#time for my turn to help shoulder the burden i helped perpetuate before

[cinnamonest]

Yandere twst - Jamil

Taking this as an opportunity to make a post for my boy!!! Similar to the last one I'm going with a "consensual relationship that quickly takes a turn for the worse," I am liking the dynamic >:3 Important note that you should probably read the last one for Kalim prior to this one (I originally intended to release it as one post but ended up dividing it bc both were like 12k+ words lmao), so this one makes several references to the other one.

Previous entries for twst series:

[Kalim]

[Floyd]

//manipulative bastard behavior/moderate yandere, somewhat dark, bullying, mind control, I think there might be implications of fem reader iirc

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The first interaction you have with Jamil is only a few brief moments. A conversation in passing, the sort of empty casual exchange that is normally more or less forgotten by both parties before the day is even over.

He's pretty aware of his surroundings at all times, so he sort of saw you walking over out of the corner of his eye, working himself away making food and setting up arrangements and venue as per usual for some function or another that Kalim decided to hold at the last minute on the main campus grounds . Bouncing from one task to the next. But several others have passed by already without a word, so it catches him a bit by surprise when your steps come to a halt, when you speak.

You know, every time I see you, you're always working on something. Don't you ever rest?

Your tone is that sort of endearing, amused way of speaking, but still seems to express a genuine sentiment. You're not exactly spending idle time either -- you have some box or package in your hands, headed somewhere to drop something off. Who knows what compelled you to say something, on this one occasion in particular, to voice the observation you've made quite a few times now. Spontaneous, spur of the moment.  A decision made with casual impulse.

His eyebrows raise, but it doesn't take him more than a moment to formulate a response. A very generic response, one that comes out mechanically, given how often people express similar thoughts to him, tell him he's working too hard, that he deserves a break and all that, things he hears pretty frequently. A randomly chosen option, the first that comes to mind, of a preset list of responses to such inquiries and comments.

A casual sigh, a shrug of the shoulders, followed with a 'well, someone has to get this done, might as well do it myself.' With a pleasant tone and a slight chuckle, of course, as socially expected, that perfect level of exasperation to where he can complain, but just not enough to make it seem like he actually feels burdened. A default exchange like so many others, that he recites his parts of without really thinking about it.

Likewise, you give what he perceives as a typical reply.

If you need any help, I can come back as soon as I get this dropped off...

He just shakes his head.

That's alright. Everything that can be done today is nearly finished anyway.

You shift the box you're carrying, jerking it up with a soft motion to re-secure it in your arms.

Well, alright, if you say so... you can let me know if you ever need any help with anything!

Of course, that in and of itself is also an empty social gesture. So often people say things of the sort -- let me know if you need anything, or I can help if you need, so on and so on, a courtesy expected by arbitrary rules of social etiquette, but not anticipated to be very likely to be actually taken up on the offer. He couldn't even count how many times people have said similar things to him, it's just a matter of social propriety. The exchange melts into the vast collection of perpetual memory, as with every other uneventful moment in one's life, and he doesn't think of it again for the rest of the day.

He's a bit taken aback, then, when you show up the next day. You can see the slight bewilderment on his face when he asks if you need something. Your reply is a bit sheepish, but friendly.

Well, you said 'everything that can get done today' yesterday, so I figured you'd be busy again today too... I don't have anything better to do, and I'm trying to get to know people here, you know? You seem like you could use some help.

Ah. Well, that does make sense. In truth, he values the solitary time he gets to himself, and trying to get to know new people often leaves him rather exhausted. But still, you're a pleasant person, and he would appreciate getting this set-up work for the event tomorrow done faster. He thanks you, pauses for a moment while trying to determine a task to delegate to you. Can't give you something too difficult, seeing as you're generous enough to do this in the first place. You end up performing some menial, repetitive task, simple but necessary, while he does the heavy lifting and more difficult aspects.

It's easy to talk to you, thankfully. You mostly just ask him a bunch of questions about the school, about himself, about Kalim, about the Scarabia dorm, so on and so on. Nothing too intrusive, nothing that's difficult to answer. Truthfully, it's actually kind of nice. He's not particularly used to people expressing a great deal of interest in him, he usually sort of works in the background, quiet, unnoticed, doesn't draw attention to himself. He was a bit weary of the thought of working with someone on this, but he finds that he actually enjoyed the time, once it's over, when you bid him farewell and head back to your own dorm, promising to come by again sometime.

But again, that's a social courtesy. Maybe you will, maybe you won't. It would be rather nice, but he won't be too disappointed nor surprised if you don't; after all, you must be very busy meeting tons of people and adjusting to the situation you've found yourself in here. He's not expecting anything.

Since over a week passes, he starts to think it will be just a one-time thing, not thinking much of it. It's a rather pleasant surprise, this time around, when you do show up again. He says it's nice to see you again, even more of those necessary appropriate courtesy things he's supposed to say, although it is meant sincerely. Thanks you for coming by again.

Conversation comes a bit more easily, as you're not really strangers this time around, your exchanges lack that inherent slight awkwardness that comes with interacting with a person you've never spoken to before. This time he can make some conversation based on asking you how your week was, how you're getting adjusted, so on and so on.

You come back a third time, after that, this time only around five days later. Then a fourth time, although that time you take even longer than the time between the first and second visit. He does take notice of that, supposing it to just be a habit of being observant of details like that.

It turns into a habit. You keep coming back, trying to help out. It's an appreciated act of kindness, but... somewhat uncomfortable, too. He's used to having to do quite a lot by himself, or employing the help of random Scarabia students, but even then he's acting more as a director, telling them what to do while working on other tasks himself. He's not as much used to working directly with someone, having someone hand him things and work right alongside him.

Still, it gets the job done faster. And it's nice to have someone to talk to, makes it feel like it's going by faster too. Not to mention, your returning to help him on multiple occasions suggests you have some desire to be around him, since he's fairly certain it's not as if you find manual labor particularly enthralling or anything. That gives him a feeling that is very...

...Unpleasant.

Yes, categorically, it should be considered unpleasant. A tight constriction of the chest, jittery nerves, increased heart rate, a feeling of unease and bashfulness. None of that is particularly positive, and in fact is rather irksome.

But the feeling is somehow, nonetheless, an addictive one, a sort of natural chemical high that, despite the duality of its unpleasantness, still leaves him with that trademark "warm fuzzy feeling" for the rest of the day, well after your departure. The back-and-forth of how good and bad the feeling is, is confusing and frustrating in and of itself. Not to mention the way he gradually increasingly finds his thoughts drifting to you in some way, wondering what you're doing and where you are. The sudden rushing feeling to his chest whenever he happens to spot you. The way he starts to look forward to your coming to visit and help. The surge of excitement when you do come walking through the door, and admittedly, acute disappointment on the days you don't show up.

More importantly, the conclusions to be drawn are frustrating. He's not clueless, quite the opposite. The realization of the sentiments he has for you aren't something he goes into self-denial about, nor does he have to sort through them.

It just sort of dawns on him one day, when you show up a few minutes late to a class you both have -- he finds himself a bit worried for the few minutes of your absence, and similarly a sensation of relief when you come sheepishly slinking through the doorway, quietly trying to enter the room without being noticed or called out for tardiness. Your eyes briefly meet from across the room. You flash a quick smile in his direction before heading to the spot you normally sit in. The slight concern, the relief, the way that one quick second of eye contact and smile from you made his heartrate go up, made a warm tight feeling in his chest... it just sort of occurs to him within that moment. Yes, he's not the sort of person to be in denial or delusion and convince himself he feels any other way, and is quite good at recognizing and fully understanding his own psychology.

...

...

...Ugh.

Not that he doesn't appreciate you or anything, but at first, it's actually something he's not particularly thrilled about, quite frustrated actually.

Firstly, it's inconvenient. For someone as busy and with so many responsibilities as himself, it's not good to have distractions or liabilities. Such things can compromise one's sense of priority, and keep oneself absent-minded, neither of which he can afford.

More importantly, it's a sort of weakness that he doesn't like the thought of having. His calmness and composition throughout most matters is largely dependent on the fact that he tends to operate from a distance, executing plans by proxy or otherwise indirectly. He doesn't approach things very head-on, it's just not his way of doing things. And any matters he conducts are usually professional or academic, rarely having to involve feelings and emotions, particularly in a relational sense to other people. While he's very persuasive, well-liked, and certainly doesn't struggle to socialize or anything, he doesn't really form a lot of very close relationships.

Thus, while would never admit to it, he's sort of lost when it comes to matters of a truly romantic nature, and would be very awkward if he tried to be forward or initiate any sort of display of affection. Thankfully, he's self-aware of that, and isn't about to make a fool of himself doing something stupid and impulsive.

This leads to a sort of stagnation. Yes, he'll do everything in his power to set up the correct circumstances in which he can be around you, will manipulate all sorts of surrounding factors and nearly everyone in your social network, even if that involves countless hours of quietly carrying out plans... he just won't, you know, ever say it outright to you, at least not unless you do first.

After all, even in literature and media, courtship is often compared to some form of game, where the one who cares more and needs the other more is thought of as the weaker, "losing" party. There's an innate sort of vulnerability to transparency in openness to one's emotions, and he's strongly averse to that. Part of it is the innate sensitivity to rejection present in all people, but it's also a matter of control. He likes situations and people and things that give him a firm sense of control, stability, security. People who are easily manipulated, situations that he can easily direct the outcome of... and opening up such a situation would mean relinquishing control of whatever happens next, control of his own emotional state, control over the inherent power imbalance present deep within every social interaction, over to you. Can't do that.

And when that "losing" party makes their desperation and vulnerability known, it turns off the other, bores them, makes them feel the desperate one is disposable and soon treats them as such after losing interest.

Well, some people. If you ask him, the thought of that level of desperation and neediness from a partner is actually quite nice. He can't really wrap his head around why some people would find it irritating or boring when just the thought of it seems like a euphoric fantasy. Since he likes control, a lack thereof, a sense that something is slipping out of his grasp, that he can't easily dictate the actions or results of something, is something he can't stand for.

So, he can't do it. Can't expose that degree of openness, risk rejection.

But that's alright, he can't afford to have that sort of relationship with someone anyway, it would simply interfere with his responsibilities too much. So he determines, at least initially.

The solution to both of these problems, then, is to simply refrain. No interference with his responsibilities, and no need to expose any vulnerability. He's very used to restraining his emotions, refraining from acting upon impulses or desires, however harmless they may be, because responsibility must take priority. Rarely has something consumed his thoughts to such a degree, but still, he can handle it.

Thus, for a while, he might actually avoid you to some extent, thinking it will decrease the chances of attachment. Gets things done in a different location than where you usually find him, works at different times.

But then it seems so boring and empty when he's working alone, when he doesn't have your bright smile there, it feels very... depressing. Likewise, when he sees you again, coming up with some excuse as to why he was absent the day before or so (did you come looking for him and he wasn't there? Were you disappointed? The thought of that is satisfying on its own...), the discontentment goes right back to feeling everything is alright and well with the world, and it's a feeling he just can't give up.

He quickly realizes it seems pointless to continuously resist. If he can't rid himself of it, he might as well try to work with it, adapt to the best of his ability. That seems like the only logical conclusion. Keep you close, but not too close, and to avoid exposing any affections beyond very simple appreciation for your help and presence, at least until he has full security that he can afford to do otherwise.

He doesn't initiate it, but gladly welcomes it when you start to seek him out elsewhere. You learn you have the same lunch period during most of the week, and a few electives together. You don't always talk to or sit next to him, but you sort of rotate between your friends, so he gets to interact with you some of the time.

The other times, though, you opt to talk to others instead. Turns out you're getting along quite well with several people on campus since you showed up here. He just sort of waits at the beginning of the class to see whether or not you'll come to him, or if you go to someone else.

If it's the former, he's certainly happy about it, perhaps almost a bit relieved that that was your choice. You would never get the impression it was what he was hoping for, though, he ensures that. Refrains from looking up when you enter a room, stares blankly down at a paper or textbook on the desk, as if not paying attention, giving no semblance of caring either way, merely watching you from the corner of his eye, and pretending to only notice your presence the moment you sit down.

Whenever it's the latter, he'd be lying if he said he didn't feel an increasingly sharp sense of disappointment. Perhaps a bit of irritation. A strange, gnawing feeling in his stomach, a tightness to his chest. Very opposing feelings, ones that he soon realizes linger with him the entire day. If you choose to talk to him, the rest of his day feels great, and if not, he finds himself a bit disgruntled for the rest of the day. It feels embarrassing for something so simple to be affecting him to such an extent, but he can't control the emotional aspect.

That begins to create a greater concern.

A bit of worry that this initially unwelcome sentiment of affection is starting to create some other, more problematic feelings. Ones that feel harder to handle.

It's more of a subconscious worry, at first, a faint uneasiness that largely rests at the back of his mind. The full extent of the realization comes as a sudden occurrence, one day, when you don't show up at the end of the day for the first time in a while, seeing as you've started coming by to help him out on a daily basis now.

He's a bit disappointed, sure. But it's no big deal, it's not as if you ever agreed to come every day or anything, you're certainly under no obligation to do so, it's incredibly generous for you to come at all in the first place.

...You could have said something, though, you know.

It's not as if you don't see him throughout the day in passing, in class. It's completely voluntary to begin with, so of course it's not necessary for you to tell him if you're coming or not, nor does he take it as a rudeness that you didn't, it's just... you could have. It would have been appreciated. After all, now he has to wonder where you are, which leads him to contemplate the very small possibility that something might be wrong, which causes unnecessary worry that he could have been spared had you just bothered to stop him for a second, or send a message with a single sentence since you exchanged numbers a while back, neither of which would have taken very long... but that's a selfish mentality, so he tells himself. Obviously you must be spending time with other people doing other things, like anyone does, which you have every right to do.

He can't help but wonder with whom, though. A few people come to mind, he mentally goes down the list of people he sees you with most frequently and at what time of day he sees you with each one...

Which is something he only now realizes he's subconsciously been keeping track of. But that's force of habit, he has to be observant like that... okay, no, it's not, it's definitely more than that, he can't lie to himself. The force of habit does contribute, but nonetheless.

Still, if he runs down the list, given the time of day and day of the week, he can come up with one most likely possibility, and a couple lesser possibilities, as to your current location, company, and activity. The fair degree of certainty is reassuring.

But there's still a knot in his stomach the more he thinks about it. His hands keep working, but his mind is playing imagery and words in his imagination, things you might be talking about and saying and doing and what others might be saying back to you and it's a very, very, very awful feeling.

Soon enough, he's forced to snap back to awareness when he realizes the task he was working on is done while his mind was elsewhere, and nearly an hour has passed. He should probably go home and get started on food for the evening.

It's not the direction his feet take him in, though.

It can't hurt to check just for a second. Besides, it's only like a five minute detour, so he might as well. Just a brisk walk through a few halls, down a few doors, just barely peeking over a door window to ensure he remains unseen.

Sure enough, he was right. You're just sitting around and talking. He makes a quick mental note of the other individuals in the room, tries to listen in for a moment before realizing it's (unfortunately) too muffled to be clearly heard, then turns around and goes home.

And ends up sitting on the edge of the bed, elbow to each thigh and head resting on each respective hand, staring at the wall, running through the events of the past hour and a half, fully realizing the significance of how unusual and intense his behavior was. He was aware of it even in the moment, sure, but the momentary impulse overrode any sense of reason. It's a mistake he tells himself not to make again.

But he knows the feeling is increasing. The intensity is getting worse and worse with each passing day. While he's careful not to be careless about it, he finds himself making a habit of checking on you on the days you don't come around to see him. The fact that there even are such days, seeing you with other people doing something else, starts to upset him more and more, to the extent he starts thinking about it at random throughout the day. Each occurrence of such thoughts striking him with a feeling of bitterness that makes him clench his jaw, curl his hands into fists, even respond more bluntly than he normally would to other people when approached -- he even overheard, on one such occasion, after giving a frustrated what? to someone that approached him, the same student remarking to someone else that the vice housewarden has been in a really poor mood lately, to which the other seemed to agree.

The potential consequences of it all does worry him. But his response to these emotions, and understanding of them, isn't quite what you might expect.

Unlike almost anyone else would be, he's not concerned or confused by the acknowledgement of the fact that he has abnormally intense, compulsive, obsessive attachment. He's not really alarmed by realizing what's happening.

See, most people go through a reckoning phase, having to do with their self-image. Most see themselves as a good person, and struggle to come to terms with their actions and thoughts — ultimately either coming to terms with the wrongness of what they want, or deluding themselves.

But Jamil is no stranger to having nefarious urges, nor does he have any real issues with acceptance of the reality of his desires. But more importantly, part of what makes him such a force to be reckoned with, and gives him such frightening potential for success as an obsessive, is a lack of any compulsion to prescribe to conventional morality, nor any feeling of need to justify his own actions. He's fully aware that the ideas in his head and urges in his thoughts are "wrong," there's no period of self-bargaining or attempting to rationalize or justify anything to himself, no attempts at self-delusion. He's just perfectly fine with accepting that he wants to do things considered immoral.

In fact, completely unlike Kalim, he's almost unnervingly self-aware. There may have been a bit of confusion, or very brief attempts to justify his actions to himself in the beginning, but after the initial realizations take place, he becomes acutely and immediately aware of every thought, every action.

He wouldn't think of himself as a bad person, but unlike most people, he doesn't think of himself as a particularly good person either. In fact, he finds the thought of people who believe themselves to be fully good to be rather exasperating and foolish. Do people really believe themselves to be innately good, that they won't act on selfish desires? He's never understood that.

It's not at all uncommon, nor is he any stranger to strong sentiments. Everyone has heard of such a thing before. It's common enough that you often hear advice of obsessive lovers being something to be avoided, meaning that while it's viewed negatively, the frequency of its occurrence indicates that it's not particularly abnormal. One could even argue it's innate in some people, some leftover instinct from more primitive days of the human species. There's plenty of cases of it in media, in the news, accounts you see from people who were subject to such a thing,  and even plenty of cases in folklore. They say the great Sorcerer himself used to be fond enough of a princess to try and kill someone over her, or something like that.

It ties into his own self-perception too, his honesty to himself about his personhood. Someone who would develop such urges and feelings... yeah, he can see that happening to him. At first, it actually doesn't seem to make sense, but the more he thinks about it, the more it does make sense, after a long while of contemplating it almost amusingly, as if he's a third party analyzing someone else, and not himself. It checks out, he supposes. Irksome and inconvenient that that would develop in him, but there's no use trying to fight those kinds of urges when, based on his own observations and accounts of such things, the people who tend to have such tendencies always seem to have it in such a way that is clearly an innate part of their psychology, thus pointless to avoid, and better dealt with by adapting and adjusting. Oh well.

Those sorts of cases frequently end poorly for the individual in question, but those are normal people, with normal levels of control and cunning. By contrast, he knows himself well enough to know he has high restraint and inhibition, so the risk of acting out and drawing attention is near nonexistent, and he's patient and calculated enough that he's fairly certain he can act out the ideas he begins to have without risk of consequence.

Because there would be negative consequence, he's sure of that. The extent and intensity of his emotions is at a point that it could be considered erratic or obsessive, as he already knows full well, and would cause alarm if you or anyone else became aware of it. Even if, say, you were to return the feelings to a normal extent, even if you like him, he still has no doubt that the full intensity of what he is capable of, the malicious and unethical nature of many of the urges themselves, would almost certainly cause you to change your mind. So even if you respond positively, he has to keep that in check.

But acknowledging the potential consequences of acting out of line aside, he's surprisingly very unbothered it, for someone who is coming to the realization that they have feelings and urge for behaviors that go beyond the conventions of normalcy or what is considered "heathy." The latter of which he just rolls his eyes at; he's always been convinced that most people condemning emotions as "unhealthy" are really just trying to get people to conform to social norms -- hey, if he wants to let himself be slowly consumed by resentment over the course of his entire life, that's his business, you know? Same thing applies here. Abiding by the cultural norms and social expectations of a "healthy relationship" and "being ethical" is just a roundabout way of stopping him from doing what he wants and won't get him the results he desires, so no need to even try to listen to such nonsense.

Alongside all of that, he has remarkable persuasion skills, can lie and act very convincingly if needed.  Difficult to catch off-guard, has planned out interactions and alternate paths to take in case one avenue doesn't work out. Always prepared for almost anything that could go wrong. He's patient, cunning, intelligent, perceptive... all traits you do not want in someone with his intentions. He's fairly good at concealing emotions as well -- sure, sometimes a bit of it may slip out here and there, but he's still infinitely better at it than the vast majority of people.

All of this combined — lack of concern for ethics, high self-awareness, fairly high ability to mask his emotions, unhesitating acceptance of the realization of forming an obsession, high intelligence and perceptiveness, great patience, and high impulse control in favor of cunning premeditation — makes him an unusually highly effective obsessive with an almost alarming capacity for harm and success. One of the most unfortunate individuals in the establishment you could end up catching the affections of, in terms of your chances of things ending well for you.

Not that there aren't a few moments where it slips through, just the occasional word or gesture. He's still better than virtually anyone else at concealing emotions, but nonetheless, those emotions are the ones that may just come out, if but for a moment.

You end up missing a few more days of helping him in a row. Friends invited you out to a couple of events. You didn't really think anything of it, at least, not until you come back to your usual routine, on what would have been the fourth day of absence if you hadn't come.

He's already not the most talkative person in the world, but you quickly notice an unusual curtness to his tone. Usually, if you sit down and open with a how was your day?, he'll shrug, say nothing eventful occurred, or make a small mention of something that happened if something eventful did occur.

This time, though, you get a much more brief answer. It was fine.

The tone of his voice is clearly cold, almost passive-aggressive. You tilt your head and ask if something happened, if something's wrong. You get a similarly curt answer.

No.

But as he tends to do with regards to his own behavior, he catches himself, realizes how it comes off. For a brief moment, the realization is actually a bit embarrassing -- he knows getting bitter over such a thing is immature behavior. So he corrects it, shakes his head as if clearing his thoughts, comes up with something about being momentarily distracted and answering on a mental autopilot so as to seem that he was just not paying attention, and asks you to repeat the question, this time forcing out a regular calm demeanor as if not upset.

This, the initial disgruntlement goes more or less unregistered in your memory. You do notice, though, as you continue talking, that he asks more than once about how your week has been -- you answer with a general statement that it's been good and just regular life, nothing out of the ordinary, but apparently that answer isn't quite sufficient.

And what have you been doing these past few days?

He nearly bites his tongue as soon as he says it. That came out a bit more forward and obvious than it sounded in his head. Thankfully, a quick glance upward from his task shows no indication of perturbance on your end, as you merely smile and answer in full, giving a few details of what you've been up to. Hanging out with friends, primarily. He has to refrain from asking specifically whom, seeing as at that point, further questioning on the matter would probably even strike you as oddly intrusive. He'll just have to leave it at that.

Likewise, he'll have to accept you doing whatever you want with your spare time. Any indication that he feels any other way or trying to influence your decision would certainly be noticed, and perceived as strange. It's not like he's entitled to your time... that is, from the perspective of general social consensus. He knows that reasonably, from an objective standpoint, he isn't entitled to that. Even if he might personally feel that way.

He does seem distracted, throughout the rest of the day, has to get you to repeat yourself a few times after seemingly spacing out. But he's always rather busy and under a lot of stress, you have no reason to think anything of it.

He truly does do a good job of concealing his thoughts and feelings. Most obsessive admirers would have long since cracked and shown their true colors by now, as the months go by. His is just tiny little slip-ups, every now and then, much like the first one. Primarily a slight coldness and bitterness to his demeanor whenever you go a significant amount of days without coming by. It only lasts for a few moments before he corrects it, but you do occasionally start to take notice of it. Still, that doesn't seem too out of the ordinary. You're friends, so you can understand he'd be a bit upset, when you think about it, and he's under a lot of stress anyway. Much to his satisfaction, you actually seem to take notice and correct the behavior all on your own, as you gradually stop having significant gaps in days between seeing him, and even on days you aren't coming, you now usually send a message.

There was also that time you stayed in for the day due to feeling sick, and woke up after a long sickness-induced nap to four back-to-back messages, one every hour or so from the time class sessions start, increasingly concerned by your lack of reply. Which is perhaps a bit much, but the messages abruptly stop around noon, as if realizing it was a bit too intense and backing down. But in all fairness, it's only natural to be concerned, so you appreciate it, if anything.

Then there was also the time you had that one guy that kept seeming to try to get close to you for a while, someone you'd worked with in one of your classes once and got along well with. The two of them had never interacted to your knowledge, until you were talking one day and another familiar face came up seemingly out of nowhere. Rather forcefully intruding on the conversation with an uncharacteristic bluntness and coldness, and a near tangible aura of hostility, a glare distinguishable even to you.

Yes, it was definitely too forward, and certainly both the most impulsive act and the largest blunder he's made so far, but it was borderline torture standing there up on the second floor, watching from the window, unable to do anything. He manages to at least somewhat defend himself, and hopefully quell any irritation or confusion you might have had, by telling you later in private that the individual in question is in fact known to be of poor character, manipulative and two-faced, so people say, and was probably intending to take advantage of your kind nature. You seem to accept that, much to his relief, and even express some gratitude. Unfortunately, though, he won't be able to use that excuse again without seeming suspicious, so he just has to hope you don't start to get close to someone with obviously non-platonic intentions again.

Still. It's not as if he can just take the risk, nor does he think that a simple intimidating interaction will deter the other guy entirely. Other measures must be taken.

To you, though, it's just a confirmation that Jamil was right, once the guy gets expelled. Apparently he attacked someone at random, became violent with a group of students and apparently injured one to such an extent that the administration didn't even just give him a strike, but viewed it as grounds for immediate expulsion. You mention it, when you're visiting Jamil as usual later that day, with concern and shock over the incident in your voice as you ask if he heard about it.

He just shrugs. See, told you... ah, but it's not your fault you didn't realize it. Some people are just very good at concealing their true natures, you know? But it's good that you distanced yourself from the guy before anything bad happened to you. You voice your concurrence with that statement.

And yet, after that guy disappears, so does Jamil, at least during those same time blocks. He goes back to not being around during that time, leaving you to find new people to talk to during that time instead. After all, he doesn't want to come across as clingy. Settling for returning to the window position allows for greater scope of observation, anyway.

Jamil engages in a great deal of his fixation from a distance, with you unaware of his presence. He won't necessarily come up and talk to you, but he'll watch you from across a room, from a window looking down on you below, from a shadow a ways away from the crowds and groups you're busy interacting with. He doesn't have to worry about unintentionally being suffocating, this way, while still knowing what you're doing. It's actually a process that often makes him upset, an irritating swelling feeling to his chest, because people like you far more than he would prefer, and now he's forced to watch. Not that he would want people to dislike you either, that would probably hurt your self-esteem and... ah, whatever. It's just irksome to see people gather around you so much. It would be preferable if your presence wasn't treated as something of a spectacle on the campus, but there's nothing he can do about that.

He's even more careful not to make mistakes and show affection than he is careful about negative emotions, but that doesn't mean positive emotions don't also sometimes show as well.

