#wage cage confessions

[stellamancer]

very hilarious to me that my coworker calls me and starts bitching and moaning about how they've been working on our back room office and how he can't find anything and he demands to know where they put some log in information that i had on a laminated sheet when i haven't been there for the past two days, like my guy i have no clue....

[paperbackribs]

The Gift (12 of 15)

previous: Chapter 11 Midnight Movie (NSFW) next: Chapter 13 It's Pretty (NSFW)

Last chapter, Steve succumbed to temptation after being under Eddie's heated gaze while watching Rocky Horror and then again later as he Sees what Eddie gets up to in bed. This chapter, Steve has some sobering realisations about the extent of his feelings.

Chapter 12 The Path Chosen

Eddie’s dodging him, Steve’s sure of it. He’s barely seen the other guy for over two weeks now except for picking up the kids from Hellfire and waving across the school parking lot when he drops Robin off in the morning. Their friendship, Steve thinks glumly, has been reduced to concrete and exhaust fumes because he couldn’t keep his hand off his dick.

“I fucked it up,” he confesses to Robin. She has her French homework spread out on his kitchen island. She likes the length of space and how high she can sit, she says about using it.

At the moment, Robin is carefully spreading mustard to match the exact square of her sandwich slice before adding the ham and cheese in its precise order. Steve has argued that there’s no order; top is bottom, and bottom is top, but Robin insists that she knows what it is, even if she can’t quite describe it.

“How’d you fuck what up,” she asks, inexplicably smoothing out the ham’s creases.

“Movie night. I had a... moment with Eddie. And I did something that I shouldn’t’ve.”

If he hadn't been such a horndog then maybe he wouldn't have weirded Eddie out and would still be able to see the other guy, wouldn't feel his absence like some terribly empty wound.

Because Steve has missed Eddie something fierce. Family Video has been one long dull exercise in earning minimum wage, he hasn't been able to elbow Eddie at a double entendre on movie night, nor been able to catch his laughing eyes when Steve asks whether the kids won their D&D game or when he refers to a gargoyle as the garage guy.

He's missed that little zip of Eddie's attention in a way that makes his nerves feel deadened and dull. Steve hasn't been able to tell Eddie about his day and listen to him reframe it into the most ridiculous story. Or watch Eddie shine with that inner light he has when describing the next riddle or monster or trap of his campaign or the absent look on his face as he hums the same tune over and over, trying to lock down the right notes.

All Steve wants is to look across the room and see the armour of his outfit, the charm of his performance, and Eddie's handsome face with its myriad of teasing expressions.

Steve caved to a moment of temptation and, in doing so, lost one of his best friends in a single night. Well done, he sarcastically congratulates himself on his unexpected overachievement.

Robin interrupts his self-flagellation, “Is this when you were practically humping the couch pillow?” She takes a big bite out of her sandwich, savage despite the care she’d put into its construction.

Steve’s mouth gapes open. “You saw that?” He exclaims.

Robin smirks, “Where’d you think that sneeze came from? I’m all for you two getting together, but I don’t want to actually see you fucking. I practically had to hose off the pheromones when I got home.”

“Oh my god,” he moans into his hands. “Eddie’s going to think I’m the creepiest creep to ever creep across Hawkins.” All that time trying to not act like he had a secret insight into Eddie's private world all gone down the shitter because he is a horny perv.

“I don’t know why you’re so bothered,” she shrugs. “You weren’t the only stink I was showering off that night.”

Steve peeks out between his fingers. “Yeah,” he asks, hope rising in him: Robin doesn't lie, not even to make him feel better.

She snorts before finishing off the last bite. “The guy practically caged you in before the movie started and then he eye fucked you the entire film. I got why you were having your way with that poor innocent pillow; I just didn’t want to be a spectator in the Horny Olympics you two had going.”

A bubbling feeling of cautious confidence rises in Steve’s chest: maybe he had all this wrong and Eddie wasn't avoiding him. No, he stops himself, Eddie is definitely avoiding him but maybe it's not for the reason he thinks. Like when he'd misunderstood the intention behind Eddie's questions early on, thinking that Eddie was wary of the power Steve held when he was actually asking about why Steve would risk his life for him.

Eddie shares with him a lot more than Steve had ever thought would be possible at the beginning of their friendship. He thinks that the connection has given him more of an insight into Eddie's life beyond literally seeing through his eye. It's helped Steve to ask questions he's not thought to ask, and, in turn, he's come to know Eddie's tells beyond the flamboyant performance he often uses as a shield.

That's been the problem, Steve decides, he's allowed Eddie to dodge him. Steve should have pinned him down and demanded to know what Eddie's been thinking at least a week back when he'd known for sure that he was avoiding him. If the other guy had felt even a glimmer of the attraction that Steve feels for Eddie, then maybe he has a chance at something beyond their platonic relationship. Something based on the solid foundation of their friendship with the possibility for so much more.

He chews at his cheek as he acknowledges the other, uneasy feeling alongside that ballooning of hope in his chest. If he wants honesty from Eddie, then he needs to be honest as well. He needs to tell Eddie about the connection and what Steve has been Seeing. A necessary conversation before he can even think about trying to persuade Eddie to try and flesh out this pull between them.

“Besides the eye thing I need to tell him how I feel," he tells Robin decisively. "I can't let him slip away because I didn't sack up and tell him that I want him in my life. As more than a friend," Steve clarifies.

“Yeah, dingus. That’s a given," she rolls her eyes but her tone is not unkind. "Now are you going to go get your man?”

Steve sticks his middle finger up at her over his shoulder as he rushes out to the bimmer. He’s pretty sure Eddie’s probably home on a Wednesday night and Robin has her own set of keys so she can lock up when she leaves. Or stay, he doesn’t care. He might just appreciate her sleeping over tonight if it all goes to shit.

The sliver of the new moon is rising in the darkening sky and it seems to Steve that it pulls him in the direction towards Forrest Hills. An encouraging glint like a sharp needle waiting for Steve to thread and weave an unmapped pattern.

Just as he had created a new path in saving Eddie, Steve experiences the blossoming conviction that his next actions will determine the unrolling tapestry of his future, that he can choose his next steps and, in doing so, challenge destiny. A path created by Steve's self-determination rather than some fixed map he needs to blindly follow.

The sudden understanding that what happens next is in some part a consequence of his actions and in other parts up to Eddie's subsequent reaction leaves his hands sweaty on the steering wheel as he pulls up in front of Eddie’s trailer. Noting with relief that Wayne’s red pick-up isn’t here but Eddie’s white van is. Pulled haphazardly to the side, Steve sees with fond exasperation.

How can Eddie be so loud and messy in some ways and so self-contained in others? The hope that had kept him buoyed through the drive dips again at the thought. Robin may have been just picking up on the loud Eddie, some hormone-driven horniness that naturally seeps in within any range of Tim Curry in fishnet stockings. And maybe what was going on inside Eddie has nothing to do with Steve, nothing to want to do with him if he takes the past couple of weeks to heart.

“Stevie, is that you?”

He whips his head up at Eddie’s voice, who is opening the trailer door even as he calls out Steve’s name.

He wiggles his fingers back in greeting. Eddie simply raises his eyebrows questioningly.

He just needs to push off the wall, Steve reminds himself. Otherwise, he and Eddie will continue to tread water and he’ll get nowhere. Or worse, he won’t have Eddie in any capacity as a friend or otherwise.

With a steadying breath, he gets out of the car, slamming the door behind him to walk up to Eddie, hands in the back of his jeans pockets.

“Hey,” he says simply, looking up at Eddie who’s above him on the doorstep. Hoping that he's not about to be turned away before he even gets the chance to make this better.

Eddie looks down at him pensively, before stepping back and holding open the screen door. Steve accepts the invitation and follows him in, clenching his jaw as he automatically glances up at the corner ceiling where brown plywood is barricaded against the apricot-painted wallboard.

It really wasn’t that long ago that they were falling in and out of that thing, terror thick in his throat, scared that he was going to lose Dustin or Robin or Nancy. Terrified that he didn’t have eyes on Max and the rest of the team to keep them safe but trying to trust in their bravery and ingenuity.

And then there was Eddie, who he’d only started to get to know. Who he’d already come to like quite a bit, Steve realises belatedly.

The impact of the poorly chosen road would have on Dustin had weighed heavily on Steve’s mind when he’d decided to do what he could to thread his own path for Eddie’s fate, but he had also been thinking of Eddie himself.

Eddie, who was great with the kids, keeping Dustin’s smile bright while reigning him in from stupid choices like trying to join them on Lover’s Lake. A guy courageous enough to reflect on and admit to feelings of jealousy and admiration in the midst of an eerie forest. A man who looked so frustrated with himself and scared, speaking of his actions as if he were a coward yet repeatedly diving into dangerous waters, metaphorically and literally.

The wonder on Eddie's face as he looked up at the Upside Down sparkles had left Steve breathless. The play of light above them a dull comparison to the shimmering delight in Eddie's wide chocolate eyes, squeezing at Steve's heart and making it impossible for him to look away.

Steve hadn’t been able to comprehend the idea of letting Eddie go, of never seeing his bright eyes and charming dimples and had decided he could easily sacrifice his body and spirit to ensure he’d see Eddie leaning in towards him once more, an irreverent comment on the tip of his tongue and an invitation in the corner of his eyes.

He had wanted Eddie long before the connection, Steve realises with a racing heart.

It wasn’t much more than that yet, just a glimmer of desire from a flirtation in the worst of all moments to be thinking about his love life. Something far more paler than what he feels now, but the cornerstone of it nonetheless. He had seen to the core of Eddie, his kindness and courage and soul and wanted to know him even more so.

Christ, he’s been such an idiot this entire time.

Steve runs a hand over his face, stunned by the depths of how clueless he’d allowed himself to be. When had he become such a coward?

He’s been like one of those stupid fucking frogs that continues to sit in the cooking pot as the water heats, boiled over before he knows it. Cooked and done and ready for serving. His feelings building and layering on top of each other until his mind and heart were willingly woven into a complex tapestry built for Eddie, and Eddie alone.

Why hadn’t he allowed himself to at least try to have more with him before this became a muddled mess?

Steve stands at the centre of Eddie's home, his racing heart beating wildly in his throat, sure that Eddie is not going to want to have anything to do with him once he understands just how deeply Steve’s been invading his privacy. The uncanny part of him continuing to force himself into Eddie’s private world and Eddie will be sure that he can never trust Steve again.

But it has to be done, no matter Eddie's final decision.

Resigned to getting this conversation over, Steve drops his hands and looks over at the other man.

Eddie’s shifting nervously in his jean shorts and socks. His hair stuck up at one end as if he’d been napping and he has on that No Remorse shirt again, but Steve isn’t distracted by the sensuality of Eddie this time. Rather, he’s wondering how he willingly looked past the depth of his feelings for him this entire time.

He hadn’t needed to see Eddie getting his rocks off to know that he is captivating, but he had needed it to shake loose whatever self-denial he had been determined to hold onto. To realise that his preoccupation with knowing about Eddie's thoughts and feelings and opinions or dreaming of ways to secure his attention were not because of a simple platonic regard. Rather, it was all a reflection of the deep, abiding well of a familiar and exquisite emotion.

“What a fucking idiot,” Steve mutters to himself.

“What?” Eddie frowns.

“Shit, no,” Steve hurridly holds out his palms. “Not you, me. Can we talk?”

If you liked anything, please consider leaving a comment over on Ao3 :-) It would make my day!

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[uyuartik]

othello ch.4| anakin skywalker x reader

tags: othello au mini series, no major character death (just want to make that clear), borderline dark fic, and now we're back to the plot things, iago is at it again, lots of angst, only 2 chapters left...

summary: It's Iago's turn to make a move.

also crossposted on ao3!

word count: 1183

prologue | ch.1 | ch.2 | ch.3 | ch.4 | ch.5 | finale

chapter 4

Hearing about Anakin’s little visit to your room, Iago was on edge- he knew he needed to act and he needed to act fast. Having Emilia trapped in a cage, he used those precious moments exactly right, having her steal your handkerchief while you prepared for a bath. She almost got caught, out of guard when she noticed your cheery attitude. The piece of fabric was on the edge of slipping through her fingers as she moved to ask you about it, but you interrupted with a giggly remark about- whatever, she was distracted like you, and with the feeble task of fetching you another bottle of rose oil she left your room.

She had another moment of shock when she ran into Anakin after that little escape- in your hallway, at this hour? She was not God’s favorite that day, was she?- and Anakin had a sense that she was not agitated because of the usual prejudice they all had for him; for not sharing their native land, for picking up this career older than most of his colleagues yet surpassing them in every category. No, she had an acute worry, yet, Anakin was never the type to corner a lady and get the information out, even though it bothered him dearly, her scurrying away from your room like that. She was one of your dear friends, you spent most of your time with her- he couldn’t help but feel concerned.

Yet, the day took a different turn when Iago continued with his second act: planting evidence and calling for the witness. Poor Anakin… Hours, it took him hours to breathe properly again, his mind and his heart waging a strong battle. A little whisper from the depths of his spirit told it was impossible; that something, some great game was afoot, but his eyes had seen the undeniable proof- the handkerchief he gave you, laying casually on Cassio’s dirty nightstand, further stained by his bragging about the whore he had gotten it from. Anakin didn’t know why he didn’t slit his throat at that moment. His captain and his wife. The two people he trusted the most on this planet. Like an earthquake that destroyed his world, but he felt no shaking or the smoke- a blink and all was upside down.

It sounded like an old tragedy or a curse, and he rejected that fate.

He saw you first, when he came home. You were talking to the servants, and if that invisible string you both referred to from time to time weren’t magically real, you would keep talking, not noticing the piercing gaze of those blue eyes. It only took seconds for you to search for his presence, and locate him, totally missing out on the concerned look on the faces of the maids as they took their leave.

Your radiant smile only beamed lighter as he approached with big steps, heavy boots thudding against the marble, the front of his shirt tugged open. Of course, that impossibly stubborn expression of fury on his face distorted yours as well.

“My lord!” You greeted him, most welcome. There was a time he wouldn’t let either of you leave this entereé without a kiss, without your laughter echoing throughout the walls.

He nodded, tongue-tied at the first sight of you.

“I’m so glad you’re here.” You continue. God, you missed him. “You came so late, and we barely speak these days- there are matters we should discuss-“

“Like what, my dear wife?”

“I’ve been wishing to speak to you about Cassio.”

That wretched name made his head boil. “I think we got better things to talk about.” While he wasn’t trying to lure you into a trap, he hoped for a swift confession.

“My lord, it’s been weeks since you stripped him of his rank, it is enough-“

“Angel, care to lend me your handkerchief, it has been a hot day.”

“Here.”

“No, the one I gave you.”

You frowned, realizing that while this was very similar, it wasn’t the one. But you never carried another, or opted for a change today. “I- I took a bath this morning. It probably got mixed up between my clothes, I’ll look for it when I go to my room.”

“You need to do better than that. You know it was my mother’s, right?”

Your heart dropped and your face went pale.

“She told me that the enchantress who gave it to her promised that whoever had it would be blessed with a faithful partner, peace of mind in the marriage. It would bind them together with an unbreakable bond, and if it werelost- or given to another,” That was the part you shook your head “loath would spurt and eyes would seek others.”

He wouldn’t. He just said it to hurt you, and you can’t argue that you don’t deserve it.

“My lord, I swear it was here this morning- I always put it in my drawer in the night to keep it safe.”

Safe. He chuckled with fried nerves. Safety and trust were the two pillars that had crumbled and fallen to his feet. “Who did you give it to?”

The accusation took your breath away, and you couldn’t answer for a second. “Nobody- I never give it to anybody, I even wash it myself to keep others from touching it.”

“So, what you mean to say, is that I am unable to keep my house safe, and perhaps somebody came here and took it?”

“No, NO!” Somehow, him accusing himself was worse. “Our home- the entire Mediterranean Sea is safe because of you. It was you who assured it.” You sniffled. “I don’t understand, I didn’t give it away, and nobody took it- why would anyone take” God, you couldn’t even use the word “steal” “the token of our love, the sacred bond between us? Who could dare to disrespect our holy union- it is an insult to God. None- no soul in our home could be so evil.”

Evil. How little you knew of it- how little you believed in it.

It felt like somebody was tearing down his heart in two; the fire consumed it, and your tears turned it to ashes. He couldn’t dislodge the knife of betrayal away, yet he couldn’t believe he was stabbed at all- your hand was not fit to wield that blade.

He ran his hand through his locks, his breath unsteady. Taking a few steps back, he tried to collect his thoughts,- the task proven to be impossible as the sound of your sobs filled the room, and you were frozen with indecision, reaching out to him or searching the house brick by brick til you found it, you could never lose it, it surely was somewhere in here.

Then, he exited the same way he came, all fiery and stormy, rocking your world again. You rushed to your room and yanked the drawer of your vanity so hard that it came loose, and you rummaged through the white fabrics that had fallen to the floor- and then the next drawer…

[rnelodyy]

/dsmp /rp

I,, wanted to make this post because I've seen a certain take floating around, especially on twitter, that is very... interesting.

The take goes as follows:

C!Dream was locked up in the prison because he has the revival book. The members of the SMP consider the knowledge he has too valuable to lose, so they put him in jail.

Now, this isn't wrong, per say, but it implies a completely different motive and series of events than what actually happened in the canon story.

Here's the events as they are implied to have happened from that sentence alone:

- c!Dream obtains the revival book. He doesn't share it with anyone, and destroys the physical book so it can't be stolen from him.

