-Whumptober day 23-
Exhaustion
Head of the Turks collapsed during meeting board. The president came to rescue his dignity (and enjoying the view while he can)

JVL
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@xiinzhan
-Whumptober day 23-
Exhaustion
Head of the Turks collapsed during meeting board. The president came to rescue his dignity (and enjoying the view while he can)
Young Tseng
Before you say another word, know that your options are limited.
Ashe [ fraxcxccl. ]â
ââShe snorts; itâs funny. Hilarious, even, and stupor tugs hazel eyes back in her skull.     On the cusp; fucking outstanding.         âI canât evenââ tittering so shallow, so bereft of breath, it could be sobbingââI canât even feelâ    why would I?â     Ahâ okay. Placated, even in this state, she repeats in a stunned whisper;         âWhy would I hit youâŠâ     No one ever carried her. Ashe made it quite clear, coded within âdonât fuck with meâ body language; you simply didnât touch without permission. Last guy who tried was pinned to a wall and she was barred from the nightclub.     Whatever.         Tseng⊠Well, he could do what ever he damn well pleased, couldnât he, and again Ashe is forced to confront tonightâs shit-show. With his barely-rough chin resting against her head. Ceder-kissed warmth warding against night air so determined to hasten her decline. Ashe couldnât get enough of him.     She sloughed a bloody hand-print down his shirt.     ( donât do this to meâŠ. you bastardâŠ.. how dare you⊠)         Pushing his beautiful fingers into the wound while she barely retained a grip on reality. Face-first in the dirt, forced to educe a past so sweet, longing bloomed beneath her ribs and forced breath from her lungs.     Ashe could have cried. She didnât.         âSânot⊠I meanââ fingers grasp exquisite cotton and Ashe hopes his evening wear is rented, as herâs wasââIt⊠itâs still⊠weâre stillâŠâ Jaw pulses against Tsengâs clavicle. Her grip tugs. âTwo of us or noâ weâre working.â     Ashe remembers. She never fucking forgotâ                                                                                     âc é n g     âWeâre still working. Youâre my boss. I canâtââ                                                                                     â( âhave you.â ) Words ripped from existence with sharpened teeth before they can form upon bruised lips. She refuses to throw it away. To wreck herself upon the man the boy had become. The Turk. Director Tseng.     ( bastard⊠)         Ashe falls silent and Tseng would be forgiven for believing sheâd lost the battle. She hadnât. Wishes she had. Wishes she could so she wouldnât have to feel the fetid, aching hollow beneath splayed ribs. Each step towards safety is counted, measured and catalogued in an effort to deny nostalgic pining.     Their route to the car, however, seemed to plot against her.     Familiarity catches hazel eyes and for a moment Ashe is so overtaken, she forgets. Focuses wholly on the darkened glass front and seats upon tables. The canopy is tired and the paint worn. Sign peeling from sheer exposure to the harsh sea winds. Shabby, but charming.     âLookâ itâs still there.â Vulnerable. Almost innocent. âDo you remember? Where we met⊠properlyâŠâ     Tears come but she doesnât feel.         ( fuck this mission ) ââŠI canât believe itâs still there.â
For something heâd meant as half a joke, he bears her answer with the chiefest of displeasure. She hadnât laughed it off as though it were nothing. So that they could both pretend it was nothing. Sheâd answered him seriously. As if even the notion of their former familiarity were so utterly verboten that it was a sin to give name to it, much less endeavor to regain it.Â
Itâs a rejection that ought not to aggrieve him, given their line of work and the liability familiarity and affection can only bring. But it does. Not just for the protestation but the vehemence with which she committed it.Â
Itâs a moment in which he feels the devastation of a rebuke, where there is little more than the most stalwart professionalism at hand. âI know,â he accedes quietly, preventing any unnecessary or frankly disconsolate further explanation than is obligatory at this point.Â
And then she speaks, with a rounded softness to her voice that he mistakes at first for debility, and finds a curiously bathetic maudlinness there, instead.Â
The cafe.Â
Where theyâd shared petit fours and viennoiserie, demitasses of espresso and cups upon cups of black coffees over evening homework sessions and notebook perusals that sometimes felt like a shame to end that theyâd find themselves on rooftops overlooking the glittering cityscape just to have a reason to not go home.Â
How can she rebuff him and then remind him of what is easily the sweetest, most beautifully uncomplicated time in his life, of which she was such a seminal and significant part, nearly all in one breath?Â
âYeah,â he says through a short, rueful laugh, voice pitched low to amend the bitterness heâs trying not to let show. âStill there.â Along with a thousand other memories I cant forget. Even if Iâd wanted to.