You're far too nice to him, for one thing. You just have to go on these spiels about how much you appreciate his help with various things, or when he thanks you for helping you just have to smile so sweetly and say you enjoy it, that you're glad you get to come by and all... it's one of a few ways to make him genuinely flustered, unable to look you in the eye, all stiff and fidgety as he mumbles something about how it's appreciated, and that you don't have to feel pressured to and whatnot. You have a tendency to say too-nice things that leave him feeling all hot in the face and embarrassed for the rest of the day. Just like the initial feeling of attachment itself, it's almost unpleasant in its own way, and yet, it's addictive.

You still just barely notice the slip-ups, if at all. Those times where he maybe gets just a bit too close, talks to you for a bit too long, seems a little bit too nosy asking what you've done today or prying for details on a conversation you had with someone else -- before he catches himself, correcting the mistake by switching topics or coming up with a reason to leave so as not to linger too long. Can't give you the impression that he wants to stay around you for much longer, can't come off as desperate or vulnerable.

Little things like that. Mostly tiny little mistakes, and besides, he's increasingly even more careful not to make such errors, often getting a bit panicked after each one and becoming stricter in the future. None of it ever crosses the line of what would really catch your attention as something abnormal or something that would induce any concern.

It carries on for some time like that. His self-control allows him to maintain a state of limbo, where he can keep himself in check, not doing anything he shouldn't nor making any move to take anything further, but ensuring you stay close, that you don't drift away. Making sure there are no more issues with people becoming too close to you in ways he doesn't like.

But much to his satisfaction, you seem to grow closer anyway, without him having to take any sort of action to do so. You come by more than ever, and he likes the implications of the fact that you come to see him so often.

He tends to be a bit more open to sharing thoughts and observations normally kept reserved to you, too, as he grows more comfortable talking to you. A bit more openly negative and sardonic. It's not even intentional, really, it happens subconsciously at first. He's just never had an outlet before, and once he does, it becomes such a source of catharsis that one day, after making a slightly negative comment, to which you inquire about the matter, he finds himself starting to perhaps say a bit too much. Unloading all of his frustrations and bottled up negativity. Initially, he catches himself doing it and cuts himself off after a few moments, starting to apologize and saying something about being irritable as he didn't sleep much the night before or something like that.

But you shake your head.

Oh, come on, it's fine. You don't have to pretend around me, you know?

He pauses for a moment... but shrugs, starts to return to voicing the same thoughts. He still won't fully express his feelings, then, but if you're fine with it... it can't hurt to talk about some of his frustrations and complaints. If anything, you seem to find some of the comments amusing, snickering at some of the more sarcastic mutterings. It actually feels quite nice. It's something he hasn't ever really had before, usually having to keep all his negative thoughts to himself. In the end, you end up unwinding too, complaining about this or that. A cathartic session for you both, and you end up sharing a few smiles and laughs over some of each other's accounts and shared annoyances.

It would seem, though, that his efforts to grow closer to you do pay off. It's pleasing. It feels like it's "going somewhere," so to speak, that all the conversations have progressed to being closer and closer; which is, of course, what he would hope for.

Eventually, he figures it can't hurt to try and push for some progress himself. Yes, perhaps he can afford to try and make some small push forward, little by little. He takes the same approach as he does to most matters -- quietly, patiently, avoiding risky, bold, reckless actions in favor of a gradual and calculated plan.

What he decides on doing does require him to take some initiative and ask, although he chose a group event rather than anything you'd be by yourselves for. Just one of the many large dorm-wide social events they have in Scarabia on a regular basis, although this one in particular is supposed to be for something special or another. You agree to it, with a smile at that. It's very reassuring.

Except it turns out that that presents a brand new problem.

Well, part of a larger problem. As he's observed, you've been mingling with different people, forming a friend group during your time on the campus. He would know, he's been watching very carefully and making note of each person, and may or may not have interfered once or twice behind the scenes to prevent you from interacting with individuals he would prefer you not to.

One, however, has not only slipped through any attempts to deter interaction, but apparently has avoided registering on his radar of who you interact with entirely. The only conclusion is that you must have had all your interactions during those times where he can't watch over you. Just perfectly, by the narrowest of margins, managing to grow close to each other, somehow exclusively during those few times he's had his back turned and off fulfilling some other responsibilities, completely unbeknownst to him until this very moment.

Or so he learns, when you arrive, smile when you see him, immediately making your way over to him to talk... until something else catches your attention, something behind him. Your eyes flicker to something just over his shoulder, something he can hear approaching with rapid footsteps and saying your name. Something that quickly swerves around him in favor of lunging at you and grabbing you into an enthusiastic embrace.

...What.

It feels like some sort of cruel joke from a higher power. Like the will of the universe is to spite him. Like being a comedic relief character where the running gag is his constant misfortune. He finds himself standing there, arms limp at his sides, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, eye twitching as he looks back and forth between the two of you.

But... but how did... when did you... you never mentioned... why...

You're clearly overwhelmed, though, you have that awkward smile where you're clearly uncomfortable but don't say anything to be nice... so after a moment of pause (as soon as he finishes mentally cursing his very existence to whatever force of the universe is listening, that is), he doesn't hesitate to reach out, grab and pull the invasive creature off of you by the shirt collar.

Kalim, you're being suffocating.

Not that those words deter the other boy for even a second. Other than a brief choking sound at sudden jerking motion pulling the front of his clothes against his throat, he immediately recovers, bright-eyed as he gets out an apology, smiling all the while, and continues rambling about something else, until being interrupted.

I didn't realize you two even knew each other.

It takes every ounce of his willpower to force those words out in a way that sounds neutral and curious rather than like he's about to strangle him to death, but he manages. You smile and start to clarify that oh, yes, you have this or that class together and have talked a few times... which just so happens to take place during the longest stretch of the day that he has to go without seeing you, which he frequently worries about. How incredibly coincidental. Haha. Anyway, if you'll excuse him for just one second, he has to go check on something to ensure that the students have everything ready--

--which is actually him walking off to the nearest secluded spot and slamming his fist into the wall with all the force he can muster without breaking his fingers. Takes a deep breath in, deep breath out. Okay. That was cathartic enough to hopefully get him through the night with minimal homicidal urges.

Kalim seems absolutely determined to test that, however. You would think he was the one who invited you here, given the fact that he seems dead-set on monopolizing your time and attention in every conceivable way. He can barely get a word in, can barely say anything to you for a few seconds without getting interrupted. At several points throughout the night you quite literally get dragged away by the wrist to go look at something or participate in something, while he sits there left with nothing to do but seethe over it, trying to distract himself by taking in all the stimulus of the crowded lounge, lest the violent urges start getting the best of him because he's about arm's length away from several very sharp objects on the table and it's starting to get a bit too tempting. By the time midnight rolls around, he's barely gotten to spend any time with you at all. He's pretty sure you've actually been trying to keep coming back and talk to him, but keep getting dragged off and are too nice to say anything about it.

Normally, he's masterful at keeping his outward emotional expressions in check. But for once, he finds himself so deeply upset, such a tight feeling in his chest, that he can't sit there and bear it with a blank face like he normally does with everything else. He ends up having to walk away, quietly slipping away to go walk it off to sulk and seethe alone.

The campus is fairly empty this late, so it's easy to get some fresh air by oneself as he mulls over it. Even though he's by himself, he sighs, has to stop and pinch at and rub the bridge of his nose in irritation. Getting this worked up over a crush, what is he, a grade schooler? It's embarrassing, even if he's the only one who knows. Even having what would be called a "crush" is embarrassing, really, it feels infantile. It seems like something that would be laughable if other people caught onto it. Ugh.

He keeps walking, until he's out of the dorm, slowly moping his way across the campus, long since gone quiet and still due to the lateness of the hour, no one else around. Makes his way over to a bench in an empty campus building.

Finally he gets to just sit down, takes a deep breath in, deep breath out, tries to relax the tension in his shoulders, tries to calm down. Mentally forces himself to clear his thoughts, leaving a blank slate so he can transition to thinking about something else to hopefully take his mind off things, and just allows the first thought that pops up to come to the forefront of his mind. Unfortunately, that thought is:

Which one do you like more?

Dammit. Can't clear his mind after all.

And God, that feels childish. Like how young kids quarrel over who is the best friend of someone else. Just thinking about it feels embarrassing, even if the thought is just to himself.

But it does seem like question that has an answer. After all, when he thinks about it, he can form a pretty solid ranking in his head of acquaintances, and which ones he's more fond of than others. Surely you have the same.

No, that's a stupid question. Obviously it would be him.

...Right?

Yes, it's a ridiculous question because it's obvious. You spend more time with him, you know him far better... it's a foolish question, he shouldn't even be worried.

Still, he can't get rid of the gnawing, unpleasant feeling in his chest, it's eating away at him, driving him up the wall. It takes a while before he can bring himself to go back.

By the time he does so, though, it's fairly late into the night, you're clearly exhausted (no doubt largely due to having your energy essentially siphoned out of you), you speak in that sort of "departure" tone as people do when they're indicating the end of a visit as you say that well, I should be getting back...

Maybe it's the heat of the moment, the lateness of the night drawing out impulsiveness, the possessive irritation and intense emotions, perhaps some need to feel reassurance, some sense of reclaiming something, that emboldens him. Maybe he's still just irked about not having gotten to spend any real time with you. Or maybe his earlier crisis has left him with a desperate need for confirmation. Regardless, for once, his impulse wins over his inhibition, over any self-control. He finds the words coming out without thinking.

It's rather late. You could just stay with me, if you want.

He stiffens as soon as the words come out of his mouth.

It's not as if you're that naive. It would be one thing if he said there was a spare room or something, but directly telling you you can stay in his own room has very obvious implications that he definitely can't excuse his way out of, and he's fairly certain you're definitely not at that point, at least not yet, and his skin crawls at the realization that saying that most likely just ruined any chances of ever reaching that if anything. All that effort, all this time and careful planning, and he may have very well knocked all that down in one sentence.

He starts to try and back out of it, heartrate going up with a moment of panic, opening his mouth and getting out a brief stammering attempt — ah, nevermind, if you don't—

Okay!

There's a few moments of quiet. Blinking at you with a numb expression before seemingly processing your words. You've never seen him undergo quite such a loss of composure within a second, eyes going wide open and stumbling over his words.

I... Well, a... alright. Then, you... I'll, ah, it's over there...

But it's endearing, really. You find yourself smiling while you walk back. He keeps talking about something else entirely, as if to distract you both from any acknowledgement of the exchange that just occurred. At least he manages to successfully distract you into looking at something off in the distance once you reach the room so you don't see the slight tremor to his hands getting the door unlocked and open.

The night lasts a long time. You can still hear the muffled sound of the noise going on outside as the other students continue to do whatever it is they're all doing (some collective game or another, being far too loud), but you manage to talk at least loud enough to hear yourselves over them... and continue to talk... and sit down... and then you lay down... and then you're both side by side... and then your legs brush up against each other... and then there's a few awkward moments of silence...

You do like him quite a bit, so, you're fine with it. He doesn't flinch or pull back when you lean over onto him, doesn't shift when you pull yourself closer, instead wrapping an arm around you. One thing leads to another, as such matters tend to go over. It's awkward at first, of course, like most friend-to-lover situations are -- once the heat of the moment is over, you're left panting and sweaty and you both sort of look up at the same moment and your eyes meet. A few seconds of silence pass. For such a composed person, you've never seen him quite so flustered... but it's cute. You find yourself grinning and giggling and reveling in the ecstasy.

You're happy about it. You get the sense he's happy about it too. You fall asleep pretty quickly, enveloped by warmth.

And he is happy. Truly. It doesn't even feel real.

But he's also very, very worried. Panicked. It begins to set in before he can even properly appreciate the bliss of the moment.

Even if you are willingly with him, even if you love him, that almost makes things worse, because now he has to work with the fact that the social expectation is to increase time with you and that he can be more openly attached, but still have to be careful not to go too far. Not to mention, this makes things more fragile. Riskier. Doesn't it? You're going to be more observant. It will be harder to hide certain behaviors from you. You'll be more careful and critical of what he does as a natural means of protecting yourself, you'll notice any slips of the tongue he might have gotten away with before.

Besides, this part is just one step of many, so he can't afford to relax. He thinks back to that same concept as before, that the social interworkings of all this sort of thing is like a game, a competition. If he lets his guard down and assumes everything is fine now, that just opens the possibility of being caught unprepared if something bad does happen. No, now he has to be even more vigilant and even more protective than before, and more careful of limits.

Nor are said expectations and their limits always clear. Where does the line of acceptable behavior get drawn? Does it not vary from person to person, from one act to the next? He can't afford to find out by trial and error, either, that's too risky.

For a short while, he contemplates if maybe he could get away with just one or two small abnormalities. After all, everyone has flaws, and people expect that partners will have flaws. Can he outright tell you to not interact with a specific person? Is that normal? No, that would definitely be seen as controlling. There's definitely some things he can determine by thinking it through like that, but that doesn't apply to every situation, which is the greatest concern.

And perhaps more importantly, it makes everything feel harder to deal with. It was easier when he had to refrain entirely. Now, it's one of those situations where having a taste of something makes one all that much more weak to craving for it, makes it all that much more alluring than when you had no concept of what the experience was truly like before.

At least his nerves are calmed by the fact that you spend more time in his presence. He doesn't have to deal with intrusive thoughts of concern about what you're doing and if something could be wrong at any given moment.

Perhaps most relieving of all is that other people seem to back off to a greater extent than they already did. You must have told people.

Well, most people. Most people back off, seem to respect him enough to give you two a bit of space while still being friendly towards you both. Don't get too physically close when talking to you, and certainly don't touch you.

Except for one.

The only upside to you being so close to Kalim is that, by extension, you see him more often than you would have just him on his own, as the two are often together. Granted, you're obviously spending more time with him anyway, but now that he's with you more often, that means he gets to witness you two interact, and on the rare occasion you were seeking out Kalim for something, he's usually there too.

You two get along very well. Which he's very frequently forced to bear witness to for the entire duration of your interactions, quietly sitting there with a clenched jaw and fingernails digging into his thighs and the occasional eye twitch that hopefully goes unnoticed. At the same time, that's comforting in its own way, as he can directly witness it rather than have to be psychologically tormented by knowing you two interact but not knowing the details and specifics.

But unlike how Jamil himself would give plenty of space to Kalim and a darling, Kalim does not do the same for him. He's still talkative with you, and touchy too. Far too much for the sake of sanity. He constantly grabs at you, hugs you when he sees you (for several extended seconds, not just for a moment), gets far too close into your personal space when talking. On more than one occasion, he's insisted on trailing along with you two for this or that venture, being an oblivious third wheel — which is made far worse by the fact that you don't seem to mind at all, paying them both equal amounts of attention.

At first, he tries to apply some reason to it. Maybe he thinks it's fine since the two of them are inherently close. Maybe he doesn't realize just how intense he is, or doesn't think he's passing the boundaries of what's considered acceptable. Or...

...And then he realizes that that's giving Kalim's intellect way too much credit. No, it's just how he is, nothing more. He's just outright not thinking about it.

This can become an issue, to say the least. Over time, he does his best to try and avoid you both coming into contact, tries to memorize schedules and give Kalim a wide berth to ensure minimal contact. Nonetheless, of course, it doesn't always work. He finds himself grinding his teeth, stiffening up as he watches you two interact. A person with less self-control would have certainly put the boy in a chokehold at least once by now, but he manages to bite his tongue. Can't just let him have this one thing in peace? Have something to himself? No, of course not, of course he has to be the one to suffer like this... despite the thoughts in his head, he has to be careful not to let that pessimism show in any form of outward bitterness, has to keep a neutral face and mildly exasperated voice at best, pretending any frustration towards the other is due to his high energy and antics and not the fact that just watching you two talk ignites violent instincts he didn't even know he possessed. But there's not much else he can do other than tolerate it.

Besides, it's not as if that's the only person he has to worry about either. Now that you're actually attached to him, he has to ensure that you stay that way, seeing as plenty of people would gladly take his place. But rather than just dealing with others, part of keeping you means making sure you're attached to him.

Unfortunately for you, this does not manifest as exceptional kindness towards you, nor trying to please you, or anything of the sort.

Sure, he could be sweet to you, shower you with affection and attention and gifts and so on... but that is a form of "losing." Making it too obvious that he needs you. There's a chance you'd get bored. After all, why take the "wholesome" way, when that isn't guaranteed? Especially when what is so often deemed the wrong way of doing things, has a guarantee to work. Frankly, that way has a higher success rate, so he sees no reason not to take it.

He has plenty of subtle, conniving means of prying into your mind without you really noticing it's intentional. You, well, you're incredibly easy to manipulate -- and that's a good thing. He likes it that way. Every single trick in the book, you respond perfectly.

It's fairly easy to discern any insecurities you have, some he was already aware of and some that become more evident as you become more emotionally open around him. So he can pick some nice words and compliments that are just a little bit backhanded, have the slightest of implication of a double-meaning shortcoming or insult laden in them, you visibly seem to notice, and sure enough, it's only a matter of time before you express some insecurity over the the thing in question -- and he's right there to assure you that it's entirely fine, or even appreciated... the unspoken implication being that yes, the thing you're insecure about is true, but he likes it. Worded in just the right way so that you won't feel like it's intentional, no, you're sure he had the best of intentions and meant to make you feel good, but it just came out the wrong way, or you're just being too sensitive, or he's just being how guys can be where they're a bit obtuse to how their words might not be as helpful as they intend. He's clearly trying to make you feel happy, right? You appreciate that in its own right.

Besides, it's easy to reassure you with physical affections, too. That becomes another frequent element of your day to day life... he's a fairly restrained person in public, and much prefers being alone and behind closed doors rather than being together while around others. Besides, even if not just for getting to interact more directly with you, being alone in the dorm means being able to relax and unwind... and get out any stress.  Which he has a great deal of -- you can't even begin to imagine the level of stress this boy has pent up, given the hectic nature of his daily life.

He's not particularly "kinky," per se, not really into any particular paraphilias or extreme forms of bondage or use of much tools, so much as he is simply rough. He tends to grab rather hard. Likes holding you down the whole time in some way, restraining some part of you with his own hands, often pinning your forearms down or grabbing the underside of your knees and pressing your thighs against your chest with force. His hand often ends up on your throat. He has a tendency to be rather harsh with it overall, merely rutting into you with animal-like forcefulness, leaving you exhausted and sore... although he at least seems to get flustered about it after the fact, mumbling apologies and getting you water, holding you close and all that.

You do notice some of the more... aggressive elements of the his sexuality, but it doesn't concern you. It's fairly common for someone of his age and sex and all that, and besides, it's normal for people's sexual tendencies to be non-reflective of their character otherwise. You have no reason to think of it as anything worth noting, and no negative thoughts cross your mind, other than the soreness and the tendency for bruising. If anything, the whole "gap moe" between the roughness in the heat of the moment and his usual collectedness versus the sheepishness afterwards is rather cute, really, that that's the one thing that such a normally composed person as himself can get easily embarrassed by. It reaches a point where you're more or less used as some kind of stress toy... but you don't mind at all. It does make you feel loved, which is also a critical part of the intent.

But outside of direct expressions of affection, he ensures he's very subtle in his ways. Being outwardly nosy would just irritate you.

Sure, he wonders what you're looking at whenever you stare at your phone screen, but doesn't fall for the urge to lean over and look, you'd probably find that annoying. He just waits until you go to sleep to look through it, checking the times of certain messages being sent, scrolling through conversations each night until reaching the point of the last time he checked, occasionally taking screenshots and sending them to himself before going back and deleting both the messages on your end and the photos themselves.

Likewise, he doesn't linger around when you're talking on the phone trying to have a private conversation or the like, no, he just quietly gets his own phone out, opens the audio recording app, and leaves it in the room while he goes off to do something else, plays it back later when you're not around. He doesn't ask who certain people are and why you interact with them, instead opting to do some digging on his own time, seeing as there's plenty of online information on nearly everyone, or simply networks his way around into finding out more about a certain person.

All very carefully ensuring you don't perceive any clinginess, any obsessiveness or possessiveness. Nothing that would annoy you or turn you off. He manages to never really appear very bothered or curious about anything, and never exhibits any behavior that would ever lead you to even consider the possibility of what is actually happening in reality. You would never think of him as anything but a very healthy partner — in fact, more so than the average person, he doesn't exhibit any of the controlling or intrusive behaviors you hear people complain about in their own partners. You think of him as an exemplary one.

But nonetheless, every now and then, as time goes on, he starts to just barely get this sense that he's too close to reaching a point where things become unbalanced against him. That whole concept he was worried about, where you might feel like he needs you more than you need him -- and while he's fairly certain that's true, he can't have you sensing it. Yes, he's sure you're starting to get bored, to get complacent, and soon you'll probably want something new and more exciting. The fact that he's essentially surrounded by an ocean of competition doesn't help his nerves. He's practically like some poor animal trying to protect its kill from a horde of other predators that would gladly steal it from him the moment he looks away for so much as a second.

But if he's outwardly worried, insecure about it, comes across as desperate or needy, that will only turn you off to him.

So he takes an entirely different approach.

Suddenly, you find that he seems to be oddly absent. You've developed a habit of walking to certain classes together, but suddenly he stops showing up to the regular spot where you meet up. Disappears and is nowhere to be found during your lunch periods. Doesn't send as many texts. When you do see him, he seems absent-minded or distracted, not spending more than a small amount of time before apologizing and claiming to have something needing to be dealt with before disappearing again. Is suddenly unable to spend the night over, claiming to be busy with something. In truth, he's just gone back to watching you from a distance... but you don't know that, of course. And, although it is greatly difficult on his end, he has to even refrain from being as physically affectionate, often standing, keeping his laptop on his lap while working and so on, so you can't lean onto or embrace as easily, and even more painfully, not being able to spend nights over means having to sleep alone without your affectionate snuggles, and having to just jerk off when he could be inside you instead. Sigh... such painful efforts to go to for the sake of security.

It works perfectly. It becomes clear in no time at all that you're a bit hurt by it, which quickly turns into outright concern and insecurity. You get this sad look on your face whenever he "has to" leave, look at the ground. You start to speak in a softer voice when you ask about doing something together later. And, very much to his satisfaction, you stop talking as much to others even compared to when you spent more time with him, opting to sulk by yourself, presumably in too poor of a mood to socialize.

Eventually -- perhaps a bit disappointed and fed up with waiting, as he was really hoping that you would outright address it and ask about his sudden distance, but oh well, perhaps a bit of a push is necessary -- he seems to "realize" how upset you are one afternoon that he (now a rare occurrence) stays with you throughout the day, and you wrap your arms around him, rest your head on his chest.

Ah, I've been neglecting you, haven't I... I've been so busy, I didn't even notice.

You pout, but you nod.

He puts a hand on top of your head. You always seem to like that. Gives you a sort of warm, endeared smile. Ah. Sorry. I'll be more careful. I hope you can forgive me?

He might feel a little bit guilty, sure, but it's also an incredibly satisfying feeling when you nod again. But not so satisfying as what comes after that stage, when he reverts back to suddenly giving you plenty of attention and affection, even apologizing again for the period of neglect, and seeing how happy it makes you. You seem incredibly relieved and ecstatic, you respond more affectionately than you even did before, and perhaps, he can't help but notice, you seem to be even more clingy and desperate to please, as if afraid of losing the closeness again, now that you've regained it.

Next time, it doesn't take you as long to get desperate. Because of course, there is a next time. It's inevitable that the relief and worry wears off just a bit, and he can detect just the slightest subtraction of affection from you as you begin to drift into a "comfortable" state once again. He doesn't like that state. Sure, you're still affectionate, but not as much as he would like. And your affection lacks the sense of neediness and insecurity and clinginess that gives him a sort of exhilarating, ego-boosting high that the "comfortable" levels of affection just doesn't provide. So inevitably, he has to get a bit distant again, although it never takes quite as long as the first time before you get clingy and desperate and you go through the cycle all over again.

Soon you seem to have a constant subconscious level of fear, he doesn't even have to try and distance himself. You'll ask a questions at random that's just an obvious plea for reassurance. You'll check to affirm that you'll be going through the same routine as always the next day where you spend a certain block of time together, followed by a  quiet 'right?' that's dripping with the perfect level of insecurity. Your grip around him when you're lounging around and resting against him is always tighter than it was at the very beginning. You're touchier altogether, often leaning and embracing and nuzzling, whereas in the "comfortable" state you might have been on the other side of the room doing your own thing or the like. You start performing little gestures of affection more often. Whenever you're alone at night in one dorm or the other (increasingly often his, as he's more or less convinced you to spend most nights in a dorm that doesn't have ceiling leaks and enough dust to fill a lung), you tend to be more provocative, and not at all subtly, opting to walk around in underwear and having completely ditched those pajamas you were provided with by the administration when you first arrived. You initiate more often, too, oftentimes just randomly latching on and climbing onto his lap and rolling your hips forward, latching your mouth onto his. You wrap your legs around his waist when you're on your back, rather than just having them spread apart, you latch your arms around him and pull him so close your bodies are pressed together, the noises that come out of your throat sound so much more desperate and needy than before.

A back-and-forth, push-and-pull -- the push that puts distance between you just makes you all that much easier to pull back in, and reaps great rewards from you when he finally does.

It's euphoric. It's perfect. It feels like complete and total control. You're so desperate. Whenever you're clinging and pressed up to him afterwards, he often has to pull your head close up against his chest so you don't see his expression. He knows full well there's a sinister sort of glee to the grin on his face, but for once, even he can't refrain.

Well, it's almost perfect. Everything with you is perfect, but there are obstacles that remain preventing everything from being perfect. And at this point, they might as well be dealt with.

Despite all your clinginess and the effectiveness, there are still assigned times for classes and extracurricular responsibilities (which he temporarily thought about abandoning, but that would come off as a bit too needy) that require you to be apart. And during that time, as he's learned from having "accidentally" put his phone in your bag and recording the whole time a few times, he knows what you're doing. Identifies the voices of those you talk to, and can't help but notice that not only are they the same people consistently, but there's one in particular that makes those violent urges flare up again. Hell, he snapped a pencil in half by accident just while listening to the playback.

No matter. He'll just have to resort to his Plan B. It wasn't his first choice, seeing as there are potential complications, but he has no real reservations. He can't put a rift between you and Kalim, unfortunately, as that would likely just become problematic for himself later down the road... he'll have to work with just keeping you two apart, whenever he can't be right there. That's the only real way to deal with that problem.

Besides, he's only a genuine issue during one specific time slot. The schedules of various students aren't always consistent day to day. Some lectures are longer, labs tend to be shorter, so on and so on, people have different time gaps, some students even eat lunch at different times depending on the day of the week.

You have one particular gap of time where you have no classes, but he does. It's not too big of a deal, seeing as you usually just go over to the Scarabia dorm these days and talk to some of the others anyway... but therein lies the issue for him.

On one of those days, you're a few minutes later than usual, as he left his pen sitting on the desk in the last class, and you went back with him just to keep talking, opting to take the extra minute or so to stay together, as it wouldn't be more than a minute or two delay. With the majority of the throng of students already rushed to their next destination, the halls are empty as you reach the spot where you usually part ways until meeting up again later in the day. But as you say something about seeing him later—

Oh, before you go, one more thing.