- After a while, someone finds out about the book.

- The rest of the server agrees that this knowledge is too valuable to lose.

- They lock c!Dream up in the prison to either keep him (and thereby the knowledge of revival) safely contained, or to torture him so badly he blabs and gives it up.

Meanwhile, here's what actually happened:

- c!Dream obtains the revival book. He doesn't share it with anyone, and destroys the physical book so it can't be stolen from him.

- Months later, c!Dream holds c!Tommy's discs hostage to force him and c!Tubbo to come meet him out in the middle of nowhere to fight.

- c!Punz rallies the server together to stop him after c!Tommy gives him all of his savings in a last ditch attempt to get someone to intervene.

- They all catch c!Dream red fucking handed trying to murder c!Tubbo (and they would probably assume c!Tommy as well), to the point where c!Sapnap and c!Puffy had to physically block him from going after the kids once they started running for safety.

- They find the Vault of Attachments, a massive room filled with spaces for everything that anyone is attached to, up to and including a tiny little cage for c!Skeppy.

- c!Tommy forces c!Dream to drop all of his items, then kills him twice.

- As c!Tommy goes in for the third kill, c!Dream desperately screams that he can revive people. He even elaborates that if he dies, death will be permanent.

- c!Tommy traps c!Dream in obsidian. c!Dream confesses to blowing up the Community House. C!Tommy tries to get him to tell everyone about what happened in exile, but c!Dream stays silent, though everyone can pretty easily see that something bad happened there.

- They deliberate over what to do. Nobody wants c!Dream to roam free considering all the shit he'd done over the past few months (waged wars against L'Manburg, Pogtopia, and El Rapids/Mexican L'Manburg, orchestrated c!Tommy's exile and drove a wedge between c!Clingyduo, manipulated c!Tubbo into giving him c!Tommy's second disc, destroyed L'Manburg permanently and killed a lot of people), but considering the knowledge he has, they can't just kill him.

- C!Sam suggests locking him up in the prison. That way, he'll still be able to revive people if needed, but he won't be free to hurt people anymore.

So yes, it is technically true that c!Dream was locked up because he has the revival book. Except, that statement is missing the very important context that the only other option was death. He'd proven himself to be such a danger to everyone around him, nobody on the server felt safe knowing that he was just roaming the server freely.

The main purpose of him being locked up there is to ensure that he won't hurt anyone ever again. The knowledge he has makes him too valuable to kill, but that doesn't mean he did nothing to deserve being isolated from the rest of the server's population, considering what he has done and tried to do to that population.

[syneilesis]

[fic] i bruise my hands on the living cage

i bruise my hands on the living cage

Ikemen Sengoku | Kicho x Main Character/Reader | M | 9.5k words ao3 link

Ambition is greater than love.

A/N: I am simultaneously proud of and frustrated with this fic. Title is from Edith Tiempo's poem, Lament. Epigraph is from Maria Zoccola's poem, the selkie waits another night. The statement "illusion exists in love" (slightly modified to tailor fit Mitsuhide's lines) is from the film Hiroshima mon amour.

you’ve never asked me to stay. in the quiet i hear the future stealing inside the house through gaps in the boards, a low rolling groan like wolf-whales in their underseas dirge.

Let us begin at the end, when you feel that your skin and bones transmute into ashes, a slow-motion dissolution that starts at the bottom, working its way upwards, like a snake slithering around your torso, and when it reaches your ribs you lose your breath and you collapse into yourself, a starburst oblivion, remnants of a bygone future.

This is how it feels, to cease to exist: your heart carved out of your chest, leaving a hollow space where even air cannot enter.

You want to say goodbye. To your loved ones, the ones who became your family. And to the man you gave your heart to, the one who carved your heart out and left nothing in its place.

It’s funny, how you want him to be the last person you’ll see, but he’s not here. He’s out there, raising hell like an incandescent god starved for war. And war does he bring. 

They say that ambition is what makes a man. An ambition so great and grand it puts humanity on its knees.

But the power to realize that ambition? That is what makes a god.

And so Kicho, in the end, with his coat that spreads like a crane’s wings, magnificent and eternal, has become a god.

✤

For now, let us backtrack.

At the Seta-no-Karahashi bridge, two figures face each other, mere inches apart. A passer-by might take one look at them and infer that they’re lovers—or soon to be, because the taut silhouette of the girl implies an oncoming confession. The man, who watches the girl with steady eyes, cuts an elegant figure with his pristine skin and an equally pristine coat, the fabric sewn like tapered feathers as if he’s a crane made human.

Within that snapshot it is easy to conclude that this is a love that tears through social class – a love between a commoner girl and a nobleman. Anyone who sees them would feel a warm rush upon their hearts, the couple’s love a freeing possibility in which they place their hopes and dreams upon.

If only that were true.

✤

It is, and has always been, a love full of questions.

If you see life as invaluable, why wage an endless war where thousands die?

He is looking at you, eyes placid like winter sky. If you had this conversation in the early days when you were both still getting to know more of each other, he would have been dismissive and condescending with his reply. But now, after he has cracked open your heart and unearthed its dazzling treasure, he answers with the truth, because he has finally come to know how pure your heart is, how unsullied by dirty claws and dark smoke that surround you in this turbulent time. How you would listen to him, despite the contradiction between your philosophies.

There are people who do not see life the way you and I see it. And because of their greed, they will do anything to get what they want, and they will not stop. And countless lives will be sacrificed for that greed.

So you fight to purge the world of these greedy people?

These are by no means questions wracked with doubt; rather, they attempt to understand. To step inside his body and see what he sees, trace the lines of his worldview, from the how and the why of its conception to the where of its culmination. A complete immersion.

Oda Nobunaga may have brought the peace your home currently has, but how long will it last? You know that the peace in your world is fragile, and there are still people out there who would readily wage war for all the shallowest reasons. As long as there are people like that in the world, true peace can never be attained.

A pause. And then a gaze that is so gentle as it is jarring, because what follows is:

I fight because I value life. But I also understand the sacrifices I have to make. We do not deserve empty, superficial peace. If we have to suffer first to achieve what we deserve, then so be it.

✤

In the beginning, there are certain rules you have to know and follow, lest you go astray with your being none the wiser.

Time travel, for all its complex and complicated principles, is mostly a game of hide and seek. One hides from the events that could compromise the original timeline, and yet one cannot help but seek these very same events. Human curiosity, perhaps. Or just the unshakable desire to involve oneself in scandalous affairs.

Except in this alternate timeline, Oda Nobunaga upended the fate that history textbooks had articulated about, all thanks to your unwitting disruption. In an ideal time-travel-sanctioned world, you wouldn't have tampered with the Honnou-ji fires, but then again, you wouldn't have let yourself leave a person to die – whether it was Nobunaga or another.

And perhaps it is from that knowledge that you seek Sasuke while he's still in Azuchi.

I'm not certain, he says, bringing his fingers to his chin, giving your inquiry careful thought. I've been here for four years and nothing consequential has happened to me. Apart from, you know, continuous work hazards.

So there’s no time police or something like that, huh.  

None that I know of.

Does that mean … And the hesitation that wrangles your words hangs heavy in the air. Does that mean there’s no consequence to us staying here? No timeline correction or anything?

Sasuke turns his head to the side, the sunlight glancing off the lens of his glasses. He hums in thought. Maybe there will be. The next wormhole will appear in two months, after all. That’s probably a sign that it wants us back to our original timeline. 

To prevent us from further interfering with history?

Perhaps. We’ve already changed so much, though. I can think of only one drastic measure to contain … His eyes drift to you, and he startles a little. Ah … never mind.

No. You want to know what conclusion he’s come up with. What is it? you pressed.

His deliberation takes a while. You can practically see the gears moving in his head.

Then he nods to himself, and tells you flat out: It’s still possible that history would correct itself, and that means our erasure, because we’re anomalies in this reality.

In the end: order over chaos. There’s something to be said about all stories on time travel, and how history is an exercise on preservation. This is no different. Eventually, the ink that is used to write history will spill onto you and Sasuke, blotting out your existence, leaving no marks behind. The only thing left to do is bow your head and not stand out. Surviving the era until you get home is of the utmost priority. After all, what use is curiosity if it ultimately kills you?

✤

Looking back, you should have expected the unrelenting hand of fate tugging at the shadows behind you. No matter what you do, your very existence is a threat itself. It will not stop for anything, much less your love.

✤

And what is love without a genesis?

He glides into your awareness like a glissando at the beginning of a symphony, a glimpse of what is to come. His pristine coat undulating with his every move, radiating a wraithlike quality to his presence. He glances in your direction, recognizes you, stops. Pivots so seamlessly as though all his joints are oiled to preternatural smoothness.

So you’re the girl displaced in time. 

His first words to you, melodic but clinical.

His eyes are moonsheen bracketed by his nightsky bangs, and as he studies you, questions inundate your mind – how does he know who you are? Is he an enemy? Is he the mastermind behind the tenshu bombing? Do Nobunaga and the others know who he is? But eventually those questions are drowned by the immense fascination spilling onto you. A beautiful man with beautiful eyes, porcelain fragility at first glance.

How do you know me?

He blinks, expression a blank slate. They say that Oda Nobunaga has a princess he keeps by his side, and sometimes she speaks of things that bewilder many. Wild things, foreign things … bizarre, inconceivable things like – he quirks his lips – movies.

The word flows out of his mouth as if he has uttered it numerous times. A familiar word to him, apparently, which compels you to ask, You’re from the future too?

No, and he turns his head to watch the people that pass you by. But I have been in your time.

How – no, you were caught by the wormhole too, huh?

His limpid gaze returns to you.

In any case I merely wanted to see the famous Oda princess who has everybody wrapped around her finger. Quite disappointing, to be honest.

H-Hey, that’s rude!

Deliver a message to Nobunaga for me, will you. He angles his body away as if to leave, but his eyes remain locked onto yours. I’ll put a stop to his plans of unification, whatever it takes. Expect more from me.

Wait – He begins to walk away. Wait a second! Tell me your name!

He halts, considering your request. Around him, people flow in different directions, and he’s the only one who is stagnant, resistant to pressure. 

My name is Kicho, he finally answers. Crisp and biting. It doesn’t matter to me whether you remember it or not. You will not live long to see me again, anyway.

And just as how he entered the scene, he glides off the stage in a billow of radiance, his crane-tip coat fluttering along with his movements, a dramatic exit befitting an immaculate villain.

✤

Kicho is proven wrong when, exactly a week later, you and he meet across the battlefield after which you clumsily save him from a gunpowder explosion courtesy of one impatient Mouri Motonari.

✤

It starts in increments, inconsequential at first.

Loss of vision that’s similar to postural hypotension, which you experience every now and then. The dizziness comes a few days later, but they’re quick, short, and you turn out feeling okay right after, as if it didn’t happen at all.

It’s when you wake one late afternoon, your body leaden as if it’s stuffed with rocks, that you find Hideyoshi beside your bed, wearing a troubled smile.

You must have been exhausted from your work. I can’t believe you slept for almost a day!

And the wrongness that you feel then, as though the molecules of your body have been rearranged incorrectly, snatches your heart out of your ribcage. In that moment, you finally understand how Kicho’s plans have become an existential threat to you, the one who lived in the future, the one Kicho is trying to undo. You need to think about this deeply, so you plaster a weak smile for Hideyoshi, and say, with slight difficulty, I guess I was so inspired. I think I’ll rest some more.

You should, and Hideyoshi’s voice rings stern in your small room. He puts his hand on your forehead, feeling for any signs of fever, and, detecting none, smiles and ruffles your hair, relieved. I’ll go now and tell Lord Nobunaga that you’ve woken up. Don’t worry about uninterrupted rest – I’ll warn the others not to bother you for a while. Just rest some more. I’ll send a meal for you.

From your futon, you give him a grateful smile. Thanks, Hideyoshi. Sorry for worrying you and the others.

The smile Hideyoshi returns is brimming with brotherly warmth. You don’t have to apologize. Just take care of yourself, all right?

When he leaves the room, you get up, noting the sluggishness of your body, and heave a sigh.

Should you tell this to Kicho? Would it even change things? He is the sort of man who would refuse to stop for others in his quest. That, or use them instead. Everything is about his ambition, in the end. You hesitate to consider yourself special to him when he has even turned his back on Nobunaga.

For now, you will keep this a secret. Putting an end to Kicho’s plan is more important. Perhaps these spells occur only rarely, and later you will forget about it.

✤

Kicho trails butterfly kisses on your wrist, and he works his way up to your shoulder, then to the nape of your neck, then to the shell of your ear, where his hot breath lights up your skin, making you shudder. The heat of his body clings to your back as he secures your waist with his free hand. You moan when he presses his lips to your earlobe and then bites.

He makes love to you like how he wages his war: attentive, meticulous, rife with contingencies. He thrusts too hard which yanks a pained gasp out of you, and Kicho would slow down, adjust his angle, and lean in to place a soft kiss upon your brow. He would say, I'm sorry, was it too much? and then he would slide back in, taking note of your reaction, and then stay still inside until you squirm and beg for him to move.

Then after you have both spent yourselves on each other, Kicho envelops you from behind and kisses your shoulder. There's a peaceful quiet that slides in between exhaustion and sleep, and you savor that sliver of calm. In the Sengoku era, there is no chance for respite, so you take what you can get.

When morning comes, you wake with Kicho’s hand caressing your hair. His expression is tender and soft like a heaven’s down. The light from the window casts his face an ethereal glow, as though he’s an angel descended to watch over you.

Kicho smiles. Says, Good morning, my love.

✤

What do you think of Kicho, Nobunaga asks you one afternoon, days after your release from captivity. Following the attack on tenshu, he moved into one of the large, empty rooms in the castle. It doesn’t have the same view as the tenshu’s, but it provides plenty of sunlight, and the majesty of the tenshu was mostly carried by Nobunaga himself anyway.

Why the question?

You’ve been summoned to Nobunaga’s chamber with the assumption that your close encounter with Kicho will garner any useful information about him. He’s mysterious and detached, and nothing about him gives anything away. In that regard, he’s more slippery than Mitsuhide.

Perhaps you have something that can provide a new perspective on him and his motivations. Nobunaga cranes his head to stare at the Azuchi sky under the warm filter of summer light. The room hushes to a pensive silence.

A moment later, Nobunaga returns to you, appraising.

Did he say anything crucial to you, in those times you were able to converse with him?

The most important, I think, is that he traveled 500 years into the future.

Nobunaga’s brows rise. It’s the most surprised look you’ve ever seen him since your stay in the castle. That explains his disappearance three years ago.

Hideyoshi mentioned before that Kicho was a vassal of yours.

And now he no longer is. A thought occurs to him. I wonder if his experience in the future has made him come to the conclusion he has now.

Then, clarity surfaces from Nobunaga’s eyes, echoing throughout his face. He looks at you with the utmost expectation.

If we are to figure out Kicho, then … Tell me about your home, 500 years from now.

✤

This is not your first time participating in war, but all the same, it may well have been. The sight of men fighting and dying will always feel new and terrible to you, and you may as well die if you grow numb to the realities of it. War has never been the solution, but here in this era, it is the only answer.

The ringing of clashing steel reverberates through the air, almost distracting you from your work. Ieyasu is out there in the battlefield commanding his men, leaving you to take care of the wounded. At the vanguard Masamune leads the charge, and you can imagine the feral smile adorning his face as he slashes his way towards his enemies.

It’s when you’re too busy treating one seriously wounded soldier that you hear it: a thunderous sound, whistling into explosion, near your camp.

Fire arrows! Fire arrows!

The base devolves into frenzy, the available soldiers evacuating the injured, the others carrying the supplies.

Send word to Lord Nobunaga of the attack! Princess, you must go with them – you’ll be safe with our lord!

No, I’ll stay to help!

Compassion trumps fear of death. This has always been the case with you. It has intrigued Nobunaga, the capacity to muster courage in the midst of death and despair, an ember crackling into flames. 

When Kicho’s forces surround your camp, cutting off your escape routes, you face Kicho head on, meeting him outside the main tent, flanked by loyal Oda soldiers.

I see that you continue to participate in the war, Kicho comments. Which is funny, because the last time we encountered each other, you boldly declared that you detest it.

I contribute what I can. Just because I hate war doesn’t mean I shouldn’t care about the people risking their lives for it.

How admirable, and the mocking lilt in Kicho’s voice has the soldiers by your side shift their stances. There is no way to run, and, in all likelihood, all of you may die here, at Kicho’s merciless hands.

But that is no excuse to surrender to futility; you have to think of the soldiers who need treatment, and the soldiers who are ready to lay down their lives for you. You don’t deserve to be treated specially, just as they don’t deserve to die.

So you buy them time. The small unit that had gone to report to Nobunaga should be arriving at their destination, and then you’ll have your backup.

You muster all the confidence you don’t have, and open your mouth: Have you ever considered that, even if you killed Nobunaga, somebody else will take up the task of unifying Japan?

I can also say the opposite: even if Nobunaga unified Japan, there will always be someone who thirsts for war. However, it really doesn’t matter to me whether Nobunaga lives or dies; though I do take vicious satisfaction of seeing him fall.

You feel a knot forming between your brows. Try as you might, you can’t understand Kicho.

Why are you doing this?

Kicho sweeps a scrutinizing gaze across your tense form. He tilts his head a fraction. Blinks.

I see, he says, and, if you strain your ears enough, you can hear an undercurrent of marvel in his tone. You’re stalling. Expecting a backup, perhaps? I’m afraid to disappoint you, but I will not allow it.

