "tough girl" persona she liked to be, or if It's for Joel's sake: Ellie knew he already felt very responsible about everything that happened after they were ambushed in Colorado, she probably wouldn't want to make him feel worse. So she used to say she was fine. But Joel knew her enough to notice her posture change and her quiet behavior; fingers always moving and the urge to spend more time at home, and not just brcause of the cold. Think about it now, gives chills down to his spine.

Poor kiddo, It's almost like the kid could sense winter smelled like her death. Bright red all over the floor. Bare limp arms as they took off her sweater 'cause they wanted to make sure she was who they thought. Metallic smell invading his senses and his scream tearing his lungs. Strong arms lift and pick up momentum one last time, the wind outside whistling as death opened the door. 'Please she's just a kid!' and 'Ellie, baby, get up' just before...

It's so hard to associate the small body, bloody and shrunken like a fetus on the floor of Baldwin mansion with the green eyed girl in his porch, stabbing his heart with daggers and saying she would enjoy to have him in her life again - even when her heart was still so broken by him. And, at the end of that night, Joel turned off the lights and went to bed, not aware that that would be the last time he spoke to his babygirl. Because her skull would be split in half by a fucking golf club in the next morning.

He wonders if she called for his name at any moment during that. Godammit, she must have been so scared and lonely, Joel knew It. Her whole body must have hurt so much, being spanked in that cold floor, she must have been in so much pain, crying and confused about why those fuckers were doing such a thing. Joel is not sure if those cowards did even brother to explain anything to her. Did she think about him once? Was waiting for him to be there sooner?

Sarah's last (and agonizing) moments of pain lasted a minute or two, and Joel was there with her all the time, holding her and looking into her eyes until any sign of life fade through them like dust. The fact that he heard Ellie's screams even though she was almost dying and too weak to open her eyes indicates that her torture began well before his intervention. And when he finally came to rescue, his body was hold against the floor five feet away from her. And he had to watch her last minutes, unable to touch her, while her body let out one last painful breath. So fragile, so gore and tragic. Like a baby deer slaughtered by a pack of hungry wolves.

And, even at death, Ellie would still be the top of his worries. He can't watch a movie he already seen before cause her reactions were still vivid in his head, neither watch a new one cause then he will wonder if she would've liked or think it's bullshit. He does plays guitar, but doesn't sing 'cause that's something he only used to do to his baby girl. Hurts to be with Jesse in patrol because he looks at that kid and reminds him so much of his own. Seeing other people was the worst part. They laughing. They living, talking, fucking doing things because she used to be one of them. Ellie would be disappointed to see him like this. Miserable, worse than when they met, a dead weight, guilty...

He feels guilty because he knows he is, in fact, guilty. Tommy says other wise, says there's nothing he could've done. You gave her a home and people like me 'nd Maria who truly cared about her. She may have been mad at you at some point and things were not fuckin' great between you two but she recognized that. So now, if you wanna say her death it's on you, go on... that ain't fine by me neither but there's nothin' I can say to handle you of that. But don't say you weren't good to her because we both know it ain't true. Ellie died, Joel. But she had the best years of her life. Accept that, brother.

But Tommy doesn't get it. He only saw these last couple of years, but he hasn't seen all of it. Not they journey, not their start. He never failed anyone.

Joel was her protector during years, he was her guardian, he always had some kind of sixth sense whenever became to that kid, in the road or not. He should've know. He should've done something, somehow prevented that from happening to her. It was him in the first place, those people were there for his sins. Not hers, she didn't have any.

'I will never leave you alone again' was the exact same words he said that day, cupping Ellie's cheeks when that building was almost falling in their heads by the flames. But he did, he did left her. Cold, broken, gone. It was stupid from him to think he wouldn't fail with this kid when he already failed with another one before, and even more cruel to make a little girl believe in a promise he wouldn't keep. She saved him on that winter with all her strength, but he didn't save her in this Winter. If the memories of the girl is not a Cancer to his heart, this thought may be.

Spreading on him like a fungus.

Joel have never been a very religious man, but he likes to think that If there's really a place reserved for good-hearted souls worthy of eternal rest, Ellie is there. Maybe exploring bright sacred places or good memories. Probably even finally being able to meet another girl that both have knowledge of a person in common. Joel is not very sure that he would Join them someday, though. Even If he would like to think about it if he had time. Pretend. Like it isn't impossible.

Because sure as hell would be once he find out the lair of the hungry wolves. Salt Lake City was big sin, but It wasn't his last. Joel was going to make sure It wasn't.

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Iit's not perfect but I think it turned out pretty good as a person who doesn't really have writing skills... Right?🙈 Please share and don't forget to say what do you think about it. @elliespuns Come see this before I regret.