You pause. You turn your head back around to look at him.

Hm?

...You jolt at the sudden commotion, snapping out of a daze. That big clocktower bell ringing off in the distance at the middle of the campus, followed by the loud sounds of dozens of students' chattering and footsteps as they head on to another class.

Oh, the period is already over.

...Wait, what...?

Your head throbs. You feel dizzy, disoriented. For a brief moment, your surroundings seem to spin around you, until you shake your head in an attempt to clear it, and the feeling seems to go away. But you're not in the spot you were in what seems seconds ago, instead sitting down at a desk. There's a tingly, fuzzy feeling in your head.

Oh, right. You opted to take some time for yourself this time around in an empty classroom because—

...because...?

Right. The book on the desk is open. You were studying. You seem to recall some of the information retained, even if you were sort of spaced out for the duration of the studying itself, everything for the last little while feels like a blur. Was there a test or something coming up? There isn't one today, but you must have remembered to study for a reason. Your mind was preoccupied, one of those moments where you realize you've been spacing out for a long time, so lost in thought that you don't really remember the words your eyes have been scanning over, nor your own actions.

More importantly, you remember talking just before you were about to head off, Jamil was going to tell you something important, but admittedly, you can't remember what he said. You feel sort of bad about it. You just hope it wasn't something too important, like something you were supposed to go pick up or something like that... you're sure to ask later, and apologize for spacing out while you're at it. But it must have been no big deal, based on his own words.

Tell you the truth, I don't recall either... ah, it's been a long day. I'm sure it wasn't important.

You end up making a habit of it. You find yourself ending up in the same spot on that day each week, like clockwork, without even thinking about it. You're pretty sure you gravitate towards doing so out of a need for a brief rest to rejuvenate your energy for the day.

...But it does feel strange. The first time, you dismissed it as just spacing out, and the second time as well, but you keep noticing you follow the pattern without intending to. On the third week, you very specifically told yourself you wouldn't be sitting out today like you had the past two weeks, since you felt plenty energetic and missed talking to Kalim and the others you usually spend that time with... yet found yourself ending up there anyway. Your head always feels fuzzy when you seem to recuperate your energy and alertness. You mentioned it to Jamil once, and he merely told you to just stay consciously aware and not drift off into thought right before that time period... and it did work, at least that one following week. Then it went right back to the other habit, and from then on, you find yourself alternating, sometimes going to be with friends, but quite often ending up by yourself, completely lost in a blank state of mind. You feel dizzy, disoriented. Each time, it feels like there's some sort of gap in your consciousness, like waking up from a dream.

It's not the only sudden onset of odd occurrences, either.

The first occasion of the other occurrence leaves you entirely bewildered. You did notice that one of your friends seemed to avoid you for a few days in a row, but you figured he was just busy, so you're caught off-guard when he comes up to you looking down, apologetic expression on his face.

Hey, I just wanted to apologize again for the other day... I don't know what I did, but I'm really sorry if I upset you...

You find yourself in a confused stupor for a few moments, unsure of what is even being addressed. After a moment, your following questioning prompts the boy to elaborate on how you exploded out of nowhere... I figured you must have been really mad at me for something... followed by a brief recollection of some choice unkind things you apparently came up to him to say out of the blue, and another apology. You stammer something about how it was fine, you don't even remember any of that, you're not mad at all... you must have been mentally preoccupied and just blurted out something without thinking, or so is the best explanation you can conjure.

You don't think too much of it, though, until virtually the exact same thing happens again. Another person coming up to you, asking if they did something wrong followed by a claim that you released some sudden angry outburst seemingly at random and didn't provide explanation. You try to reassure them of the same thing as you told the first, making note to yourself to be more consciously aware of yourself. The only thing you can really think of that makes any sense would be your initial conclusion... or, perhaps, it does strike you for a brief moment that they're just messing with you, but the sincerity and slight hurt in their faces and voices makes you second-guess that idea. You must have actually said those things and had such outbursts, even if you don't recall, seeing as multiple people are making the same claims.

It doesn't take long for the matter to get worse. Soon, you find that when you come up to the same friends, smiling as you approach to initiate conversation, they merely narrow their eyes, huff and glare, turn the other way, sometimes walk off. You must have done something to upset them, or perhaps they're still upset about the outburst you apparently had...? You try to ask, but you get nothing but glares, harsh words telling you to just leave me alone or similar dismissals. To make matters worse, you're questioned by others as well -- what did they do to deserve that?, but everyone seems to think you should know what you did, and never elaborate.

You're bewildered. It feels like being an outside observer to some sort of mass delusion. You have absolutely no recall of doing anything that would upset anyone.

You even considered the notion of it being some sort of large-scale prank wherein you'd later be told they were all just kidding and trying to confuse you, but as time passes it becomes clear it was serious. That being said, you know you didn't do anything, your mind can only think of a few other possibilities. Why would people lie to you?

It's as confusing as it is hurtful. You didn't actually do anything to anyone to deserve this... the fact that multiple people would be needlessly cruel for no reason feels unfair and painful, although you suppose it's not at all unheard of, school environments are known to generate some of the worst people. You hope it will pass.

At least you still have some solace. Yes, really, the timing was at least as good as it could have been, seeing as now, you have someone you know will believe you and think the best of you no matter what, and will give you the comfort and reassurance you need. After some prompting about how downtrodden and melancholy you seem, you do finally open up about it.

Jamil doesn't seem particularly concerned about the matter, though. He shrugs it off, dismisses your concerns, although you do sense that he's trying to make you feel better. He dismisses the idea of it being some sort of conspired ordeal, says that's just being paranoid, but the alternative he suggests does seem helpful -- that you did indeed do what you were told you did, but with reason.

Perhaps you're under excessive stress. That would put anyone in a poor mood, and you may be too preoccupied to really recall the occurrence... or, it's likely that those individuals draw negative emotions out of you. You shouldn't spend time around people that make you feel poorly.

And then, after a pause, he adds,

Besides, you've never been anything less than kind towards me. That would suggest others are the issue, not yourself.

You appreciate the input, but the situation still certainly bothers you. It's not only your friends, either, that start to behave unfairly and even cruelly towards you. You would not have thought yourself to be someone who would be targeted for any malice, as you've tried to be nice and considerate and have never done anything you can recall that would have made you an enemy to random people.

You're completely caught off-guard, then, when some people seem to begin treating you as such at complete random. People you don't know very well, or have even never interacted with. You were sitting in a classroom when someone walked in, grabbed your things and ran off with them before you could take it back out of their grasp. And then, within days of that incident, someone comes out from the shadow of the side hall as you're walking, shoves you so hard you fall face-first to the ground, and runs off before you can identify them. Then, you leave your bag sitting down for a few minutes during a break, only to find someone, be it out of malice or carelessness, must have hit your bag with some heavy object, seeing as the laptop the school provided you with is smashed, forcing you to get a new one after profusely apologizing. It gets worse and worse, people coming up to you just for some cruel act or another, and now you don't even have friends to defend you... they only seem to bother you when Jamil isn't around either. You imagine that's because they know better than to provoke him, maybe.

You stay quiet about it for a while. Wouldn't want to burden him with such a thing, and you hope that it will pass... even at prompting, you merely mumble that you're fine, that you're just tired, that nothing is wrong. To say you're being bullied or anything of the sort would feel childish. It's just people being jerks, surely they'll move on and mess with someone else. Telling him would just upset him for your sake, and then you'd feel like you were overreacting, blowing it out of proportion. It's just rudeness that everyone will deal with from someone at some point. You're not even sure who a lot of them are, though... it's almost always, for whatever reason, students you're pretty sure you've never even interacted with, as if intentionally doing so in order to ensure you won't know their names or faces and can't confront them or report them.

Although it gets harder to handle, the longer it goes on. Getting tripped, shoved around, stolen from, even a few times getting things thrown at you... you find yourself becoming quieter, increasingly tired and depressed. It wears you down, emotionally and psychologically. You're always paranoid someone will come up to you and do something. You start to shut yourself in. You take longer to reply to the friends you have left. You start leaving earlier, when you usually hang out with them... even then, several of your friends no longer seem to want to hang around you anyway. It hurts.

And eventually, it becomes too much for you to keep trying.

It's almost startling when Jamil comes back to his own dorm room one day, for you to already be there. He's usually the first one back, while you spend an indefinite amount of time with friends and never come back at a consistent time, so he's caught off-guard to find you already back in the room. Curled up in bed, chest rising and falling with slow, heavy breaths. Your eyes seem a bit puffy, swollen, the flesh around your eyes reddened.

Poor thing. Yes, he did account for the fact that you'd inevitably get your feelings hurt from the acts, and when you started finding yourself all alone, but he does still feel bad, seeing you so upset. In fact, the realization that someone else caused this -- because it was, after all, someone else who actually committed the cruel acts, who did mean things to you, and thereby they are the ones responsible -- he has to swallow the subsequent feeling of sudden rage down. It's a necessary consequence.

The guilt doesn't last for too long. He climbs into bed over you, lays by your side, wraps an arm around you... he's not sure if it's a subconscious action in your sleep, or if you stir for just a moment, but regardless, you suddenly grunt as you turn over to face him instead, instinctively snuggling up close to the warmth, nuzzling your face against his chest. Your hands latch onto his undershirt, fingers curling to secure their place before you return to the soft little breaths, lulled back to deep sleep by the steady heartbeat against your face.

When you wake up, he's sure you'll be at a breaking point, you'll finally break down and talk about how mean and cruel people have been to you lately... and then he can assure you that it'll all be fine, leave for a while and come back, tell you they won't be bothering you anymore because he took care of it, but you should probably not go off on your own again anyway... yes, that will work. That should go over very smoothly, given all the steps that have been taken to ensure it.

And then... that will be everything. All the little obstacles, all either out of the way entirely, or well within the realm of being manageable.

Yes, with that, that momentary, miniscule guilt dissipates, replaced by a swelling, euphoric feeling of satisfaction and smug pride. Everything worked out exactly as it should. He runs his hand over the back of your head in slow, soft motions.

If it all really is some sort of social game, then this must be what it feels like to have won. He couldn't be happier with that outcome.

#having a loving and mutually respectful healthy relationship: ❌ #pulling some 4D chess bs to destroy your gf's psyche and self esteem to force her into dependency: ✅ #yandere twst #this made me realize i need to learn how to write consensual stuff which is simultaneously hilarious and awful that i like never have

[sailorgreywolf-german]

Just a quick oneshot because I have Napoleonic brainrot. RusPru under the cut (but nothing too intense)

Prussia flopped down on one of France’s gaudy couches. He’d had a long day dealing with ministers and kings. He had ducked out of the invitation to one more meeting with Austria.

The man didn’t seem to sleep; he existed perpetually in court with Prince Metternich. They had marched on Paris and all Austria could think about was organizing the peace treaty in Vienna, as if he’d been leading everything from the beginning. It was maddening and exhausting.

Prussia picked up his feet and planted his muddy boots firmly on the marble top of the fussy side table. He let out a long sigh and stretched his neck.

He had fought Napoleon to be a conqueror and to avenge his loss at Jena, and he hadn’t given himself the time to realize what spending so long on horseback had done to him. His muscles hurt, even though he didn’t regret a single moment.

He made a mental note that the next day he would have to force France to show him where the wine cellar was. He glanced up as he heard the sound of Russia’s footfalls.

The tall man settled himself next to Prussia on the couch. It was tight, but they had spent so much time together in battle that Prussia hardly minded. Russia said, with a little smirk, “We have won the war and you are here alone?” Prussia smirked and replied, “I’m hiding from Prince von Metternich before he pulls me into some hideous negotiation or worse, a party.”

Russia chuckled and replied, “Would you believe that I am doing the same?”

Prussia turned his head to look at him and winced at the pain in his shoulders. Russia noticed, and said immediately, “Are you in pain?” Prussia tried to gently stretch his neck as he said, “Not badly.”

A few years earlier, he would have dismissed the idea of admitting any pain to anyone. But he had learned through the wars that he could trust Russia. Russia spoke softly, almost sweetly, “Let me help you with that. Turn your back to me.”

Without a second thought, Prussia obeyed him. He had found himself remarkably comfortable taking Russia’s direction ever since they had launched the last coalition war to oust Napoleon. He had no idea what Russia intended to do, but he trusted him.

He was surprised when he felt Russia’s hand’s touch his shoulders, his thumbs pressing against his jacket. It took his mind a moment to comprehend that Russia was trying to help by massaging his shoulder muscles.

Prussia quickly realized that the high stiff collar of his uniform and the golden epaulets were getting in his way. He decided to make the job easier for him. He said, as he started to undo his buttons, “Shall I get this out of your way?”

Russia chuckled and said, “My war hero with his big epaulets. How difficult it must be to carry that burden.”

Prussia would have taken it as mockery from anyone else, but he knew Russia meant it as a disguised complement. He succeeded in unbuttoning his uniform and sliding it off. He tossed it gently over the other end of the couch.

Russia’s hands wasted no time in making use of the space. Prussia could feel the touch of the big hands through his thin undershirt. He let out a little breath through his nose as Russia’s thumb found the knot that was giving him such trouble.

It felt good to have it massaged. It felt equally good to be touched by the man who had recently become both friend and trusted ally.

He leaned back to give Russia greater access to the spot that so needed attention. He heard Russia make an amused sound before saying, “Does that feel good?” Prussia answered, as Russia’s thumb found the perfect spot and started diligently working it, “That’s incredible.”

His voice came out like an uncharacteristic purr. He hadn’t realized quite how much he enjoyed the touch, so firm and yet gentle. Removing the jacket felt like it had somehow made him feel hotter.

He was sure that the skin of his shoulders and neck must be turning pink under the other’s hands. The feeling of heat rising under each touch was enough to tell him so, and nature had not blessed him with the ability to hide any emotion.

Russia’s breath made the hair on the back of his neck stand up as the other man leaned forward and said, “Come closer. It will feel even better.”

Prussia didn’t even think he argue; he moved back so that he was practically in Russia’s lap.

“You’re a good little soldier.”

The way the words rolled off of Russia’s tongue sent a pleasant jolt down his spine. Prussia tried to sound nonchalant as he replied, “That is what they say.”

The tone of his voice betrayed the way his heart was starting to race. If he was not in such a good mood from the victory, he might have felt ashamed for reacting so vigorously. One of Russia’s hands trailed around Prussia’s neck, lightly tracing his jaw.

Prussia’s mind felt muddled, but he was still aware enough to know that the gesture served no practical purpose. He asked, “What are you doing?”

A single finger trailed across his cheek, soft and affectionate. Russia answered him, “I’m making you feel better like I said I would.”

Prussia couldn’t disagree with that. The hand vanished from his face, but before he could complain, he felt the hand slide onto his thigh. He let out a low groan before he could stop himself.

Prussia felt like he still didn’t quite know how to react to their new closeness, but he didn’t want to stop it. Russia managed to push on the knot in Prussia’s neck at the same time that he slid his hand up his thigh.

Prussia let out another undignified groan.

Russia asked, “Do you?” Prussia could not remember what he was asking about, the hand teasing his thigh had made it hard to think of anything else. He said, trying to hold onto a thought, “Do I what?” Russia repeated himself, sounding thoroughly amused, “Do you feel better?”

Prussia couldn’t really answer the question, the pain in his neck had faded to the background. He nodded in response. He felt Russia’s lips graze his ear as he said, “I can think of something else that would relax you. Francis’ bed is free right now.”

Prussia turned his head to look at Russia, to make sure that he was understanding him correctly. The slope of Russia’s eyebrows and the smirk on his lips assured him that he was.

Prussia smirked back, “What a wicked notion.” Russia’s eyes were practically sparkling as he responded, “Is it wicked or is it vengeance? That’s what you’ve been asking for: every possible humiliation.”

Prussia opened his mouth to accept when he heard the door open.

The familiar click of a certain pair of shoes on parquet. “There you two are.”

Austria seemed to have spoken before he fully registered what he was seeing. He stopped and stood stock-still for a long moment before his dark eyebrows shot up in a judgmental look that Prussia knew too well. He said, venom dripping from his words, “Am I interrupting?”

Prussia wanted to say yes and to tell him to leave, but he knew that for the sake of the Coalition, it was better if he was civil. Cursing silently to himself, Prussia disentangled himself from Russia and said, “No. What exactly do you want?”

Austria shot a look of barely concealed disdain at Russia before answering, “I think you and I need to have a discussion.” He paused before adding "And put your clothing back on."

#hws ruspru #i feel soooo rusty #like I'm not convinced this is good #but it is a thing and I wrote it

[arcielee]

Dancing in the Dark

Tom Bennett x OFC Summary: War is spilling over Europe and a route is being created to help POWs escape occupied France. Sometimes love does not last forever, but lasts long enough. Warnings: Smut/NSFW later on, some misogyny cause it’s the 1940s Author’s Note: The elongated back-and-forth German is in italics because I do not to wish to disappoint my oma more than I already do. ♥ Enjoy!

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 - ende

Chapter 2

The follow shifts extended into the night and the workload now required to keep the hospital functioning seemed ceaseless. The worst was the fear and agitation every patient held in their demeanor and their eyes, the palpable fear that the Gestapo would arrive at any moment and take them away, not to be seen or heard from again. 

The nursing staff did their best for comfort and even Vera used the last of her lipstick to pinken her lips when she offered a sweet smile, but it did not fool anyone. The only one who did not seem deterred and could offer her the slightest reprieve in her rounds was when she stopped at Bennett’s bed. 

She found him aggravating, with his nicknames for her and his snide comments. He seemed to enjoy prodding to get a rise from her and her temper outlet was a sharp look and sharper tongue, but even with their back-and-forth could not help her forget the new reality of the German administration settling into France. Vera knew her time in Paris was nearing its end; she had a fear overhead of the fabricated identity that Nancy provided her to slip away from Berlin two years prior that was now a detriment to her freedom. 

She confessed her concern with the doctor and Henriette; the nurse, in turn, also confessed that she was Jewish and her burden of fear that she now carried with her every shift.

The doctor listened to them with a somber expression on his face, learning two of his nurses stayed afloat in Paris with forged papers. “I promise I will think of something,” was all he said to them, his smile not as bright as before. “Just try and act as if everything is fine.” 

Henriette nodded, but her dark eyes were fearful, and Vera chewed her bottom lip, her eyes glancing over the doctor and landed on his desk. She spotted a télégramme with the words type, “Major Sieber arrivera le 28 Juin.” 

The Germans would be in by the end of the week. 

She continued her shifts, as Dr. O’Connor asked, acting as though everything was fine. She grabbed her tin basin, stopping at a mirror glass to look over her features; her dark curls were braided back and already spilling to frame her face, and she paused to use her free hand to pinch her cheeks for a flushed look. She had no lip blush left, but still kept her feign smile posted with every bed visit until she came to Bennett’s bed. 

He was on the mend, with the bruising on his shoulder fading away to muted purples and greens. The gash on the left side of his face had scabbed over and now showed the soft pink of scarring that, she begrudgingly admitted to herself, added to his almost roguish handsomeness. 

He laid back in the bed, his arms tucked behind his head, waiting. “Guten Tag, Fräulein.” He said, his perpetual smirk playing on his lips. 

Her green eyes narrowed on him in return. “Stop that, Bennett,” she hissed. “I do not wish to frighten my patients any more than they already are.” 

“I cannot imagine anyone being fearful of you, Mein lieber kraut,” his lips curled with his words. My little kraut. 

She scoffed at the nickname. “Stop that.”

“Is the feeling not returned? Here I lay, pining all day for our moments together-” “Sit up, Bennett,” Vera said as she sat on the bed edge, the bin on her lap. 

He pushed himself upright, his eyes focused to watch her hands flit over the supplies, trying to ignore how close he was. She found him both aggravating and charming, finding herself to feel a slight excitement when she came to his bed. Here, she was able to take a moment and chat with him. He shared about his life in Manchester with his sister and dad, before he had enlisted, and he would pry for details about Vera, determined to understand her and what passions she held outside the hospital.  

“I enjoy reading,” she shared one day. 

“Reading what?”

Her brow quirked to his question. “Anything.”

“Everything?” He pressed, his own brow raised in response.

“I like…” she hesitated. “I prefer fiction at this time. It is something that allows me to escape.” 

He pursed his lips, his head bobbed in agreement. “I can understand that,” his expression was playful once again. “Will you read to me?”

“Can you not read?” His laugh was short, then he realized she was serious. “Christ, I’m not some ill-educated Manc who enlisted out of desperation–” 

“You did enlist out of desperation,” she replied with a smirk. “And I apologize for assuming you were illiterate. I just thought…”

“You thought wrong,” he cut in. “Maybe I just enjoy hearing your voice.” 

She did not respond. With every passing day, his recovery now brought on an imperious audacity that she was unsure how to handle, finding him to be aggravatingly cocksure and flirtatious. Her tight-knit composure would crack, her frustration spill for a moment, and she would see his lips curl into his puerile grin and he would ask, “But you still like me, right?” 

Vera would refuse to reply, but he noted the flush to her cheeks and would decide to drop it. 

Today, he sat obedient as she checked him over, her fingertips touched his jawline as she turned his head. “Your face is healing, but it will be scarred–”  

“Adds a bit of mystery to my rugged good looks,” his eyes peered at her, searching for a response. 

She did not stop her smile in time and his expression was victorious. “Bennett–” her tone warned, but she saw his eyes look past her. 

Her hands dropped to her side and she turned to see German soldiers making their way down the hallway and one stopping to watch their interaction. She looked back at him, his jaw clenched and nostrils flared, with a passion that brimmed in his beautiful eyes and threatened to spill onto his lips. “Bitte, Bennett,” her voice was low with her exhale and his eyes flitted to her for a moment, watching as she pushed from the bed to retrieve her items and tucking his clipboard under her arm. “What are you doing with that prisoner?” The soldier asked with a scathing Berlinerisch dialect, squaring towards her and causing another soldier to stop to watch them both. 

She swallowed thickly, debating to feign ignorance to the German he spoke before deciding to return his burning gaze. “I am tending to our prisoners of war, soldier.”

“Really,” he scoffed. “It seems more to me as if you were sweet on him. You remember he is the enemy? Every bed in this hospital holds an enemy to our cause.”

“I am very aware,” she replied, her eyes narrowed onto him. “Which is why I take pride in my work, to ensure our great leader will have healthy prisoners of war to serve him in the camps. But you have decided to hold up my rounds.”

The soldier ran his tongue over his front teeth, sucking as he processed her reply. Without warning, he raised his arm and struck her across the jaw with the back of his hand. 

Her head jerked to the side, losing her hold on the supplies and the tin echoed as it crashed to the floor. From the corner of her eyes, she saw Bennett pressed to stand but saw her focused on him, her look warning him to remain where he was. 

The white stars dissipated in front of her eyes and Vera rightened her posture, returning to face the soldier straight on, daring to step towards him. “Does our great leader condone striking members of the Party?” Her tone was cold. “You come to your assignment with the assumption that I am working against his plans, when in fact,” her eyes went back and forth between the two soldiers, “I have been sent here by Major Sieber, to help prepare for our conquest of France.”

They jerked to attention with the name drop and the second soldier now spoke. “Forgive him, my lady. He is new and ignorant to our final solution. We will not bother you again.” His hand planted onto the offending officer and he pulled him to follow the rest of the passing soldiers.

Vera turned away from them, gripping the clipboard and taking deep, shaky breaths. “Did they hurt you?” She looked up to see Bennett, his brow scrunched with concern, giving a softness to his features she had not seen before. 

“I am fine,” she replied, dropping to her knees to gather the gauze and her tools, returning them with soft plinks into the basin. 

“Christ, I’m not blind! I saw how hard he–”

Her head shot up, her eyes bore into him and stopped him from talking. “I said I am fine.” Her voice was harsher than she wished it would sound, but she did not dare to risk catching the attention of someone else in uniform, especially since she boldly proclaimed a Major’s name from a telegram she saw, claiming he assigned her, personally, to this hospital. 

Stupid, you literally risk yourself, the hospital, Henriette, the doctor… Her thoughts were rushed and she ignored the scowl on his face, turning to walk towards the back office and cursing herself with every step. Vera pushed open the door and found Henriette and Dr. O’Connor seated at his desk, sharing a sandwich. 

“Vera?” The doctor pushed to stand up the second he saw her face. “What happened?” 

“I… fucked up.” The adrenaline left her and it was only when she spoke did she notice how tender her upper lip felt. She moved to where her purse hung and pulled out a compact mirror to check the damage done; there was split to her lip line and a smear of blood, with the beginning of a bruise to her jaw. “The Germans are here and they questioned me while I was with Bennett.”

“Oh, Vera,” Henriette was quick to retrieve a cotton swab and some alcohol. 

She allowed her friend to dab at the small cut, wincing from the burn. “I was stupid. I remembered the telegram on your desk and I said that Major Sieber had personally assigned me to work here…” she saw his grimace and for a moment, felt tears threaten her eyes. “I panicked, Webster. I did not know what else to say!”

He sat back down at his desk, searching for a piece of paper and handing her a telegram. Her eyes read over the words and she passed it to Henriette. “This is not the same one I saw before…” 

“Do you ladies remember Lyam?” He asked instead.

The girls nodded, for they remembered him fondly. Lyam was an old French man with a full head of silver hair and ice blue eyes that twinkled when he spoke. He had been admitted one night with a broken toe months ago and made little complaint when Dr. O’Connor set it; his gay tone was infectious and he teased Henriette and Vera to leave the hospital when he was discharged. “I have a son for each of you lovely ladies,” he had told them. 

“What about Lyam?” Henriette asked.

“Well,” his tone lowered and they moved closer to the desk. “Lyam and his sons are no Nazi sympathizers and have been working on an escape route to smuggle the soldiers from the hospital. They are setting up a route through the Pyrenees and into Spain, his sons currently reside in Pamplona, and then finally to Gibraltar where they can go to Britain.” 

“Webster,” Henriette paled and she bit the corner of her lip for a moment, careful with her words. “This is dangerous to speak. Can we be certain to trust these men…?” 

Vera remembered the warmth of Lyam’s eyes, the passion that brimmed when they spoke over his distaste for the German dictatorship and his empathy towards her. You were brave to escape, he had said to her. “I believe we can,” she said, looking at them both. “What must we do to help?” 

The doctor exhaled. “Well, we need to check and see if this route can work. We would also need to open a bank account in Great Britain so we can wire funding back and forth, as well as finding someone willing to meet at the checkpoints.” 

“I can do this,” she nodded and when she saw how the doctor looked at her, she added, “This is something that must be done and I can do it, Webster.”

Over the months they had all worked together, the doctor and Henriette never pressed to ask what made Vera decide to leave her folks in Berlin. She voiced her vague distaste for the NSDAP ideals, but nothing more. However, whatever the determination she brought from Berlin now clearly showed itself in this office. 

Dr. O’Connor nodded his head, a small smile to his lips. “Very well, Vera,” he cleared his throat. “I have some business to attend to, but I will find a soldier willing to offer themselves as a guinea pig.” He saw her brow furrow and explained, “We need someone who will test this. We would need them to register as a prisoner of war, then we can forge a death certificate, assuming the Germans won’t be as adamant to search for a dead man-” “What if they wish to see a body?” His chuckle was dark, “That is something we have in abundance.” 