He raises a hand, and his men lift their rifles at the ready.

And you can’t afford that. Wait, no – stop, please! Spare them; take me instead! Spare them, please!

Amidst the raucous protests of the Oda soldiers, Kicho raises a brow at your plea. There is no advantage to him taking you hostage, but it is the only thing you can offer to protect the others’ lives.

And what would I do with you? You have no use for me at all.

Anything. I’ll do anything. Just please spare them.

Kicho doesn’t even think about it, which stings a little. He sighs, as if inconvenienced about the whole thing. You truly have no sense of self-preservation, have you. I’m amazed that you have made it this far. He stares at you like he’s expecting something – an explanation, maybe.

Flustered, you blurt out, I-It’s part of my charm …

He’s not impressed, what with the way his gaze and the line of his lips flatten. But then a second later, he seems to be considering it.

Very well. He signals to his men to put the rifles down. Then he takes a step forward in your direction. I will spare everyone here, in exchange for you. He pulls out his gun, raises it, and declares: If anyone makes any kind of unwelcome move, I will shoot your precious chatelaine. Do I make myself clear?

You know that the soldiers are not happy with this arrangement, but this is no time for hesitation. You give them a reassuring smile and tell them it’s fine. The most important thing right now is that there are no casualties in this confrontation.

Kicho extends a hand to you, his moonsheen eyes glittering against the fires, and you step forward to take it. His grip is firm and almost painful, but to show any reaction is to falter, and this is a battle of convictions.

He smirks at your determination. Make it worth my while, princess.

✤

Motonari is lounging on Kicho's couch, loose but predatory, his back molding around the curve of the cushion, arms splayed over the edge. His alliance with Kicho is at best formidable, but because they do not trust each other, it is at worst tenuous, hanging on by a flimsy thread. Any time one of them may turn around and shoot the other on the back, and either way there would be no love lost between them.

There's a bladed edge that glints in Motonari's eyes as he watches you settle on a chair not far away from his, but he doesn't move, just tilts his head to the side, gaze never leaving you. You've learned to get used to Motonari's hostile curiosity, barbed with thorny comments on your usefulness – or lack of – and the occasional goading. Why are you here, he had said, stepping closer to you with a panther's smile; you're a spy from the Oda, aren't you. Kicho may’ve been fooled but ya ain't foolin' me.

Ya waitin' for that guy? he says now, teeth accompanying the grin. Gonna seduce him again? That what the Oda ordered ya? Strip him off his guard then strike him down?

You're wrong, Motonari-san.

If anything, Motonari's smirk widens. Oh? Then he twists his torso to face you, leaning forward, looming. You think to lean away, but Motonari will interpret that as his victory. Ya wanna explain that t’me, m’lady?

I’m not going to betray Kicho, you say, tone firm, and if you ask Motonari, he’d say it’s almost with contempt. If anything, I’m going to reason with and persuade him. We both want peace, but he’s going at it differently.

The disgust clear on his expression, Motonari sneers. M’lady, ya forgettin’ he’s a warlord. And what do warlords do? It’s in the title – they wage war.

It’s not like you do not know what they do, who they are. From the day you've stayed with Oda Nobunaga, you have learned to swallow your comparisons, arguments that pit the peaceful conditions that you grew up in against their roiling, boiling chaos. Instead you make sense of their context, and figure out how to make the best of what you have and what you can do without forsaking your convictions.

So for Kicho, a man who has lived the past and the future, your present, your understanding of his worldview serves as a crucial point in the matter.

I’ll just have to try my best, then.

And then what? Say you did get ‘im to your side, what d’ya think’ll happen next?

We’re … We’ll be one step closer to unification.

Ha! Ya really think that, huh, princess? Motonari leans closer, his voice an oppressive reverberation against your ears. Let’s not forget me, shall we? Even if you pulled that bastard to your side, it won’t stop me from tearing all of you to dust.

Motonari drops his accent, and it’s indicative of his seriousness; his diction becoming rounder, more solid-land than fluid sea, uttered in a lower register that crawls underneath your skin, and you fail to stop yourself from flinching.

He notices this, and he smirks triumphantly as you try to brush off your sudden fear of him.

His smugness transmogrifies into manic glee as the click of a gun echoes in the room. You look up to find Kicho aiming his pistol at Motonari's head.

Get away from her, Kicho warns, voice calm and even, but his eyes are cold and nothing like the usual apathy gleaned from his gaze.

Motonari leans back on the couch, resuming his previous pose, takes a glance at Kicho, and returns staring at you. Yer really somethin’, ya know. His panther smile reveals sharp, predatorial teeth. Then to Kicho, who hasn’t budged from his position: Fine, fine. M’here for ya anyway.

The gun doesn’t disappear. We’ll talk in another room.

Sure. I’m goin’, I’m goin’. Ya can put that away now. He raises both his hands and rises from his seat. When he passes by Kicho on his way out, Motonari throws a grin at him; Kicho doesn’t react, doesn’t look back, a glacial statue.

I’ll deal with Motonari first; stay here, Kicho says once Motonari has left the room. The icy edge hasn’t left Kicho’s gaze, and you hesitate to ask how much he has heard from the conversation between you and Motonari.

In the end, all you can reply is, All right. I’ll wait for you.

Kicho studies you for a moment, before his lips melt into a soft smile. I’ll be quick.

The sliding doors snap shut, and you are alone in the room. You close your eyes and expire a shuttered sigh, giving in to the silence.

✤

How far will you go for love?

Will you be like a protagonist, bared heart and soul, courage in its purest form? Or will you be like a villain, love taken to its most extreme, a love that becomes mirror-fractured, reflecting the baser, twisted version of it?

And as you wade through the moonlit corridors of the castle, sneaking your way out for a midnight rendezvous, you think of consequences and fate, and how, in the end, happy endings are for fairy tales and festive dreams.

My, my, where is the little mouse going at this hour, Mitsuhide says, revealing himself from the hallway shadows, and he almost fails in masking his glee at your frozen, deer-in-headlights expression.

I can explain, you begin, because what else can you say?

If anything, Mitsuhide’s smirk widens. Oh? Let’s hear it, then.

He doesn’t move from his sinister spot, and you’re aware that his silent waiting is designed to unnerve you. Mitsuhide has always seemed to delight upon your reactions, no matter the situation. It’s nothing malicious, but it’s annoying all the same, bearing the brunt of most of his trolling.

I’m meeting someone, and I’m pretty sure you know who it is.

Mitsuhide feigns surprise. Oh, my! Is it who I think it is? I didn’t know you had it in you, little mouse! Should I report this to Lord Nobunaga and have you imprisoned in the dungeon for your betrayal?

Oh, don’t be so dramatic! You and I both know that Nobunaga has allowed this. We already talked about it.

There’s a little pause before Mitsuhide drops the act. His fox smile remains.

I see little advantage of letting you dabble in this kind of scheme. It’s surprising, I find, that Lord Nobunaga has agreed to this.

Actually, he was the one who suggested it.

And how did you react to it?

Nobunaga knew of my relationship with Kicho, and truthfully I got terrified, but I think he acknowledged it? Because he wanted me to persuade Kicho to go back to us.

And your thoughts on this?

I’ll do it. If it means nobody has to die, then I’ll do it. I don’t want you guys and Kicho fighting.

Mitsuhide seems amused at that. Such courage, our little mouse. But then his smile disappears, serious all of a sudden. I hope you know what you’re doing.

I do know, but thanks for the vote of confidence.

My dear, and for once his voice reaches a level of honesty that alarms you, but you only wait for him to continue. Love may be a wondrous, transformative thing, but it is not an encompassing truth. Remember that illusion also exists in love.

And is that how it is with you and Kicho? A love cascaded in illusion? The frightening thing is that you are certain that Kicho genuinely loves you, but that love he harbors for you carries a particular kind of idealism that reality, most often than not, has a tendency to subvert. Like a villain’s love taken to its extreme, Kicho’s love manifests in service of his ambition, bold declarations of salvation, a hand extended, haloed against cracked, withering edges.

Pain, Kicho had once said, is but a temporary drawback; once I have fulfilled my goal, you will be released from this suffering. I will protect you; I will take care of you, I promise.

Except he cannot protect you from this fate; he is not a god, no matter the scale of the disruptions he orchestrates. His promise is always destined to be broken.

You swallow, to ease the constricting of your throat. To Mitsuhide, you say, I know that. Nevertheless, I will try. What else do I have?

And Mitsuhide seems to understand that. He expires a theatrical sigh, a mischievous fox once again. Well, if you insist. Either way, I am certain that if you failed and came back in tears, Hideyoshi and the others will readily console you of your heartbreak.

Hah! Don’t tell me you’ll be one of them.

Oh, little mouse. Mitsuhide smiles. Don’t hope too much.

✤

The first time you lay with Kicho, the sky is the color of bruise, and it's only been a few days since he has revealed his plans of eternal war to you.

Getting close to Kicho is only a matter of honesty and conviction – and a little bit of earnest wanting to understand the other side. When you both had realized that your ideals aligned, Kicho was more than willing to talk with you, if only to make you see the logic behind his actions.

You and I want peace – but what is peace to them, if only a respite of war? he had told you on a day when the leaves in Sakai were at its most verdant. Emptied coffers, the resources ran out – a time to replenish what has been consumed.

He had looked to the sea then, his hair fluttering against the winds. In those few quiet seconds when the only sounds were lapping waves, his face looked distant, as if in reminiscence.

The hungry will return to fill their sin. And the cycle begins again.

But you were not appeased by that reasoning, so you pushed back.

There are much more people who want peace than those who want war. What are the voices of a few to those of millions?

For a moment Kicho was caught off-center, his eyes a little wider than usual, but then his features tamed and softened, showing you a smile that could make you forget he's a warlord.

You really are a child of that time, he marveled. Behind him the sea waves went on rolling towards the pier, a soothing melody. Your beliefs are utterly remarkable.

And now, in the chambers of your captor, your beliefs are tested, examined with intense scrutiny, like a butterfly whose wings are trapped by long silver needles, gleaming under the light of an examination table.

Tell me, Kicho begins, how one can achieve my goal without bloodshed. If you can provide me an alternative, I am willing to reconsider.

But this is a futile battle, and Kicho is only being indulgent, his fingers tracing the outline of your face, moonglow in his eyes.

You burn so bright, you know, he continues, voice dreamy. You have all these ideals in you. So passionate, so entrancing.

His fingers carry their downward path to your kimono, and your heart starts to beat faster. Your gaze never strays from Kicho’s rapt expression. He notices it, lifting his head to smile at you, warm and besotted and so unlike the cold and calculating man you’ve come to know.

I want to parse them – every single one of them.

And he descends, angling his head to kiss you, lips soft against yours.

A voice at the back of your mind whispers that this is wrong, sleeping with the enemy wrong, but Kicho’s touch on your skin is a trail of heat branding your flesh, coaxing your blood to sing.

When you part for air, Kicho emerges with a playful grin. But its line is askew, the curve tinged with irony. Your beliefs, your convictions … I suppose they crumple in the face of worldly desire, no?

It’s a deliberate jab, one that aims to crush your spirit, but the thing with Kicho is that he’s a very self-aware individual, which sets him apart from the other warlords. He knows where he stands and he knows where he will go. There are no blind spots, no weaknesses to exploit. A perfectionist striving for perfection, a man desiring godhood. And the only way you can answer him is with this:

You say that … but I know that you also want this. You speak of beliefs and convictions – how steadfast you are with yours. And I just want to understand where you’re coming from. It’s you who’s drawn in, so don’t say that it’s me who’s losing.

He recoils, like something scorching has grazed his body. That reaction is a taste of victory, and Kicho agrees, if the slow, crescendoing laughter is an indication. 

He sighs then, satisfaction and amusement radiating all over him, residues of a smirk dancing on his lips.

You are a treasure. Let me keep you.

His eyes are narrowed in mirth, affection now glazing his every move. Every motion of the bed, every shift of fabric, signals of his approach, and when he levels his eyes with yours, when he breathes the same air as you, when his hand braces right beside your hip, his other hand ghosting the corner of your eye, your nose, your lips – it dawns on you, then, that this is something Kicho may not have foreseen but will gladly see through the end.

Bloom for me.

When he takes you that night, you welcome it.

✤

The secret doesn’t last, and the moment you regain consciousness, you know that something has gone very, very wrong.

You open your eyes to an unfamiliar room, decked with ornate red and gold linings on each wall. The design calls to memory a particular chamber, one that you’ve recently got yourself too familiar with.

You’re finally awake.

The flat voice draws your attention, and you turn your head to the source. Kicho, seated on a chair beside the bed you’re currently lying on, prim and proper, but a second look at his face reveals a tight strain, particularly around the eyes, where hints of sleeplessness peek through.

What he says next feels like a dunk in cold water.

You’ve been unconscious for three days. You don’t have a fever. You’re not ill. But you wouldn’t wake up.

The blackouts have begun to increase their frequency, the duration of being unconscious growing to an alarming length. You wouldn’t be surprised – though you dread it all the same – when one day you’d collapse and never wake up.

But the most curious thing right now is Kicho’s tremulous voice, little hitches in the middle of the sentences, powering through the syllables as if uttering your situation is an insurmountable challenge. 

Were you worried about me?

He frowns, and for a moment it seems as though he is surprised at your question.

If you want to see it as worry, then I will not contradict you. He extends a hand to settle it on your cheek, a feather-light touch, his gaze turbulent. You suddenly collapsed while Nobunaga and I were in a confrontation. It was the perfect opportunity to incapacitate him, but the moment you hit the ground, I found myself whisking you off to safety.

A storm passes through his face, darkening his expression.

That was the first and last time I’m allowing my plans to go awry. It will not happen again.

You stare at him. He braved Nobunaga and his men alone just to get you out of there? 

I think … you hesitate. I think my fainting spells are because of your plans.

His eyes widen for a fleeting second. Then he becomes pensive.

Then, it seems that what I’m doing is working. He presents you a reassuring smile. Don’t be afraid. This only strengthens my resolve.

But what about me? you want to say.

I am certain now that I’m on the right path. But it’s not without challenges, as your condition has shown us. Please endure it a little longer; it hurts now, but, in the end, it will all be worth it.

✤

In some ways, this is really where it all starts – the descent to oblivion. But of course, only those who will have survived are gifted with the privilege of hindsight. 

It goes like this:

Ambition is what makes a man, but for Nobunaga, it is his ironclad conviction that paves the way for his ambitions to become reality. This is what allows him to rise above his contemporaries. His is a fascinating case study: after saving him from the fires of Honnou-ji, Nobunaga emerges from the ashes like a risen phoenix, ploughing against his enemies as a recompense for their betrayal and their wickedness, the devil that thirsts for blood. He quickly grasps your value – the girl from the future, the girl who holds the answer to the question he’s been searching for in this war. With his level of intellect it was only a matter of time before you would confide in him your secret.

Of course, there are also other things he can deduce from you.

I am aware, Nobunaga begins, that you have been seeing Kicho for a while now.

The tea that he has poured for you nearly spills from your trembling hand. Are you?

Nobunaga watches you with an aquiline curiosity that you easily mistake for the intensity you usually associate with him. He doesn’t answer right away – only continues to sip his tea.

For all his declarations of owning you, Nobunaga has been magnanimous enough to let you do whatever you wish. Eventually you had figured out that ownership does not mean possession but rather protection in this case, except that Nobunaga is too obstinate to admit that difference.

But the matter with Kicho is a dangerous road to tread on. A vassal turned enemy, Kicho can use you against Nobunaga, and all of you are aware of that fact. 

I will not permit Kicho to steal my lucky charm.

I know he’s your enemy, but –

Which is why you will take him to our side.

You halt. And stare at Nobunaga.

He goes on, unperturbed by your blatant gaping: By now I know you well enough to have figured out that you saw something in him, for you to stay by his side. Use that to persuade him.

A-Aren’t you angry with him? He destroyed your tenshu – he almost killed you guys!

Nobunaga tilts his chin down, and the light hits his face in such a way that the shadows silhouette his expression, but in that moment his eyes seem aglow with a burning that is almost supernatural, like hellfire.

He is in the way of my unification. But if I can surmount this matter using the least amount of resources, I will. He pauses. Are you not angry with him for what he’s done to us?

That’s not it! And now the tea has spilled onto your hand, but it’s no longer hot against your skin. You ignore it. Of course I’m angry! But I’ve been talking to him, and … he just wants peace as you do.

Then you know what to do.

You swallow. How disbelieving it is, to meet two individuals who have chosen vastly diverging paths, yet aiming for the same destination. Both have ambitions worthy of being written in history, in a time when war tears everything asunder. With Nobunaga, you find hope to be a buoyant, reachable thing, one that you can touch and preserve. With Kicho, everything is a glass waiting to get shattered, the shards pricking your fingers to siphon the blood within.

And despite your love for Kicho, this is a battle of beliefs, of convictions. You are reminded of that night, under the bruise-colored sky, when you told Kicho that it is he who had lost.

Now, it is not so much as winning and losing as it is protecting everyone’s lives.

You close your eyes, gathering your resolve, so that when you look back at Nobunaga, he will know of your answer.

All right, I understand.

✤

At the Seta-no-Karahashi bridge, two figures face each other, mere inches apart.

You say: Let us pretend, for a moment, that you have succeeded in your eternal war, and that the future where I lived is destroyed. What then?

And Kicho says: Then I would have saved countless lives.

How? you want to ask, but Kicho’s hand floats over to your cheek, his fingers entwining with your hair. He brushes a stray lock behind your ear, slow and careful, his gaze intent.

