#….its been a while since i watched it could be worse/better than i remember

[cryptosexologist]

shoutouts to the psychedelic weapons bit from The Holy Mountain for basically already existing in a much less entergaging form

this is just 4 more crazy nights and a shamash away from being a menorah gun. we can get there. the shamash being the handle or trigger or hammer would also fuck severely on a symbolic & thematic level

[p0orbaby]

Life Was So Simple Then (1)

summary: you and leah embark on a trip through Europe in an effort to save your marriage

warnings: a smidge of angst but you’ll live

a/n: i may or may not be considering making this a series…

word count: 1.4k

-

The train moves at a comfortable hum, soothing in its way, while London shrinks behind you in pieces, in windows, in corners. The world outside your window looks surreal, vaguely greenish, fragmented by flashes of trees and brick houses. There’s something almost too quiet about it, an uneasy softness to the edges of this journey that is meant to patch you both back together.

You’ve been married for—what is it?—six years now. But you were Leah’s shadow long before that. You’ve been her plus-one, her background feature, her silent assistant in uncountable ways that now feel petty to list. The bitter edge surprises you as it rears up unbidden. You take a breath and decide you’ll name these feelings, as if naming things might tame them. Resentment. Grief. Stubborn hope. You and Leah have been through worse. But also… maybe not.

You glance at her. She’s examining her nails, mouth set into that default neutrality she pulls out when she’s feeling strange or anxious or tired. It’s her ready face, the one she’s kept in her kit since she was just a gangly teenager at Arsenal, desperate to be taken seriously, to get noticed for more than her posture and a fast left foot. You remember those early days. You remember being eighteen, in the stands, showing up for her even when you barely knew her. When all she had to offer was coffee in half-cleaned thermoses and lectures about work-life balance that were one part playful, two parts scolding, and strangely magnetic.

When you finally pulled her into that first kiss, it was a Thursday. You remember that because she had a match the next day. She’d stood there with her mouth half-open, one eyebrow raised, until she laughed that strange, short laugh, pulling you in by your wrist, the way she always did when she was uncertain about something but willing to give it a go. Afterward, you’d watched her lace up her shoes, this careful process that she performed like ritual. The order mattered: left, then right, then another knot. The same attention she brings to everything—coffee, calls, stretching, the single glass of wine she never finishes at dinner because it’s “almost too nice to ruin.”

Back then, she’d just been Leah. But then she’d become Leah Williamson, and you, married to her, got folded into the package. You’d get, “oh, that’s Leah’s wife!” from strangers at the shops, from mothers of kids at school fundraisers, from friends of friends who never bothered with your name. You hadn’t known how strange that would feel until it did, like there was this parallel version of yourself, waiting in the wings, and now this strange person had overtaken you. You’re still working on making peace with that, though there’s little peace about it.

Leah raises an eyebrow as if reading your mind, which is a trick she’s only gotten better at. “You’re very quiet. Am I allowed to ask if something’s wrong?”

“You could,” you say, but it sounds a little brittle, so you reach for her hand, entwining your fingers, hoping the gesture makes up for it. She doesn’t flinch, which is a start. You’re not entirely sure where you left off, after the months of silent dinners, of days bookended by her rising before dawn for physio appointments and crashing in bed long after you’d fallen asleep. Now, as her fingers brush your knuckles, you can almost feel that old connection, an unexpected sliver of warmth threading through the silence.

“Fine, be cryptic.” Her mouth quirks in a half-smile, the kind that used to come so naturally but has felt harder and harder to coax out. She lets go of your hand and turns back to her phone, skimming news alerts and whatever else she’s curated into a daily distraction routine. That’s new, too, the constant scrolling. It used to be just the morning Guardian and the Arsenal forums, but now she reads everything as if she’s half-waiting for some seismic news, some validation that she made the right decision. Retirement. The word feels abrupt, like something has been shaved off the ends. The other day she’d admitted to reading the tabloids. Just the sports ones, she’d said, in that overly casual voice she uses when she’s trying not to sound defensive.

“Did you pack the sandwiches?” Leah’s voice drifts up, and it takes you a second to process that she’s talking to you.

“Yes, your honour.” The words slip out like they used to, like you’re just starting out, laughing over drinks after midnight. You see her relax a little, a sign she’s actually been worrying about the sandwiches, and you realise she’s probably equally terrified that she’ll spend the entire trip thinking about where she’d rather be. The knowledge of her own shifting nature used to thrill her; she’d tell you she was “made of kinetic energy,” that she couldn’t ever be truly still. Now, it seems to disturb her.