----

previous | Chapter 3

#tom bennett #tom bennett x ofc #we need more tom bennett fanfic #world on fire #fanfiction #ao3 #thanks for reading #♥ #dancing in the dark

[spookyspaghettisundae]

Till Death Do Us Part

Emptiness.

Staring at the corpse of her husband, still warm, Milla's heart filled with emptiness and cold, deeper than the chill of autumn air outside the foggy windows. She expected the cold of dread to drape itself over her being, yet the longer she explored the depths of her soul, the more she only uncovered a strange sense of relief.

Deathly, bony fingers had lifted a great burden from her shoulders, though they left in its place the weight of a different concern, casting a veil of deep shadows upon her thoughts.

Not guilt was it that wracked her, but concern over a new problem that needed solving.

Blood still dripped from the silver candelabra in her hand. The thundering thuds of his body striking the carpeted floorboards still echoed in the halls of her recent memory.

Though she knew exactly what lies she needed to tell to cover his disappearance, Milla needed to dispose of the body before anybody noticed.

The city was too lively, even by night.

Conventional means would not help her now.

Spirit? Demon? Whatever it was, it had been with her for a long, long time. Ever since the days of a childhood filled with laughter and color, Sir Pinkerton had been her constant companion.

He had been there for her all along. Long before the woes of growing up, before the envy over things she could not claim her own, or the heartbreak that preceded the wedding. Sir Pinkerton had been there. Offering soothing words of advice to the girl-turned-woman and cutting words of mockery to those who wronged her.

Sir Pinkerton was the name she had given the entity. Often mistaken for an invisible friend, such as other children were wont to invent, he had always kept Milla company. She had never invented, only invited him. When she once envied her friend Connie for her invisible friend Theodore—when an undeserved slap against her own cheek still stung like pins and needles long after the strike—it had been Sir Pinkerton who answered the little girl's crying, offering comfort. And fantasies of revenge.

He always whispered in her ears, inaudible to others, of things she could do to enrich her own life, at the cost of others. The ways she may inflict harm, often to the amusement and glee of Sir Pinkerton. And the mild-mannered disappointment whenever she acted against his whispers, which was often.

No matter how many times she let him down, he had remained her perpetual and faithful ally where all others failed her. Helping her in times of need and offering guidance whenever she felt lost.

"S-sir Pinkerton, what—what shall I do about him? Please, help me."

Steam still rose from the soup bowls on the dinner table. Yellow fluid seeped into the cloth.

He answered with laughter, soft and warm, like a gust of wind blowing through the flames of a campfire, crackling like wood or bones snapping in twain.

"I can make him disappear, darling. Just surrender control."

She stammered before finding the words to protest.

"Oh, Sir Pinkerton, but—but last time I did that, Mister Casey's lips had been stitched shut! It took me forever to wash the blood from my hands."

Another warm laugh.

"Such is the nature of blood, darling. Fortunately, he could not speak without a tongue, even had he wanted to. Never did he bother us again, did he not?"

The steam still rose from the soup. A spoon astray, tossed aside by Milla's belligerent husband, an insult to her cooking.

"Yes, but those awful stares of his, whenever—whenever…"

"Such fear in his eyes—always does he avoid your presence now. We showed him not to put his hands where they do not belong. And you sure showed our dear departed Benjamin Manning here that he would not be pushing you around like some idle possession of his."

In her slender hand, the candelabra weighed as lightly as a feather. She had always imagined such silver decor to weigh so much more.

"And now? You—you promise to solve this? If I… if I let you…"

"Have I ever let you down, darling?"

Pushing down any semblance of guilt, Milla swallowed. Her family and friends had all betrayed her at one point or another; betrayals as tiny as hurtful white lies, and as grand as stabbing daggers into her very heart. While Sir Pinkerton rarely lied, lies only meant to comfort her. She trusted him.

"Very well, then. Please, my beloved shadow. Make him disappear."

The steam rising from the soup choked—or time stood still.

"Your wish is my command."

And the world turned to darkness for Milla. One moment, she was still standing in the dining room, looming over the warm body of Benjamin Manning, her slain husband, crumpled on the floor like the sack of potatoes he had always truly been.

When she blinked her eyes next, she came to her senses in the cellar. The cold she had felt now sliced all the way down to her bones, clinging to her soul, numbing her digits, and rendering her every motion awkward. Cold blood stained her trembling hands and shaking arms and quivering chin. Her lips were sticky with the stuff. Her belly had distended grotesquely, filled to the brim.

"Darling, you awoke too soon. Are you feeling unwell? Please, you should close your eyes and forget what you see."

The dizziness set in immediately, following on the heels of the horrid realization.

Parts of Benjamin were still laid out on the cellar table, its wooden surface slick with same blood and gore she wore. Her late husband's body barely recognizable, hacked apart by cleavers and saws, strewn about, and partially eaten.

The marks on his remains resembled what it looked like whenever she had bitten a chunk out of bread at supper.

Her stomach contents sloshed around, rumbling, and quaking and threatening to rise back up the way they came.

"Shame. Now you must lie whenever asked where he last went. Sleep, darling, please. Just a little bit longer—and you shall never see this rotten sod ever again."

The world dove into a deep sea of darkness once more, robbing her of her consciousness; earning her gratitude, as it also took from her the nausea that had gripped her insides, twisting, and turning them upside down.

Cold. Cold was all she felt. No flash of remorse over the grisly ways Sir Pinkerton helped her, the way that Benjamin's body would disappear from this earth. The cracking and snapping of bones cut through the tides of oblivion. The crackle of wood in the fireplace eclipsed it.

Some part of her, dark, cherished the thought that she had devoured his flesh, his soul. That she had stolen his life force and power that way. No longer would Benjamin dangle any more power over her. Had she sampled the flesh and souls of others before, without knowing it? Had their power enriched her every time?

Or was it the whispers of Sir Pinkerton suggesting as much?

"Wake up, my dear."

She sat alone in the tidy dining room, from which the men from the constabulary exited. One of them urged her to lock her home, reminding her that this part of city of Crimsonport was not safe by night. The front door clicked shut as her senses pooled to the stark white cloth on the table before her, her mind centering on the here and the now. The tingling of warmth in her fingertips, pulsating against the cool air enclosed in this chamber. The dying of voices outside as the unsuspecting men's distance grew.

The candelabra on the table glowed with flickering candlelight. Its silvery body stood pristine and bereft of all blood, cleansed of any evidence.

With tenderness, whispers slipped from her lips.

"Thank you, Sir Pinkerton. You have been—and always will be—my best friend."

"Always, my dear. I will always be here for you. Till death do us part."

"Can only death take you away from me?"

"'Tis not death that will separate us, darling. 'Tis the oath you once swore to our beyond, idle in its wording, yet sincere in its power. 'Twas you, a grown woman, who sought to cheat your way out of the oath."

"But was it truly—was it truly cheating? I failed. And a promise I made as a child? Ironclad and unchanging? Even though I could not have possibly understood the consequences?"

"A promise is a promise. Do you still yearn for the accursed kiss of death?"

Her fingertips caressed her neck, where fangs never broke skin.

"When the time comes, even I do not know the void in which your soul will be dragged into. You are very special, my dear. Yet there is no escaping a pact."

"Not one? Not one ever succeeded?"

"The impossible?"

"What if I am different? What if…"

Sir Pinkerton offered no reply.

"Will you stay by my side if I accomplish the impossible?"

"Till death do us part, my dear. Till death."

The dim light from candles and fireplace cast long shadows, merrily dancing around Milla. Though she no longer spoke out loud that night, Sir Pinkerton heard her every thought. Her vow, sworn to herself in that moment. That death would not be an end, she promised.

Only a new beginning.

#spoospasu #spookyspaghettisundae #horror #short story #writing #my writing #literature #spooky #fiction #Crimsonport #tales #gothic #Victorian #gaslight romance #dark fantasy #spirit #demon #possession #control #surrender #murder #Milla #Manning #vampire #Sir Pinkerton #evil #cannibalism

[antimonasia]

Howling at the Moon

Sandor Clegane Smut by cuntoid

The only sound for a long time is the low creak of the leather in his armor, followed closely by the metallic thud of his boots, his sword. It’s in his nature to be silent like this. Mindful. Always on alert and ready to go at a moment’s notice, fueled by some simmering thing deep in his being like a blight. His brow, perpetually drawn by both nature and his disposition, is knotted with some clear hostility today. His fondness for tolerating you on small errands such as this one is usually exciting, the chance to see a little into his life, into what he really gets up to, and you’ve been led to believe he finds amusement in it, in your perpetual wonder at his ‘mundane’ existence. This time he hasn’t so much as nodded to you since meeting you in the market and whisking you off, some food under his arm and the request for a shortcut toward the Riverlands.

“Hey… you all right?”

The Hound grunts dismissively, sparing you the barest courtesy of even looking your way. His sourness leeches into the air, a miasma that permeates through your skin and eats into your own cheerful mood, and it irks you that he’s acting like such a insolent child. You stop in your tracks and watch him trudge forth several steps before he notices your absence. He turns, grim against the gorgeous, clouded sky, ominous, and you stare him down until he gestures impatiently at the beaten path.

Once you catch up to him, he scoffs. “Something twisting your knickers?”

A hundred crude responses fill your mind and spill over your tongue, bitten back only by the remaining shred of your will. This time, you give him the gift of his own medicine, treating him to a baited silence with your eyes trained forward.

He grabs your shoulder with one huge hand, stopping you with enough force to make you stumble over your own feet. He steadies you in the same gesture, towering easily a foot or more above you, the ball of your shoulder fitting easily into the curve of his palm. Now, he looks. Now, his eyes blaze at you like the fire he hates so much.

“Out with it, girl. The fuck you want from me?”

“I just wanted to help. You haven’t said a damn thing the entire way – ”

“Did it not occur to you that this was on purpose? Do I so owe you these things, my thoughts, my burdens?” He grabs your chin when your eyes shift away from his, jerking your focus back to him. “Oh, no, none of that. You want so badly into my business, do ya? Go on, little girl. Ask your fucking questions.”

“That’s not fair!”

“We ain’t talkin fairness, are we? Can’t tease a man and pull away the last minute – go on.”

“Sandor.”

His name leaves your lips low, poisonous. It gives him pause as he considers you again, jaw tightened perceptibly as the bright boil of hate slows back to a simmer. Still he rolls his eyes and curls his lip at you, in no mood to entertain your curiosity.

“Needn’t be concerning yourself with my affairs, I think. You want to be useful? Hm? Be useful by keeping quiet and showing me to fucking Riverrun. The only use your pretty little mouth has doesn’t involve much talking.”

“You should be so lucky,” you spit, hate filling your spine like iron. Hate, and something else, something even more sinister than that. A wayward tingle that fills you and reaches out in tendrils, in long, searching fingers that sneak under your ribs and quicken your pulse. “You’re vile.”

“Yeah?” His frown melts slowly into a smirk, slanted in cruel glee, and he cocks his good brow. “Am I vile? Look at you. Flushed pink over it. You want my cock in your mouth, girl? That it?”

Whether he’s bluffing or not, blood rushes up underneath your skin and warms your throat, your ears, the apples of your cheeks. You burn with both resentment and disgust, that he should be so shamelessly forward. The most infuriating part is the truth, which pools molten in the cradle of your hips, begging to be stoked to the blaze you know he can handle.

“Bite your tongue, Hound.”

“Rather bite yours, little lamb.” He scents the air as he leans down, nose skimming the delicate edge of your ear, his hot breath on your throat, and he inhales until it comes back out in a growled hum. There’s barely room between you to start with, but he makes the effort to close the space, radiating heat and naked, stark hunger. “Think I can’t smell your cunt every time we’re alone? I can see it in your eyes, wide and dumb with lust – am I getting hotter?”

His derisive chuckle makes you shudder. His lips refuse to light on your skin and you refuse to admit to yourself that this is a necessity; loneliness is blind, after all, and you’re ready to jump directly into whatever seedy abyss seems to be parting before you, like a vision, like a fever-dream as he brings his thumb across your lips and brings his teeth to your throat. A desperate, high sound leaves you without your express bidding and this time you feel his laugh rather than hear it, buried in the nape of your neck where he seals it against you with an open-mouthed kiss, saliva hot on your skin.

He stoops low until he can grab at the hem of your skirts, inching them higher, higher, until they’re rucked up around your thighs and his fingers press into your panties, tracing the slit of your cunt through the fabric.

“Feels like I’m getting hotter. Fuck. Your poor little pussy burning up? This starved for cock, are you?”

Who has ever spoken to you like this? It’s like something from a fantasy before you drift to sleep, something unspeakably sinful that electrifies you in late hours in bed with your own hand tucked between your thighs. And now he’s here, insistent and big as ever, pawing at you like you barely have a choice in the matter. His rough hands; that’s all you can think of as his thumb pushes between your lips with one hand and he yanks your panties down with the other.

“Y’want me to ask nice, girlie?”

“No.”

“That’s what I thought… lie down.”

“In the dirt…?”

In an instant, he twists two thick fingers into your pussy. As slick and eager as you are, the sudden breach inside of you is unexpected and the stretch stings, it throbs around his knuckles as he curls them into a place that laces the pain with stars, with pleasure that comes in rapid little bursts that match the scattered moans you breathe into his ear.

“Fuck, oh fuck –”

“You want to be a filthy little whore for me, and filthy... little... whores... do two things: they do what I ask of them, and they cum on my cock. Doesn’t that sound easy?”

He pulls you down, the absence of his fingers aching worse than the pain of receiving them as you wait for him to free his cock. He kneels between your spread thighs and stares down at your cunt, exposed and parted for him like a flower, like a delicacy. Like it’s his for the taking. The sight of you alone makes him draw a deep breath, chest filling before trembling on the exhale. He may not resemble a hound in the least, but he makes for a wonderful predator, shoulders undulating as he crawls the rest of the way over your prone form and tips his hips forward.

The only generosity afforded you through his first thrust is the slowness with which he moves, driving into you inch by gentle inch until he’s somehow hilted within you. He puts a hand over your mouth and coos in your ear, dripping with ridicule.

“Oh, come on, darlin’ girl – been craving it. Mmh, fuck, hold still – you’re tight, very fucking tight. Is this what you like? Being fucked into the ground by bigger, older men, hm? Should have used you before – if only I’d known. If only I’d known how hungry you were for it, for a monster like me to fill you up.”

If there are comprehensible words leaving your mouth, trapped between your lips and the tight seal of his palm, you can’t make them out. You say his name, beg him, thank him, you whine like a bitch in heat. He takes on a pace that borderlines pain, your spine arching up underneath him as if your poor, overstimulated body can’t stand to have an inch of skin not pressing against him. You swivel and buck in your limited range of motion and ride against the pain of his size, swollen and thick and forcing into you with each vicious pound. The sound your bodies make in the quiet stretch of nothingness around you must echo pretty far; the thought of an innocent stranger in the distance hearing your wanton squealing is enough to make you clench your inner walls around his cock, squeezing him, earning yourself a rumbling growl that only serves to make you spasm all over again.

“Easy, little bird. You love this. I can feel you, slut – I can feel you cum. Go on, then, keep cumming for me. Show me what a good girl you can be. Bound to make a man very happy someday; you were made to be fucked like this, like my very own little toy.”

He tilts his hips and unleashes a vicious series of thrusts that makes you scream against his hand, thrashing under his massive body as he puts more of his weight on you, pinning you, fucking you open while you reach violent climax, the swell of his head rocking into a spot so sweet you could cry. He murmurs something in your ear and it could be anything – soothing little nothings, commands, death threats – none of it would make a difference in the midst of the explosively hot rush of ecstasy that races through every vein, that glows inside of you like divine light. How could this be wrong? He’s right – he’s right about all of it, about how you’re already fantasizing about the next time he’ll do this to you as he pauses, flips you on your belly, and lifts your ass into the air so he can fuck you from behind.

The new position gives the both of you a slow hiss of approval as you suck air between your clenched teeth. It’s so much tighter this way, new nerves sparking in the dying tingle of your aftershocks. The Hound shoves his fingers into your mouth, the same fingers he’d had tucked deep inside your pussy before all this. They still faintly taste of you and he rolls his hips, needing barely a few strokes before digging his fingers into the fleshy curve of your hip with urgency, with the tension of someone about to burst.

“That’s it, fuck, there it is – bounce back on my cock, girl, do it. Do it, yeah, like that – come on, make me cum, make me cum deep inside that tight little cunt,” he grunts, losing his rhythm as he swells even bigger. The telltale throb gives him away before his moaning does, the broken stutter of his hips as he holds you flush against his body and empties his balls inside of your twitching, sore cunt.

His fingers relax over your tongue and slide out with a pop. He uses much more care disconnecting your bodies, sliding out of you a moment later and steadying you so you can redress, pulling your panties back up with some guilty pleasure at the thought of his seed seeping out of you over the afternoon, the secret thrill of your damp underwear as you walk and go about your business. He sighs with clear satisfaction as you watch, furtively, pretending to busy yourself with your skirts while he arranges his own clothing.

Once put back together, you share a silent, unreadable stare with him until he clears his throat and nods in the direction of your destination, the barest hint of a smirk on his mouth. The marks of his teeth and the feeling of his lips on your flesh is still vibrantly alive.

“Get moving, girlie. We don’t have long.”

[nottskyler]

Dear President Oaks,

We are all one in the body of Christ and it is very clear that your responsibility in guiding the body of Christ is to listen to the pain signals given from other parts of the body of Christ. As a faithful LGBT member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, I want to say your words at the press release caused a lot of pain and the LGBT portion of the body of Christ pleads with you to stop and listen.

You say you don’t know why people are LGBT or other queer identities. You speak as if we are dysfunctional parts of the body, but we aren’t. Arms are different from elbows which are different from wrists and fingers, and even fingers differ one from another. Luckily in a Church that relies heavily on personal revelation, you don’t have to figure out our place on your own. You can listen to what the spirit has testified in our hearts and learn how it applies to the running of Christ’s Church. The first thing many of us did when we discovered we weren’t cis or hetero was fall to our knees and ask Gd why, and He responded. Here are the truths that I learned in turning to Gd:

1) Gd loves me and made me this way. There is nothing wrong with me. His purpose is to bring to pass my immortality and eternal life and making me bi and trans was an essential part of my journey to have a change of heart and get to know Gd (which is eternal life according to John 17:3).

2) There are philosophies of men that have snuck into the teachings of the Church when it comes to marriage and gender and Gd has sent more LGBT individuals in our time to helps us root out these lies so we can more fully enjoy the fruits of the Gospel.

3) Gd is not a respecter of persons. As long as someone has faith, Gd will reveal Himself to them and truths that are important to their life. This means there is something we can learn from everyone (Alma 32:23). 

4) The Church is not meant to be perfect. If all we had to do was blindly follow our leaders, we would never learn the traits required to be even as Gd is. Corrections and changes in the Church are necessary to learn repentance and how to get answers on our own.

5) Gender is eternal. Even though there was nothing in my gender expression that was outside what is acceptable for women in our society, there was a dissonance caused by the mismatch of my spirit and body. It testifies to me that I am without beginning or end just like Gd.

6) The reason Gd does anything is “to bring to pass the immortality and eternal life of man” (Moses 1:39). That means that He allows me and others to believe things that are not true as long as it leads us to Him. Also, mistakes that we make are important because it creates holes that need to be made perfect through Christ’s atonement. Without those mistakes, there would be no space for Him to come in and heal.

7) Gd wants me to live up to my potential and privilege as a member of His restored Church. President Uchtdorf’s parable about the man on the cruise eating cans of beans in his cabin has always struck an uncomfortable chord with me until I realized it was because I was like that man. Denying my eternal identity and living in the closet was keeping me from being who Gd wants and needs me to be. “Adam fell that men might be and men are that they might have joy” (2 Nephi 2:25). The apostles have always made it clear that the joy is for this life as well as in the next. I have to be true to my eternal identity in order to live up to my mortal potential and privilege.

8) Christ stands with the marginalized. Every minute I spend among LGBT individuals, listening to their stories and feeling their pain, Gd testifies to me that He is with them and that I am more like Christ for being among them as Christ would, helping share their burdens and sharing the hope and love that Gd has given me.

9) Spiritual laws are eternal and unchanging and ignorance will not save me from the natural effects of breaking them. I was in despair that kept growing more and more as time went on. I knew from Moroni 10:22 that meant I was doing something wrong. I did everything to be the perfect Mormon girl and repented of every small act and the despair was never lifted. It wasn’t until I accepted my eternal identity and began living my life as a man that it has begun to go away. I have a long way ahead on my transition, but I trust that the seed will continue to grow as it has so far and continue to dispel the cloud of doom. It taught me that even though I was unaware that I was living contrary to my eternal gender, I was not immune to the temporal consequences of my actions.

I know “to every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:” (Ecclesiastes 3:1), but Gd’s LGB children have been wandering in the spiritual desert for over 40 years since informing you of their pain and inability to come to the same truth as you. In the Temple we learn that anyone who is listening can hear Gd’s words as the command is passed down the line. We heard Gd tell you that the time of excluding His LGB children is up. He told you to treat homosexual relationships the same as you treat heterosexual relationships and we hurt when we heard you added your own exclusions. Gd isn’t telling you to start performing gay marriages in the Temple, He is telling you to stop asking LGB members to live a different law of chastity than the one given in the temple, “which is that the sons and daughters of Adam and Eve only have sexual relations with those to whom they are legally and lawfully married according to Gd’s law”.

Discussion about being trans has not been as prevalent or pervasive as the LGB discussion in the Church because, up until your ill-informed announcement, the Church was more friendly towards trans individuals than LGB individuals. The Church allows members to socially transition and take hormones to help them manage the dissonance from their spirit-body mismatch. In fact, I’ve heard many positive stories where Church leaders allowed trans individuals to attend meetings that best matched their gender identity and how it unified and strengthened the ward. Trans individuals have pointed to the line in the Family: A Proclamation since it was released where it declares that gender is eternal to express their feelings as a trans individual. They testify more vehemently than anyone else that gender is important and that it is eternal. And now you point to the line and declare that those who most strongly support it are wrong and that the flesh is more indicative of a spiritual truth than knowledge that is spiritually obtained? (1 Corinthians 2:14)

I am grateful that Gd led me on this journey before you decided to speak your personal beliefs as if they were from Gd because I am one who does their best to listen and obey the counsel of Gd’s apostles and prophets. It would have made me question the office and authority that Gd gave you, likely leading me to leave the Church like so many others, instead of treating this as a mystery of Gd that hasn’t been revealed that I could discover for myself because He can’t wait to share His truths to those who earnestly seek them. I found the truth and I know it is true as easily as I can tell the day time from the night (Moroni 7:15-17). Living as trans has brought me closer to Christ. It has given me the strength to not deny Him to my fellow man. It has filled me with His love and given me the capacity to share it with others and invite them to Christ.

I invite you to listen to the pain messages from the trans portion of Christ’s body, especially because your careless words are going to make the suffering a lot worse for us. If you wish to stop the worst of the pain, I recommend requiring Church leaders to use living names and pronouns for trans people at Church and in Church associated gatherings, encouraging trans individuals to attend gendered meetings and activities that match their gender identity most closely, when they legally change their name and pronouns their records need to indicate the change (FTM, MTF, MTN, and FTN are acceptable), and there should be no punishment for seeking surgery as treatment for gender dysphoria. These policies would ease the pain of trans members of Christ’s restored Church and increase their capacity to help build up the Kingdom of Gd on earth.

Gd has a place in His plan for His LGBT children. We ask that you take a step of faith and love and let us participate without restrictions that you wouldn’t place on a cis and straight member of the Church. We want to marry and not be punished for it, we want to be recognized by our living name and pronouns as any individual wishes to be, we want to seek treatment to mental illness without judgment and punishment, we want to be treated as equal members without restrictions because being LGBT is not a choice. The choice we have is whether we will be who Gd created us to be or suffer the depression and despair that comes from breaking eternal laws. We can wait for revelation for understanding our place in the eternities and priesthood and temple ordinances, but don’t ask us to suffer not being treated as equals, not being treated with common decency, facing judgment instead of love from family members and ward members who justify their behavior by saying they are simply doing what the prophets tell them. Please stop feeding the hate and encouraging them to persecute us. Please love us the way the Savior would.

Sincerely,

Skyler

#i couldn't sleep last night because all of this was on my mind #i'm hurting for myself and others because this is the first open rejection of trans people #why is he teaching a gospel of hate? #if only i were brave enough to actually send it to him #is it even kosher to send letters to apostles you don't know personally? #dear mormons #trans #church of jesus christ of latter-day saints #time for my turn to help shoulder the burden i helped perpetuate before #my deep apologies #but Gd is with us and loves us and will not abandon us

[infinitewarden]

Osiris & OCD

I’ve had this post on my mind for a while but I never got around to sitting down and writing it. So here we are.

Osiris has OCD.

Yes, you read that right. Osiris has OCD and I’ll be going into depth here why he can be read that way.

To start off I would like to clarify what, exactly, OCD is since there are many misconceptions about it perpetuated by pop culture. OCD is different for everyone who has it, at least the way the symptoms present themselves. It’s not entirely about “ew yuck I hate germs.”

OCD is a long-lasting disorder in which a person has uncontrollable, reoccurring thoughts (obsessions) and/or behaviors (compulsions) that they feel the urge to repeat over and over.

Obsessions are repeated thoughts, urges, or mental images that cause anxiety. Compulsions are repetitive behaviors  that a person with OCD feels the urge to do in response to an obsessive thought.

Not all rituals or habits are compulsions. Everyone double checks things sometimes. But a person with OCD generally:        

Can't control their thoughts or behaviors, even when those thoughts or behaviors are recognized as excessive

Spends at least 1 hour a day on these thoughts or behaviors

Doesn’t get pleasure when performing the behaviors or rituals, but may feel brief relief from the anxiety the thoughts cause

Experiences significant problems in their daily life due to these thoughts or behaviors.

Source.

Now, with this clarified I can go into detail about how these symptoms present themselves with Osiris. Let’s start with bringing up a couple of instances that stood out to me (as local OCD haver.)

Bodies in the rubble.

Evacuees from the Eastern breach caught in the blast.

Their deaths filled his mind through twenty gilded eyes, capturing the scene in its totality.

Osiris would scour the Northern front in golden Light.

He looked to the shattered wall. Through the gap, mind inutile, overshadowed by the eternal precipice. Crowded with menace. Eyes peering down, seeping over, hungry, waiting to flood this last hope with plunging depth. Even now, as Fallen lines break against the Light, others stand watching from deep starless hollows. If not this, another. The dam will fail, as all do in time.

The Pigeon and the Phoenix. 9: Thin

Osiris is absent; preoccupied with insatiable predilections that drive him to worry. 

The Pigeon and the Phoenix. 11: Breathe

His mind is still taxed from his last visit. He remembers—camouflaged against the rushing atmospheric bands of Jupiter—how he drifted alongside its evergreen moon. He remembers the deep wedge that sunk between the two bodies, dividing them.