You may not understand now, but you will, one day. After all – he smiles, tender – we want the same thing.

Under the bridge where you stand, the river flows steadily, uninterrupted.

✤

One by one they fall like marionettes cut at the strings, no longer of use to the puppeteer. Ieyasu is the first to go down, Masamune next. When it's Keiji's turn, he takes the Oda troops’ morale with him. Hideyoshi and Mitsunari put up a good fight, but they too are felled in the end. Kicho leaves Mitsuhide to Motonari – deception against deceit – watches in detached fascination. He allows Nobunaga to live for a while, relishes the ignominy accompanied by his survival.

And amidst this nightmare, you drift in and out of existence, memories scattered like puzzle pieces, unable to reconstruct the overarching image. It is only your love for Kicho and your desire to stop him that you endure.

And even then, you think that they are not enough. They will never be enough.

✤

There was once a boy who saw life as precious, that he’d value every living thing in this world.

He cared so much that, when he grew up, he would wage an eternal war for it.

But of course, it’s more complicated than that.

✤

I know that Nobunaga has ordered you to get me to abandon my goal and return to his side.

He says this from behind you as he slathers attention to your bare shoulder, tiny nips that sting lightly, but his breathing makes everything almost ticklish. You sigh and arch your back from the sensation, and Kicho presses his hand against your belly, pulling you towards him until your skin comes into contact with his.

The words are thrown so casually as if he’s merely talking about the weather. He doesn’t sound betrayed, and you would’ve felt guilty about it, but Kicho has continuously shown apathy towards your connection with the Oda. That despite your being Nobunaga’s ‘princess’, Kicho has not put you in harm’s way.

The hand on your belly trails lower, lower, lower, until a shot of pleasure spreads throughout your body, jolting you, a loud gasp escaping your lips. The sudden movement has you brushing Kicho, and you hear him exhale a shuddering breath.

He chuckles. That’s not nice.

He grips your hips to stop you from doing anything else, and then grinds, his lips latching onto your neck. You shut your eyes and just feel.

K-Kicho …

He releases you, and the absence of him on your skin draws you to lucidity. Before you turn your body to him and ask if anything’s wrong, Kicho flips you so that you are facing him, settling you on his lap. He goes back to sucking your neck, both his hands roaming your torso, ghostly caresses that have your hairs standing.

You shiver.

I know you’ll convince me that siding with Nobunaga is the right thing to do, he says in between his attention to your body. You’ll tell me that I should abandon my plans on stopping the unification and help him instead.

Are you – are you – you moan loudly when Kicho’s finger slips inside you – are you angry?

Kicho drags his tongue across your jaw, then tugs at your earlobe. His heavy breathing right beside your ear; you fail to suppress your shudder. Should I be?

B-But …

Another finger enters; your hips buck.

I’m not angry. He places a soft kiss on your temple. I’m not angry with you for agreeing to his order. I’m not even angry about your reasons. They’re sensible. Understandable.

You pause, staring at him, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Kicho realizes this, and he chuckles, giving you a warm smile after. He kisses you, long and wet and loud, and you relax in his arms.

Then he curls his fingers inside.

You jerk and groan aloud, his name on your lips a breathy mantra.

I just want you to remember – his fingers leave you, and your body unwittingly follows him. He kisses you again, guiding your hips, and you feel him press against you – that what Nobunaga plans will not yield any fruit.

And then he plunges inside.

It will not change how I feel for you, he pants to your cheek, breaths hot and thick, as he thrusts over and over. You cling to him, nails digging into his back, praying his name like it’s the only thing you know.

And when you tighten around him, he quickens his pace, his voice cracking when he says, Come for me, my love.

And you succumb to the overwhelming pleasure, white heat lighting every inch of your nerves, and you cry out his name one last time. Kicho watches you with half-mast eyes, clouded with desire, and waits until you settle down.

Then he resumes moving.

He’s close to the edge as well, his rhythm broken, and when he comes, he presses his lips against yours to muffle his moans.

Later, as you lay on top of his chest, breathing relaxed and even, his hand rubbing your back in soothing circles, Kicho murmurs, We are after the same thing, yet our means of obtaining it are so different from each other.

It’s not too late, Kicho.

He shifts so he can look at you. His moonsheen gaze is clear, and he brings his other hand to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

I admire your conviction, but in the long run, the unification you hold in greatest esteem will crumble into ashes. I aim for something more enduring, eternal. The path I take leads to true happiness, and I only wish you could have taken my hand.

✤

But what is true happiness?

In Kicho’s mind, it is the relief after abject despair, a world razed to the ground, starting anew. To understand the value of life, one must be on the brink of death, for what is reform without violent desperation?

Once, you had asked him about his life in the future, and he had brought his gaze to the side, and you could tell that he was recreating the Japan of your time in his memories.

Tokyo was large and bright – the first time I stepped into the city I was blinded by so much color.

People could travel to distant places in just under a few hours. It was unimaginable for me at the time.

The technology is so advanced – instant communication, knowledge at your fingertips, and all the medical breakthroughs … But then –

Shadows flickered and settled onto Kicho’s features, sharpening the animosity that arose from his recollection.

Even then, there are wars still fought. It may not be in Japan, but in other countries, they are devastating. And I realized that, no matter the era, wars will never cease.

So I made an oath to myself: when I return to my time, I will do everything I can to prevent that era from happening. Instead I will create a new timeline, one that will end all wars by making everyone learn the fragility of their own existence.

So it is a warless utopia that Kicho desires, a world where people can be happy and live in peace, where there is no place for greedy, selfish destruction. Make no mistake: he has the conviction to turn it into reality, the grand ambition sculpted into long-lasting perfection.

But in a way, isn’t that also frightening, to have that kind of ambition? Like shedding everything that ties Kicho to the world; he will ascend like a god who overlooks the earth from the heavens above, passing judgement like an adjudicator, governing people’s fates. How can Nobunaga’s unification compare with that?

You, Nobunaga, Kicho – you all want peace, but who has the right way of achieving it?

You have no answer to this question. Either way it is already too late.

✤

In the pockets of moments when you can slip in some quiet solitude, you wonder if you had crossed paths with Kicho during your past life. What were the chances of such a fateful encounter? In all the years of your rational non-belief, you would have never expected time travel and wormholes to be real, much less getting direct involvement with them. Would that be called fate?

In these solitary moments, you allow yourself the indulgence of fantasies: how easy it is to imagine that you had met Kicho in that future, your former home. Perhaps a brush of sleeves as you frantically rush at Shibuya Crossing, dodging people here and there, to prevent yourself from arriving late at a meeting. Or perhaps a near encounter at the train, only a few feet in distance, with you listening to music while him typing away at his phone, both your gazes never intersecting. Or perhaps it was at a bookstore, passing him by at the history section, his attention rapt in a book about the Sengoku era. 

But why stop there? Why not be more daring? 

The point of fantasy is to surrender to your innermost desire, buried under the layers of guilt and restraint. It’s unlikely to come true, but who wouldn’t dream of it leaping from the nebulous aether of the imagination and into the corporeality of the physical world?

Just imagine:

You at a bookstore, perusing the fashion section for inspiration to your portfolio. You have been planning to quit your job for a while now in order to pursue your dream of becoming a fashion designer, and for that you need to build a portfolio of your work.

When you turn to the corner of the history section, you collide into someone, and the book he’s reading falls from his hands. But he has good reflex – his hand shooting out to capture the book before it hits the ground. You snap out of your surprise and say sorry, and compliment his quick reaction.

It is nothing, he says, his lacustrine gaze sweeping over your alarmed form. He doesn’t seem angry; rather, he seems indifferent, and you would’ve gone on your way, bow lightly, apologizing once more, and move on, except a belated thought occurs to him and then he continues: You should keep an eye on where you are going, especially at a blind corner like this. You might bump into someone or something worse, and you could get hurt from it. Be careful next time.

Oh, how considerate of him! Despite his intimidating aura, he exudes in his words a touch of kindness, and it pulls a smile out of you, which he takes note of, if his arched eyebrow is an indication.

You will not introduce yourself in that moment, because it’s more thrilling to set chance encounters in the future: falling in the same line for coffee at a small, cozy café; entering the same train car during Tokyo rush hour; viewing the skyline at the Tokyo Tower; visiting historical sites during your days off.

And during these encounters you will get to know him better. And if you’re feeling sentimental, maybe you can even pinpoint the moment you fall in love with each other.

You will confess first, of course, because your heart is stronger than your doubts. Whereas he will hesitate, and he will deny you an answer because of his complicated origin. It will take several days before he will visit your apartment and confess to you his predicament, hands wrapped around the tea mug you have offered him, in a logical voice that belied the absurdity of his story.

But love is an unconditional, insurmountable force that can overcome any hurdle that obstructs its path. It doesn’t matter to you where he comes from – surreal as it is to believe that he came 500 years in the past – what matters is that you’re both in love, and what could be greater than a love that transcends time?

Except. Will this fantasy have its happy ending? Reality would have made Kicho return to his own time. Here, in your imagined reality, Kicho will remain by your side, happily ever after. He will turn his back on the war, on the fighting, on Oda Nobunaga and the rest of them all – no more. He will stay with you, in this modern world where peace endures and life is valued. It is his ideals, realized.

Except.

Except.

Except illusion exists in love. You know you will only hurt yourself if you continue with this fantasy. It is, after all, just that – a fantasy, something that will never come true, no matter how much you wish for it. And Kicho, despite how much he looks at you with tenderness in his eyes and how much he touches you like you’re the most important thing in the world – he would have made his choice.

Perhaps –

Perhaps he would have stayed. For you.

Perhaps he wouldn’t.

Kicho is a man with so great an ambition not even the gods could have stopped him.

So.

It’s fate that he would return to his time and it’s fate that he would leave you.

His ambition is, after all, greater than his love.

✤

I love you, Kicho whispers into your skin as he shudders and empties himself inside you.

So here we are, back to the night before your dissolute end, mirror-cracks in your memories chipping off into the darkness, where the cold embrace of fate lies still, waiting for you. The future lurks not with bated breath, but with patient anticipation, for there is no escape from something that is not known.

It's a pity that Kicho has chosen this path of no return, despite all the things you've done to pull him back to the surface. He has plunged himself into the abyss with the purpose of conquering it – a mighty feat – and he is winning, like a god that he will be, in this world of blood and tears.

Tomorrow, my final plan will begin, and I will be there in the front lines, witnessing it. Kicho fits you to the line of his body, snug and warm, and if you only close your eyes you can imagine that both of you are somewhere very far away, in a more peaceful place, without war and death, happy. I want you to stay here where it's safe. Even if I wanted you to watch Nobunaga's downfall, I can't risk you getting hurt. I love you, you understand, right?

And what else can you say? That it's too late for him to keep you like a rare butterfly, only displayed but never free? Ever since the beginning Kicho has laid all the foundations of his ascension; it is already written, and you are but a chapter in his legacy.

You don’t say, I’m scared, Kicho.

You say, I love you too, I understand.

You don’t say, I’m dying, and you’ve made your choice.

You say, Good night, sweet dreams.

And he smiles at you, tender and full of love, and it’s the most beautiful and the most heartbreaking sight. You can't bear to look at it any longer, so you bury your face on the crook of his neck, lest he notices your despair.

Tomorrow, the end will begin, and the shadows have already started clinging to your feet, tugging at you, misty darkness entering your pores, rusting your bones. It will be painful to fade away, reduced into lingering ashes and memories, but perhaps this pain will metamorphose into eternal reprieve. A blissful oblivion.

Tomorrow, it will be the end, and you will never see everyone again. You will never see Kicho again. He has made his choice, and you have yours.

But for now, you close your eyes and wait for a dreamless sleep.

[alicehattera03]

Claude promised he was planning to give Athy everything she desires in this world, so what if he hears how heartbroken she is about Ijekiel x Jennette happening and decides to kidnap Ijekiel for her? Other dads gift their daughters a dog or a bird to their birthday but Claude is a cool dad™ he won't be doing that. He gives her a wholeass husband wrapped in a ribbon and a matching cage. Isn't that nice of him? Hey why is she crying-

Claude couldn't understand why Athanasia was looking so crestfallen over the way the maids were chattering about the son of Alpheus and their foster getting together, with an engagement party on the way.

He takes a sip of Lippe tea, the scent soft and fond in his heart and he looks at Athanasia who stirred a single spoon in her tea and picked at the chocolate desserts she usually devoured within minutes of them being set down before her.

She was always bright and cheerful in front of him. He couldn't remember the last time she had looked nervous or scared when she spent time with him.

He didn't like it. Not at all.

Claude sits at his desk drafting a letter when he pauses, turning a concept over in his head as he turns his gaze over to a drawer. A little wisp of mana makes it click open and he reaches in for a handful of colorful gems.

Recording gems.

He feels them tumble around in his hand and he arranges them on his desk, the hours passing by as he watches the little images move, reflected in his eyes.

He heaves out a sigh, the promise echoes in his head. "Whatever you wish for, Athanasia. I will gift you even better things than you can dream of."

The next morning, Athanasia is woken up by the sound of a gentle knock at the door and she's dressed up by a flurry of maids before she's sent off to the detached palace where Claude was waiting.

She spots the large covered object next to him, towering over his head, a slight curve to its top. She's given no warning before the cover is whisked off and she's befuddled at the sight of Ijekiel lying in the middle of a human-sized... cage.

His wrists are bound behind his back with blue ribbon, the same over his eyes, and she's horrified at how motionless he looked.

"Papa, what- what is the meaning of this?!" Claude looks confused, a little uncertain at her outburst.

"Athanasia, you seemed..sad the other day when you heard of young Alpheus' engagement. I thought you'd be happy if I gifted him to you."

She rushes to the cage, and reaches through the bars to brush through his hair and he jerks at her touch. "Who-!"

Breathing a sigh of relief that he was alive, Athanasia snatches back her hand, clenching it to her chest before turning to her father.

She practically runs to the door after grasping his hand and when the door shuts behind them, she gestures wildly at where they came.

"Papa, send him back! Ijekiel has chosen Jennette, what can I do, keep him here by force when he doesn't want to?!"

She feels tears trickle down her cheeks, heat rushing to her neck as she sobs. Claude doesn't comment on how she uses the young Alpheus' first name, nor does he say anything on how her voice cracked mid-sentence.

He simply draws her in, patting her back with an awkward rhythm and gives a look towards Felix who bows his head with a faint grimace, slipping into the room to go cover the cage before standing by to let Claude in to teleport Ijekiel back to his mansion.

What was the point of sitting on the throne if he couldn't give her all that she wanted, people, things, or otherwise? If she wanted an empire, he would calculate the chances of losing before waging an all-out war if she wished to expand Obelia.

Athanasia watches as Ijekiel's form scatters into silver specks, wondering if she had talked to him sooner, had drawn closer to him sooner, had confessed....would things have turned out differently than what had happened?

She doesn't come out of her room for a day before she returns back to her normal self. But what was Athanasia de Alger Obelia's definition of "normal"?

.

.

.

.

.

Alt ending where Ijekiel comes to his senses and goes to the palace after waking up from being teleported so abruptly and asks for her hand in marriage because she was his first and only love.

And Athy has to keep asking him over and over because she doesn't really believe that, but he keeps reassuring her until she watches him kneel down with a ring he had made for her after measuring her finger in secret with the help of Felix.

[pixcldust]

𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞 ;

pairing | rich!kuroo tetsuro x f! reader

wordcount | 1.1k

warnings | slightly suggestive

tags | rich boy x poor reader, love confession, one night stand/fwb to something ✨more✨, no beta i never have beta lmao

a/n | i dont really know if anyone is still here but this was part of a series i planned out ages ago about a rich kids au. never fully finished the series (idk i would love to pick it up again) but it’s been collecting dust in my drafts for ages. also i miss this account 🥺 love u, pls hydrate

matutine (adj): of or relating to early morning; occuring in the early morning

When your eyes blink open, the hotel room is dark and you are alone in the big big bed. For a brief, sleepy second, you think that he has already left. You feel a tired pang of happiness when you see that he hasn’t.

There’s a warm glow from the lamp in the corner that illuminates a figure standing by the window. You can smell the smoke from his cigar; a little sweet but mostly pungent, in your opinion. He doesn’t even like to smoke -- he told you that the first time you met -- but he’s always puffing away on his Cuban cigars. The logic behind that evades you, but you can always guess why. He smokes because he’s bored. He buys and hoards more tobacco than he should because he’s bored. He stays with you because he’s bored.

The last sentence wasn’t just a guess.

You crumple the sheets a little, as you move to sit up, and he turns to look at you. Cat eyes blink, backlit by the view only the top floor of a luxury penthouse can provide - neon car lights and tiny windows all blurred into a mess of light. And above it all, a starless night sky. The view is beautiful and unreal from here.

“What time is it?” your voice is a croak, swept over by tiredness. 

“It’s 3:30 am,” he replies, putting the cigar into the ashtray. “Sorry. I know you hate this kinda stuff.”

Being the only son of the president of one of the biggest conglomerates in Japan, Kuroo Tetsuro was first in line to claim the company after his father stepped down. And yet here he was putting  out a $70 cigar early because a part-time waitress, whose closet was half-filled with thrift store clothes, didn’t like the smell. You’d be flattered if you didn’t know that $70 was almost nothing to him. He would pay over $100 for a smoke without batting an eyelid. You know that far too well.

“It’s only three thirty? I shouldn’t have woke up,” you sigh, brushing a hand over your face. “I don’t know how I’m going to go back to sleep again.”