âI can still see you in that booth we always sat in,â he goes on, stealing a glance at the storefront sidelong as it passes just at his periphery and into the bleakness of unmemory. âStealing a bite of my tart when you thought I wasnât looking, scribbling things in the margins of my old notebooks whenever I had to step away from the table. Cheeky thing you were. And still are.âÂ
They round the corner, and Tseng spots the vehicle. Pace quickens, and thereâs a newfound exigency to his steps until he reaches the car and carefully sits her upon the passenger seat. âIâm just going to look,â he warns, but his hand is already upon his jacketâs bloody lapel, pulling it back to search for the source of the most prolific bleeding.Â
It doesnât take long to see the laceration upon her ribs, and Tseng swears under his breath, a word in his motherâs language so idiomatic that it doesnât quite have a proper translation. Not that he wants to explain to her the intricacies of cursing a dead manâs family for exactly eighteen generations when sheâs bleeding out.
He lowers her seat to a more comfortable recline and presses her hand to the wound over the jacket now replaced around her. âTen minutes,â he promises, rounding the car and slipping deftly within the driverâs seat. âYou know what to do.â He pulls out of the spot and guns it for the main road, his hand gripping the shifter until his knuckles go white with worry. âJust stay with me, yeah? Tell me about ...â
Why does he keep thinking about the cafe?
âI miss those chocolate tarts,â he says at last, forgetting his question. âWe should ... we should go back there one day. Maybe.â
@xiinzhanÂ
@fraxcxcclâ
A man exhausted beyond mortal limits, he climbs iron steps. Crosses worn acoustic floors. To the sofa she guides, palms upon broad shoulders encourage respite. Removes tie. Smooths a thumb âcross sharp cheek as deft fingers relieve pearl buttons. Lastly, a hitch of plaid and sheâs settled astride lap, bare thighs enshrouding. Engulfs Tseng within a rose-scented sanctuary. Buries slender fingers within rivulets of ebony and soothes, lips a gentle flutter over tired mien. âTell me what you needâŠ"
He lets himself be ushered to the couch, though his feet understand the direction that his mind cannot fathom. The enervation of his body and soul impairs any sentient thought from him. But he understands the weight of Ashe upon his lap, her warmth upon his chest, the scent of her skin that inspires an unbidden piquancy that surprises him. And even in the mist and miasma of his weariness does he understand the solicitude with which she asks him, demands of him, offers him to be a part of his recovery. To help. To be a bolster within his difficult times.
He canât recall anyone ever having asked after him before. He canât recall ever being the subject of anyoneâs concern or interest. Not until her. And every single time she evinces a modicum of care for him, it never quite gets old. Never to be taken for granted.Â
And neither is she.Â
âYou,â he replies with a quiet honesty, as his hands alight upon her hips, resting upon them with a determined chastity as he turns his mouth up to be kissed. âI donât need you to do anything else. Or say anything else. I just need you here. With me.â
@hyggeliigâ and @hopewroughtâ are killing me tonight IG
@vardrâ
I swear, I end up feeling empty, like youâve taken something out of me and I have to search my body for scars.