The Pyramid before him, lascivious tendrils of wildfire hue flowed from it like a grasping hand across the Cradle. The image as clear as relived trauma. Io had been dwarfed against the black angular pit seated in its atmosphere. His eyes could not leave it then; even now, he feels himself falling into its gravity as they approach again.

“Have you sent it  to Saint yet?” Sagira flitters into view. She brings him back to the present, soaring across space. 

Immolant Pt. 1

Osiris tenses his jaw in forced silence. He twiddles with code. “I’m worried about what Vance found.”

Saint places a heavy hand on Osiris’s chest. “Let go of your obsession. Do not leave chasing phantoms again.”

“Phantoms… You think the Darkness is satisfied? This is just the first move. I need to know the next before it’s made.”

“If there is something you fear, let me help you. We face this together.”

Osiris’s mind drifts to the Dark anomalies. Saint doesn’t need another burden.

“The safest place for you is the Tower, Saint. Time... tends to renege on its gifts.” 

Immolant Pt. 1

So.

Obsessions: Upsetting focus about the dark future he tries to avoid, of the Vex, of the Darkness, and of death.

There is another instance in the Tomb Rider lore where he starts down an “OCD Spiral” of obsessions, starting off with his worry over Mercury. In which Saint promptly shuts him down by grounding (lifting him by the shoulders), and diverting attention (feeding him candy.)

Let’s look at his compulsions.

“He’s dead because of me. I’ve made every precaution. I’ve had my Echoes check against trillions of disaster scenarios.” He turned to look at the fluctuating glow of the exposed chronometric core. “Mercury is the only planet that will be affected. Because that’s where he died.” 

The Sundial.

Without thinking, Osiris pulled off his gloves. Freed of the metal gauntlets, his hands looked old. He wrung them together, his fingers worrying at the edges of his ragged nails. "If the Darkness is able to claim Mars… if they take Mercury—"

"Quiet your mouth," commanded Saint-14, and Osiris did.

Saint-14 stood and then moved toward Osiris in two enormous strides. He grasped the Warlock by his shoulders and lifted him to his feet. He took Osiris's hand in his own and wordlessly filled it with triangular orange candies.

Osiris obediently placed a few in his mouth and chewed silently.

Tomb Rider.

I see infinity.

An infinity of possible worlds, so perfectly simulated as to be indistinguishable from the experiences I once called "reality." I can touch them, taste them, pass lifetimes in them! They grow within this machine like fruit upon a tree—no, a forest of trees, its fractal expansion nigh unmeasurable.

I said that to Sagira and she replied, "Sounds like a challenge."

This Ghost of mine knows me too well.

It strikes me now that I could find in this Infinite Forest a reality in which Ikora accompanied me into its endless mysteries.

What an awful, destructive machine this is.

I must know everything about it.

Kairos Function (Chest)

Osiris nods, realizing he had no right to demand action. “I apologize. Thank you.” He motions toward the windows’ reinforced glass. “The Traveler’s reforging was  a sight to behold.” His words have a faint reverence to them.

Zavala turns away from the Traveler’s pale light, his face dimmed. “Indeed. I wish it was more than just that.”

“These events were beyond us all, Zavala. I should have seen it… I just want to correct my error.”

“I’ll help you where I can, Osiris. Remain in contact, and if it is dire, I will point every gun at whatever fiend you uncover.”

Immolant Pt. 1

Compulsions: Checking and double checking again and again, picking at his nails (picking is another common OCD Thing), learning everything he can about an Upsetting Thing, chasing “loose ends” to correct stuff he considers his fault.

Interestingly enough it seems that both Saint and Sagira are aware of his tendencies and respond to them by either physically grounding him or distracting him. ( “Saint places a heavy hand on Osiris’s chest.”  -  “Sagira flitters into view. She brings him back to the present, soaring across space.”  -   “He grasped the Warlock by his shoulders and lifted him to his feet. He took Osiris’s hand in his own and wordlessly filled it with triangular orange candies.” -  “Sagira darted down as if to dive bomb her chosen, but stopped just short and met him eye to eyes.” )

Let’s also not forget that Ikora, the Speaker, and Saint have described Osiris to be obsessive, and though Osiris denies this it’s hard not to see that he is. Thus… “Obsession” part of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.

So there you have it. There’s quite a bit of lore that points towards or at least allows it to be read as him having OCD.

#osiris #theus.exe #lore.exe #i had more sources but i didn't want it to get too cluttered

[thepeakyfckingblinders]

Never Again || Thomas Shelby x reader

credits to @saralou23​ for the gif

⤠ MASTERLIST⤟

Anon requested/summary: “can I request a fic where the reader is found unconscious or faints in the shop or something and tommy freaks out? I just find protective tommy so ❤️💓💟!! Thank you, your writing is absolutely INCREDIBLE” (Thank you so much honeybun, you’re making me blush, pls, forgive me for being late ❤️)

Warnings: swearing, bossy Tommy, basically Tommy freaking out and being overprotective, me always loving him with all of my mangled soul

Author’s notes:

I hope you are okay darlings, I love you, please stay safe ♡

I’m so sorry for being this late, I have no excuses, forgive me. Also the end sucks, but I’m struggling with my writing lately, so, sorry again.

I love protective Thomas so much, he’s an ass, but he’s a softie, and I’m gonna lose my mind some day.

Behind each one of these works there are sleepless nights and something really close to multiple mental breakdowns, so, please, take a minute to send me a message about it, I need actual actual feedbacks to understand how to improve my skills and grow ♡

If you want to be added to my tag list, please, directly message me

I’m Italian, English isn’t my first language, so I apologize for every possible mistake I made. Also, please, help me improve my writing by telling me if there’s something wrong

ENJOY!

Birmingham’s gelid air hit your sensitive skin with no mercy as soon as your red mary-janes crossed the doorway of the Garrison, only to disgracefully sink into the greyish muddy loam in which the whole of Small Heath seemed to be covered.

Your fingers felt like rigid appendages burdening your already wearied arms, while you tried your best to wrap them around your coat’s edges, in a disperate effort to keep that warm tissue on your bulging clavicles left exposed by the woollen dress you were wearing. No matter how many heavy clothes you decided to put on, that implacable cold still succeeded in making you feel constantly out of forces, debilitated to the core; it had always been that way, since you were nothing more than a little girl obliged to spend one every two months confined in your bedroom, afflicted by incredibly high fever and sometimes even bronchitis.

Truth was that your body had never got used to England’s humid weather, yet, even though you poor healt had previously put you in danger, for your sake, thanks to the enormous progresses made by medicine in the past fifteen years, it was now easy to fight against the ruthless chill of those endless winters. Plus, since the earliest days of your attendence, your wardrobe had been perpetually refreshed with high-quality pieces perfectly in step with the times, for your fiancée had been literally covering you in furs and duvets of all kinds, concerned as he was that you could’ve eventually caught another bad fever, whose deathly consequences he had already experienced on his own thick skin. And for no reason in the world he would’ve even risked to lose you too.

So, as everybody could’ve easily predicted, Thomas was perennially paying attention to your wellbeing: the most famous specialists from inside and outside the United Kingdom had come directly to your country house; if one thing could be taken for granted, it was that your medications would always be settled on your side cabinet, together with a glass of fresh water, every day and every night; and, come hell or high water, he would accompany you during your routine visits to the hospital, even when it meant leaving all of his business without any prior warning.

Needless to say, you were perfectly able to do those things on your own -pheraps except for getting a crowd of world renowned doctors in your living room- and you sure as hell had tried to persuade him that there was no need at all for being so preoccupied all the time; still, he was Tommy Shelby, he simply couldn’t help it. 

The concern for his loved ones’ lives kept stealing his sleep, even on those nights when there was no trace of imminent dangers on the horizon, it kept excoriating the insides of his drained brains, to the point that, more than once, you’d had to sleep alone in your immense king-size bed or reach for him in his study, curling up on one of his uncomfortable armchairs, ready to appease his fears as best you could. In short, for as much as you needed him to relax, you were still able to understand his protective behavior, against which, as a matter of fact, no one could do much; thus you at least tried not to give him more reasons to be worried by paying some extra attention to all those small things you could solve without Tommy even knowing about it. Regularly taking your iron tablets, for example. Nonetheless, it had now been already a week since the Peaky Blinders had started a brand new business involving in effect every metalworking factory in and around Birmingham, and the whole family, you and Tom included, had been so turbulently tied up with work to let every other thought and need slither on the back burner. As a direct consequence, your doctor’s latest prescription was unfortunately left lying on the bottom of your drawer, that being the fourth day in a row you’d spent without taking those pills, and, even though everything appeared to be going well until then, that one Thursday morning your period eventually came and stroke the fatal blow, having you feel so faint and aching that, all of a sudden, the few metres separating your side of the street from the betting shop seemed to implausibly dilate right under your blurred vision, a vexing sense of nausea assaulting your empty stomach led you to lean against a lamppost, your skin still crawling beneath all those heavy tissues.  Dizziness and lethargy almost took over your sore mind, before you shook your head with an abrupt move in a bid to dispel those unpleasent sensations; clients would’ve arrived in less than a hour, Esme had taken John’s kids on a brief fieldtrip, Michael was already in his office, the boys were making their usual rounds of the mills, Finn and Isaiah were dealing with a couple folks in need back at the Garrison and Polly was nowhere in sight, which made you the only available blinder for the opening and, with Friday’s race approaching, there was no way the box-office could remain shut. Hence, more determined than ever, you chocked down the knot forming in your throat due to queasiness and just forced youself to put one foot in front of the other onto the dusty road, until you reached the shop door, not without the risk of tripping over multiple times in the process. Your frozen fingers clutched to the small side-wall now carring all of your weight, whilst your lungs tried to let in as much air as possible. And it worked, each plodding breath seemed to fight your sickness, also your heartbeat was gradually slowing down, thus you shut your eyelids and continued to inhale deeply for a full minute, before your trembilng hand managed to finally turn the key in the lock, giving you free access to the place. 

However, the small click produced by the latch closing again did not live to reach your ears, for they were already brimful of ominous hisses, in a scant moment a bulk of hypnotic grey worms prevented you from seeing anything else, they relentlessly squirmed in front of your dilated pupils, that repulsing view sending brutal shooks straight to your clenched stomach, again. And, before you even had a chance to realize what was going on, your brain completely blacked out.

                                                    ~ ~ ~

Words would not be sufficient to describe the fright taking over Arthur’s features the second your inert silhouette entered his line of sight. Just returned from their daily patrol, he had indeed noticed a small crowd waiting outside the office, cursing and fussing because of the lacked opening, and that alone had been weird enough for him to punch and kick his way up to the entrance, profanities spilling from his mustached mouth every time somebody’s elbow digged into his ribcage, inducing him to hit back so to stand his ground, only to eventually find himself powerless in front of that ghastly scene. It took him a while to recover from the shock, yet the eldest Shelby eventually regained control of his limbs and moved towards your shape with a single step.

“Polly! Pol, come here, for God’s sake!” Those hoarse yells filled the room, reverberating through the brickwalls, so loud that they could’ve been heard from the other side of the city, Arthur fell on his knees right beside you, gently placing a hand under your nape in order to lift your head. Blind panic streaming in his veins kept him for thinking clearly, he didn’t know what to do, thus he simply shook you from your shoulders, hoping in vain to see your eyes fly back open, but your neck just bent backwards.

“Where the hell is that bloody woman when I need her?!” he grunted those words in between his teeth while tigthening his grip on you, then his chest raised in a sharp move: “Jesus Christ, Polly!” He shouted once more, this time conveying all of his breath and blood towards his larynx, his abrasive voice shriveled and insisted on the last letters of his aunt’s name, until swift strides frantically hit the creaking steps, announcing Polly’s arrive. Her eyes struggled to remain open, her left palm was pressed against her forehead in a silly attempt to soothe the tremendous headache resulted from the previous night’s booze, she didn’t even have the time to put proper clothing on, since her mad niece was apparentely going berserk. “You, son of a bastard-” cursed words died underneath her tongue when she understood what was going on, soon her feet took on a life of their own, as they picked up their peace, leading her next to your body now held in Arthur’s arms.

“She’s freezing, Pol, she’s a fucking chunk of ice!” Hiccoughs shattered his worried cries, he almost whined, shifting his gaze from yours to Polly’s face over and over again, she, on the other hand, used the whole lenght of her right arm to clear in one smooth motion the closest desk. “Quick, lay her here” The deafening noise produced by those items colliding with the pavement barely grazed her hears, whilst she nodded to herself in the effort to impose some order on her obfuscated head, searching for a prompt solution that was late in coming, to the point that Finn beat it to the draw and stormed in, pointing a loaded gun to each corner of the room with fear in his cerulean irises. “What the hell’s going on?” That hysterical question echoed through the place, even though the young boy was finding it hard to get his breath, due to the crazy run he had made to reach the shop immediately after hearing that insane screaming. Nonetheless, in the space of an instant, he saw you as well and fell utterly silent, violent dismay caught him off guard, his wide eyes hesitated on your motionless figure; all of a sudden he didn’t know what to think, nor he could get the thought of your death out of his brains.

“My God, she’s as pale as death” Finn let his mind talk through that throttled murmur, regretting it right away, for silty goosebumps crawled on his skin under the pungent pressure of his brother’s instantaneous lethal glare. “Don’t talk shit, kid! Just fucking go and get Tom!”

The redhead didn’t waste any time, he somehow managed to recollect his guts and steadily disappeared behind the door previously left open. While struggling for air and internally searching for the right words to say in front of Thomas, Finn covered the whole distance between the office and the Garrison. Labored gasps coming out of his slightly parted lips in louder groans as he slammed the heavy pub’s doors open, using only his strongest shoulder; both Harry and Isaiah watched him run towards the back room where Tommy was going through the books, they did not dare spill a word and, after all, the boy didn’t even look in their direction, such was his concentration. Still, once he reached the place, all of a sudden his tongue felt dry, his well-organised speech faded away.

“Finn?! What’s wrong?” Tom’s icy eyes were now staring at him through his round glasses, the paper he’d been reading was instantly dropped, although his tone remained steady. “Y-you need to come, now! She... she’s-” A frown formed upon Tommy’s marble face at his little brother’s furious rambling, something wasn’t right, that was crystal clear, yet he wasn’t able to keep up with those hasty and stuttered sentences, so he approached him, putting both his hands on Finn’s shoulders in order to give him a little shove and maybe get some decent information. “Breathe, kid, and tell me what’s going on” That deep, adamant tone somehow sounded scarier than usual roaring inside the boy’s head, hence anxiety definitively won him over, gaining complete control of his mouth too. “It’s Y/n! I don’t fucking know, Tom, s-she looks dead!” All at once, time and space seemed to collapse around him, one single second dilated, covering the space of a whole lifetime beyond his vacant blue irises now fixed on an undetermined spot of the white wall behind Finn’s back.   A gruesome, yet familiar sensation raided his petrified body, it felt like having a beast’s fangs gnawing his throat off, lacerating his flesh to the bone, he could sense every little laceration, his chest being plundered, till even his sable heart was eradicated and then mauled. A strangled wheeze barely lived through his plump lips, that being the only sound he uttered, then his black pupils shrinked and immediately twitched, nailing his sibiling’s gaze. Without receiving an order from his brain, his fists violently gripped Finn’s jacket at the height of his biceps, bringing him a span away from his gnashed teeth with a sharp pull. “Where?” He snarled liked a rabid dog, striking, if possible, geater terror in the young man who struggled to spit an almost inaudible “The shop”, before being shoved against the doorframe as Tommy dodged him and rushed out.

                                                     ~ ~ ~

Polly held the bottle of her almond parfume she’d just put under your nostrils as if her life depended on it, Arthur’s rough palm, instead, began to pat your pasty cheek. “C’mon, love, wake up! Don’t play games, c’mon!” The dorsum of that same hand now poking the left side of your face, and then going back to the other, at incredible speed. You started to feel your face again when his nudges grew in intensity, until he was practically slapping you; soon a tremendous metallic taste invaded your mouth, or rather, you finally sensed it, whilst your eyelids battled against gravity to get back up. Arthur noticed it, he detected that brief flinch and it felt like being pampered with a fresh breeze after days of unsustainable heat. “Oh, fuck, I think I’m having a stroke” His tone held extreme urgency as he grasped for air, tugging with two fingers at his shirt collar; sure, he was great at knocking people off, maybe the best, yet, unfortunately, after that he’d never tried to bring somenody back with the living.

Blinding light rended your shrouded eyes, everything appeared blurred to the point that you couldn’t distinguish Polly’s features, although she was right beside you; nor your hearing was working, since the loud thud produced by the wooden door hitting the brickwall, and then your name barked by your fiancée’s coarse voice, sounded muffled to your ears. With a superhuman effort you succeeded in tilting your face towards the entrance, you recognized the navy-blue suit Thomas had chosen to wear earlier in the moring, still those nebulous images reached your brains with extreme delay, it was like watching vague movie scenes stream in slow motion. Your eyelids blinked as if a plumbeous burden was anchored to them, each flutter seemed to last a full minute, so that you perceived Tom coming to you in multiple shattered motions, while he kept calling you. The moment Tommy furiously jostled against Arthur, in order to take his place by the desk, you gradually went back to see and hear clearly, now being able to seize pure dread sailing those mesmerizing ocean eyes. “Thank goodness, y/n” His big palms envelopped both your cheeks, slightly squeezing them as he lift your neck, revealing all of his hidden delicacy that you, and you only, were able to bring out. “Y/n, love, talk to me” That order came out like a prayer, his voice betraying him once too often, his fingers shaking with worry, while one of his hands held your chin and the other went to caress your locks. Those loving strokes brushed against your skin, slowly infusing a little warmth into your gelid body, he touched you with the unbearable fear of watching you pass away in between his arms, having him struggle to breathe properly. “Do you hear me?” a single, salty drop fell from his long eyelashes and poured your lower lip, you heard his voice crack, distorting, until it became nothing more than a faint whine: “Please, love, talk to me” When his forehead pressed against yours, he finally gave in to the tears that had been held back with drastic ostination, shutting his eyes for a few instants he allowed brutal sobs to trounce his already aching chest. However, that moment of raw weakness was soon restrained, so that you returned to stare into his blue irises. Then, a small grin crossed your pale mouth and, even though your throat felt like gasoline on fire, preventing you from pronouncing a single syllable, you managed to guide your tiny hand to cup his sharp cheekbone. A burning kiss was pressed on its dorsum, before Tommy completely leant into your touch, giving you a look halfway between relief and disperation, he covered your hand with his own, holding it tight. “You’re okay, you’re safe” Those soft murmurs escaped his lips, probably aimed to placate the axphyziating terror still intoxicating his veins. Indeed, as hard as it was to conceive for everybody in that room, although you were the one just recovering from a sudden collapse, Tommy was now the one trembling like a fallen leaf, his arms rested on each side of your shape, sustaining his weight, as he barely stood on his own two feet. Slowly, you regained the necessary strenght to lift your bust, leading him to flutter in your direction, promptly enlacing his forearms around your waist in order to support your movements. “Hold onto me, darling, take it slow” His raspy voice was still unsteady and full of concern, he was holding his breath out of fear, gazing at you with wide eyes and tightening the grip on your hips as if to make sure that you wouldn’t vanish in his palms. You, on the other hand, gave him a rassuring smile, caressing his face mutliple times and placing a brief kiss on his mouth. “I’m fine, Tommy, I’m here with you” you eventually spoke close to his ear so to keep that conversation between the two of you “Let go, my love, I’m here” Your lips accidentally brushed against his forehead once he listened to you and abandoned himself to your tender embrace, gradually drowning into your soft chest while his arms clung on to your figure, his fingertips almost piercing the thick material of your dress as your cheek covered his head, totally annihilating the distance. “Don’t you ever do that to me again. Never again”.

tag list: @spidey-pal​, @shadow-of-wonder​, @stassaurus​​, @peachlle​, @livvtheangel​, @myjbphase​, @namelesslosers, @crazyonesarethebest​, @vxxn128​, @keithseabrook27​, @spaghettirogers​​, @writingstudent​​, @hp-hogwartsexpress , @eggingamazinglove​, @geeksareunique​, @cailoleaf​, @simonsbluee​ , @hereforsmutandfluff​, @starxtt​, @jenepleurepasbaby​, @staygold-bebold​, @marvelschriss​, @captivatedbycillianmurphy​

#peaky blinders #peaky blinders imagine #peaky blinders x reader #peaky blinders x oc #peaky blinder headcanon #peaky blinder imagine #peaky blinders smut #peaky blinders one shot #peaky blinders preference #peaky blinders headcanon #tommy shelby #thomas shelby #tommy shelby imagine #thomas shelby imagine #tommy shelby x reader #thomas shelby x reader #tommy shelby x oc #thomas shelby x oc #tommy shelby smut #thomas shelby smut #alfie solomons #john shelby #michael gray #arthur shelby #finn shelby #isaiah jesus #ada shelby #polly gray #bonnie gold #tommy shelby one shot

[aenaxes-moved]

no light in a dark room

[fox x gn!reader] after fives dies by his hand, fox comes knocking at your door.

warnings: general angst

w/c: 2.1k

a/n: this is all @amaittrtd's fault for getting me on the fox train (i wholeheartedly believe that palpatine played some awful mind trick on him and that fox deserves a warm blanket and a hug). i'm also well aware fox has a regulation haircut, but i fell in love with @amikoroyaiart's fox design so there's that.

It’s near 0200 when you rouse from your bed and open your door after two rounds of insistent knocking, the first testing, hopeful, the second quick to follow and frantic as you pull a sweater over your nightshirt and shuffle across the floor. You can barely register that it’s Fox in the doorway before he’s crowding you back into the room and pulling you tight against his armor, burying the grooves of his helmet uncomfortably close into your shoulder as your door quietly closes behind him. It’s too much, too soon, and so late in the night for you to begin to formulate the questions flurrying through your slow return to wakefulness.

Why is he awake and roaming the upper halls this late into the evening? Why is he still in his armor? Why hasn’t he taken his helmet off? Why isn’t he greeting you with that soft smile and a cheeky promise of late night stargazing? Why is he so scared?

So you stay standing in the darkness for what feels like a long while, silent but for Fox’s breaths, short and trembling through his modulator. He holds you, clings to you, unmoving and tight, a man drowning.

“Fox,” you finally say, just barely above a whisper. You wince as his grip tightens on your waist, vambrace digging into your side. “Fox, let me turn the lights on.”

You feel him shake his head, the cold plastoid edges of his helmet grinding up against your neck as he squeezes you just that much tighter, like he’s afraid to let you go, to lose you. And judging by the way your suggestion has his breaths uneven and heaving anew, even in your groggy state, you know better than to pry your arms out from under his embrace and reach for the light switch.

“Let’s at least sit down, okay?”

He’s silent a moment, then you feel him shifting away, just enough that he can unstick his helmet from the junction between your shoulder and neck, only to bow his neck low, his visor pressing through your sweater and into the bone of your shoulder.

“Okay.”

If you weren’t startled awake by his sudden arrival, you’re fully awake now. Awake enough to register the weary, hoarse creak in his voice, the barely-there tremor as he presses his palms into your skin, the faint scent of blaster smoke. He squeezes tight one more time before he’s slowly peeling his arms away from around you, and through the darkness, you watch him drop them heavy at his sides, shoulders brought low under their weight. Why hasn’t he taken off his helmet yet?

“Let’s just…” Slowly still, you lift your fingertips to the edges of his ventilator, just barely able to feel his shaking exhales puffing through the seal of his helmet. But even in his obvious panic, Fox is a trained soldier.

“No!” he cries, whipping his hands up and squeezing painfully tight around your wrists, enough that you yelp in surprise. And as soon as he’s holding you, he’s gasping loud enough to crackle through his modulator and releasing you, recoiling like he’s been burned and stumbling back on his heels until the hard back of his armor clacks up against the durasteel of your door.

You hear it clatter, then a soft thud—he’s slid down against his back—and you drop down onto your hands and knees, feeling blindly in the darkness until your fingertips touch what you suspect to be a kneeplate. Trailing higher, you feel the visor of his helmet close above the plastoid, then his vambrace, then his glove guards by the crown of his helmet. It doesn’t take much time at all for you to piece together your senses: Fox is pressed up against the durasteel, curled in on himself, his head on his knees, his hands clutching the back of his neck, his modulator betraying his quiet, hiccupy breaths through the mechanical whirr. The steadfast commander of the Coruscant guard, the man revered for his quiet, stolid strength among his men and his clean-cut dependability on the Senate floor, your soft smile to call home: Fox is sobbing against your door.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks between stuttering breaths. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I just—I just—”

“No, no,” you whisper, your knees knocking against his shin guards as you gently guide the side of his helmet against your chest. You’re sure he can feel the unsteady shake in your hands, your racing heartbeat, but how many times has he been your shoulder to cry on, all soothing words and grounding touch? He would argue otherwise, giving without any expectations for return, but you owe it to him to offer what small comforts you can. “It’s okay,” you croon, pressing your cheek against the top of his helmet. “You’re safe.”

Fox makes something that sounds like a dissonant cross between a sob and a groan, like the walls of a ship being torn apart particle by particle just before it dips below the event horizon and blinks out of sight. He wraps his arms around your waist and wails, and all you can do is hold him close in the darkness and hope.

Your knees burn by the time Fox’s cries have subsided to quiet, tremorous breaths, having held him close for what feels like a fraught hour. And when you’re just sure enough that he’s brought himself to a weak semblance of his usual calm, you lower your hands from the sides of his helmet, bringing one to gently rub at the back of his neck and the other under his chin to tip his head up towards you in the low light. He exhales shakily through the modulator.

“Better?” you ask. You wish you could lift the heavy helmet from his shoulders to see him in his fullness behind the plastoid, bared to you in all of his goodness and all of his fear, to ask to share in his burden, whatever it was.

Fox clears his throat, coughing awkwardly, but when he gently rubs his thumb over your hip, your heart warms; you already know your answer. “Yes,” he mumbles, bumping his visor against your ribs. “Thank you, my starlight.”

“The floor’s cold,” you murmur, kneading gently at the tense sinew of his neck. “Let’s go to bed?”

He nods against your chest, and you help heft him onto his feet, guiding him carefully to your bedside. Where Fox is normally straightlaced punctuality and organization that would put the regulation manuals to shame, tonight, you help him remove his armor piece by piece and let the plastoid clatter in a haphazard heap onto the floor by your bed. Tonight, he can be reckless and vulnerable and feeling. He deserves that much.

His helmet is the last to go when he’s bare-handed and stripped to his blacks. Without thinking, you reach for his head, but you’re quick to remember how that had started this whole ordeal in the first place, how he’d lashed out at you like a cornered animal, how he’d scared you half to death. You’re not opposed to him crawling into bed with you with his helmet—it’s a bit of an odd thought, his lean frame in his blacks topped with the bulky weight of his helmet that can’t be comfortable lying down, but considering the events of the night, you’re more than happy to make space for his comfort. You still ask anyways.

“Can I take your helmet off?” you ask, placing your palms on his shoulders and gently rubbing over his collar. You make sure to keep your voice as soft and low as possible so not to frighten him into another panic (what a notion! The unflappable commander Fox, startled by your voice). “I’ll keep the lights off. I promise I won’t peek.” You smile softly, though he surely cannot see you in the darkness. And for a moment, a searing bolt of doubt flashes through your gut as Fox stands before you in tenuous silence.