“Well, just checking.” She doesn’t ask you to get them, and you don’t offer. You suspect there’s a silent mutual agreement that eating will come later, a familiar tactic she’s deployed whenever nerves or a big match made her too jittery to eat. You’ve read about married people developing shared instincts, unconscious patterns. But this knowledge, like all the habits you’ve developed over time, somehow doesn’t offer the comfort you’d expected. It’s like putting on a jacket that’s become a touch too tight, and you find yourself oddly self-conscious.

As you both sit in this semi-awkward silence, you try to remember the last time you truly sat together like this, uninterrupted. The thing is, you can’t. Even on the few weekends she’d been around the last season, it had always been meals with other players, birthday parties with people you barely knew, her agent dropping by with a sheaf of papers and a grin that you’ve come to resent, though you never say so. Leah had been “there” in a vague sense, the way a familiar armchair is there: functional, comfortable, reliable in theory. But Leah herself? The woman you fell in love with—that particular version of her seemed more and more like a house you once lived in but that someone else owns now.

“What are you thinking about?” she asks finally, in that deceptively soft tone that makes you feel like you’re on trial. She’s always done that, approached difficult conversations like they’re penalty shots. Direct, unflinching, too close to your heart.

“You, mostly.” The honesty slips out before you can stop it. “Us, I mean”

She lets out a soft sigh, nodding as if she understands something specific, though you suspect she doesn’t. Her understanding has become like that of someone who’s learned a language only halfway. There’s the ability to navigate, but no intuition, no rhythm.

“Does it feel strange to be doing this?” she asks. “Like, taking this whole trip to—what’s the word?—to reset?”

You nod, though it’s more than strange; it’s surreal. You’re on a mission to resurrect a version of each other that you barely recognise anymore. The stakes are uncomfortably high, like someone’s dared you both to restore something irrevocably broken.

“You know,” she says, “I used to imagine us doing something like this. But I thought we’d be sixty or something, grandkids on the way, planning things for fun, not… whatever this is.” She looks down, expression somewhere between regret and wonder.

“Yeah. Me too.” You allow yourself a small laugh. “I thought we’d be the kind of couple who’d stay on for tea in strange little pubs and get lost in French villages and drink wine in the countryside”

She snorts, “I’m not sure if I’d drink the tea. Have you seen the quality of some of the pubs out there?” The joke feels just shy of funny, but you force a laugh, hoping she doesn’t notice the effort.

“But you’re right,” she says, finally. “I thought the same. That’s the dream, right? And I don’t know…” She trails off, staring out the window, at the blur of countryside, the unremarkable patches of brown and green that scroll by. “I don’t know if I even know what I wanted anymore. Or what I still want”

The words hang heavy, a confession too thick for this tight, narrow train car. It’s too early in the journey to delve into it fully, too fragile a moment for honesty of this weight. You reach for her hand again, a steadying anchor. Her grip is warm, though her fingers feel a little too light, as if she’s not fully committed to the touch, a detail that pierces your heart like a needle.

“Then maybe…” you start, pausing, wondering if the words are too simple for what needs to be said. “Maybe that’s what we’re here to find out”

[riverintheunderworld]

may i request ronin and a transmasc mc? (i crave t4t content.)

YOU !! you remind me of my friend a lot ( loves ronin and LOVES LOVES mlm t4t content ) anyways !!

Ronin Beaufort x Transmasc MC

You had a lot of ambitions in life. Like, a lot. If your preditions were right, you we're gonna have a best -selling book by now, being loved by everyone -- at least, everyone who took the time to read thriller books about serial killers.

You didn't expect to be in a server full of them, and you would've never guessed that it would be one of the best things to happen to you.

Also, you definitely didn't expect to be dating one of them.

Ronin Beaufort.

A man who is in your bed in this very moment, tracing a finger over your chest -- and it's worth the binder on your chest used to be his own. It feels weird, but nice. You never had the luxury to buy one for yourself before.

His legs are tangled with yours, and you're almost cuddling, for fuck's sake.

Honestly, you feel like you're overheating. The AC is off, because the temperature is bearable when there isn't someone sharing his body heat with you.

"Why are you thinkin' so hard?" Ronin tilts his head, looking at you with that stupid grin of his. The one that you like a little too much.

"I don't know. It's hard not to think."

Ronin laughs again, like he's taking that as a personal challenge.

Unfortunately, you don't think it'll be all that hard for him to stop your thoughts completely. Even worse, it wouldn't be all that hard for the man to direct all your thoughts to himself.

With the way he's looking at you, it seems like he's also aware of that fact.

The hand tracing your chest starts to linger on your hair, playing with the ends of it.

It's barely been a week since you've cut it. Honestly, you can't even remember how it happened. The most you remember is that it was an ungodly hour, and that there was a very tired but willing Ronin cutting your hair over the bathroom sink.

You liked the way it looked.