A sly grin appears on Tetsuro’s face - it’s familiar and annoyingly sexy. How dare he look like that? You can’t help feeling a bit bitter.

“Want me to tire you out a little?”

You roll your eyes even as you smile, as he climbs back into the bed to rest both arms on the headboard. Caging you in, under his shirtless body. He smells fresh, like he’d just step out of the shower, despite the underlying scent of his cigar smoke. “Once a night is quite enough, thanks. I’ve got a morning shift tomorrow, and I’d like to retain my ability to walk.”

When you first met Tetsuro, at a shitty hole-in-the-wall bar that you never returned to after, he’d said all the right things in the right way. You didn’t even know he was one of the richest 20-something year olds in the country when he laughed at your sarcastic jokes, when the conversation somehow turned to kissing. You thought he was just another bar fling. Watching his lips quirk up into a smile, there’s a sense of relief that washes over you; you’re glad that he’s become more than that, as loathe as you are to admit your feelings to yourself.

His laughter shakes the bed beneath you. After months of this - this strange relationship where the both of you are something more than friends, but not quite lovers - you’ve learned to tell the difference between his mirthless chuckles and his genuine, albeit ridiculous, laughter. It’s nice that he’s been carrying out the latter more frequently around you.

“That should be flattering, but it doesn’t sound as kind coming from you,” he drops his arms and roll to the side, one leg draped over yours. Only the blankets keep your skin from touching his. “Want me to send you there? I’m free all day tomorrow.”

It’s sweet of him to offer, but the mental image of his red Rolls-Royce pulling up to the tiny neighbourhood diner, and a waitress in patched up jeans stepping out was too amusing. You tell him as much, while he trails a hand up your bare arm to tap your shoulder mindlessly. “I’m pretty sure it’d end up on the news: president’s son drops off minimum wage waitress at tiny diner. Your dad would probably murder you.”

He pinches your shoulder, playfully, moving his hand to your chest. “He can try, but am I really at fault for doing a favour for my favourite person?”

“Your favourite person, huh?”

“Yeah, of course,” he laughed, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck. His breath is warm. “Hey Y/N?”

Your hands move to comb through his unruly hair. “What?”

“Don’t freak out, but I think I love you.”

Oh. Your fingers froze. There it was.

After the first night, when you woke up to find empty sheets and a neat white business card on the bedside table, you googled him. He scribbled a little message under his name and his position as Supervisor for Kuroo Group -- one of the richest conglomerates in Japan that so happened to share his last name. You’d read the message so many times, you could recite it by heart now -- ‘Thanks for last night. Call me whenever you feel like. I had fun.’. 

The Internet told you he was a notorious playboy with a personality that endless wealth always seemed to incur: confident, detailed and bored. So so bored with his flow of gold and his shiny toys and all his different suits and ties. There are accounts, from other alleged one-night stands and business partners. They all say the same thing: that he could charm the pants of anyone and that his words dripped like honey - thick and sweet, boasting the kindness of a saint and the slyness of a sinner. 

As his dark eyes bore into yours, waiting for a response to… whatever the hell that just was, you think that maybe the Internet has lied. His words aren’t honey - they spill like expensive champagne, Dom Perignon Rose, bubbly and valuable. Something you find yourself drowning in often, although you don’t know if you could ever admit that to anyone but yourself.

“Y/N? You okay? Look, I’m really sorry if that weirded you out but I just thought that it would be unfair to act like I don’t feel anything for you.”

You don’t want to admit it but fuck, he just might be worth drowning for. 

[sepublic]

            Rewatching clips of Spectacular Spider Man. I love this show, but at the same time; Can we all agree that the worst trope in superhero stories is when a supervillain comes into being because some corporate douche screws them over; So then the goodey two-shoes hero fights the ‘villain’ who was by all means wronged and trying to prove a point, and/or the writers have the supervillain threaten/kill unrelated innocents because uhhh they gotta be evil and extremism bad. You can’t be mean to rich people, hurting this capitalist leech is NEVER the answer!

         And if the corporate ashole DOES suffer some consequences, it’s usually a slap on the wrist??? Especially if the villain ends up dying or being condemned by society due to their crimes and some horrible condition, which the heroes insist there will be a cure for via platitudes but then nothing actually gets better and the story forgets about the villain’s struggle. Instead they’re asked to just shut up and accept it because nobody is sympathetic to trauma survivors who display ‘ugly’ symptoms such as anger or lashing out (clearly this proves they’re actually secretly bad all along), the villain must patiently wait as their problems no longer become our concern.

         It’s all so bleak and very corporate bootlicker to me, that constant narrative of how you can’t force the corporate asshole to actually admit he’s wrong nor break the law to expose him. And that’s kind of the problem with a lot of superhero stories that’s becoming apparent with these shifting attitudes and times; They’re defenders of the status quo and so they can’t really make any meaningful change, compared to the villains who actually do, or at least don’t wait to be given permission to.

         Instead, the audience is told that the only ‘moral’ way is to try and change the system by working with the system, etc., because you have to play by the rules. But in this day and age, it’s becoming increasingly clear that the rules are inherently set up against you, that the only way to make REAL change is via direct action, and that this Both Sides crap isn’t really getting us anywhere, it’s just so utterly ineffectual these platitudes. It really is that same lesson of how you gotta play by the status quo’s terms because THEY define what’s right or wrong and you gotta mind their wittle feelings, you gotta do things the ‘legal’ way because legality is right.

        Violence is NEVER the answer except when you’re fighting bad guys, who are always lower-class crooks stealing money from banks or something. It’s frustrating and we usually see the wronged supervillain suffer horribly and get brutally beaten within an inch of their life, while the corporate asshole, again, doesn’t even get a physical finger laid on them. Like RIP to Spider Man or Batman but if some rich CEO took credit for someone’s invention, and the inventor terrorized the CEO to make them confess and give the inventor the credit and wages they deserve, I would simply look the other way and let them.

        Fighting crime is clearly a nebulous concept and just a bandaid slapped over systemic wounds that are never addressed, hence the superheroes always endlessly fighting because they never make real change. And even when it’s an anti-hero who kills people, it’s only ever lower-class criminals or mob bosses, and not corrupt politicians or corporate because you don’t to be PoLiTiCaL. Hence why we never see the Punisher go after politicians who fund transphobic bills, nor does he free immigrant kids in cages. So there’s no chance for that catharsis, which is usually part of the point of those gritty edgy anti hero stories. It’s just... all aged very poorly.

[nellygwyn]

BOOK RECS

Okay, so lots of people wanted this and so, I am compiling a list of my favourite books (both fiction and non-fiction), books that I recommend you read as soon as humanly possible. In the meantime, I’ll be pinning this post to the top of my blog (once I work out how to do that lmao) so it will be accessible for old and new followers. I’m going to order this list thematically, I think, just to keep everything tidy and orderly. Of course, a lot of this list will consist of historical fiction and historical non-fiction because that’s what I read primarily and thus, that’s where my bias is, but I promise to try and spice it up just a little bit. 

Favourite fiction books of all time:

The Mermaid and Mrs Hancock // Imogen Hermes Gowar

Sense and Sensibility // Jane Austen

Slammerkin // Emma Donoghue 

Remarkable Creatures // Tracy Chevalier

Life Mask // Emma Donoghue

His Dark Materials // Philip Pullman (this includes the follow-up series The Book of Dust)

Emma // Jane Austen

The Miniaturist // Jessie Burton

Girl, Woman, Other // Bernadine Evaristo 

Jane Eyre // Charlotte Brontë

Persuasion // Jane Austen

Girl with a Pearl Earring // Tracy Chevalier

The Silent Companions // Laura Purcell

Tess of the d’Urbervilles // Thomas Hardy

Northanger Abbey // Jane Austen

The Chronicles of Narnia // C.S. Lewis

Pride and Prejudice // Jane Austen

Goodnight, Mr Tom // Michelle Magorian

The French Lieutenant’s Woman // John Fowles 

The Butcher’s Hook // Janet Ellis 

Mansfield Park // Jane Austen

The All Souls Trilogy // Deborah Harkness

The Railway Children // Edith Nesbit

Favourite non-fiction books of all time

Catherine the Great: Portrait of a Woman // Robert Massie

Love and Louis XIV: The Women in the Life of the Sun King // Antonia Fraser

Madame de Pompadour // Nancy Mitford

The First Iron Lady: A Life of Caroline of Ansbach // Matthew Dennison 

Black and British: A Forgotten History // David Olusoga

Courtiers: The Secret History of the Georgian Court // Lucy Worsley 

Young and Damned and Fair: The Life of Katherine Howard, the Fifth Wife of Henry VIII // Gareth Russell

King Charles II // Antonia Fraser

Casanova’s Women // Judith Summers

Marie Antoinette: The Journey // Antonia Fraser

Mrs. Jordan’s Profession: The Story of a Great Actress and a Future King // Claire Tomalin

Jane Austen at Home // Lucy Worsley

Mudlarking: Lost and Found on the River Thames // Lara Maiklem

The Last Royal Rebel: The Life and Death of James, Duke of Monmouth // Anna Keay

The Marlboroughs: John and Sarah Churchill // Christopher Hibbert

Nell Gwynn: A Biography // Charles Beauclerk

Jurassic Mary: Mary Anning and the Primeval Monsters // Patricia Pierce

Georgian London: Into the Streets // Lucy Inglis

The Prince Who Would Be King: The Life and Death of Henry Stuart // Sarah Fraser

Wedlock: How Georgian Britain’s Worst Husband Met His Match // Wendy Moore

Dead Famous: An Unexpected History of Celebrity from the Stone Age to the Silver Screen // Greg Jenner

Victorians Undone: Tales of the Flesh in the Age of Decorum // Kathryn Hughes

Crown of Blood: The Deadly Inheritance of Lady Jane Grey // Nicola Tallis

Favourite books about the history of sex and/or sex work

The Origins of Sex: A History of First Sexual Revolution // Faramerz Dabhoiwala 

Erotic Exchanges: The World of Elite Prostitution in Eighteenth-Century Paris // Nina Kushner

Peg Plunkett: Memoirs of a Whore // Julie Peakman

Courtesans // Katie Hickman

The Other Victorians: A Study of Sexuality and Pornography in mid-Nineteenth Century England

Madams, Bawds, and Brothel Keepers // Fergus Linnane

The Secret History of Georgian London: How the Wages of Sin Shaped the Capital // Dan Cruickshank 

A Curious History of Sex // Kate Lister

Sex and Punishment: 4000 Years of Judging Desire // Eric Berkowitz

Queen of the Courtesans: Fanny Murray // Barbara White

Rent Boys: A History from Ancient Times to Present // Michael Hone

Celeste // Roland Perry

Sex and the Gender Revolution // Randolph Trumbach

The Pleasure’s All Mine: A History of Perverse Sex // Julie Peakman

LGBT+ fiction I love*

The Confessions of the Fox // Jordy Rosenberg 

As Meat Loves Salt // Maria Mccann

Bone China // Laura Purcell

Brideshead Revisited // Evelyn Waugh

The Confessions of Frannie Langton // Sara Collins

The Intoxicating Mr Lavelle // Neil Blackmore

Orlando // Virginia Woolf

Tipping the Velvet // Sarah Waters

She Rises // Kate Worsley

The Mercies // Kiran Millwood Hargrave

Oranges are Not the Only Fruit // Jeanette Winterson

Maurice // E.M Forster

Frankisstein: A Love Story // Jeanette Winterson

If I Was Your Girl // Meredith Russo 

The Well of Loneliness // Radclyffe Hall 

* fyi, Life Mask and Girl, Woman, Other are also LGBT+ fiction

Classics I haven’t already mentioned (including children’s classics)

Far From the Madding Crowd // Thomas Hardy 

I Capture the Castle // Dodie Smith 

Vanity Fair // William Makepeace Thackeray 

Wuthering Heights // Emily Brontë

The Blazing World // Margaret Cavendish, Duchess of Newcastle

Murder on the Orient Express // Agatha Christie 

Great Expectations // Charles Dickens

North and South // Elizabeth Gaskell

Evelina // Frances Burney

Death on the Nile // Agatha Christie

The Monk // Matthew Lewis

Frankenstein // Mary Shelley

Vilette // Charlotte Brontë

The Mayor of Casterbridge // Thomas Hardy

The Tenant of Wildfell Hall // Anne Brontë

Vile Bodies // Evelyn Waugh

Beloved // Toni Morrison 

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd // Agatha Christie

The History of Tom Jones, A Foundling // Henry Fielding

A Room With a View // E.M. Forster

Silas Marner // George Eliot 

Jude the Obscure // Thomas Hardy

My Man Jeeves // P.G. Wodehouse

Lady Audley’s Secret // Mary Elizabeth Braddon

Middlemarch // George Eliot

Little Women // Louisa May Alcott

Children of the New Forest // Frederick Marryat

I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings // Maya Angelou 

Rebecca // Daphne du Maurier

Alice in Wonderland // Lewis Carroll

The Wind in the Willows // Kenneth Grahame

Anna Karenina // Leo Tolstoy

Howard’s End // E.M. Forster

The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole, Aged 13 3/4 // Sue Townsend

Even more fiction recommendations

The Darling Strumpet // Gillian Bagwell

The Wolf Hall trilogy // Hilary Mantel

The Illumination of Ursula Flight // Anne-Marie Crowhurst

Queenie // Candace Carty-Williams

Forever Amber // Kathleen Winsor

The Corset // Laura Purcell

Love in Colour // Bolu Babalola

Artemisia // Alexandra Lapierre

Blackberry and Wild Rose // Sonia Velton

The Bloody Chamber and Other Stories // Angela Carter

The Languedoc trilogy // Kate Mosse

Longbourn // Jo Baker

A Skinful of Shadows // Frances Hardinge

The Black Moth // Georgette Heyer

The Far Pavilions // M.M Kaye

The Essex Serpent // Sarah Perry

The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo // Taylor Jenkins Reid

Cavalier Queen // Fiona Mountain 

The Winter Palace // Eva Stachniak

Friday’s Child // Georgette Heyer

Falling Angels // Tracy Chevalier

Little // Edward Carey

Chocolat // Joanne Harris 

The Watchmaker of Filigree Street // Natasha Pulley 

My Sister, the Serial Killer // Oyinkan Braithwaite

The Convenient Marriage // Georgette Heyer

Katie Mulholland // Catherine Cookson

Restoration // Rose Tremain

Meat Market // Juno Dawson

Lady on the Coin // Margaret Campbell Bowes

In the Company of the Courtesan // Sarah Dunant

The Crimson Petal and the White // Michel Faber

A Place of Greater Safety // Hilary Mantel 

The Little Shop of Found Things // Paula Brackston

The Improbability of Love // Hannah Rothschild

The Murder Most Unladylike series // Robin Stevens

Dark Angels // Karleen Koen

The Words in My Hand // Guinevere Glasfurd

Time’s Convert // Deborah Harkness

The Collector // John Fowles

Vivaldi’s Virgins // Barbara Quick

The Foundling // Stacey Halls

The Phantom Tree // Nicola Cornick

The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle // Stuart Turton

Golden Hill // Francis Spufford

Assorted non-fiction not yet mentioned

The Dinosaur Hunters: A True Story of Scientific Rivalry and the Discovery of the Prehistoric World // Deborah Cadbury

The Beauty and the Terror: An Alternative History to the Italian Renaissance // Catherine Fletcher

All the King's Women: Love, Sex, and Politics in the life of Charles II // Derek Jackson

Mozart’s Women // Jane Glover

Scandalous Liaisons: Charles II and His Court // R.E. Pritchard

Matilda: Queen, Empress, Warrior // Catherine Hanley 

Black Tudors // Miranda Kaufman 

To Catch a King: Charles II's Great Escape // Charles Spencer

1666: Plague, War and Hellfire // Rebecca Rideal

Henrietta Maria: Charles I's Indomitable Queen // Alison Plowden

Catherine of Braganza: Charles II's Restoration Queen // Sarah-Beth Watkins

Four Sisters: The Lost Lives of the Romanov Grand Duchesses // Helen Rappaport

Aristocrats: Caroline, Emily, Louisa and Sarah Lennox, 1740-1832 // Stella Tillyard 

The Fortunes of Francis Barber: The True Story of the Jamaican Slave who Became Samuel Johnson’s Heir // Michael Bundock

Black London: Life Before Emancipation // Gretchen Gerzina

In These Times: Living in Britain Through Napoleon’s Wars, 1793-1815

The King’s Mistress: Scandal, Intrigue and the True Story of the Woman who Stole the Heart of George I // Claudia Gold

Perdita: The Life of Mary Robinson // Paula Byrne

The Gentleman’s Daughter: Women’s Lives in Georgian England // Amanda Vickery

Terms and Conditions: Life in Girls’ Boarding School, 1939-1979 // Ysenda Maxtone Graham 

Fanny Burney: A Biography // Claire Harman

Aphra Behn: A Secret Life // Janet Todd

The Imperial Harem: Women and the Sovereignty in the Ottoman Empire // Leslie Peirce