Then, his voice comes soft, almost timid, straining through the darkness.

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

Your heart aches. It burns.

“Yes, please.”

It’s the first time you’ve handled his armor like glass, having knocked on his helmet to say hello, dropped it on more than one occasion, and nearly slung the whole thing across the room when he’d heft you into his arms and laugh as you brought your legs around his waist. Your fingertips are light over the worn scrapes and crimson paint as you carefully, carefully press your palms into the plastoid and lift his helmet off his shoulders. It feels almost ceremonial, you think, as you see the dark silhouette of his head emerge from underneath until you can see the wavy top of his hair outlined in the low light. You carefully set his helmet on your nightstand and turn back to him.

It’s then that, for the first time this evening, you wonder what expression he’s wearing, how his eyes must be rimmed red and weary of tears, how all those years of fighting this perpetual war have deepened the furrow in his brow and the constant fatigue simmering just below his dark brown eyes. You wonder if he’s looking to you with an apology, with shame, with a silent plea for comfort, whether he’s seeking out your eyes as much as you are his. You have never been more desperate to see him in his entirety, open wounds and all.

But you have a promise to keep.

You thank the Maker that there’s just enough light for you to make out Fox’s outline, and you reach for him, lacing your fingers with his as you tug him a few steps towards your bed. You crawl in first, gently pulling him to follow suit. Normally, your nights sharing a bed with Fox begin and end with you tucked up against his broad chest as he curled secure around you. But in unspoken agreement, tonight, you shift yourself higher up on the bed, your back pressed against the wall as you open your arms to him, and Fox tucks up against you, his cheek pressed up beside your beating heart as you draw the covers over his shoulders and hold him close. You still feel the tension in his shoulders as you slowly comb your fingers through his wavy locks, but you are beyond grateful that the shake in his fingers has stilled, and so too, you hope, the wild thumping of his heart.

You open your mouth to bid him goodnight when, finally, he speaks.

“I swore I put it to stun,” Fox mumbles, just a hair above a whisper.

Oh.

“I thought I aimed for his arm.” His arms tighten around your waist, and he shifts so that his nose is pressed into the space just below your ribs, and you can feel the warmth of his breaths over your skin. “I knew I aimed for his arm.”

You continue to stroke over his hair. You’re not sure who he is, but you’re certain it’s one of his brothers. Fox had always been particularly sensitive to that. Loss. You want to ask, but you hold your tongue.

“And when the smoke cleared, I—I… I couldn’t look him in the eyes. How could I?” His voice is distant, the telltale quiver curling at the edges of his words.

“You did what you thought was right,” you murmur. If there are any lucid explanations to be had, they will come in the morning.

“I don’t think I thought at all.”

You aren’t entirely sure what Fox means. For all you know, it could be his unchecked grief stumbling over his tongue and placing words like plasters over the wounds left behind. It could be the aftershocks of whatever tragedy had occurred still rumbling through his lungs. It could be something more. You suspect it’s a combination of all three, but for now, for tonight, you dip your head low and press your lips against the top of his head.

“It’s been a long day,” you murmur, lifting your hand from his shoulder and stroking your fingertips down from his jaw to his chin. You lift his head just so, bringing him up just enough to crane your neck and kiss over his brow, feel him sigh against your chest. “Sleep. We’ll figure everything out in the morning.”

“You’ll be here when I wake?” Fox asks, lifting his chin to brush his nose over your jaw. The darkness will not let you see him, but you close your eyes anyways as you cup his cheek and bring yourself close. Pressing your brow to his, you’re close enough that you can feel his lashes flutter against your skin as he blinks, once, twice, waiting. You inhale, hold, and he exhales with you.

“Always, Fox. Always.”

#yayy back to thesis drafting #commander fox #commander fox x reader #clone wars fic #yaej.writes

[jomiddlemarch]

light the candle in his hand

There was snow overnight, so much snow, every flake the sky had ever held it seemed. It lay in drifts that covered nearly all of the windows and blocked the front door when Alina opened it, dashing any hopes she’d had of venturing forth. What she could see of the dawn sky was the glazed hue of a Shu tea-cup and it was so cold in the cottage Alina could see her breath in the air, as if she held only clouds inside her and not the sun. She woke curled up on her side, her face tucked against Aleksander’s chest, his arm around her and she was pleasantly warm despite the bitter weather, the empty hearth.

She was pleasantly warm because he was burning up. His face was pale but with the hectic flush a fever visible above his beard. The shadows beneath his eyes were darker, his lips slightly chapped. And she had nothing to give him— no heartening broth, no tonic, no salve for his poorly dressed wounds. Not one drop of water, not unless she could devise some ways of melting some of the otherwise useless snow.

She had only been Grisha for a day but she had been an orphan of Keramzin for the whole rest of her life and she meant to make that count. For his sake as much as her own. She slipped from his embrace and got up, debating with herself about whether to take back the red kefta she’d made into a bolster or to suffer the bite of the cold without it. It seemed a pity to disturb him and she’d suffered through winters before without clothes as well-made as her First Army uniform.

“Where is she?” he said, coughing. He was reaching for her beneath the cape, his movements slow, obviously painful. “Blessed Mokosh, they took her, those vicious—”

“It’s all right,” she said. He opened his eyes, such soft dark eyes and she could tell when he recognized her. He started to sit up, then gave a low, anguished cry and she quickly put her hand to his cheek. “Lie down, I’m here.”

“Hurts,” he murmured, swallowed. His beautifully shaped lips twisted in a grimace of poorly suppressed agony. “Thirsty—"

“I know. It’ll be a little while, but I’ll get you some water. Just a little while,” she said. She wished so much to be telling the truth.

“No,” he said with an unexpected degree of force. “Not safe—”

“I’m not going anywhere. We’re snowed in,” she said. It took some time for him to grasp what she’d said, what it meant; she saw how it was a burden he couldn’t bear, the way he turned his face into the fold of the red kefta, the slump of his broad shoulders. Had anyone ever seen the Darkling General so defeated? She wouldn’t have thought she’d ever see him this way and now she was the only person in the world who could. No one knew where they were, no one was coming to help them.

“Then there’s nothing to be done,” he said, sounding young, hopeless, like a little boy who’d learned not to expect anyone to help him.

“That’s just nonsense,” she said crisply, suddenly appreciating Ana Kuya’s perpetual asperity as she heard it in her own voice. “We have snow and some cups and you’ve shown me I have all that sunlight inside me, I ought to be able to figure out a way to get you a drink of water. I’ll muddle through, I can find my way,” she said. He was tiring, starting to slur his words a little and his accent was stronger, something she didn’t recognize.

“Get some snow in a cup and come back to me,” he said. “I’ll help you.”

She got up, found the cups and opened the door, using one cup to scoop out enough of the packed snow to fill the other. Aleksander lay still and she felt his gaze on her; when she glanced over her shoulder, he didn’t try to smile, just kept looking at her. She walked back to him and sat down as carefully as she could but he still flinched.

“Sorry,” she said. “What now?”

“Hold the cup in one hand,” he said. “Take mine—”

“Like this?” she said, reaching for his right hand, the one with the terrible clawed silver ring. She could hardly believe he’d cut her with it, but that was the only reason she knew she might save him now. She’d touched him very gently but he clasped her tightly, his larger hand enveloping hers, his skin even hotter than it had been when she’d woken. She felt that first, the heat of the fever, and then a peculiar sense of safety before the power rose in her, with the wonderful satisfaction of thirst being quenched, a pitcher being filled.

“Let your light collect in your palm, let the heat move from you into the cup,” he said, his voice raspy, breaking off into a cough but not releasing her.

“I can’t—”

“You can,” he said, very low. “You are.” And she was, the snow melting slowly and then all at once. She felt his hand on hers, trembling, with fever, with effort, with something else she couldn’t, daren’t name. She lifted the cup to his lips for him to drink, his eyes drowsy as he regarded her.

“Waited for you, such a long time, Alya.” Was it only his fever talking, that made him call her by the short, sweeter version of her name, the one to be used by a sweetheart? If it was not his illness, what could that mean? His eyes closed and she could tell he was falling back into an uneasy sleep, still with her palm pressed against his. She freed herself and waited for him to settle before she stood up.

Aleksander slept, but not comfortably, for nearly an hour, restless under the makeshift covers, muttering words and phrases she had a hard time understanding, some of them in a Ravkan dialect she didn’t know, all of them pained. Fearful. She went back to him, laid a hand on his forehead the way Ana Kuya had always checked an ill orphan, feeling herself purse her lips in the same manner. If anything, the fever was higher than before and he cried out, a little broken sound, one that a child might make when woke in the dark, the night-light left for them blown out. She would let him sleep a little longer, try to get him to drink some more water, missing the dzherrabai and honey that would have helped take down his temperature; if his fever didn’t break, she’d need to collect enough snow to pack around him like a poultice.

She touched his shoulder, trying to gauge how close he was to waking and he grimaced in pain, in terror. She touched his cheek, saying his name. “Aleksander, it’s all right…”

“Alya?” he said, looking at her as if she were a dream. “You—"

“Yes, I’m here,” she said. “I think you’d better drink some more water—”

“You’re all right?” he asked. He reached out his hand almost blindly, his movements clumsy. Yesterday, he’d slid off his galloping stallion with a preternatural grace and killed the Fjerdan poised to murder her, using a single, devastating strike. She caught his hand and felt how he trembled.

“I’m fine. Let me help you take a sip, don’t want to spill,” she said. She put her hand behind his neck and lifted his head, knowing it would have been easier if she could put her arm around his back but that his wounds wouldn’t allow it. She brought the cup she’d refilled to his lips and tipped it slightly, watching him taste the water, taking a swallow and then another and another until it was empty. She set the cup beyond the boundary of his cape and started to lower his head down, stopped by his hand at her wrist, holding her tightly.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

“It was nothing,” she began.

“Thank you for coming back to me,” he said even more softly. “Solnyshka. Umnaya.”

“I’ll be right here,” she said, not trying to pull away. She felt the tension in him, the pain and the illness, and somehow, within the deeper part of him, a terrible cold; within thinking, without trying, the light inside her gathered in her hand at the nape of his neck and eased beneath his skin, some unspoken necessity met. His face, despite his dark beard, looked like a contented, sleepy boy’s and not the wounded man that he was. She wished she had a pillow for him, a pot of chicken soup bubbling on the hearth, a Healer ready to treat every wound, a palace full of Grisha to defend him and the riches of the King’s coffer at her disposal to buy whatever rare sweetmeat would tempt him. But their world was very small—a pair of tin cups, a hearth waiting for a fire to be laid, a sliver of sunlight on the floorboards and the snow a fortress all around them. He took a long breath and she saw the flutter behind his closed eyes, the softening of his chapped lips. Aleksander was dreaming.

It was time for Alina to start digging. To find a way out.

#shadow and bone #darklina #grishaverse winter challenge #101 ways to wind up in a russian shack #aleksander x alina #when you have already explored a similar topic #au of crescent moon au #it was only a frost in Crescent Moon #snowed in #hurt/comfort #snow #happy new year #grishaverse #what's more fannish than writing an au of your own au? #I even au-ed the moodboard #crescent moon au

[shoichee]

teiko manager anon back ~ my juicy part 2 will disappoint bc guess what: we're skipping two years into the future. akashi never found out what happened, and by third year the gom were the epitome of cruelty. so reader picks a fight with them after meiko game, only to collapse out of stress after. they graduate, she follows kuroko to seirin and they train to defeat gom. but why is she so insecure and easily sad when gom is mentioned? they get their answer when they catch her overworking

oh teiko anon, so so bold.... really out here stirring the pot of chaos with this part 2 huh KEK alright folks BUCKLE IN YOUR SEATBELTS IT”S TIME FOR PART 2 and part 1 is right here ! part 3 will be here ! update: part 4 is here !

Akashi x Reader

Part 2

[Teiko!manager Headcanons]

remember how I said in part 1 how Akashi would find out sooner or later? this would normally be the case, but in this exception…

you came back to school pretty quickly and restored, only to be in shock when Akashi himself confronts you about where you’ve been… like hello? YOUR CRUSH?? is? talking? to you? about your wellbeing?

here’s the thing, Akashi can easily detect lies through body language because he has an extraordinary sense of kinetic vision and critical thinking, but he’s still a human, not to mention… a middle schooler, and he’s not a true mind reader as some teammates would wholeheartedly believe

still, after some easy sleuthing he easily drew out confessions from some teammates who badmouthed you, although every single one were some type of half-truths and inconsistent testimonies that didn’t really make sense in painting a big picture

instead of incorrectly assuming things, he wanted to hear what’s been going on from your own mouth (keep in mind, this is still Oreshi, the guy who’s still cordial and wants to confirm this with you out of respect)

when he asks you some questions, he doesn’t detect any physical signs of lying from you, which only makes him believe that there wasn’t anything wrong to begin with other than you being under the weather and the other teammates saying utter nonsense either out of fear in his presence or using you as a scapegoat to cover up other delinquencies that he may have yet to discover

“(l/n)-san, I take it that you’ve been resting well? I heard from Kuroko that you were absent due to the seasonal flu.”

“Ah, y-yes! I’ve actually gotten plenty of rest and proper meals, so I’m back on my feet quicker than expected.”

“I actually also wanted to ask you something, if you don’t mind?”

“What is it?”

“Has anything odd happening to you lately? Anyone who has given you trouble or has been uncooperative with you as head manager as of late?”

at the question, you only frown in genuine confusion before you answer no; you genuinely believed that these teammates weren’t in the wrong for “speaking their mind” and if anything, you felt like you were the problem in not being capable enough in managing your own job and your health in the process (despite being knowledgeable in health yourself)

because Akashi saw that you weren’t lying, he dropped it completely out of respect and asked you that if there was anything troubling you that you could reach out to him

oh how he was so, so close to finding out the truth

this wouldn’t be brought up ever again because you and Akashi only continued to grow busier and busier with your own duties; eventually, your fears came true when the Generation of Miracles had in fact “left” you behind when their talents blossomed too fast and left unchecked

honestly, you developed a horrible habit of overworking despite Kuroko’s and Kise’s constant checks on you

what do you know? of course the coaches and faculty members would ignore your opposition against putting the GoMs in every game; after all some of them had been quite dismissive of you already

it’s kind of ironic because if Bokukashi was the one interrogating you back then, he would’ve either easily (correctly) assume based off of the teammates’ testimonies alone, or he’d be a lot more insistent in discerning the truth of the situation and nipping it right in the bud to stop the “nonsense”

but at the same time, Bokukashi has a lot more pressing priorities than a few poor-attitude teammates when he has the entire reputation of Tekio’s legacy on his shoulders; anything pertaining to you never crossed his mind ever since his domineering side emerged

you were really excited for Kuroko since he was gushing about playing against his old friend, since his friend couldn’t make it to finals the first time // needless to say, you were also Kuroko’s mental support when he felt really down at that time

after Kuroko sustained an injury in the game before Meiko, you immediately accompanied him to the infirmary

there, Kuroko requests you to go watch the game and you only reluctantly agree because you wanted to see the game just to relay back to Kuroko just in case if he couldn’t make it, and you were still a manager with a job to fulfill; you’d figure leaving Momoi to watch over was sufficient enough

when you walk out the door though… you bump into Akashi, which is the first time in a while where you two were face-to-face like this; your heart sank when you realize that you had to accept the fact that he’s changed and allowed the distance to grow between you two

but a small part of denial makes you quickly turn and flee out the hallway, but you really begin to evaluate your crush on him as you scurry away; Akashi just stares at you for a moment before he enters into the infirmary where Kuroko is

you’ve distanced yourself from other people (GoMs in particular) in basketball out of denial of the fact you were really left behind (plus, you already dread attending to their games because it’s always a cruel reminder that you’re not working hard enough to achieve results of the same level), which is why reality slapped you in the face after the aftermath of the Meiko game… when you witnessed the full extent of their cruelty on the court

you were really hurt—in fact, you looked more distraught than the Meiko teammates themselves

especially, since the fact that Kise himself, who you thought of him as someone you can trust in, partook in this as well (this is actually your first time in seeing his cruel side in action, since he’s always been very sweet and helpful to you because he respects you)

you first confronted Kise when he was alone for a bit, sounding absolutely heartbroken and on the verge of tears; you shocked him out of his cold side and he immediately becomes a mother hen and asking if you needed water or a seat to calm down before you overexert yourself

after telling him your feelings about the game and your growing distance in the friendship, he sincerely apologizes for making you feel in such an awful way and tells you to let him know next time before a game, so that he wouldn’t suggest this type of entertainment for the game again.

you were in complete disbelief… the fact that your best friend suggested this himself? You dumbly asked for his reason, and he only says that you wouldn’t understand it because no one ever gives the GoM a proper challenge

even though he didn’t intend anything bad when he said this, it just made you feel worse, but you still accepted the apology to get it over with

the other GoMs come and you immediately become angry again and tension just skyrockets; Midorima simply looks away and says nothing, and Murasakibara and Aomine do most of the talking back/arguing… and Akashi only impassively stares at you

later, when Kuroko himself confronts them while everyone was walking in the hallway, you completely lagged behind on the group, tearfully staring at the backs of the GoMs and how you felt really alienated and unmotivated to continue being a manager for a team you don’t even recognize anymore

you grew dizzy again, and you knew your body was dealing with too much at once but you willed your body to at least last the trip

at least you gave a warning when you assumed that you were away from the GoMs at Teiko before you went unconscious; Kise happens to catch you before he brings you to the school infirmary

he does stay with you the entire time, knowing the reason for your collapse was all the extreme emotional and mental toll accumulated in such a short time; he feels absolutely guilty, and when you were about to stir awake, he simply leaves a lighthearted note and a cutely shaped bread before he leaves, knowing that you’d be stressed again if you saw him (around this time is when Kuroko confronts Akashi to quit the team, which is why he was nowhere near you at the time of your collapse/rest)

you felt better that at least Kise still sees you as a close friend when you see what he left behind

you still feel awful, to say the least

it felt wrong of you to quit mid-season, since you felt that you were simply giving up and further perpetuating the fact that you weren’t doing the most that you could

but you didn’t feel like staying for the rest of the season, so you decided to overwork yourself again to get the rest of the paperwork and training plans out of the way for the remainder of the games; you even left detailed instructions to Momoi in how to relieve certain pressure points and muscles for instant relief in case someone hurts themselves

a little timeskip where you decided to tag along Kuroko in attending Seirin High, but you were more reluctant in joining basketball again because you didn’t want to re-experience the stress and burdens in Teiko

well, until you made friends with Riko, and her story in how she was skeptical about basketball at first too inspires you to give it a try again

Kuroko feels really happy that you’re at ease again for the first time, but he definitely notices how you grow gloomy when the Seirin teammates praise the GoMs

you slowly relapse into the habit of overworking to “compensate” for your lack of contributions to Seirin’s team, but this time, every member DROPKICKS you to stop working and relax sometimes (Riko and Hyuuga are the main culprits)

even though you never tell them the reason for your poor habits, the Seirin team members just SENSE and KNOW what to say to make you feel like you’re doing more than enough to support the team in their own unique ways (Mitobe giving really cute shoulder pats and thumbs-ups… Koganei giving you slaps on the back and high-fives… Riko bluntly telling you to relax and giving you encouraging winks… Hyuuga being a roundabout in his praises… Teppei openly praising you… and Kagami telling you that you were doing too much LOL)

Kuroko gives you the SOFTEST SMILES (everyone freaks out every time he does that, it’s hilarious)

however, wounds slowly reopen more once again every time Seirin goes against schools that the respective GoM plays for

after every win Seirin achieves against the GoM’s respective school, each GoM would eventually learn a little tidbits here and there about your tendency to overwork and collapse and possible speculations of why, but you never confirm anything with them

even though you easily forgive Kise after the Seirin vs. Kaijo match (seeing how he interacted with Kagami and Kuroko in the park), for the others… you weren’t so ready to confront…

… particularly with Akashi

#knb #knb x reader #knb headcanon #knb headcanons #teiko #knb teiko #akashi x reader #akashi seijuro #akashi seijuro x reader #kuroko tetsuya #kise ryota #kise ryouta #aomine daiki #midorima shintarou #midorima shintaro #murasakibara atsushi #teiko middle school

[scriptaed]

his side, her side finale | 00:00

genre: angst/fluff/implied smut; 

pairing: reader x jungkook;

length: 4.6k;

synopsis: a collective snapshots in time shared between two, whose fates were undeniably intertwined and futures would never come to be.

No matter how infinite the pages could write itself, in the way that he catches her stealing glances from across the room or the scalding spark imprinted on her hand by the touch of his own, there really are only three versions to every story: his side, her side, and the truth’s side; and in your unsolicited albeit self-justified defense, the truth is, what was once seemingly perpetual is now merely trivial. The imagery that once had you kicking and screaming into your sheets at night, the fleeting moments that were shared by both but valued by one, and the inevitably incessant burden of jealousy brought upon by a fervent want that could never be had could only have been falsified by a break—spatially, temporally, and heartfully. The mind can only tug so much at one’s strings; and yet, to be bent, only time could prove possible.

...and that time is exactly what is needed by all.

her side;

“Are you joining us for dinner tonight, Y/N?” 

“Huh? What?” your ears perk at the sound of your friend’s call. 

“Oh, there she goes again,” your other friend interjects with the roll of her eyes. You almost collapse when she swings a hand over your shoulder. “Are you sure you don’t want to get your ears checked?”

“No, but I might have to get my eyes checked,” you joke, despite pulling in all the performance points you could win with a disdainful scan up and down her less than professional attire. Thankfully, your act is gleefully extended by her cheesy gawk of an expression. Putting up a merciful pair of hands in the air, you laugh, “hey, in all seriousness, it’s not my fault you guys keep drooling over boys.”

“Uhuh, so you’re trying to tell us that boy talk is what’s putting you to sleep?” your friend’s accomplice crosses her arms, raising an accusatory pair of brows. 

“Yeah,” you say much too seriously so you throw in an airy laugh, “I mean, there’s more to life than boys, y’know?”

“Right, like…?”

“Like…” your voice trails off because, for some reason, your mind goes blank as you attempt to recall your lifestyle from your previous hometown. “Like… hanging out with friends! With you guys!”

“Gah! You’re only able to say that because you have dozens of boys chasing you around the office. Us, on the other hand, time just… it just keeps ticking…” the two of them sigh in synchronization and you feel the heat of her arms retract as she shakes the hand of her one and only sympathizer. 

“Psh,” you can’t help but grin throughout the frown elicited by their vivacious performance, “you guys have plenty of time. Just enjoy life for now and I’m sure you’ll find someone along the way.” 

“Wait, but seriously,” her voice suddenly rises from her previously sullen state, as does her head on her friend’s shoulder. She looks you dead in the eye, and, honestly, you almost feel as though your privacy had just been invaded. “You really haven’t ever liked anyone before?” 

“Uh…” you scatter through the disarrayed files that were your buried memories, eyes squinting at the sun that peeks through the clearing sky after a day full of rainfall. “Elementary and middle school don’t really count… too busy studying in high school… college was full of fuck boys I couldn’t care less for… and at work…”

The more that you hear yourself ramble, the more the reality of your lonesome future settles into the already burdened shoulders of yours.

“At work? You mean here? Or do you mean your last job?”

“Well,” you frown, trying to recall every male colleague that had piqued even the tiniest of interest in you; and as the two of your friends lean in, you start to lean back, despite the charging light bulb that flickers from the unlocked recollection of two years ago. “There was a guy who liked me and told everyone at work that he liked me, which I thought was really weird… nice guy, kind of a nerd, but I didn’t like him that way. Who else? Uh, hm—”

—bzzz. 

The vibration against your back pocket pulls the plug from your train of thought. 

“Aw man,” you hear your friends curse in the background, “just when we were finally getting her to spill something.” 

The name on your screen has your heart skipping with delight.

 Yezi [5:20 PM] Hey, I know you’re gonna forget, so you before you do, we’re having dinner together tonight :) 

“It’s okay,” your friend pats the back of the other, “there’ll be some cute enough boys for her at tonight’s barbeque, I’m sure.”

“Ah shit,” you curse under your breath, hastily typing a response before peering up at your friends like a deer caught in the headlights, “actually, guys, turns out I already made plans with my friend from home. I’m sooo sorry.”

“Oh, really?” the two of them gasp. “Isn’t that a two hour train ride from here?” 

“Yeah, so I really got to go now,” your phone tumbles into your bag as you begin to widen your strides like a woman on a mission. 

They shake their heads in unison, “no, no, it’s okay!”

“I’m seriously so sorry guys,” you say as you pant, the distance between you and your friends widening by the second and forcing you to whirl around as you pace backwards. “I’ll make it up to you next time and do whatever you guys want, okay?”

“Really? Anything?”

“Yeah,” your hands draw a wide, inclusive circle into the air, “anything.” 

“Even a blind date?” 

“You know what? Why the hell not?” you chime, whirling back around with your back on them and a smile hidden away. Skipping off into the opposite direction toward the train station, you exclaim nonchalantly, “new year, new me!”

Lately, either through a stroke of luck or a reset of a life in a new town, there’s been something spectacularly whimsical about tonight’s air; and when a zephyr passes by, lifting you to the tip of your toes to an invincible high and relaying the confuzzled whispers of your friends—

“—wait, it’s not a new year, it’s already April—”

—you finally acquire a two year long-sought sensation: golden.

-

“I can’t believe you almost forgot about our plans!” 

“Hey, I had a reminder set on my phone just ten minutes after your reminder” you quip with pursed lips, “and I still made it on time, didn’t I?”

“Yeah,” Yezi prims with a stern look plastered across her face, gesturing, “with your hair and clothes damp in rain and your face smiling like a wagging, clueless beagle.”

“Well… beagles are cute, so I’ll take that as a compliment?” 

She frowns, ignoring your remark, “did you not check the weather forecast?”

“I did.”

“So why didn’t you bring an umbrella?”

“I forgot.”

“Ugh, you forget everything these days,” she plants a palm to her forehead before returning to her plate, “well, I’m glad that at least you’re so carefree nowadays. You’ve finally settled into your new workplace, huh? You look so happy now.”

“You talk—” it’s difficult to speak with food being stuffed into your mouth “—as if I lost a loved one.”

“Well,” she grits her teeth, as if biting her tongue, and proceeds to slice the slab of steak, “I wouldn’t say that’s too farfetched.” 

Frowning, your words come out muffled through puffed cheeks, “whaddya mean by dat?”

“You can’t tell me you forgot about what happened last time you were in town.”

“Uh…?” you furrow your brows, tracing into a forgotten yet familiar field you had long neglected for your own wellbeing. Last time you were in town, last time you were working here, last time you went out on a company party, last time you walked through this town’s treacherously embracing frosty breeze, last time you were dining here, last time you got wasted, not just here but anywhere, last time you shed tears… all the last times of this town shared only one similarity, a similarity you had subconsciously left behind at some point in your transition between the past and the now. 

“Do I really have to say it myself?” she leans in, concerned. “I don’t want you bawling your eyes out again…”

Did she possibly mean… him?