It's a lot better than how it would've looked if you got it from the barber across the street. You might've still held a grudge on the one who worked on your hair -- he seemed to have a personal vendetta on you and cut it in the worst way possible.

But this? This was nice. You looked in the mirror and actually... felt good with what you saw.

It still felt weird that Ronin Beaufort, the serial killer who you thought saw you as nothing but a playtoy, was the one who willingly helped with all of this.

Very weird.

"I like the way this looks on ya," he murmurs, and you would almost think he's going soft with the way his face holds a gentle expression. "-so handsome."

"I could say the same for you." You could hear your smile in your voice.

When did you start smiling? You didn't know, and you couldn't really stop. Even when you tried.

Ronin, praise the man, starts scratching your scalp. You could honestly fall asleep like this. You will fall asleep like this, actually.

You allow yourself to close your eyes, letting out a soft sigh as his hands work on your head.

After a while, you feel yourself slipping even more, but you force yourself to open your eyes. You want to... well, you're not exactly sure. But your body starts moving on its own, and it's not really in your top priorities to try to stop it.

Without even thinking, you take his hand, intertwining it with yours.

Ronin stays still, looking at you with a raised brow, and you wonder if you finally caught him off guard.

You place his hand close to your face, and you give it a kiss as you look back into those eyes.

Ronin's eyes flicker away for one second, and you feel his fingers twitch.

There's a bit of comfort about the fact that you can ruin him as much as he's ruined you.

You place another kiss.

A/N: HI HI AUTHOR RIVS HERE I HOPE U LIKED THIS!!! sorry if this isn't what u were looking for anon but u can always send in another ask :3 SEND ME THOUSANDS IF YOU'D LIKE!! because i would definitely like that!!!

anyways watch me play killer chat again.. i miss my gays (and im also distracting myself from the fact that im like 1 dollar short for the adwd dlc that i want to buyyy </3 sighh time to finish comms)

ANYWAYS ENOUGH RAMBLING i love u whoevers reading this mwuah mwuahh

[the-palelady]

YAY REQUESTS ARE OPEN! :D can I please have a lil smth with Simon and his squadmate? I thought about this and ho boi now I feel all sorts of emotions.

I feel like Simon is the type of person to sometimes lose it and push himself to his limits, especially during training. And so he would be ok, but Y/n sees through the facade. And so BAM! Simon is laying down from exhaustion, with the summer heat making everything worse. He desperately needs water, but cant move and every recruit is staring.

We see Simon and imediately go Mama Bear ™️, almost scolding Simon for this despite being lower ranked than him. We bark orders at others to look away, while we give him some water behind his mask.

When Simon gets better and remembers, he is pissed that we might have looked at his face, and says so. We sass back that no tf we dont and that next time he should take care of himself. Simon can only be flustered by us, because 1. We are right and 2. We took care of him in the heat of the moment. He can only sit there like a scolded puppy

Guess who has a bigger crush on us now :)))

i’m so so sorry this took so long!! i drafted this up twice and never got it where i wanted it to go, but we’re finally here!!

It had been a week since he had collapsed in front of a group of recruits, and the whole thing replayed clear as day in his mind. A broken record repeating itself in his mind as he did anything and everything to try and forget about it.

Ghost could still feel the exhaustion that seeped into his bones that was somehow worse that day than it ever had been. The sweltering heat felt more like molten lava than anything. It didn’t help the recruits also seemed to get under his skin more than usual, primarily you, your already defiant nature seemingly ten times worse. Yet for some reason that day you were different. Your sarcastic remarks were instead replaced with quizzical expressions, eyes narrowed, assessing him. He could still feel your eyes watching the way his steps faltered, the twitch of his eye when his balaclava seemed to become one with his skin because of the sweat underneath.

He felt like an open book under the scrutiny of your sharp gaze, his patience dwindling at your rare silence.

Until everything went quiet, for just a moment.

Admittedly, Ghost could hardly remember who he was speaking to or what he was saying, likely terrorizing some poor recruit who had messed up their stance during training. All he could remember in that moment was one second he was standing, and the next he wasn’t.

His eardrums rang for a beat, then it was replaced by a voice.

Your voice.

You shouted to some recruit to grab some water, their rushed footsteps padding off somewhere Ghost couldn’t see. His vision was blurred, your figure above him just a shadow in his eyes even as you bent down at his side, grabbing the base of his neck and holding him up.

You mumbled something, your voice soft, caring, a contrast to what he was familiar with when it came to you. Then he felt the push of damp fabric underneath his jaw, moving its way up and over his nose.

At the time, Ghost didn’t register that you had lifted up his mask. Instead, he laid against the ground, neck comfortably cushioned by the palm of your hand that seemed so cool despite the heat that threatened to suffocate him.