Richard Siken, Crush (via persemmon)
@fraxcxcclâ
it's 2am. it's 2am and words blurred together. sat on the end of his desk, legs folded ( cramped ), she admits defeat. ( ow, they're stiff ) the files can wait. Ashe unfurls ( -real- stiff ) wordlessly settles in his lap, head against shoulder. lashes fall to kiss cheeks "I-- am gonna hug your brains out over this desk." she murmurs.Â
He can feel the anticipation of movement, telegraphed in a nervous, unfocused energy that radiates from where she sits, alight upon his desk like a dove. And when she slips from her seat into the recline of his lap, with all the proprietary audacity of a cat, he smiles to himself in quiet victory of his prediction.Â
âWell,â he says, his voice as quiet, as velutinous as any whisper. An arm enfolds her shoulder, the other one reaching around to circle her waist, and there is no doubt that she is welcome to this perch. And that it is where she belongs. So long as she wants to.Â
âHow fortuitous it is for you that I am most amenable to hugs,â he quips in that even way of his. Anyone else might not discern his facetious intent. But Ashe knows him as few do. And will ever do. âThough the offer I will extend to any surface of furniture you may deem acceptable at any given moment. Dealerâs choice. â
@nowaliveâ
Catch Sephiroth just grabbing Tseng by the face for a whole ass kiss
Tseng runs through the standard litany of things to do before he leaves in the morning: breakfast warm on the stove for Sephiroth to wake up to; lunch for work is on the credenza by the door, alongside his keys and wallet. Tieâs straight, shirt tucked, everythingâs in order.
His last order of business is always to kiss the sleeping Sephiroth just at the corner of his mouth. A bestowment he grants as feather-light as heâs able so as not to disturb him. So when he feels rough-hewn, furnace-warm hands grasp his newly-shaven cheeks, draw him down to be enveloped by a kiss that precludes every rational, quotidian thought he clings to.
Thereâs a serenity in the mindless, heedless euphoria, the bare-faced honesty and the splendid simplicity of that kiss. Of wanting that requires nothing more of him than to be present. To be nothing but himself. To be accepted and adored utterly, even in the ephemerality of an uncomplicated kiss.Â
Tseng breaks the kiss, dislodges himself unwillingly from the exultation of that mouth, and laughs breathless with a blank, obtuse sort of senselessness. âI feel like my dayâs going to feel twice as long now,â he says softly, kissing gingerly upon the corner of Sephirothâs mouth. âBecause all Iâll be thinking about is how I canât get back to those lips soon enough.â Â
Ashe [ fraxcxccl. ]â
ââKnife abandoned, ripping replaces hacking and Ashe finds seams far more susceptible to brute force. Far less chance of cutting herself open, as well. No longer hobbled she could at least move.     Palm meets forehead; both notices and doesnât the slick of sweat coating her skin. Vision would not focus upon a neck that felt barely adequate to the task of supporting her head.     Fuck. Adrenaline was wearing already.     ( youâre just drunk walk it off. youâve done this hundreds of times )         Self-assured she wasnât going to pass out, Ashe grabs her bag and heads for the door, only sheer bullishness keeping her upright and placing one foot before the other.     As for his offerâ     To grab or not to grab; uncertainty saw her hesitate. Sheer frustration that this mission had utterly compromised a secret sheâd kept buried since their night together years ago.     ( the lies I tell him crumble like a stack of cards )         Peevishness was no excuse, however, and in reality only a split second passes before Ashe grabs Tsengâs hand and allows him lead; they werenât done yet. Now was not the time to analyse the shit-show that was her exposed and chaotic emotions regarding this man. Nor his actions towards her. Ashe adds beneath her breath;     âYâmight.. regret that offer soonâŠâ
    How late was it? Ashe had little stamina left with which to discern something so trivial. Late. It was cold and late. Sweat-slicked skin chilled instantly and Ashe both felt itâŠand didnât; there had to be a reason she had started trembling violently, right?     ( probably shock. ha ha haaaafuck⊠)         Tseng was forced to take more and more weight before the Grand Hotel was well behind them, the cover of Junonâs streets encroaching, cloaking their passing. Some of which were cobbled, which spelled disaster for heels. Sure enough, one slipped. Snapped. Ankle folded and down she went like a sack of potatoes.     Hysterical giggling was all Ashe could manage.         âFu~ck⊠f-fuck it. S-sorry bossâŠâ At least to any prying eyes, they were simply a dysfunctional couple staggering home after one too many. Darkness hid injuries well enough. Ashe examined her heel through glassy eyes.     âBroke. Piece aâshit.â         And with the dexterity of a three-year-old, Ashe begins removing her shoes.     âJust⊠a sec⊠might haffâta gimmie a ride⊠ankle feels kinda busted⊠Sir. Boss. Uhhââ                                             cĂ©ng âââŠSir.â     Giggling was better than sobbing, right?         At least she was still conscious, though Ashe was beginning to doubt that was actually a benefit at this stage.     And why was the front of her dress black and wet? She abandons her shoes. ( one off, one on ) Presses a palm to her stomach that comes away dark and slick. ââŠ.shit.â
Itâs painful, watching her like this. Even when he reminds himself that sheâs a seasoned agent, and itâs this exact fucking extraordinary mettle that makes her brilliant at what she does. He knows that. Implicitly and explicitly.Â
But what he canât forget is that skinny girl in the cafe so many years ago. Who formed his name so carefully upon sugared lips, who studied every stroke of his character with a voracious curiosity no one had ever shown him before. Or since.