“Jeon Jungkook,” she blurts, “there! I said it!”

Her utensils clatter onto her plate as she tosses her hands in the air in mercy, almost as if bracing herself for the storm after the calm, observing you intently but warily; that supposed storm, however and ever so fortunately, never arrives. 

“Oh,” you utter, words slipping from your lips like sand through a palm, “I’m not crying.”

“You’re not crying,” she confirms, astonished. 

“It doesn’t… hurt anymore?” you almost ask yourself. 

“It doesn’t?”

“It doesn’t,” you utter, shaking your head. Just as she’s caught off guard, you lurch across the table to pinch her cheeks, “but that doesn’t mean I appreciate you bringing him up during a perfectly lovely night!” 

“Sho—” she furrows her brows in combination to her squished cheeks “—he doesh make you shad shtill?”

“Well, he doesn’t make me elated,” you finally release her from your wrath, returning to stare downward at your food, “but I guess it makes me reflect fondly on the past. It’s kind of like a scar. I know how much it once hurt but I can’t feel it to the same magnitude anymore. Actually, instead, the happy, jittery moments are more vivid to me than the tears that were shed. Is that… odd?”

“Like… like what? Examples?” 

Like when his arm bumped into yours for the first time on the walk after work, like when he discretely went out of his way to ensure your safety across the bridge home, like when he enamored over the ‘ripped abs’ of a fully nude female character design of an upcoming project whilst you stood awkwardly with a set of breasts in full display for the two of you, like when the two of you escaped to become the aloof, static noise of an unbefitting party, or like when he held you in his hands and kissed you at the stroke of midnight, the butterflies live on—even today—to shield you from the dampened blows struck by dull weapons of jealousy, insecurity, and remorse. 

With time, the silver lining finally showed itself like a sun shining through after a stormy night. You’ve finally accepted the truths behind every weapon. She was pretty. They were pretty. She never wronged you. They never wronged you. They deserved his love. His heart belonged to whomever he desired. 

He never badmouthed his peers and, as blunt of a man as he was, he never pointed out your flaws, even if that meant you would later return home only to find mascara flakes on your cheeks. He treated women like a gentleman, as contradictory as it may seem from his appetite demeanor; and while you fell for him for that, you also cursed him for that very reason. He didn’t owe you anything… up to a certain point until the lines were too blurred to decipher between the truth, the deserved, and the faulty. Be it Ji-eun or Jennie, you’ve come to terms with his relationships. 

As much as your relations with him seemed to run on a fragile thread of fate, your time had run out and the window of opportunity had been shut—but hey, at least you had fun.

“Are you… smiling?”

“Hm?” you look up to find her staring at you in concern. Blinking blankly, you quickly clear your throat and retract the smile you had subconsciously adorned. “I am?”

“I… don’t know if I should be worried or not,” Yezi downs another glass of iced water and you’re about to follow suit until she almost chokes on her water, “hey—isn’t that Jennie over there?” 

“Jennie?”

You almost curse at Yezi for teasing you over bygones that should’ve been left as just that, but she really wasn’t lying. You can’t believe your eyes when you whirl your head around to look through the darkened tint of the restaurant’s window panes. You might have never really spoken to Jennie, but that figure is undeniably Jennie. 

“What is she doing?” you squint, struggling to grasp a clear vision of her silhouette under the dim, orange street light beside her. You could only catch a hint of her side profile but those cheeks and unique sense of fashion definitely belonged to her; on the other hand, the constant stumbling and the hand to her head, almost as if she’s about to collapse at any second, did not resemble her. “Oh, oh, hold on, wait, whoa—we should help her!” 

You scramble to your feet and bolt out the door whilst Yezi takes care of your abrupt leave with the restaurant staff. A freezing blast of wind welcomes you as soon as you step into the sidewalk but you waste no time. Abandoning the cold behind you along with the past, your mind is set on aiding the collapsed woman on the streets. 

“Hey! Jennie, hey!” you call out to her as you sprint to her side, dropping to the floor without caring to notice the shards of glass that consequently cut your knees as you carefully roll her limp body onto its back and away from the sharp hazards. The pain has you wincing and seething under your breath, but the conditions of the person lying before you has you even more concerned. Her skin is even paler than usual. Her chest rises and falls rapidly in an evident struggle. Your taps against her shoulder gradually become frantic shakes until all you can hear is your voice and the whispering commotion of bystanders behind you. “Jennie! Can you hear me?!” 

“Y/N!” you turn around to find Yezi peering down at you from above. “What happened?”

“I don’t know but something’s definitely not right,” you say as calmly as you could, “call 911. I’ll call her family.”

“Got it,” Yezi nods, immediately dialing the numbers on her phone but pausing in the midst of the ring to face you, “wait, do you know anyone from her family?”

Gritting your teeth, you frown as you dig into your memories, “...no, I know she might have had a boyfriend back then, so he might know, but I don’t know if they’re still together and I don’t even know his number…”

“Do you know anyone who might know her boyfriend then?” 

“Well…” 

The ending trails of your voice are whisked away into the returning wind of that fateful night. Hands gripping at your phone and eyes staring at the stranger yet familiarity of a name that glares off the screen, it’s an inevitable force that has you stupefied yet marveled at the revival of a tugging string that ties you to him through the strangest, most meandering paths. 

-

his side;

It was almost like a fever dream. Her name plastered across his screen and his eyes squinting through the glaring light that illuminates his room. It had been two years since he had any contact nor mention of her; and now, out of the blue, in the midst of a nap after gym session, she calls him for help. He couldn’t believe his ears when he first heard her voice, believing it all to be another one of those numerous dreams that had him regretting his past or questioning his choices. He shot straight up in bed, phone grasped and glued to his ears that blocked out the computer fan that ran in the background. 

Even now, after throwing on a sweater and jacket and bolting out the door in a state of rescue, he can’t quite believe his eyes; because there she sits on the hospital bench, in the signature slumped boyish manner and the confused blank stare off into the distance that still has him quirking a smile in remembrance every once in a while. In her favorite white blouse and her only slack of black dress pants, it’s almost as if nothing had changed, almost as if she had never left. 

It’s almost like time had bent to his incessantly subconscious pleas and reversed its works; but the almost will always be an almost, for as long as those hallmark vivacious eyes and those rekindled mien of ambition lives. As far as Jungkook knew, she left with a dreary heart and returned with a fiery purpose. 

Despite all that, he can’t help but notice the way she fidgets in her seat, nearly sinking and avoiding all contact the second his presence had been noticed. Instead of the sheepish flickering stolen glances of the past, he finds himself at odds with the way she fights to return the locked gaze of his eyes. She fought so hard that she might have forgotten how to speak, rendering a soft chuckle from his lips because the girl he endlessly dreamt of might still live after all; and for the first time in a long while, Jungkook has to put forth the effort to fill in the silence. 

“Why did you call me?” he asks plainly as he stands before her.

“Well, I didn’t know any of her friends except you…” he watches as she fidgets with her hands, gaze falling to the floor before returning to him, “are you going to visit her? I think the doctor should be okay with it if you’re her close friend.”

“No, Kai will be here soon,” he explains, finally bending down and placing the bottle of rubbing alcohol beside her on the bench. “I have other shit to attend to.”

“Oh, right,” she mumbles. The evident surge in annoyance amuses him that he just can’t quite wipe the smirk off his face. Turning her head, she continues, “you must’ve had plans with Ji-eun tonight. Sorry for the trouble.”

This is it. This is the moment that replayed on repeat like a broken tape in his dreams. This is his chance to mend the wounds he had inflicted upon the confessing girl who cried her eyes out on the cab home that one, indelible night. 

An uncomfortable silence fills the air with the exception of the unscrewing of a plastic bottle and the gentle return of the bottle against the metallic bench, which is then followed by another staggering silence. 

“We’re not that close and I’m not dating Ji-eun now.” 

The girl turns with the quirk of a brow, especially when she spots him kneeling before her with a soaked cotton ball. “W-Wait what? Wait, shit, ow.”

“I don’t talk to Jennie as much as you think,” he states as a-matter-of-factly and continues to gently pat the cotton against the wounds on her knees. After hesitantly placing a band aid over the wound—something he had never done for anyone else nor for himself who just “sucked it up”—he finally lifts his gaze to interlock with hers, observing intently as if to soak the reality of it all in now before the inevitable tape begins to replay for the near future. “I broke up with Ji-eun before you left.” 

“And...” she utters slowly, “why are you telling me this?” 

Just like in the pool on that one night, her challenging eyes never budge and neither do his.

“I thought the past you would’ve liked to know,” he states. Head tilting to the side as if to get a better look, he remarks, “shit, you don’t look away anymore, huh?”

“Why would I?” she quips, snorting and finally breaking contact to stare off to the side. “It didn’t matter if I knew or not. It’s not like we were a thing.”

“Really?” Jungkook hums, gathering the scraps of cotton and paper before standing to his feet with a genuine soft sigh. It’s hard to brush off the two year old sinking sensation in his chest for something so nonchalant, but he manages to do it like he always does with that stoic look on his unreadable face. “Cause I thought we were.” 

“What?” she gapes and he only gazes firmly back at her. “Why? It’s not like I… liked you.”

“Really?” Jungkook’s eyes flicker up at the ceiling for a brief second, lips pursing as he concludes the cards on the table: the unapologetic albeit risky truth or the defensive albeit purposeless self-deception. Unbeknownst to her, Jungkook had all the cards in his hands. 

“Yeah,” she mumbles, avoiding his gaze and shrugging, “and it’s not like you liked me.” 

Peering down at her from above, the boy’s crooked grin gradually settles into the silence along with the usual unreadable mien that he wears on the daily. “How would you know?”

Finally turning to return his gaze, she raises a brow at him before uncrossing her arms and standing to her feet. One step, two steps until she stands before him as close as she could recall on that night, she utters the one mutual truth of the night. 

“Because you never told me.”

The brief silence filled with tension seems to last an eternity, yet neither of the two could take their eyes off the other. A rush of thrill intermixed with panic floods his blood. His fight or flight system screams at him to obey the very laws he had followed all these years but his mind warns him that change is a necessity for this euphoric heat that radiates from this very moment. He’s never quite felt like this before: throat knotting and heart leaping nearly out of his chest. 

“Let’s—”

“—I need to catch the last train home,” she blurts, quickly taking a step back to distance themselves. 

Like a magnetic force that she is to him, her retraction almost pulls the breath from his lungs along with it.

“What?” he frowns, trying to steady his breath. “It’s 10 right now. My last ride is at midnight.” 

“Yeah, well mine is at 11 and I still have to walk there,” she shrugs indifferently to the entire ordeal—something that Jungkook takes to the heart. 

“What?” he mutters, “the station is right next to this hospital.” 

“What can I say? I’m a slow walker,” she prims, bowing her head and waving her hand to bid farewell. “Thanks for the band aid and all the help today. It was nice catching up. See y—I mean, take care.” 

He stands there in silence, too stunned by the constant turn of events. Distracted by the crestfallen weight in his chest elicited by his shattered hopes, Jungkook raises a hand in response to her pressed, upcurved lips. He can only mumble a seemingly indifferent, “...see ya.”

There she goes—as gracefully as she had reentered his life and as fleeting as she had left for a second time. All this time he knew his side of the story: growingly regretful, discovering a yearning he never knew was within his capabilities, and helplessly pondering over a past he could not change and wondering if she did the same. At some point in time, those feelings became a fragment in time and that person he wished she knew became a version of his present self. He moved on, he forgot the magnitude of the pain, but he never quite came to terms with what it all could have been. 

And all at once, the very moment he stands before her, the past him whomst he had perceived to be temporary comes flooding back into reality—flesh, fervent, and feelings of an immensity he could never have been prepared for—and if he were to be honest, he thought it would have been the same for her. 

He never really knew her side, after all; but at the very least, he desires to hear it from her, herself. She never missed him, she never thought of him from time to time, she never woke up from a dream of him so vivid that it felt so real that she was left with a melancholic loneliness in the air—those words would close the gap in his chest. 

If there’s one thing Jungkook had absolute control over at this very moment, it’s the last chapter of their shared novel in time and this is not the conclusion he imagined. 

Before he knew it, Jungkook finds himself sprinting down the train station. Across the coldly lit hallways, up and down the stairs instead of the ‘shitty, slow escalators,’ and cutting through the nearing midnight breeze of the platforms until the breeze finally brought him to the last unvisited area, his daunting final destination. 

Checking his watch, Jungkook’s chest heaves as he holds his hands to his knees in an attempt to catch his breath. It’s well past 11 now, nearing midnight, and he’s standing at the platform in the opposite direction of her new hometown. To the mere bystander, this platform really didn’t make any sense; but to Jungkook and his inkling, perhaps by a disheveled and desperate state, every twist and turn of the wind brought him right where he believes he belongs. 

Puffs of his breath mark the airy night as he watches his last ride pass by the rails before him. Every cart, every seat, he scans them all. No one. His heart sinks with each check, each flicker of the eyes, and he begins to curse himself for his state of delusion until the last cart of the train flashes by to reveal his finale. 

And as if by some sort of invisible string, life had somehow led him to her once again.

Because there she sits, across the wide yet surely crossable gap of the railway, legs crossed and hands folded in her lap, as if she had been waiting for him all this time. 

Jungkook stands there, stupefied by the works of fate, “why are you—”

“—hey, Jungkook!” she calls out to him, voice echoing across the vast, empty station. “What were you going to tell me back at the hospital?” 

Taken aback by her question, Jungkook chuckles to himself in utter amusement; and as if by the magic sifting through the night, the nearby tower bells ring across the remaining distance between the two at the precise stroke of midnight.

“Let’s date!”

The boy’s zestful holler resembles more like that of a cheerful proclamation, for the way he holds his hands to his lips before throwing them freely into the air garners a giggle from his spectator. His voice projection accompanies the bells, perhaps too softly and thereby physically undetected, but she could hear him nonetheless. 

“I liked you and I still like you so damn much, you dumbass!” 

After witnessing the boy’s courageous display, the words she’s been waiting for but never knew she needed until their paths crossed once again for a limitless nth time slips from her like second nature, almost as if she’s practiced it in her dreams all this time. Her loud proclamation, however, slips beneath the bells like an accompaniment to a ceremonious work of fate. 

The two of them stand on opposite sides of the platform, their confessions are far and wide and perhaps inaudible, but the dorky smiles adorning their lips as they gaze across at their inevitable final chapters serve to prove an undeniable fact. 

Whether by sheer will or by this invisible string, whether by his side or her side, the truth is: their eternities will be forever tied, forever golden.

#bts angst #bts fluff #bts smut #bts scenarios #jungkook angst #jungkook fluff #jungkook smut #jungkook scenarios #jungkook fanfic #bts fanfic #bts fic #bts imagines #bts x reader #bts x you #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook x y/n #bts x y/n #jungkook imagines #jungkook fic #scriptaed #bts scenario #jungkook scenario

[anakinisvaderisanakin]

Seeds of the Past (aka Ahsoka and Luke FINALLY Meet) Fic

She’d waited too long to approach, long enough to make the encounter more awkward than it had to be. He didn’t know her, and she technically didn’t know him either. But she had to know, she had so many questions. She had to speak to him, to confirm the rumors, to put a face to the name that had haunted her so. She hadn’t given the kid much thought when mentioned in passing, had simply celebrated the fact that another talented young pilot had joined the ranks of the Rebellion. She’d already mostly phased out of the Alliance’s radar at that point. Then, she’d caught wind of his last name.

A Jedi, they said. Rebuilding the order, walking in his father’s footsteps. A kind, good hearted, brave young man. The phrasing sounded eerily close to the way in which she had once heard his father described. His father, the only thing they had in common. As she resolutely strode up to the boy, standing not much taller than herself - a slight build, much like his petite mother - she braced herself. All she saw was the back of a black cloak with its hood down, revealing an unruly mop of dark blonde hair. That, too, brought back memories. She took a deep breath, and opened her mouth.

“Are you Luke Skywalker?”

Ahsoka’s tone was a bit harsher than she would have liked, mostly due to a hoarse nervousness. It spurred a reaction though, as the man immediately turned to face her. Her eyes widened, as a familiar shade of blue stared back at her. The man bore a few distinct battle scars, but his face was youthful, his jaw square, his chin dimpled. His expression was surprised but gentle, sweet in its polite greeting. He raised his eyebrows for a split second, before responding with a shy smile and a nod.

“I am. Can I help you, ma’am?”

His voice was soft, and warm, and welcoming. He spoke with an inherent dignity, carried himself with grace, words slow and deliberate and neatly aligned as he spoke. But all Ahsoka could pay attention to was the fact that he had his father’s features. Anakin Skywalker’s features. Blue eyes, sandy blonde hair, boyishly handsome. Clad in black, muted colours.

But Anakin’s son, Luke, had a sweeter disposition. Luke may look like the splitting image of Anakin, but he bore his mother’s fierce, yet restrained edge. The glow in his eyes was hers, the tilt of his chin. Luke was calm, collected, and his small half smile gave off a curious, yet knowing impression. It suited him, and Ahsoka realized she was blatantly staring. She realized she hadn’t even answered his question in turn.

“No. I mean, yes. It’s complicated. I only wanted to see you in person,” she finally said, her sincere tone earning her a perplexed pout.

“See me? Well, I’m afraid I’m not much to look at,” said Luke, another genuine smile gracing his features and Ahsoka recognized Anakin’s sarcasm, his rambunctious sense of humor in the boy - although Luke’s sarcasm was much more mellow and humble than overtly smarmy.

“You look so much like Anakin,” she blurted out without thinking.

Ahsoka had initially wanted to ease Luke into breaching the subject of his paternal legacy, but found it impossible to restrain herself. His expression conveyed some shock, followed by a forlorn sadness as a sombre sense of understanding came over him. Ahsoka gave him an apologetic look, but sensed no emotional discomfort from the boy. It gave her enough courage to continue.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to spring that on you.”

Luke shook his head, still clearly taken aback but his posture was just as inviting as before.

“It’s alright. I’m kind of used to it,” he shrugged and grimaced a bit, then the prevalent curiosity Ahsoka had noticed previously bubbled back up to the surface. “You knew my father?”

“I did, many years ago.”

Ahsoka hoped it came off right. She’d sometimes found herself questioning whether she ever truly knew Anakin at all. The man she had looked up to and admired as an older brother had been jovial, carefree, easy going. Not the sort of man who would fall to the Dark Side, not the sort of man who would committ genocide and murder children. None of the brooding, budding darkness within Anakin that she had come to realize must always have lay dormant.

Anakin had been a perpetual optimist, in her eyes. The Anakin she had seen, the Anakin she had felt but refused to acknowledge until the truth was staring in her right in the face was anything but. Luke had gone to face him and Palpatine alone, how had he lived to tell the tale? Luke seemed so pure and innocent, incorruptible even - but so had Anakin.

“He was my master,” Ahsoka added after some deliberation.

Luke nodded, sharing her grieved expression.

“You’re Ahsoka Tano, aren’t you?”

This time it was Ahsoka’s turn to be surprised, and she tilted her head to the side, scrutinizing the boy’s friendly disposition.

“You’ve heard of me?”

“Just a bit. Father has… spoken of you. Not much, but enough for me to know who you are and what you meant to him,” Luke admitted, and his expression mirrored the apologetic look Ahsoka had shot him earlier. “You and Obi-Wan were such important parts of his life.”

Still visibly sad, there was a jagged edge to Luke’s Force signature upon being reminded of his father’s legacy and the monster he had become - the monster who was thankfully remembered as a separate entity in the wake of his death. Ahsoka furrowed her brow, not understanding what Luke was hinting at, but she accepted it for now. Somewhere deep inside, the knowledge that Anakin had spoken fondly of her and Obi-Wan even whilst overtaken by darkness soothed her. In her youth, Ahsoka may have found it impossible to bide her time and patiently wait for Luke to open up, but now, a kinship needed to be established first hand. She wanted to learn more about Luke, where he had been all this time, and she could sense he wanted to find out what her past held as well.

“I… have so many questions for you, Luke. And hopefully some answers to the questions you wish to ask me, in turn,” she said, almost amused by how similar to Obi-Wan her phrasing came off.

Luke appeared to catch the same vibe, as the corner of his lips twisted slightly upwards. He looked bashful, almost, like a small child. Then again, he was barely more than a child. When Ahsoka was his age, she had already seen war and death for one lifetime - and it was only the beginning. It pained her to know Luke may be dealing with a similarly difficult burden.

“I’m certain you’re right, Ahsoka. Can I call you that?”

Luke’s eyes were questioning her with a hopeful yet timid reverence.

“Yes, of course,” was all she could reply, offering him a warm smile as she reached out by habit and squeezed his shoulder for encouragement.

“In that case, let us talk about it,” Luke said as soon as he was given the go ahead, and Ahsoka could do nothing but agree with the statement.

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

Because we all want this to happen in canon, and I can't wait for the moment when it eventually does. I imagine it might go a bit like this, when Ahsoka and Luke finally do get to share the screen together and discuss Anakin's impact on their lives past and present.

Ao3 link below:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/31695377 

#ahsoka tano #luke skywalker #star wars #sw #post ot #post rotj #post the mandalorian #canon compliant #ahsoka #tano #fulcrum #luke #skywalker #anakin skywalker #anakin #luke and ahsoka #ahsoka and luke #mark hamill #ashley eckstein #rosario dawson #fanfic #fan fic #fic #fics #my fics #fanfiction #fan fiction #fanfics #fan fics

[tatooedlaura-blog]

Shadowed Grey Eyes

the continued rollercoaster of the cancer arc ...

Our Moments: Chapter 1: Five Words (post-Leonard Betts) Chapter 2: Sidebar Nonsense (post-Memento Mori) Chapter 3: Interim (floating somewhere around Unrequited) Chapter 4: Max 2.0 (post-Tempus Fugit/Max) Chapter 5: Shadowed Grey Eyes @today-in-fic

&&&&&&&&&&

He heard her cough in the next room. He’d been spending more nights there, claiming whatever the hell he wanted because she was getting thinner, quieter, slower. She was looking at him with pale eyes that counted the minutes until she could go to sleep. He carried her luggage for her, even though she insisted she could do it but then left him to put it in the car while she settled in, head back, eyes closed before the engine had time to warm.

He heard her cough in the next room and silent footfall sneaking down the hall, he saw her sitting up in bed. Not wanting to scare her, he knocked lightly on the bedroom doorframe before, “you okay?”

Sliding off the bed, she stumbled past him, the blood showing plainly on her shirt, smeared across her neck, “can you deal with that, please?”

Mulder looked in the room, seeing the dark spot on her pillow. Closing his eyes briefly, he took a deep breath, then went to work, stripping the sheets, presoaking them in her washing machine while he dunked the pillow in her now filling bathtub, invading Scully’s own cleanup efforts in the bathroom. Neither thought anything of it at this point, having shared the burden of vomit, blood, tears, and fear in equal measure. Back in the bedroom, he replaced the linens, fluffed a second pillow, then found her clean pajamas, handing them to her while she sat on the closed toilet, bringing herself back to some semblance of quiet center amongst the chaos.

Settling himself on the edge of the bathtub after he turned it off, water leeching the blood from the pillow, he played with the hem of the clean shirt he’d just handed her, “need some help?”

And instead of a ‘yes’ or ‘no’, she simply banged her fist against his thigh in frustration, standing, dropping the clothes to the floor, pounding her still clenched hand now on the bathroom counter, rattling soap and toothbrush. He stopped her as soon as he could, grabbing her arms, “hey … hey!”

“What?! Let go of me.”

“No. Come pound the mattress or a pillow or something but you keep doing that to the counter and you’re going to crack the shit out of your hands.”

She fought him for another second, then caught sight of herself in the mirror, Mulder behind her, agonized look clear on his face. The fight left her instantly and holding his reflected gaze, “I’m so tired.”

Enveloping arms around shoulders, gentle for fear of breaking her frail bones, he pulled her back against his chest, head dropped down beside hers, “your bed’s ready so let me help you change and you can go back to sleep.”

Both knew that wasn’t the tired she was referring to, “I can change if you wouldn’t mind getting me some juice, please?”

Some days, she did need his help but he never pushed, “back in a minute.” She was just slipping her clean shirt over her head when he returned, Mulder dutifully ignoring her white back and the ribs he could see as she stretched, “apple is all we have left. I can go shopping for more tomorrow, if you’d like.”

Thinking only of her bed at this point, she didn’t answer, noticing the towel he’d spread over her pillow in case it happened again. She stood there, shoulders hunched, looking at that towel until Mulder asked quietly, “would you like me to take it off?”

“No. That’s the problem.” Turning, she regarded him, brute force honestly the call of the night, “I’ll need it again and I don’t have enough sheets and pillowcases to do this more than once a night.”

Her hair limp, her eyes shadowed grey, her skin a sallow cream, he handed her the juice box, straw at the ready, as he leaned in and kissed her cool temple, “I’m going to bunk in here tonight, all right?”

Barely a nod, he retrieved his pillow and quilt, waiting until she had climbed in bed before turning out the light, moving to his side of the queen size mattress. The washing machine hummed from the hall, every so often a car would swish past through a puddle, and a steady rain tatted the windows. He wasn’t tired, years of sleepless nights preparing him for the next eight hours. Reaching across the bed to her, he gently set his thumb on her forehead, rubbing lightly in circles, “this okay?”

His palm warmed her cheek and shutting her eyes, “yeah … yes … thank you.”

He rubbed another minute or two, then scooted himself carefully closer, “I’m cold. Keep me warm.”

“Mulder.”

“What? It’s freezing in here.”

“It’s May.”

“What’s your point?”

She did love him so completely at times, it was almost funny, “I apparently don’t have one. Come here.”

Receiving the green flag for approach, he invaded the rest of her space, “you should roll over. My breath is going to kill you.”

He’d brushed his teeth right before bed but this was their way as of late so she rolled, soon painted on him, feeling small yet perfect instead of small yet dying … at least for the moment. He was warm, though, God, he was warm.

It didn’t take long to slip into half-sleep, perpetual dull headache moving to the background for what she hoped was the rest of the night, “if we could take a drive right now, where would we go?”

He wanted to cry at the prospect of her being too sick to wander with him, be it down the road, across the country or around the world, “I’d like to drive through Ireland. There are at least 10000 shades of green and air so pure it would probably scare the hell out of my lungs. We’d look for leprechauns and rainbows and drink beer and eat fish and never come home.”

“Would you find a nice Irish girl to settle down with? Have eight or nine kids?”

Kissing the back of her head, “I’ve found a nice Irish girl already and I don’t need kids, just her.”

“What if I find a nice man in a kilt?”

“That’s Scotland.”

“Sorry. I think I’m almost asleep. Would you wear a kilt if I asked you to?”

Knowing they were about to stumble into nonsense territory, he let himself enjoy it, “I’d have to go authentic. Nothing underneath.”

“Except maybe … your nice,” her words slurred sideways, “Irish girl.”

He had to stash that one away for another time, “where would you go?”, anything to keep her talking to him for one more second, anything to hear her voice one more time before she fell asleep.