The Fall of the House of Byron // Emily Brand

The Favourite: Sarah, Duchess of Marlborough // Ophelia Field

Night-Walking: A Nocturnal History of London // Matthew Beaumont, Will Self

Jane Austen: A Life // Claire Tomalin

Beloved Emma: The Life of Emma, Lady Hamilton // Flora Fraser

Sentimental Murder: Love and Madness in the 18th Century // John Brewer

Henrietta Howard: King’s Mistress, Queen’s Servant // Tracy Borman

City of Beasts: How Animals Shaped Georgian London // Tom Almeroth-Williams

Queen Anne: The Politics of Passion // Anne Somerset 

Charlotte Brontë: A Life // Claire Harman 

Goddess: The Secret Lives of Marilyn Monroe // Anthony Summers

Queer City: Gay London from the Romans to the Present Day // Peter Ackroyd 

Elizabeth I and Her Circle // Susan Doran

African Europeans: An Untold History // Olivette Otele 

Young Romantics: The Shelleys, Byron, and Other Tangled Lives // Daisy Hay

How to Create the Perfect Wife // Wendy Moore

The Sphinx: The Life of Gladys Deacon, Duchess of Marlborough // Hugo Vickers

The Life and Death of Anne Boleyn // Eric Ives

Dancing in the Streets: A History of Collective Joy // Barbara Ehrenreich

A is for Arsenic: The Poisons of Agatha Christie // Kathryn Harkup 

Mistresses: Sex and Scandal at the Court of Charles II // Linda Porter

Female Husbands: A Trans History // Jen Manion

Ladies in Waiting: From the Tudors to the Present Day // Anne Somerset

Ghostland: In Search of a Haunted Country // Edward Parnell 

A Cheesemonger’s History of the British Isles // Ned Palmer

The Butchering Art: Joseph Lister’s Quest to Transform the Grisly World of Victorian Medicine // Lindsey Fitzharris

Medieval Woman: Village Life in the Middle Ages // Ann Baer

The Husband Hunters: Social Climbing in London and New York // Anne de Courcy

The Voices of Nîmes: Women, Sex, and Marriage in Reformation Languedoc // Suzannah Lipscomb

The Daughters of the Winter Queen // Nancy Goldstone

Mad and Bad: Real Heroines of the Regency // Bea Koch

Bess of Hardwick // Mary S. Lovell

The Royal Art of Poison // Eleanor Herman 

The Strangest Family: The Private Lives of George III, Queen Charlotte, and the Hanoverians // Janice Hadlow

Palaces of Pleasure: From Music Halls to the Seaside to Football; How the Victorians Invented Mass Entertainment // Lee Jackson

Favourite books about current social/political issues (?? for lack of a better term)

Feminism, Interrupted: Disrupting Power // Lola Olufemi

Revolting Prostitutes: The Fight for Sex Worker Rights // Molly Smith, Juno Mac

Why I’m No Longer Talking to White People About Race // Reni Eddo-Lodge

Trans Britain: Our Journey from the Shadows // Christine Burns

Me, Not You: The Trouble with Mainstream Feminism // Alison Phipps

Trans Like Me: A Journey For All Of Us // C.N Lester

Brit(Ish): On Race, Identity, and Belonging // Afua Hirsch 

The Brutish Museums: The Benin Bronzes, Colonial Violence, and Cultural Restitution // Dan Hicks

Things No One Will Tell Fat Girls: A Handbook for Unapologetic Living // Jes M. Baker

Hood Feminism: Notes from the Women White Feminists Forgot // Mikki Kendall

Denial: Holocaust History on Trial // Deborah Lipstadt

Yes Means Yes: Visions of Female Sexual Power and a World Without Rape // Jessica Valenti, Jaclyn Friedman

Don’t Touch My Hair // Emma Dabiri

Sister Outsider // Audre Lorde 

Unicorn: The Memoir of a Muslim Drag Queen // Amrou Al-Kadhi

Trans Power // Juno Roche

Breathe: A Letter to My Sons // Imani Perry

The Windrush Betrayal: Exposing the Hostile Environment // Amelia Gentleman

Happy Fat: Taking Up Space in a World That Wants to Shrink You // Sofie Hagen

Diaries, memoirs & letters

The Diary of a Young Girl // Anne Frank

Renia’s Diary: A Young Girl’s Life in the Shadow of the Holocaust // Renia Spiegel 

Writing Home // Alan Bennett

The Diary of Samuel Pepys // Samuel Pepys

Histoire de Ma Vie // Giacomo Casanova

Toast: The Story of a Boy’s Hunger // Nigel Slater

London Journal, 1762-1763 // James Boswell

The Diary of a Bookseller // Shaun Blythell 

Jane Austen’s Letters // edited by Deidre la Faye

H is for Hawk // Helen Mcdonald 

The Salt Path // Raynor Winn

The Glitter and the Gold // Consuelo Vanderbilt, Duchess of Marlborough

Journals and Letters // Fanny Burney

Educated // Tara Westover

Bookworm: A Memoir of Childhood Reading // Lucy Mangan

Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal? // Jeanette Winterson

A Dutiful Boy // Mohsin Zaidi

Secrets and Lies: The Trials of Christine Keeler // Christine Keeler

800 Years of Women’s Letters // edited by Olga Kenyon

Istanbul // Orhan Pamuk

Henry and June // Anaïs Nin

Historical romance (this is a short list because I’m still fairly new to this genre)

The Bridgerton series // Julia Quinn

One Good Earl Deserves a Lover // Sarah Mclean

Nine Rules to Break When Romancing a Rake // Sarah Mclean

The Lady’s Guide to Celestial Mechanics // Olivia Waite

That Could Be Enough // Alyssa Cole

Unveiled // Courtney Milan

The Craft of Love // EE Ottoman

The Maiden Lane series // Elizabeth Hoyt

An Extraordinary Union // Alyssa Cole

Slightly Dangerous // Mary Balogh

Dangerous Alliance: An Austentacious Romance // Jennieke Cohen

A Fashionable Indulgence // KJ Charles

[yeojaa]

take me down.

i literally cannot write things without there being pining.  i cannot.  i wish i were sorry.  ty for sending this prompt in for my milestone drabbles!  💖

pairing.  jjk x f!reader.  rating.  general.  tags.  is...  pine its own category?  because this is a goddamn forest of it.  wc.  1k.

“I’m not here to tell you how to live your life but—”  It’s something just short of amusement, edges of humour cut off by a serrated edge.  There’s a battle between being too fucking tired for this and don’t be an asshole waging within his sleep-deprived skull.  “—you’re blocking the entrance.”

Maybe it’s his fault for having stayed up too late - no, it certainly was - but he needs his damn coffee and croissant now.  Needs it just like he needs air or a certain person to move or—

“Oh?  Sorry.”  

He’s not expecting the face that turns toward him, apologetic and gut wrenchingly perfect.  It’s one he’s intimately familiar with, all pouty lips and a wide stare framed by meticulously applied glitter - eyes he’s seen in both his dreams and his nightmares.

You’re even prettier than he remembers.  

Expression falters as recognition crowds your expression.  A brow quirks, ticks high over artificial blues, and Jungkook’s not sure whether he should laugh or throw himself directly into oncoming traffic.  Neither option is that appealing, honestly.  One seems like it’ll have his poor body broken to pieces;  the other his heart.  

He loathes the fact that there isn’t a third, better choice that might save him from the misery of either.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”  It tips off your tongue, brightly lit like a birthday sparkler.  It fills all of the spaces between you and it feels like fireworks in his chest, exciting and a tiny bit scary.  There’s no chance of escaping you now - not that there ever was.  

You had him like a fish on a line, sight of your smile better bait than any worm.

It’s why he’s still standing there, anchored to the spot under the broken morning sky, caffeine still starkly lacking in his life.  Features collapse, shift and reassemble, and he hopes that maybe he’s managed to scrub the look of what the fuck off his face.  

By the way you stare at him, he knows he hasn’t.  He’s sure it’s there - red pen over faded parchment.  

“I thought you’d died.”  You speak with a laugh - the sound caressing each syllable.  It brings him back to just over a month ago and nearly every night before that.  Strange how it returns so easily, welcomed back to the unmade bed in his heart.  The sheets still smell of you - lavender and cocoa butter.

There’s something decidedly reserved about how he speaks, refuses to look up as he extracts bills from monogrammed leather and readies himself to push past.  It won’t happen.  He pretends anyway.  “No, still alive.”  

“You wouldn’t think so, since you didn’t answer any of my calls.”  

Is he imagining the spite?  He has to be.  You’d always made it very clear you weren’t looking for anything serious;  he’d been the one to stare dumbly at the warning signs, passing right under yellow tape and red flags like he couldn’t tell they were there.

“I got busy.”  It’s not necessarily a lie.  You wouldn’t know the difference.  It wasn’t like you were keeping tabs on him anyway.

You laugh, again, so prettily.  He has to make a conscious effort not to let the sound get stuck in his ears.  It’d be so easy to let it live there - a siren song he’d never turn off.  “Busy avoiding me?”

Okay, so maybe you were keeping tabs on him.  But even thinking that feels strange, wrong - like he’s painting pictures in his head.  He hates being stuck in there, surrounded by maybes and what ifs.  All things he most definitely should not be entertaining but that he allows anyway, words carved into corners and on tabletops like schoolyard crushes. 

“I wasn’t avoiding you.”  God, he’s a bad liar.  He sounds like a six year old that’s just hit his sister and then pretended like he hadn’t.  The truth glares out of him, spills over in shades of red that colour his ears and cheeks.

“Could’ve fooled me,”  you hum.

It doesn’t occur to him that he’s now blocking the entryway to the coffee shop.  He barely pays attention to the patrons that sneak around him, everyone too intrigued by the strange stand-off between the two of you to tear you from it.  

Buy a coffee, get a show.  You’re welcome, Starbucks.

“Am I supposed to say sorry?”  How it comes is strange, a heady blend of confused and frustrated.  It’s softened just enough by the furrowing of his brow to not end the conversation.

“I’m not looking for an apology.”  

“Then what do you want?”  It comes fast, a bullet in the dark.  He has to remind himself that this isn’t how it always was and this isn’t how you always were.  You’d been a friend once - a sunbeam or a prayer, something to be cherished and adored but never caged.

Jungkook had been the one to try to change that - to try to catch you and make you his.  

You’d bitten off his head and rightfully so.  Unfortunately, he was still licking his wounds.

“I want to be friends, Kookie.”  There’s no judgment there, no roughened edges or petulant grit.  You’re utterly unaffected but effortlessly kind, meeting his stare with honeyed sweetness.  It’d feel bad if he took even a minute to think with his head and not his chest.  “We can be friends, yeah?”  

He knows you can’t - just like he knows the sky is blue and your laugh is his favourite sound and he’d like to spend the rest of his days mapping the constellations of freckles on your skin.  

"No - because I don't know how to think when you're around."

It’s a confession that’s offered like sin, an apology and an explanation all at once.  He hopes you understand.

[jaywritessmut]

Please

Summary: August Walker x Reader ( *all stories are with black women in mind). You kiss another man and come clean to August. He doesn’t take it well. It’s my first fic. Go easy on me!

Warnings: angst (sorry I got sad), light choking, minor infidelity

You knew from the way his shoulders tensed that he had heard you. The taut configuration of his back muscles told you that he had taken in your words and registered what you were saying. His hands gripped the mantle of the fireplace with a fierce hold as he responded to you.

“What?”

There was a noticeable edge to his voice, one that you hated to be on the receiving end of. And just beneath the surface was an emotion he was putting all his effort into concealing. Hurt. August Walker was hurt. It was a side of him you’d never seen before and it threw you for a loop. You expected your confession to elicit anger, possibly even contempt. But not the hurt. You swallowed the knot in your throat and repeated your words.

“I kissed another man tonight”

It was just a kiss. A brief moment where your lips met with another. It wasn’t meant to mean anything more and you had made that clear to Derrick, your boss. A late night in the office had lowered your guard. You still didn’t know how he got into your personal space like that. You didn’t notice that he inched closer to you as the two of you looked over reports. By the time you realized it, he was right there inches from your face. You had looked at his lips right as he leaned in, making no effort to move. And when his lips touched yours, instinctively you knew you had screwed up. The whole thing had felt wrong. His lips on you, the feel of his body pressed up against you, even the smell of his cologne. This wasn’t where you wanted to be. And you felt stupid for giving in. When you pulled away, he had stared at you bewildered and confused. He was almost certain that you leaned in

“Wait, Y/N what’s the matter?”

“Derrick, I’m sorry but I can’t. I, I shouldn’t have done that”

You’d seen the brief flash of disappointment on his face before his eyes took a steely gaze. His lips set in a firm line as he started at you with a hardened expression. Later on, you would have to contend with the fact that you effectively brought down two men tonight from one decision. But the only one you truly cared about was the one who’s back you were currently staring at.

“Baby I swear it was just a kiss, nothing else happ-”

“Why'd you do it?”

That smooth baritone voice that normally sent jolts to your center now left you with a feeling of dread. His tone was incredibly controlled, a sign he was working hard to keep the anger at bay.

“I didn’t meant to”

“Oh don’t give me that shit!” he bellowed. He’d finally turn around to face you, his beautiful features now marred by a tormented scowl. But you needed him to know it meant nothing. That your love for him was still there.

“August it really was just a mistake. A moment of weakness. Just one moment baby”

“You made a choice. It doesn’t matter if you initiated it or simply didn’t pull back. You decided that it was okay to let another man touch what was mine.  Because in case you didn’t know, you. are. mine. Every inch of your flawless skin has been touched by me, every part of your heart belongs to me, and every piece of your soul is bound to me. And you just let someone think they could take that from me? Why?”

Deep down you knew the answer to his question. You knew the answer long before you even leaned in Derrick’s embrace. But you really had hope that August would explode and punish you like he’d always done. This had thrown you for a loop.

“Tell me why” he growled. At some point, he must’ve sauntered over to you like a beast silently stalking it’s prey. It wasn’t until you felt the heavy grip of his hand around your throat that you realized he had move. The wild look in his eyes signaled to you that he was unraveling at the seams and your answer would be the final push. So you put him out of his misery.

“I just wanted to know what it would feel like” you answered softly.

“What?”

“To kiss another man. To be wanted by someone else. I wanted to know if I was making the right choice” You brought your hand up to his forearm, hoping that your touch would soothe him.

His gaze focused in on the thin rose gold band on your left ring finger. Tension filled the air as his breathing evened out. He began to tenderly stoke the thin strip of metal on your slender finger

You were a simple girl, something August appreciated. Diamond and outlandish gifts did nothing for you and you would sooner have him take you on an adventure than splurge money on you. So when he spotted the ring in a tiny market while on assignment in Cambodia, he knew it was meant for you. And he was right. He’d barely got the question out of his mouth before you pounced on him and shoved the ring on your finger.

He was aware that being with him was a challenge. And for the longest time, he’d shut himself off from the possibility of love. Just endless streams of beautiful, compliant women to fulfill his basic needs. But you’d put an end to that. You with your sarcastic mouth and tantalizing dimples. You’d come into his life and obliterated all his shields. He lay himself before you completely bare, allowing you to love him. And that was precisely why your betrayal had hurt so much. You’d become his Delilah, slipping into his life and weakening him.

Your heart beat wildly against your chest as you awaited his response. It was true that he terrified you. His job and his issues were all reasons to run as far away as possible. But you knew in your heart that you could never leave him. Somewhere in between the explosive arguments and wild uninhibited sex, you’d fallen in love. And you could recount every memory that contributed to it. The first time you heard his laugh, being snowed in your cabin in Winnipeg, when he made love to you for the first time in Thailand. The memories all swirled around your head as you awaited his response.

He broke his silence; his voice take on a chilly tone as he brought his smoldering blue eyes to yours.

“And how’d that work out for you princess? Did you like what you found?” He was mocking you. Mocking your weakness, your lack of faith in him. And he had every right to do so. Your insecurities led you to this moment. The least you could do was let him have his pound of flesh.

“No. Because it wasn’t you. He wasn’t you August”

“Hmm” he huffed as he once again stared at the ring on your finger. A minute later, he let out a mournful sigh before placing a chaste kiss on your forehead. Without another word, he turned and walked out of your bedroom.

Panic set in and you struggled to breathe. He couldn’t leave. Not like this.

“August wait, please! Don’t go!” You struggled to keep up with him as his long legs carried him through the house. He took off down the stairs and you kicked off your heels to keep up with him.

“August!” you cried as you reached the bottom of the staircase. You needed him to stay.  He could yell at you, hate fuck you, even give you the cold shoulder. Just as long as he didn’t walk away from you.

His entire body froze the moment you called him. His hand hovered over the doorknob as he rested his head on the frame. He was waging one hell of an eternal battle. Waves of emotions rode over him as he struggled to breathe. He felt trapped, like a caged animal desperate for release. He just needed to think. And he couldn’t do that here in this space that was overtaken by your presence.

“Don’t go. Please” you pleaded, your voice barely above a whisper. It was your final prayer to him, one that you hoped he’d hear. One last attempt to hold him to you. Because you weren’t sure he’d come back if he walked out that door.

Time moved in slow motion as the entire scene played out. With a rough shake of the head, as if he was riding himself of an unpleasant thought, August gripped the door handle. Without saying anything, he swung the door open and walked out. You watched as his back retreated from your view and it wasn’t until the door slam that you came to your senses.

The painful jolt of heart break washed over you as the levees broke. Your body,  wracked by painful sobs, crumpled to the floor. Nothing had ever hurt this much.  One word repeated in your mind as you lay on the floor gasping for air.

Please

[stellamancer]

work

my boss is here on a rare Sunday and I had a moment to look at my numbers and they are Bad and so I went in to tell him and get prematurely yelled at and rather than get yelled at I get sarcasm for "delivering the good news" well sorry sir at least I know where things are at.

[talesmaniac89]

Choices - Dean Ending - 4

New to Choices? Start Here

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Summary: Choices is an interactive Supernatural choose your own adventure story where your choices determine the outcome and whether it’s a Dean x Reader or Sam x Reader. Go to the intro to start your story now!