Heâd adored that girl. He adores this one still.
His immediate instinct is to take the knife from her hands. He can surmise what sheâs doing, and under any other circumstances than being heavily drugged, sheâd be trusted without hesitation to the task she sets herself to. But he has to respect her skill, demonstrated or not. Compromised or not. And he does. So he lets her.
Fortunately, she escapes from the endeavor unscathed from her own doings, but heâs unsatisfied still at the state of her. But the displeasure is amended with the hand that grasps his, with the surety of his support, his inevitable loyalty to her safety. To her.Â
They walk out into the night with hands clasped as lovers might. Though thereâs no resignation or repletion in the act. Fingers grasp like vices, palms slick with the sweat of worry, and he holds onto the fading strength of her hands with a meeting fervor. A sudden tug, a swear hissed through an inebriate laugh and Tseng catches her around the waist to hoist her up, bolstered to his hip for safety. Sheâs abandoning her shoes, which draws a purl of his brows too unyielding to be anything but the utmost displeasure. âHere, let meââ
The offer halts upon his lips as his mouth falls agape to the sight of blood flooding the rents of her dress. âFuck,â he swears under his breath, cursing himself for not checking her over for substantial injuries before heâd let her walk out of there. The likelihood sheâs injured herself further with the exertion of walking gouges at him, and he berates himself with a thousand admonitions all at once.
âDo me a favor and donât hit me?â he asks, wrapping the jacket firm around her. âAnd donât resist. Please.â
Tseng scoops her up in his arms, making sure to cover every bit of her modesty he can, walking as carefully and quickly as heâs able towards the car, which is still too far for his liking. Heâs nervous. Not that he expects her to be. But he pretends the small talk is for her benefit rather than his. âWhat was the point of asking me how to say my name correctly if youâre never going to call me by it?â he asks, though the question holds no accusation. Only the maudlin curiosity borne of a nostalgia lost to both of them. Of a halcyon time before Shinra. Before the war. Before the Turks. Before all of this. Â
He smiles, inclines his head just enough to rest the side of his chin upon her forehead. Not quite intimate. Something he can pass off as an accident, if he has to. âI wonder if you even remember how to say it. Youâre free to call me whatever you like at work but ... when itâs just the two of us ... you can say my name.â
nowalive replied to your post âDoes Wrath know Iâd follow them into hell like a chthonic deity...â
EXCUSE ME GAY ASS I LOVE YOU SO MUCH???
STOP STEALING MY LINES I LOVE YOU MOREÂ
Does Wrath know Iâd follow them into hell like a chthonic deity @nowalive
I Wanna Be Yours, Arctic Monkeys
@xiinzhanÂ
Susan Sontag, Reborn: Journals and Notebooks, 1947-1963
when youâre rping with your partner and things get so out of hand youâre just watching your characters do their own thing and not at all what you intended like
@fraxcxccl