“A quiet farmhouse with a wraparound porch and chairs to rock in. Maybe a birdhouse and a welcome mat and a dog to sit on it. We’d have a long driveway and a gate at the end and your couch and my bed.” Turning in his arms, she slipped her hand over his side, leg in between his, “it’d be perfect.”

Praying to a God he didn’t believe in for the healed soul of the woman he did, he moved his head to find her lips, pressing them tightly to his, whispering into her mouth, “I love you.”

She was already asleep, however, dreaming of an unremarkable house in a healed future that was rapidly slipping away, one cancerous cell at a time

#msr #Our Moments series #My writing #nice Irish girls #Mulder in a kilt #cancer arc #xfiles #xfiles fanfic #txf fanfic

[justthehiddleswrites]

My Life is a Lie | Tom Hiddleston x Reader

Pairing: Tom Hiddleston x Reader (more of a gen fic)

Summary:  Tom takes his ten year-old son, James out to Benedict’s for a boy’s night out. James discovers the truth of how his parents met.

Warnings: Fluff, Humor, boys night, Underage Drinking, just a sip of beer

-

“James!” you yelled up the stairs as Tom gathered his keys and phone. “Your father is ready to go.”

“Coming, Mum!” a small voice echoed down to the hallway.

“Are you sure you are okay here alone?”

Tom’s deep baritone rumbled against your back as his arms wrapped around your waist. He nuzzled against your neck, his three-day-old whiskers tickling the skin. You giggled and twisted in his grip.

“That tickles.” Tom nuzzled a bit more until you leaned away. “I’m fine. You and the boys have fun tonight. I will just be here, alone. I get to watch whatever I want on TV, rather than Heat for the hundredth time.”

“You said you liked it.”

“One time. I liked to watch it one time. Not twenty times.”

“So what are you going to watch instead?” Tom spied up the stairs to see no sign of James. He spun you to face him.

“Well, I haven’t watched Crimson Peak or The Night Manager in years.” You swirled your finger across his chest.

“If you want to see my ass, you can do it in person.” Tom teased as he leaned down to kiss you.

“But it looks so much bigger on screen.” You wrapped your arms around his waist, your fingers splayed across his backside. The two of you continued to kiss, Tom’s hands tangling in your hair as he held you close.

“Aw, gah!” a disgusted voice broke your passion. “Are you guys ever not kissing?”

You turned to see James standing on the bottom step. His face twisted into the ultimate “what the fuck” face that only a ten-year-old can accomplish. You tucked your head against Tom, shoulders shaking from laughter.

“No, James.” Tom responded. “We are constantly kissing.” He pecked your lips over and over. “Because we realize how much you love it.”

Tom pulled you tight against his chest and kissed you deep and passionate, making it extra loud and sloppy. James gagged in the background.

“Try not to torture the boy too much tonight.” you giggled, smoothing down Tom’s sweater.

“Of course not. That is what Benedict and Luke are for.”

“Poor boy.” You turned to James, who was now standing by the door. “James… Hugs!”

You stretched open your arms and waved him towards you. He rolled his eyes before slumping his way into your arms. You make a big show of pulling him tight to you. “Keep an eye on your father.” you whispered in his ear before sending them on their way.

-

Tom chuckled as James placed his token into the jail square.

“You do the crime, you do the time.” he taunted and picked up the dice.

“Seriously, Dad? You say that every time!” he groaned.

“Yeah, Tom.” Benedict piped in. “Get some new bits.”

“I agree.” Luke joined.

Tom leaned back in his chair, covering his heart. “You’re supposed to be my friends. And my own son! Betrayed!!!” Tom slumped in the chair.

“Drama queen.” James muttered as he passed his bail money to Ben, who was acting as banker.

“Do you expect anything less, Ben?” Benedict quipped back.

“Why do you always call me Ben?” James asked, scrunching up his nose. “My name is James.”

Benedict choked on his beer as he slammed the bottle onto the table. Luke’s eyebrows raised as his eyes darted the two other men.

“Tom! You haven’t told him?!” Ben bellowed.

Luke calmly placed his beer on the table and pushed his chair about six feet away. “Not touching this with a ten-foot pole. Good luck, mate.” he gazed with pity at Tom.

“What’s he talking about dad?” James questioned.

Tom pressed his lips to his beer, taking big swigs. He didn’t want to answer the question. Benedict stared at him for a fair amount before pressing the issue.

“Yeah, Tom, what am I talking about? Have you never told the boy his name?” Benedict’s lips pulled to a thin line.

“Seriously, Tom? How has this never come up before?” Luke narrowed towards Tom. “He’s ten years old. What were you waiting for? His wedding?”

“Not helping, Luke.” Tom gritted out as he took another long draw from his bottle, emptying the bottle.

“My name’s James Patrick Hiddleston.” his tone irritated. He hated when adults talked about him like he wasn’t in the room.

“Not entirely.” Ben quipped. He slid a fresh bottle towards Tom.

“What on earth are you talking about?” James’s brows furrowed, a perfect mixture of his father and mother.

“Your full name is James Benedict Patrick Hiddleston.” Tom stated.

James’s mouth dropped open and his head bounced between glaring between his father and the man he considered an uncle, his godfather. His eyes caught Luke.

“Don’t look at me. I thought you knew. Blame your father. Or better yet…” Luke smirked as he glanced at Tom. “… ask your mother about it.”

James reached for his pocket to pull out his phone when Tom leaped into action. He ripped the phone from his son’s hand and placed it back on the table.

“That won’t be necessary. We don’t want to disturb her evening. Here,” Tom pushed his beer towards James. “Take a sip.”

James took a sniff before sipping. His face screwed up in disgust and he pushed the beer back to Tom. “That is disgusting. So what’s the story? Why am I named after Ben?” He jerked his thumb to the other end of the table.

“What makes you think there’s a story?” Tom asked.

“Because…” Benedict interjected. “… there is always a story when it comes to you.”

“Not to mention you are a huge drama queen.” Luke scooted closer to the table.

Tom narrowed his eyes at the shorter man. “Why haven’t I fired you yet?”

“Because I know where all the bodies are buried.”

“So tell the story.” James urged.

“There’s not much to tell. I asked for a favor and your name was the price. I gladly paid it.” Tom scoffed.

Benedict let loose a hearty laugh from the other end of the table. “That is the biggest load of bullshit I have ever heard in my life! You lie to your son?” He leaned in close to James. “Remember last year, when your dad had to have that cap replaced?”

“Yeah.” James rolled his eyes. “He got so loopy. Mum couldn’t stop giggling as he wandered around the house screaming that he was ‘burdened with glorious purpose’.”

Tom’s head snapped as Luke joined in on the giggling. Luke stifled his laugh.

“Outstanding job, Tom.” Benedict started again. “you’ve moved on from Shakespeare.”

“Like when he met Mum.”

Tom paled.

“Exactly, my dear godson. Exactly.” Benedict wrapped his arm around James as he never took his eyes off Tom whose face was as white as the shirt he wore. “Did he tell you I was there?”

James’s eyes widened. “No. Dad never told me the entire story. He always said I wasn’t old enough.”

“Must have slipped my mind.” Tom groused. “There’s no need to bore the boy with mushy romantic stories.” He tried in desperation to end this conversation. “Let’s get back to the game.” He reached for the dice, but James snatched them up first.

“I recognize that look. Mum says that is your ‘oh shit’ look. I need to hear this now.”

“Traitor.”

“Good boy. You’ve had your first sip of beer, you are old enough to know the truth.” Benedict complimented. “So your dad was a ghastly car accident on set ages ago. Before he turned into an old man. And me, being concerned about my investment as executive producer…” Ben winked at Tom who rolled his eyes before slumping into the chair. “… I followed him to the hospital.”

“You are on the list. Luke put him on the list.” Tom snapped his fingers towards the man.

“Of course, sir.” He gave a salute. “You’re the boss. Benedict is on the list.”

“There’s no list.”

Tom leaned forward. “Oh there’s a list. And you now at the top of it!”

Luke shook his head no behind Tom’s back.

“Anyway… So your Mum was working that night in the ER and your father was smitten from the moment he saw her.” Tom quirked an eyebrow. “Or it could have been the drugs talking. Either way, your father knew he would marry your Mum.”

James groaned. “Is that why they are always kissing?”

All three men laughed.

“I suspect that is part of the reason.” Ben winked at Tom. “So back to the story. Your dad asked me for a favor before he went into surgery.”

“What was the favor?”

“He wanted me to get your Mum’s number for him.” Ben leaned back.

“And is that where my name came in?”

Benedict slapped James’s knee. “Right on, boy-o. Tom, you have a smart boy here. He must take after his mother or his godfather.” Benedict smiled.

Tom gave up on even arguing at this point. They outnumbered him. James spun to face him.

“How did Mum take all this?”

Tom cleared his throat. “Well, I didn’t tell her for a while.”

“How long is a while, Tom?” Luke quipped.

“She was six months pregnant with James.” Tom mumbled.

“And you lived to tell the tale?! She must really love you.”

“It was touch and go for a while. She yelled something about not naming our child after breakfast food.”

“So we compromised, didn’t we, Tom?” Benedict added.

“We did. Benedict would be your middle name and in exchange, that man…” Tom flung his hands in Ben’s direction. “… gets to taunt me about it in perpetuity. You robbed me.”

“I don’t know. I thought it was a fair trade.”

“And where were you during all of this?” Tom turned his ire towards Luke.

“Me?” Luke glanced around in mock confusion. “I was there. Negotiating on the behalf of Benedict.” Tom shot daggers. “Can you blame me, mate? That story is brilliant.”

“Fair point.”

James sat silently while Luke, Tom, and Ben stared at him. He drank his soda before placing the bottle on the table. “My life is a lie.” he sniffled.

His eyes grew wet, and Tom’s heart twinged with guilt. He reached towards him, but James jerked away.

“What else have you lied about? Am I adopted?! Are you even my real dad?” Tears threatened to spill onto James’s flushed cheeks.

“James, no! Your mother and I were going to tell you. I never dreamed you would get this upset. If I thought even for a moment you would get mad, I would have told you sooner. Believe me.” He reached again, but James stood up, his fists balled up.

“I just can’t believe…” James turned his head and his shoulders shook. “… you actually fell for that!” He spun with an enormous grin on his face.

Tom leaped to his feet, knocking over the chair. “Why, you little…”

“You’re not only the one who can cry on command!” James yelped as Tom lunged for him but the young boy was too quick.

“You taught him too well, Tom!” Benedict yelled as the two Hiddleston boys streaked off around the house, Tom gaining on his son.

#tom hiddleston #tom hiddleston fanfiction #tom hiddleston fanfic #tom hiddleston x reader #tom hiddleston imagine #tom hiddleston fluff

[wallgirl]

The Little Nereid Part One

3200 words, part one of a five part fanfiction

Poseidon x OC

Dynamene, youngest of the 50 Nereids, has lived most of her adolescence as a servant alongside her sisters at Poseidon’s palace. But with her coming-of-age birthday and other developments, what she initially thought was just admiration of her master blossoms into something stronger and more passionate... and painful.

Categories: Romance, angst, unrequited love, coming-of-age, earn-your-happy-ending; no NSFW content

---

The incessant cry of seagulls encircling the rocky bluffs below finally woke her. She exhaled reluctantly, tugging the blanket closer to her chest. They were especially loud this morning; perhaps a school of fish had washed up on shore. She was surprised that she didn’t hear Thoe shouting at them in a vain attempt to get them to scatter. Thoe had always hated seagulls, and a millennium of living beside the ocean had done nothing to calm her ire. She rolled away from the bright light entering from the window and drowsily pondered how she would spend the day. If the weather held up, perhaps she would go for a run along the shoreline.

               Then realization hit her, and she sat up, fully awake. Of course, she had plans for the day – it was her birthday!

---

               And not just any birthday, but her coming-of-age celebration. From today on, she would officially be a woman in the eyes of society; no longer a mere girl, despite her thin build and wide eyes.

               She jumped out of bed and undid her rumpled chiton, tossing it haphazardly onto the marble floor as she ran to her dresser. She hurriedly sought through the drawer before pulling out one of her nicer peplos with gold embroidery, then turned to the next drawer in search of a clean chiton.

               “Dynamene! Are you up?” A loud voice echoed from the other side of the bedroom door.

               “Yes! Yes, I’m awake!” Dynamene called back, hastily slamming the drawers closed and turning to the full-length mirror across from her bed.

               “May I come in?” Without waiting for a response, the door opened and a tall maiden with her auburn hair drawn into a long braid entered.

               “Help me fasten my peplos, Actaea,” Dynamene muttered, tugging the fabric around her body.

               “I suppose…” Actaea sighed dramatically. She stepped behind Dynamene and began to gather the cloth expertly. “You know, I’m glad I caught you while you were getting dressed. I have the perfect pins for you to use today.” With a smile, she produced two golden pins with mother-of-pearl heads.

Dynamene broke into a wide beam at the sight of her gifts, her freckled cheeks dimpling in delight. “Thank you, Actaea. They’re beautiful.”

“Aren’t they? I sent for them a few weeks ago. I know you’ve wanted pins with mother-of-pearl for a while.”

“I have, it’s my favorite.” Dynamene admired her reflection shamelessly as Actaea finished positioning the pins, now holding her chiton together at the shoulders.

“I know. What older sister would I be if I didn’t know your favorite stone?” Actaea teased her with a tug on her hair.

Dynamene swatted at her playfully. “Mother-of-pearl isn’t a stone, silly!”

Actaea laughed and took hold of her hand. “Come along, birthday girl. Our sisters have set up breakfast down at the beach.”

Dynamene laughed back with excitement and allowed her older sister to rush her along the pristine white halls of the palace. Exquisite white marble reflected the sunlight entering from the tall windows, making for a heavenly vision when combined with the sight of the ocean gently churning against the rocky bluffs and sandy beaches below. They burst out of the palace’s bottom story entrance onto a vast deck. Across, carved between the rock that crowded up along the bottom of the palace, was a large staircase leading down to the beach. Well, perhaps staircase was too generous; all 150 of the steps were weathered from years of use by the Nereids running back and forth from the palace to the ocean, and tender weeds had begun to billow gently along the cracks. But the Nereids – that is, Dynamene and her older sisters – preferred the well-loved look.

The master of the palace was guaranteed to have a different opinion, but as he never used the staircase, the point was moot.

The stairs ended in soft, peach-hued sands that gave way beneath the sisters’ feet. Further down, along a cluster of rocks that jutted out into the cerulean waters, two banquet tables had been set up. They were well-laden with fresh fruit, wine, honey cakes, and just-roasted fish.

“Dynamene!” The first of her sisters to spot her yelled out. “Happy birthday, Dynamene!” The rest of her sisters, all forty-nine of them, quickly gathered to greet her. A merry chorus of “Happy birthday!” rang out for a full minute before they led her to her place of honor at the head of one of the tables.

“Happy birthday, baby Dynamene,” the last of her sisters called from where she was perched on top of the boulder closest to the tables. Good-natured Eione, with her sunbaked red hair and perpetually sandy legs, rose her glass. “To you!”

“To baby Dynamene!” The rest of the sisters called back, raising their glasses in a toast.

Blushing from the attention, Dynamene rose her glass to toast them back before sipping at the wine. It was remarkably sweet; no doubt sourced from one of the finest casks in the palace.

“Ah, but it is a sad day, too,” Actaea sighed dramatically. “The youngest of us has finally come-of-age; and now we have nothing to look forward to but senility.”

“Get out,” scoffed Ianeira, the eldest of the fifty. She waved her hand as if to swat away Actaea’s words. “Nereids don’t worry about getting old. As the pure-blooded daughters of two water gods, the day we see a gray hair will never come.”

“Why aren’t we gods, anyways,” another sister grumbled.

“I am glad enough to be a sea nymph,” Eione called, stretching her arms. “We are still leagues above mortals, and we don’t have any pesky rules or civil struggles to worry about. Let the other gods have their fun.”

“I agree,” nodded Ianeira. “We’ve seen every sort of trouble that can come from being a god, just by living here.”

Dynamene started at the mention of their master. “Ah, yes… Lord Poseidon. He’s due to come home this afternoon, isn’t he?”

“Yes, so we must make sure our duties are finished before he arrives. But there will be plenty of time afterwards to continue to celebrate your special day,” Actaea leaned over to ruffle Dynamene’s hair.

Dynamene smiled. “Perhaps it’s uncouth to ask, but… I wonder if I can expect a gift from him?” she murmured back lowly.

“Of course you can!” Eione shouted back, and Dynamene gaped at her. Truly, nothing escaped her ears. “Whose birthday was it last? They got a gift. Master Poseidon always gives us something for our birthday; a token of his appreciation, right?”

“Are you hoping for anything in particular?” Actaea asked. “Perhaps a whole island to yourself? Half of the treasure room?”

“No!” Dynamene laughed, swatting her older sister on the arm. “I…” She paused. “I will be happy with anything Lord Poseidon chooses to bestow me with.”

“Ask him to bestow you a new hair comb, then,” a sister snided from behind her. With a careless touch, Thoe ran her hand along Dynamene’s dark hair. “We should be heading back to the palace soon. I’ll fix your hair for you, Dyna. My birthday gift will be one of hair oil and the removal of split-ends.”

And so, all too soon, breakfast was over, and the sisters began their ascent back to the palace to attend to their chores. Once Thoe had sculpted Dynamene’s hair into what she deemed a more acceptable state, the two joined their sisters in cleaning the palace’s vast floors. Half of the sisters made the journey back and forth from the palace to the beach, lugging water in mighty jugs to throw across the marble floors. The other sisters used their innate gifts as sea nymphs to manipulate the water back and forth across the floor’s surface in gentle waves, gathering up the dust and dirt and sending it flowing into grated vents along the bottom of the walls. A system of pipes beneath the palace carried the water back down to the ocean, in a convenient and simple cycle.

Once the floors had been cleaned, the sisters broke up further into singles and pairs, airing out linens and shaking out rugs in every furnished room. Dynamene remained with Thoe as they methodically went through each bedroom and made the beds. Today, Thoe’s abrasive nature did little to draw Dynamene out of her thoughts. She was lost in pondering what Poseidon might give her for her birthday. It was never anything grand, but that was hardly surprising; Poseidon was no sentimental man and being able to live and serve in his palace was gift enough to begin with. But for every Nereid’s birthday, he still remembered to give them something as a token of appreciation. A simple formality. And yet… Dynamene’s heartbeat quickened. She racked her memory; what had he gifted her her last birthday? It had been a while, truth be told. The Nereids only celebrated their birthdays every hundred years. There were so many of them, and they aged so slowly, that celebrating every year seemed like a burden; not to mention that several of them shared a birth month and day.

But now Dynamene’s day had arrived, and she was the last of her sisters to reach womanhood. It was her first official birthday since she had experienced menarche several decades ago. She was quite a bit taller, though still slender in body and round in her cheeks, then she was when she had arrived at Poseidon’s palace with her sisters. Had it really been a thousand years since then? She closed her eyes briefly, reliving the emotions she had felt as a young girl seeing the palace, and its master, for the first time.

Upon their arrival, every sister had greeted Poseidon formally, stating their name with a curtsy, oldest to youngest. Dynamene had never met Poseidon before that day and had no idea what to expect of the man that would become her master. When it was finally her turn, as the youngest of the sisters, to greet him, her heart had nearly stopped.

He had towered over her, a statuesque man measuring over six feet in height, with unfeeling blue eyes and an expression carved of stone. He struck an intimidating figure, even from where he sat upon his throne, and little Dynamene’s heart had jumped to her throat in fear.

But then he had shifted ever so slightly in his seat, just a simple tilt of his head and curl of his hand. The lock of hair that threatened to fall into his eyes caught the firelight just so, and his gray gaze rose to scrutinize her face. It was then that little Dynamene no longer saw a heartless stone statue, but a god; a magnificent, handsome man, with all the power of the oceans at his beck-and-call, who made every other lesser being tremble from his footsteps.

At that moment, she no longer feared him, even as a young girl before an unimaginably powerful stranger. No, not entirely.

She was in awe of him.

“Dynamene!” Thoe’s sharp call brought her back to her senses. “Ianeira is calling for you.”

“Ah, yes,” Dynamene quickly replied, her face flushing. “I’m going.”

Down the end of the hall, the eldest sister waited for her. “There you are. We’re almost done; all that’s left is the lighting of the fire in Lord Poseidon’s quarters. As it’s your special day, I thought you might like the honor.”

Dynamene’s mouth ran dry. “The honor?! But… it’s nothing I haven’t done before.”

“Well, perhaps, if you’re lucky, he’ll arrive as you’re taking care of it. Then he’ll be able to give you your birthday gift straight-away, yes?”

Dynamene nearly choked on her breath. “I… I don’t know if Lord Poseidon would even hand me it himself. He’s always had it brought to our room by the other servants, or the delivery person. I don’t think he would personally-”

“Enough excuses,” Ianeira shooed her. “Hurry, it’s nearly lunchtime.”

With no other choice, Dynamene began the ascent through the palace towards Poseidon’s quarters. Her steps were rather reluctant, and she twisted the fabric of her peplos incessantly. Even his rooms without him in it were intimidating, full of heavy energy without a single fabric fold out of place. Of course, they were so pristine because the Nereids cleaned and organized them with care, especially when Poseidon was away on business, but every surface was kept eternally spotless to the point that it felt almost oppressive.

All too soon, she had reached the top of the final staircase leading to his quarters. Pushing through the heavy, ornate mahogany doors that were twice her height, she silently entered the sitting room. Poseidon’s personal suite consisted of a sitting room, his bedroom, and his private bathroom. Perhaps it seemed sparse compared to the living quarters of other gods, but Poseidon hated frivolity. The simple rooms suited him well.

That was not to say that they weren’t furnished with the finest furniture and materials available. The great fireplace that loomed across from her had intricate reliefs carved into its marble, recreating important moments from the Greek pantheon’s history. Dynamene brushed her fingertips tenderly against an image of a young Poseidon, freshly freed alongside his siblings from the stomach of their father, Cronus. She marveled at the detail, almost too fine to clearly see with the naked eye. Hephaestus himself had carved the images as a house-warming gift to Poseidon, his skill evident as Dynamene stared in wonder at the stone Poseidon’s face. If she squinted, she could almost make out the individual lashes of his eyes.

Without warning, the mighty doors behind her swung open, and she spun around, back pressed against the wall.

A towering figure stepped inside, allowing the doors to creak shut behind him. The faint light that crept in from the windows in the adjoining rooms gently illuminated the man’s pale face and bare chest. He moved forward, steps slow and deliberate. The dim gray light pulled along the edges of his figure to reveal a solemn face and fair, windswept hair.

“Lord Poseidon,” Dynamene breathed, immediately dropping into a curtsy. She stared at the floor, listening to her own heartbeat become a rapid pounding in her ears. She had been caught dallying in his quarters, and she hadn’t even lit the fire yet.

But his expression changed naught as he took in the sight of the dark fireplace. His eyes slewed left towards it, then back near Dynamene. “You have yet to light the fire.”

Dynamene could barely make out her own voice over the roar of blood in her ears. “Yes, my lord. Please accept my deepest apologies; I have no excuse for shirking my duties.”

He said nothing in reply, but crossed the room to drop a scroll atop his bedside table. Her face burning, Dynamene spun back towards the fireplace and dropped to her knees, quickly attending to the hearth. As the flames began to roar to life, she heard his calm voice once more.

“Come here,” he said. Her hands began to shake, and she slowly righted herself before crossing the room to stand before him on lead-filled legs.

He stared down at her. No, not at her, but somewhere near her. He never looked anyone in the eyes, and Dynamene certainly didn’t expect him to start now. It would be a wasted effort anyhow; Dynamene couldn’t even bring herself to look at his face, instead staring rigidly at his toned shoulders. She knew he wouldn’t hurt her; she knew he wouldn’t yell at her; so why, oh why was she so shaken just standing before him? Why did her entire body feel as if it would break down into jelly at the slightest movement?

He rose one hand, and Dynamene forced herself to look. Laying atop his palm was a simple box, covered in blue satin. She immediately understood, and a different sort of heat filled her veins. He again waited in silence. She knew he meant for her to take it, and she lifted her own hands hesitantly to reach for it. Every movement, every motion was a vast effort, and she found herself begging her body not to flinch, not to mess this up.

As her fingers met the box, she accidentally brushed one fingertip against his palm, and she quickly pulled the hand back, as if afraid she’d be burned. But the other hand had successfully taken ahold of the box, and she drew it back to her chest. “Th… Thank you, Lord Poseidon,” she whispered, her voice breathless and her mouth dry as cotton.

He said nothing in reply, lingering for a moment. She chanced a glance up at his face, seizing the opportunity to once again memorize every feature of his face. A straight nose with the slightest upwards tilt. Those generous black eyelashes that flared out like the wings of a raven. His slight lips that, no matter the expression their owner held, always looked soft. And that curl of hair that always rested alongside his temple, threatening to dip into his eyes – how she longed to reach forward and brush it back for him.

               How she longed to reach up and caress his cheek.

               It was then that Dynamene realized that he was, indeed, gazing back at her, for perhaps the first time in her life. But perhaps she had just imagined it because, in the next moment, he was already turning away from her, striding away towards the bath. She stared at his strong back and the shifting of his shoulder blades, and her hands tightened around the box.

Without another word, she slipped from his quarters and fled down the stairs.

“Dynamene? Is everything alright?” Ianeira called after her, voice filled with concern.

“Yes!” Dynamene found the energy to shout back, even as she continued to sprint. “I’m just in a hurry to see my gift!”

Breathless, she shouldered open the door to her room and closed it with the other before sitting atop her bed. She could once again barely command her trembling fingers to separate the lid from the rest of the box before gently lifting a layer of protective cotton that shielded the rest of the contents.

Nestled inside, a single mother-of-pearl bracelet gleamed up at her in the sunlight.

Her breath caught in her chest. She didn’t dare touch with her clumsy hands for the moment, instead lifting the box up so she could better examine it in the light. It was flawless and sized perfectly for her slender wrist. Setting the box back on her lap, she tenderly slid the bracelet over her hand. She held it with a feather-light touch, not wanting to leave a smudge on any pearl’s surface. It fit as if it was always meant to be there.

She lifted her hand to the window, admiring in awe the way the iridescent beads caught the light. “Beautiful,” she sighed. For reasons unclear, the memory of her fingers brushing his hand arose, and she pursed her lips before cradling her bracelet-clad wrist against her chest. “Thank you,” she whispered. The heat in her face, and the electricity coiled in her veins, remained.

---

Author’s notes:

I really wanted to explore the feelings and pain of first love in this fanfiction; you know, that teenage feeling of desperately wanting someone unattainable. It really brought back some of my own memories while writing this lol. I also want to explore the gray shades of loving someone like Poseidon, in as canon a view as possible. Of course, there area a lot of empty spaces in Poseidon’s canon characterization for me to fill in, but I’ll try to do so while heavily considering his canon depiction.

There’s no way I can write for 49 different side character Nereids, so there will only be six or seven at most that are part of the cast. If it’s hard keeping them straight, have this little guide I made for myself while writing:

Actaea – caring sister

Eione – tomboy sister

Thoe – rude sister

Ianeira – oldest sister

#record of ragnarok #poseidon #record of ragnarok poseidon #fanfiction #poseidon x oc