Triggers: Dark, fatal injury, reader death, pain, violence, blood, angst, loss,  serious injuries, heartbreak, gore (series levels blood, hurt and fatal injuries).

Choice: [You chose to tough it out]

Y/N = Your Name | Y/L/N = Your Last Name | Y/E/C = Your Eye Colour 

---

No. You wouldn’t let him carry the burden of your words along with your now highly likely death. There was no way you could hurt him like that. Even if it killed you to never speak the words. Even if your heart would beat its last without ever getting to release any of its wordless confessions. You couldn’t add to the weight on broad shoulders that had already been carrying too much for far too long. 

You had to be Dean’s tough little soldier. Till the end. Always fighting. Never showing any signs of weakness. Even if the enemy was a little less tangible this time. Even though your whole arsenal could do nothing against the darkness that was threatening to cloud your vision and pull you under as you reached out and pushed your hand against your side to try and stem the blood flow. 

“I’m fine…” Your voice betrayed the strength you’d tried to push into the words. Breaking with a gasp over them from the searing red hot pain in your side and the feel of your life running out between your shaking fingers. 

Biting the inside of your cheek you tried to keep the bitter tears at bay. Your hand wasn’t big enough. You couldn’t stem the blood flow like this. You couldn’t fight the inevitable pull of oblivion with small shaking fingers already weakening against the angry red staining the cold harsh ground around you. 

“Cas! Hey, Sammy! Get Castiel!” Dean’s broken prayer for the angel was going to be in vain. You both knew it. Castiel had been busy waging a war against his own enemies lately. He wouldn’t be able to make it to your side in time, even if you knew the angel would have wanted to help you. Yet another person you were hurting.

Swallowing another groaned gasp, you felt Dean’s warm palm leave your cheek, his hand going down to cover yours and help put pressure against the wound. The extra pressure easily tore a screamed sob from your cold lips as you squeezed your eyes shut in a weak attempt at blocking out the agonizing fire that spread from where your palm and his were fighting a losing battle and into every nerve of your body. Slowly sending acidic shots of venomous finality through to your nerves and numbing them from the never-ending onslaught of pain.

“I’m sorry (Y/N), fuck I’m so sorry,” The voice of a broken man, not a soldier, reached you as you slowly opened your eyes again. Forcing yourself to look at him, to see the tears spilling silently down his cheeks and the guilt piling onto his shoulders until his green eyes were nothing but a shadow of their former vibrant self. Caught behind a mountain of lost lives too large to ever let the sun shine on the man again.

No!

He was blaming himself again. You couldn’t let him blame himself. This mistake was yours to carry. You might be carrying it straight to the pyre of a hunter’s funeral, but it was yours. You wouldn’t let him suffer from it; you wouldn’t let it break the strongest man you knew. 

“Dean…”

“Shh… You’ll be fine (Y/N), you gotta be fine,” His words brought tears to your eyes. You could hear that the hunter didn’t believe them any more than you did. Your body was weakening more by the minute. You didn’t have long enough to reach a hospital or wait for help to arrive.

Yet, the searing pain in your side had dulled at the sight of the hunter crying and panicking above you. The pain you were causing him was a hell of a lot harder to deal with than the physical injury that was currently greedily stealing the breath from your lungs. Even the feel of his shaking, hard palm against your side as he tried to staunch the blood didn’t stand a chance against the painful view of watching him. Watching Dean Winchester, the always strong and stoic hunter, breaking down next to you. 

You had to help him. If you could help him then you’d lived a good life. One last life saved. You could do your part to make the world a better place, by saving her best soldier from himself. From buckling under the guilt of another lost hunter. 

Your name couldn’t be added to the list in his nightmares. The hunters and civilians he saw when he woke up in the middle of the night and came to find you for a cold beer and quiet, comfortable company in the bunker library. 

“Please Dean…” You pushed the words out, your breathless voice already a whisper. Gritting your teeth, you pushed against your own wound, using the pain to stay strong and grounded for just a little while longer.

“No no no… I don’t wanna hear it (Y/L/N), you’re not giving up on me now you hear?” Dean’s voice was growing in pitch. Mixing and mingling with the fire pulsing through your veins as you clenched your jaw shut and forced your body to listen to you. Your free hand rose to wipe weakly at the hunter’s tears, unwilling to let them soak into his already worn soul and add your own shadows to those of his many past losses haunting his nightmares. 

“Don’t cry…” The words you’d meant to be soothing came out as a pained groan as another shot of pain wrecked through your body from the awkward way you were reaching up and out for the hunter’s cheek.

His hand easily captured yours and brought it down to your side, adding two extra hands to the wound on your side, his fingers intertwined with you in a vain attempt to stop the blood from flowing. Yet where his actions were those of gentle desperation, his words were angry and loud as they bounced off the walls around you and hit you from every angle in the narrow hallway. 

“Cry?! You’re dying (Y/N)! You’re bleeding out in a fucking farmhouse and I can’t do anything!”

“Shhh…” You whispered the soothing sound, trying to copy his earlier comforting tone as you gave him a shaky smile, watching him behind half-lidded eyes. You had to be strong for him. To tough it out and smile through the pain.

“No, you can’t leave me (Y/N). I won’t let you leave me,” Dean’s rejection of your slowly closing eyes was followed by added pressure to your side as he shifted next to you. Shoulders tensing as he kept the pressure steady and hard. Fighting a losing battle against an enemy he couldn’t just destroy with bullets or chanted strings of Latin. 

“It’s… It’s not your fault Dean,” You croaked out the words behind clenched teeth. Allowing his will for you to live to fully open your eyes. At least for long enough to remove the charge of guilt the man had sentenced himself to. Sins he shouldn’t be carrying in the first place.

“Of course it is!”

“No Dean… It’s not. Please…” Your words were interrupted by a violent coughing fit, lips stained with copper flavoured death as you tried to gasp for air around the agony the choking cough brought with it.

“Alright… Ok… Shhh, please don’t speak. We’ll get you help; you’ll be fine. Cas! Fuck… Sammy! Car. Now!” At his own words, Dean’s hands were off your side and lifting you into his arms. Before the cry of pain could leave you, he was already running for the door. Sam just a few steps in front of him, but quickly getting further ahead, unburdened by your heavy body.

You clenched your jaw and squeezed your eyes shut against the pain as he hurried you through the house, holding your body close to his as he slid around the sharp corners of the narrow hallway. 

“I’m sorry (Y/N)... I’m sorry sweetheart. I know it hurts. I know,” Dean’s words reached your mind just as the sunshine burned through your closed eyelids, forcing you to open squinting eyes to look up at the broken hunter that held you in his arms.

“Dean… No,”

“It’s ok… Look, Sammy’s here. He got the car; we’ll get you to the hospital. You’ll be fine,” Dean’s voice was followed by jolts of fresh pain as he ran down the porch steps and towards the midnight black car that was coming your way fast. Opening the door to the backseat before the car was even fully stopped. 

“Shit… You’re so cold,” The words were nothing more than a muttered sob as he lifted you gently into the backseat. Keeping you in his lap as he folded his hands around you and held his interlocked palms against your side. Leaving you wrapped up in his arms, your head rolling weakly on your shoulders until it came to a stop in the crook of his neck.

You were just so tired. So cold and tired. And Dean’s arms were comfortable. Even as your body was crying out in pain you felt safe locked in the cage of them. He was warm and safe. He was Dean Winchester. Your fortress. You could just close your eyes for a little while. Just… Hide in him. Hide from the pain. 

“Don’t close your eyes on me (Y/N). Stay awake. Keep fighting, for me. You hear me? We’ve got places to be. Monsters to hunt. You need to stay with us kiddo,” Dean had clearly felt your lashes flutter closed against the soft skin where his ear met his jaw. His words were desperate as he let go of your side for a split second, lifting your head from your hiding place and gently shifting in his seat until he could keep his eyes on you even as his hands went back to your side. 

But, even meeting shocking green wasn’t helping. Your mind was so dark. The colours were fading, fleeing your body with the vicious red between Dean’s fingers as you took a weak breath and let your eyes close again.

“No, no, no… You promised you’d stay (Y/N). You said you’d have my back,” Dean sounded angry, and yet so far away. You didn’t want him to be angry… You didn’t want him to hurt.

“Please don’t leave me, I can’t do this without you,” Was he crying? It sounded like he was crying. You needed to open your eyes. To wipe away his tears. But your hands were just so heavy. And you were just so, so, so tired. 

“You don’t get to quit on me. Not now!” Dean sounded so far away, his angry voice hollow. Like the word were echoing off of the shadows that were suddenly everywhere, slowly stealing colour and light from your life. 

You could barely feel your body, but you could feel his. Dean’s arms were shaking as they held you close. Pained breaths sticking in his chest as he tried to keep you fighting. Arms tight around your limp body. You were supposed to be fighting. To tough it out for him.

“I can’t… (Y/N), you need to stay with me. I love you ok? You can’t die. Not like this,” 

You could barely hear his words anymore. But you could still feel his lips on you. Hard and desperate as they crashed against your unmoving ones. As if he’s trying to share his life with you, as if he’s trying to breathe warmth back into your freezing body. 

Though you’d promised yourself you wouldn’t, you wanted to respond. To tell him you loved him too, and that you didn’t want him to hurt over you. Not for your own slowly fading heart. No, for him. So you could help him let go of the guilt he was already carrying. But the most you managed to do was open your eyes again. Staring dully back at him, trying to see past the dark and unknown forest that was trying to swallow you. So much darker and terrifying than the calming green nature that was Dean’s eyes.

“Keep those big (Y/E/C) eyes on me alright? I need you here with me sweetheart. You can’t leave a man hanging like this…” There was a weak light of hope in those green eyes as the words left your hunter like a sad, empty sob of a laugh. 

You wanted to give him a shaky smile, to let him know that you heard him. That you loved him too. But the effort was tiring. You couldn’t make your muscles work right. The smile twisting like a pained grimace, as if your body had forgotten how to smile. 

Parting dry cracked lips, you tried to speak. But no words came out. Your lips barely even shaped the words before you moaned in pain as the car hit another bump in the road. You were supposed to be his tough little soldier. But you didn’t have any strength left to fight. You only had a little bit of life left in you. And there was only one thing you’d want to spend it on, even though you’d promised yourself not to.

Gathering the last of your strength, you shut your eyes. Happy in the knowledge that you were using the last of what you had, for him. For Dean. To not leave your always strong hunter hanging.

“... Love you,” The words like a final breath where they passed your lips. Your last words before the darkness claimed you.

“(Y/N)... No… Don’t close your eyes, please…”

But you couldn’t hear the pleading tone to his words. Already sinking into the dark painless oblivion of unconsciousness. Your ‘forever’ cut short, and your promise of a home built for the two Winchesters left forgotten in a dusty, abandoned farmhouse.  

---

You reached the end - You got Ending 4: Dean: Roadside Funeral - Bad Ending

[Click here to return to the start and try again]

[Alternatively, click here for the full masterlist breaking down each path] Note that choices are named so it may spoil the experience.

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Please tell me which ending you got in a message, comment, ask or through a reblog. This took a lot of time to make, and I want to hear from you guys, and see if you enjoyed it. That way I’ll know if I should make more as well as know which parts you enjoyed/where I can improve them.

I already have some ideas for some other ones; an undercover office based one that’s fluff vs. smut… Plus another hunt based one with TFW. But I won’t start them if it doesn’t seem like there’s any demand for them.

You can also tell me which ending you got by clicking here to answer my poll.

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[danwhobrowses]

America, We Need to Talk

For some reason in these past years the concept of ‘Reason’ and ‘Sense’ has departed your country, I’ve hissed, I’ve simmered, I’ve hit my head against the wall hoping that in the end IN THE END the collective mass of the American People will open their eyes, stop making excuses and realise that for 4 years, America has not become ‘Great Again’ I’ve resisted the urge to unload many a time, but news that Donald Trump is to be nominated for a Nobel Peace Prize is just too much, because this is literal horseshit. For some part it feels like they’re only trying it just so Republicans can force a rhetoric as if Trump did a better job than Obama - who won in 2009 for easing religious tensions, preventing Nuclear Weapons distribution and profiting, working towards fixing climate change and assisting with the UN - as people die of COVID, cities burn and violence against peaceful protests continue to ravage your country.

I have to say that again, Ravage, because I feel as though some people are blind to the matter at hand. Donald Trump will say something and his cult of followers will believe it, when someone disagrees and presents evidence it’s deemed irrelevant or forged, if a Democrat says something on the contrary they need a full powerpoint presentation to prove it, somehow this mentality has poisoned the American society when the louder people will say something in confidence only for the rest of the world to read and think it’s one of the dumbest shit they’ve ever read. This isn’t just coming from a Brit, this is coming from family in Chicago, a co-worker who moved out of America and worked in the army, Italians, Greeks and someone who was in Hong Kong during the riots. The people who believe in Democracy, Majority Vote, Free Healthcare, Fair Wage, Equal Rights AND international peace that doesn’t look towards World War Fucking Three look at your country in shame because the state of your leadership and how it’s been allowed to continue with ridiculously boneheaded and stubborn reluctance to see the truth. So let’s start with the boiling point shall we, a Nobel Peace Prize Nomination? Have you learned anything from the last year? Or has the far-right got the prize so by the balls that this nomination is used as a cheap add-on to coincidentally peacock the Trump administration in its build to an election. The nomination to Trump has been cited to be in favour of the following things; Israel-UAE relations (aka ‘Saving the Middle East), Serbia-Kosovo deal (aka ‘Saving the ‘Middle East’’), Inter-Korea relations and likely the support of Jerusalem and Hong Kong, and in face value that may sway the common person who knows nothing about these deals. But a simple amount of research cuts most of these at the legs. Let’s talk Serbia and Kosovo, since it’ll directly involve Israel, relations were tense but they have not been at war, they are peacefully not talking to each other. The media will have you think that Peace has been brokered by Trump only in this but in reality Serbia still refuses to recognize Kosovo’s independence, the tensions are still there you can just travel there now. This is an agreement that’s been build up since the economic and trade agreement in 2013. If that year isn’t surprising you that is 3 years before Trump was elected, when Barrack Obama was in office - Republican Public Enemy Hillary Clinton was at the forefront of that when she was Secretary of State. So no, Trump hasn’t saved the Middle East by this deal, mainly because Kosovo and Serbia are in Europe, they have been part of the EU for quite some time and the deal is already jeopardized since Serbia won’t build an embassy in Jerusalem if Israel recognize Kosovo as independent - which was part of the original deal. Also for all the Republicans’ use of ‘fear by Communism’ to slander their opponents they sure love to rub shoulders with countries also rubbing shoulders with Russia and China. So this segues into Israel-UAE, the Arab Nations have mainly been reluctant to recognize Israel as independent. On the 13th August a deal was struck called the Abraham agreement establishing Diplomatic Relations. Except, this was in the making since 2012 and only delayed to help progress Israeli-Palestine conflicts (which Trump’s actions with Israel led to Palestine cutting ties with the administration and his ‘Peace Plan’ falling apart 3 years after announcing it). UAE and Israel had been in conversation before Trump was signed in, but only made headway when the FDD - already funded by the UAE - took over. For 3 years USA did little for the relations, UAE and Israel doing it themselves, it’s only now do the US mediate a peace agreement, which meant that Trump didn’t really do much in terms of convincing both sides, he just made sure things didn’t get out of hand - which was never close to happening since there is little tensions. It was Kushner who requested the meeting and Mossad also had a huge part in it. Also I want to add that the US are only buddied with these two out of fear of Iran - you know, that country that Trump almost goaded into war in January after bombings and the death Assassination of General Soleimani who helped the US in the wake of 9/11 track and hunt down the Taliban, as well as fighting ISIS, how peaceful was that? The Middle East is still in Civil and Proxy Wars, no saving has been done there, the US just were there for Israel and UAE to confess that they’re friends. Which leads me to Korea. The Olympics helped more than Trump did, a shared effort where both countries had to travel and accommodate each other. Tensions may’ve eased in 2016 but they were far from resolved and in 2020 not much is better. Korea still antagonize one another and the North still antagonizes the US, any ‘peace’ the Trump Administration will claim to towards Korea faded quickly. And finally, Hong Kong, the US may be supportive and rightly so but this is again fear of Communism, it should’ve happened sooner but the US was hoping for that big and meaty trade deal with China. And this isn’t months I’m talking about it’s years, the proposal first took place after the Umbrella Movement...in 2014, it was annually brought up in Congress but postponed until the Senate decided to. And after Trump signed it he said he might veto it in favour of the China trade deal

“We have to stand with Hong Kong, but I'm also standing with President Xi: he's a friend of mine." - Donald Trump, November 2019

So really, this Nobel Peace Prize is the product and efforts of other people that set events in motion that Trump was there just to sign his name on. Meanwhile, in the country he is President of, the COVID Death toll has officially risen to 190 Thousand. 20% of COVID deaths are in the United States. Tear Gas/Pepper Spray - which is a recognized chemical weapon not allowed to be used in warfare - is used by Trump Supporters along with paintballs to attack peaceful protesters and Trump calls that peaceful because ‘Paint is not bullets’ - as someone who has been hit with Paintballs from safe range, they will hurt like a bitch and if you don’t wear protective gear they can do enough harm to crack and sometimes even break bone, the asthmatic co-worker I aforementioned that was in Hong Kong also notes that Tear Gas is awful, it may not kill you but it is far from peaceful. In the same breath Trump refuses to condemn a 16 year old carrying an AR and shooting someone in the head. He has also refused to condemn Epstein’s financier Ghislaine Maxwell and ‘hopes that she’s well’...the sex trafficker, but when you mention late Civil Rights leader John Lewis and his words are ‘can’t say one way or the other...he didn’t come to my inauguration’. This is your leader. The embodiment of the standards the country upholds itself to, it baffles me and many many others that the American People Chose a racist, bigoted, misogynistic, careless, self-important, naive, power-mad, severally-bankrupted, reality tv personality man-child, who is also intending to use US Taxpayers money to cover lawsuit fees against him alongside all his other golf trips. The man literally said that no other president has done more for Black People than he has, this is while he profusely condemned Kaepernick taking a knee to protest Police Brutality against Blacks and POC only for years later the world support it as BLM protests still happen because action has not been taken. We’ll also see what happens on the 14th regarding the Felony Hearing of the officers in Buffalo who pushed over Gugino and gave him a brain injury which he is still rehabilitating from after Trump tried to sell him as an Antifa member. Just in case you’re unaware, antifa stands for anti-fascist but Trump will paint that again in ‘Fear of Communism’. If you actually look up this stuff, the web of Trump’s lies unravel, and yet people just forget about. The man is a pro at gaslighting I’ll give him that, I mean leaking e-mails that condemned Clinton right at election time was some cutthroat stuff, but a man who needs to rely on preying on xenophobia, paranoia, fear, racism and invests mainly on smear tactics and dismantling, is not someone who can lead a country to prosperity, the amount of leeway this man gets from his supporters just hurts my head. So let me ask you America, truly, what is it that you want? Because it can’t be this, can it? Protests, Riots, people refusing to wear a simple face mask to limit the spread of a deadly virus because they think it’s a fake thing that the entire world decided to get in on with WHO just to spite Trump? Teenagers carrying guns? Refugees refused asylum and kept in cages? Do you want to keep spending your savings just to go to the doctors? or do you think that ‘Patriotism’ is blindly defending your country’s flaws and clinging to archaic and outdated thinking because centuries ago your country prospered in it? I’ll tell it to you straight: America is not the greatest country in the world, it hasn’t been for a long time. I don’t know what your history books tell you; that Native Americans were fine with slaughter, that the US won WW2 with the military might they always had, that Vietnam was a moral victory, but the present day should tell you that your country is a mess, and the man who has been at the helm for 4 years will not fix it in another 4. There’s only so much of Obama’s policies he can plagiarize as his own; he has left the UN, left the Paris Agreement for cleaner air and energy and all his original campaign members have been arrested, an alarming amount of people associated with him are facing criminal charges - is that not a red flag? Don’t let your thoughts that as a patriot you have to support your country no matter what, true patriotism is not just the love of your country but the hope and strive to better it because you can love it but accept that it has flaws. I mean even I’ll admit that the UK has a lot of its own shit to deal with, doesn’t mean I hate where I live I just know it can be better. If this were anyone else, hell if this were a Democrat the Republican party would be booking them a flight to the other side of the world with the stuff Trump has done and let to continue on with afterwards, through him you went from the United States to an Absolute State and the rest of the world wonder if this will either lead to World War 3 or a Second American Civil War You don’t have to like Joe Biden, but he clearly looks like the lesser of the two evils here, and at least in 4 years time America under him won’t be on fire. If you still don’t like him someone new could be elected after, but right now you are on a downward spiral and need someone who can put you back into a stable place, that man is not Donald Trump. The man who wants to intercept mail-in voting and outcry its ‘risk’ of tampering when he himself voted by mail is not a truthful leader, the man who tried to cancel the World Health Organization when they simply asked to not call COVID a racist name that incited xenophobia after decrying cancel culture is not a moral leader, and the man who said that COVID would peter out and suggested injecting disinfectant into the lungs to combat it only to now suddenly buy out all the experimental treatment so that they can try and engineer a cure in time for the election campaign, is not a wise leader. All the stuff you see in these coming months is just an attempt to win your vote, for the most part it’ll be Trump stamping his name on something other people worked on for years and claiming that he did all the work. So make sure you actually check the truth of these things, research and fact-check yourself with valid, neutral sources. Take off the blinders, take a breath and actually see the full picture. And please, as well as not letting this man have the Nobel Peace Prize Don’t give this guy have a Second Term

[project-ohagi]

Kei Tsukishima x Reader {Haikyuu!!}

Such a powerful, romantic attraction was growing burdensome. At the most precarious of times, he could barely restrain himself. He silently prayed for even the briefest of touches. It was extremely troubling to him, especially thanks to his malicious demeanour. He acted uninterested in the world, but you were that which it was impossible to explain with simple physics. A cringing sensation consumed his body - was that seriously at the forefront of his mind? Surely, these feelings resonated with more ease and clarity in the hearts of Tanaka and Nishinoya? The prideful blonde attempted to crush that mental image. Him, akin to those idiots? Nothing worse could be conceived. Well, perhaps your inevitable rejection. Not that a confession was playing in his head, because it wasn't! He couldn't allow such trivialities, as irritating as he viewed them, to interfere with his studying, volleyball practice or personal life.

After all, there was no benefit to dwelling on a cause which was forever-unattainable. You might occupy the opposing desk, and he might risk subtle, little glances...only on occasion, but those things held no significant meaning, and his pessimistic brain refused to pursue them. Not to mention, your personalities were polarities - sloth and arrogance seeped into every word which dripped from his mouth, while a genuine compassion glowed amidst your eyes.

Oh, your eyes...he could quite contentedly gaze into those shimmering (e/c) gemstones for the rest of eternity. And your plump, soft-seeming lips...they could taste of damnation, but only the sweetest kind; if they unleashed armageddon upon him, his features would convey purely the utmost gratitude. But, these thoughts were so very infuriating! You would definitely be disgusted, if they ever managed to surface. They wouldn't - never in a million years. There would be another mass extinction before he sabotaged his emotional barriers, intentionally. He vowed never to grant you unrestricted access. Heck, even restricted access was off the table! Although the admission wouldn't come easily, confidence wasn't exactly his forte. He was certain that a nuclear meltdown of his heart would ensue before his affections were given the blessing to break out of their cage.

Yet, the severity of his most horrifying affliction was becoming even more problematic. When he requested its unbridled concentration, to take notes during class, his mind simply rebuffed him. The battle he waged with it was constant, only amplifying at the slightest hint of a smile. Not that he always watched you. How creepy would that be? Annoyed, he clicked his tongue. Rather loudly. Your head turned, work momentarily discarded. A blush was rising on the blonde's porcelain cheeks, blossoming in prominence as the seconds trickled by. From his position by the window, all the intricacies of your face were revealed, including the concern which clouded your vision. Also reflected was that mortifying crimson hue - the cursed reaction to thoughts he should have long dispelled.

For a mere moment, he allowed himself to wonder just how much you had noticed. Was your vantage point enough to recognise his embarrassment? Or...was it perhaps disappointment? After all, love was never supposed to pierce his heart. It was a waste of time and energy, (according to a younger version of Tsukishima), neither of which he wished to spare. Then, if that was truly his firm perspective, why did he ache to devote every smile, every breath, to you and you alone? What convinced his heart to thunder against his chest with such violence, to weep with an unruly joy, whenever a sliver of sunlight illuminated your ethereal complexion?

"Tsukishima!" The teacher suddenly yelled, venom lacing her tone.

"Stop staring out of the window! And (L/n), stop staring at Tsukishima!"

The sniggering which followed earned a vicious death-glare from the woman, but the humiliation at having been caught and subsequently outed, could never be retracted. The remainder of that lesson wiled away at an agonisingly slow pace; both of your faces were burning, and an uncomfortable silence had imposed itself upon the classroom. Each party wanted so badly to direct an apology towards the other, but for Tsukishima, his prideful soul was his most oppressive adversary.

Oh well - maybe this was the retribution he deserved, for letting love fester within the deepest regions of his heart. He still couldn't comprehend the inclusion of this newfound weakness, into his everyday life. To be extremely blunt, it hurt. He felt secure in the assumption that you wouldn't ever reciprocate his feelings, and he had hoped them to be fleeting, but alas, some higher power was engraving his tombstone already. This love grasped for purchase on his very core, determined yet honey-drizzled. It was too sickly-sweet, and seemed to release toxins into his veins, although this was probably just ecstasy. Whatever the reality, it wasn't something his mind favoured.

His heart, however...

Well, it likened you to a strawberry shortcake - in other terms: a delicacy.

Vying for your affections (not that he ever intended to) would be daunting, as if chasing an orgasm (not that he knew anything about this). He figured your heart to be either a miracle of nature, or a welcomed parasite, because of its persistence - a singular trace, and he was wrapped around your finger. This wasn't the life he had chosen, but now, he didn't think your absence would grant him any semblance of bliss. With these thoughts swirling around, Tsukishima vowed to remove himself from the classroom as quickly as possible, once the bell sounded. To be trapped there, surrounded by the fragrance which defined you (he definitely didn't take any and all opportunities to inhale your aroma), would cause insanity to violate his brain. Your absolute perfection was simply too overwhelming, but somehow, he couldn't be irritated with you - he was on the receiving end of his own taunts.

Lesson ended, and Tsukishima's heart skipped a few beats. Before he was even able to organise all of his supplies, you had appeared in front of his desk, head lowered and legs squeezed tightly together.

Voice trembling, you half-shouted, "I'm so sorry! I never meant to get you into trouble!"

"Huh?" He was trying desperately to quell his nerves. "You didn't. I just wasn't paying enough attention to the teacher."

Raising your head a little, as if pleading for permission, you muttered, "Well, I'm still sorry! You dislike me, right? That's why you were looking away in the first place."

Tsukishima glowered, despite his best efforts. "If I disliked you, don't you think it would be a bit more obvious?"

"It...it seemed pretty obvious. Sorry..." Your arms were pressed against your bust, and you started to wish that you hadn't approached the boy.

"Stop apologising. It's annoying." He scolded you verbally, and himself mentally; why wasn't he reassuring you?

Surely, a few gentle words rolling off his tongue wouldn't pain him that much? Alas, pride had mounted his brain, and was in the process of overriding the mainframe of his heart.

[theolddarkmachine]

Dead Space- 28 Days Later

It starts the day the hero falls. Crashing in a blaze of glory of twisted metal and burning ozone, he leaves a scar on the Earth that changes everything.

And Keith sees it all.

Chapter 2 of 11

Tags: attempted Horror Elements, Zombies, Violence and Gore, Eventual Smut, Happy Ending i swear

Also on AO3

A/N: Apologies this isn’t a longer chapter. I have to constantly remind myself that there isn’t anything wrong with bridge chapters even if they do drive me a bit crazy XD Hopefully there’s enough setup here to make it worth it. That being said, I may post another chapter next week instead of in two weeks to make up for said shortness.

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28 Days Later

The end of the world happened a lot quicker than anyone could have guessed, at least, as far as Keith could tell.

Starting that very same night that Shiro had crash landed, it took mere days to spread to the rest of the continent, and just a week’s time to have spread throughout the rest of the world. Blindsided by the sudden nightmare that had swept across the Earth’s population, scientists hadn’t even been able to give whatever it was a classification before it was already too late.

Some took it upon themselves to call it a virus.

Some called it biological warfare.

Others called it a reckoning.

Whatever it was, it had cleaved humanity at its knees, leaving the world’s nations stained with crimson and the stench of death.

And that wasn’t even the worst of it.

It would have been one thing if the dead had stayed that way, but they had found all too quickly that whatever this plague was that had turned the human race into an endangered species, had a second phase.

One that reanimated the corpses that outnumbered the living, and turned them into flesh hungry monsters.

Something akin to the creatures in horror movies and graphic novels, only more ferocious.

And quicker.

Hungrier.

More frightening.

Letting a tired, growling sigh slip through the cage of his teeth, Keith rolls a tight knot from his neck with deft fingers before letting his head fall back and his tired eyes close. It’s one small moment of blessed relief before he turns his attention back to the desert laid out before him.

Today marked twenty-eight days since he’d rescued Shiro from one Hell, only to find he’d dragged him into another.

Soft footfalls crunch across the broken, cracked ground, drawing close at a timid pace as if trying to not startle. As if they ever could. Even if they weren’t the last two living humans for miles, he’d still know exactly who it was.

“Hey,” Shiro’s voice hushes from just behind him as he brushed his fingertips over Keith’s shoulder before gripping it tight in greeting. Heat crackles and licks at Keith’s skin where his palm cradles the full of his shoulder.

Humming lowly as he pushes closer to the contact, Keith turns his attention away from the rust colored land ahead of them to look up at the man beside him.

The dusky light of the setting sun touchs Shiro’s eyes with an other worldly glow, turning them from stormy grey to something more alien, as he looks down at Keith. They glow with the watercolor mix of orange and pink, almost like heated steel. Swallowing around the sudden burn that tickles at the back of his throat, Keith draws his nighttime gaze down across the raised flesh over the bridge of Shiro’s nose.

It’s a darker pink now, contrasting starkly with the tan of his skin and standing as one of the few reminders of what he’d been through.

“Hey,” Keith returns, soft and quiet as the melting light of the day. “How are you feeling?”

Shrugging, Shiro draws a comforting circle into Keith’s shoulder.

“More of the same,” he hums as he tracks one last circle before letting his hand slide away. The burn of his touch leaves a lingering, blistering ache along Keith’s skin as he lets his gaze trace the rest of Shiro’s form.

Dark, worn leather of an old jacket hugs his still gaunt frame, accentuating the width of his shoulders. Black riding gloves cover his hands, hiding the way his bones had stood out beneath his pale skin.

In the fading heat of the day, Keith can’t help but wonder if the added layers are making Shiro uncomfortable, though he guesses they wouldn’t in his current state.

Those first few days after he’d brought Shiro home had been filled with his fitful sleep and almost crazed muttering. His words were always bitten out in broken statements, some nonsensical and others marking the harrowed nature of his escape, but almost always punctuated by Shiro’s claims that he was cold.

So cold.

When he’d finally awakened, he still couldn’t seem to fight back the chill that bit deep into him and left his skin feeling frigid to the touch.

It had been then that Keith had unearthed the jacket and gloves that had been tucked away, kept safe and hidden in the chest at the foot of his bed.

He had hoped that after the aches and the pains had abated, Shiro would be freed of the unnatural chill but it still remained as a constant, stubborn specter that haunted him.

“We can stay another night if we need to,” Keith assures, keeping his gaze locked on the man beside him. Lips turning down in something a shade lighter than displeasure, Shiro shakes his head.

“We both know that we can’t,” he replies, low and quiet, as he turns his silvered stare out toward the abandoned desert. With the sun fading lower into the horizon, the usual reds and browns are painted with dusky purples and shadows. It’s so mundane and almost peaceful, if only those shadows weren’t hiding monsters.

“Shiro,” Keith hushes, doing his best to ignore the way he’s turned his name into a plea.

“They’re getting closer every day, Keith,” Shiro cuts him off, eyes still trained ahead as if searching for something. Keith watches as he sees the sharp metallic glint of his stare flick back and forth over the horizon.

“So let them, I can hold them back,” he growls as he grabs at Shiro’s arm, giving it a gentle yet insistent tug to turn the older man toward him once more. The silver sheen of his eyes softens, turning from hardened steel to liquid mercury as he sees the ferocity that has pushed Keith’s mouth into a frown.

“Keith.”

It’s said low, a warning and a prayer wrapped into one as he holds Keith’s stubborn gaze. Electricity, hot and bright, crackles between them as their silent battle wages. Once upon a time the near command might have worked, but neither of them is the same person they had been before.

Moments pass, thick and slow, before Shiro’s shoulders sink forward with the weight of his sigh.

“We’ve stuck around here longer than we should have already,” he offers lowly, almost apologetic this time. As if somehow this might be his fault.

“And we can stick around longer if we need to to make sure you’re healed,” Keith returns brusquely. It pulls a dry, humorless laugh from Shiro’s cracked lips as he shakes his head. Gently brushing his fingers over Keith’s hand where it still grips at his arm, he carefully pulls it away to grasp it between his own.

“You don’t need to keep trying to save me, Keith. I’m already here,” Shiro says softly, tracing the back of Keith’s hands with his gloved thumb. Up and down the the licking fire goes, etching deep into the back of his hand. Keith watches it as it slowly moves back and forth.

A shudder rocks down his spine as he finally looks up at him, admiring the way the fading light still clings to Shiro’s gaze.

“I’ll save you as many times as I need to,” he vows, flipping his hand in Shiro’s hold to lace their fingers together. The last rays of sunlight die as the sun sinks beneath the dirt, blanketing them both in the soft hush of night.

Shiro’s grasp tightens, solid and reassuring as he replies.

“I just don’t want to see you hurt because of me.”

It’s a weighted confession, one that lands heavily at their feet as Shiro fixes his gaze on the dirt between them. Guilt twists bitterly in his gut as he pulls gently on their intertwined hands to bring him closer.

“You won’t,” Keith breathes, the words brushing across Shiro’s lips before presses forward, chasing after them. The kiss is chaste, nothing more than a soft promise brought to life between them.

He lingers, committing the dusky moment to memory before pulling away. A smile carves itself into the corner of his lips as he looks up at Shiro.

“I’ll get our stuff together.”

Turning away from him, Keith heads back towards the shack. As he pushes his way through the door, he misses the way Shiro casts a long, lingering look out over the darkness.

The pinprick of headlights dot the inky black of the desert in the distance, bright and sharp for just a moment too long before suddenly going out.

****************************