“Hey!” He didn’t react to your screaming, only mentally begged that you’d hurry the hell up and press the bottle of water to his lips.

“What did I say? I said turn the around! Gawking like this is a fucking zoo.”

It was like heaven found home within that single bottle of water when it finally pressed to his lips, the cool liquid making Ghost’s eyes almost roll into the back of his head. He barely paid any mind to your annoyed grumbling.

“I have half a mind to kick your ass you know?”

What?

“Our Lieutenant, our superior, supposed to be an example for us, but instead you’re wearing yourself thin. I mean look at you: bags under your eyes, boots hardly tied when you showed up to training. Barely pushing 0900 hours and you’re already on your ass trying to catch a quick fucking cat nap.”

You continue to dig your own grave as you go on about how he isn’t taking care of himself, how he is supposed to be leading you and the other recruits. If Ghost weren’t on his ass he’d throw you off base himself.

However, that’s what he thought at the time.

Rather than ponder on the rage he felt at your words, he instead realized two things, the first being you were right. Ghost always put the job before himself. Things were easier that way. Instead of living in his mind he dedicated his entire life to his career even though it was as physically taxing as it was mentally.

The second thing he realized was that you had seen his face.

At least half of it. 

And for some reason this ate him alive more than the rest of the situation.

A week had gone by and he had done nothing, but allow his anger to grow. Admittedly, you were right. He didn’t take care of himself. Even so, he couldn’t live with the fact that you had seen something that was meant to stay hidden under the shroud of his mask. You had seen the man underneath Ghost, the man he had pushed down and kept hidden for so long.

The anger grew, festering like an untreated wound, puffy, hot, and seething red, blood boiling. Ghost knew anger could lead people to make stupid decisions, and yet here he stood in front of your door, chest rising and falling, fists clenched tight at his sides. His nails left crescent indents on his palms, those same fists coming up to bang heavily on your door.

The sound echoed throughout the hall. Ghost didn’t even notice some people had peeked their heads outside of their doors before retreating back inside. He finally heard the click of your lock before your door slid open.

You wore the usual military issued attire, grey sweatpants and a t-shirt. Your hair was damp, a hand running a towel through it to catch any excess water. Your expression was neutral even when your eyes met Ghost’s, and for some reason his words got stuck in his throat.

“Lieutenant?” He continued to stare at you, almost completely forgetting why he was here, “What do you want?”

The words were caught in his throat. What did he want? Why the hell was he here exactly? It was like all the hatred he held for you suddenly packed its things and vanished. Although he couldn’t say he necessarily hated you. There was just something about you that got under his skin.

The two of you never exactly got along. You questioned authority, his especially. Despite your ability to outperform the other recruits, your behavior was contentious. You were a thorn in Ghost’s side. You’d roll those sparkling eyes of yours when he’d have to adjust your hold on your gun, a rare occasion. He’d bark at you when you’d run ahead of the group during your morning runs. Your head would tilt back as you’d let out a laugh, a sound that made his fingers twitch, a song that he could get used to hearing. You always saw light in a world you knew was so full of darkness, and that just-

“Hellooo? Lieutenant?”

“M’face.”

Your eyebrow arched almost immediately at his words and lack of context, the confusion written all over the way your eyes darted from where his lips would be underneath the mask to his eyes.

“Other day, during training. When I collapsed, you saw m’face knowing damn well I keep what’s underneath hidden for a reason.”

The tone of his voice was accusatory, and he couldn’t help the way he took a step closer towards you. Even so, you didn’t make a move, hip pressed into the doorframe, arms crossed over your chest. When Ghost continued to remain quiet, the only thing you offered him was a scoff, looking down at the floor beneath you as you crossed one ankle over the other.

“Didn’t see a thing, actually.”

There it was. The sass. Ghost could already feel a blood vessel coming to the surface right above his eyebrow, twitching, desperate to burst.

“Ya lucky I didn’t take ya arse to the curb the moment ya decided to mouth off, but looking at something ya have no busin-”

“For Christ’s sake…I didn’t see your damn face, Lt!”

Your shout echoed throughout the hall, but this time no one peeked out. Ghost’s searched your face, your eyes closed. Your hand came up to massage your temple.

A sigh left you, “What’s underneath…it’s none of my business. I would never step over a boundary like that no matter the situation. Kept my eyes closed…”

Ghost could still detect the annoyance laced within your tone, but your voice was softer now.

“Just wanted you to understand the gravity of the situation,” your gaze was resolute when you finally looked up at him, “Everyone here knows how…incredible you are at what you do, Ghost, but none of the dedication you put into this job will matter if you don’t take a step back.”

His ribs vibrated with the beat of his heart, his ears pulsated wildly, rendering him practically deaf as you spoke. Johnny and Price had told him a few times to take a break from work. He knew their concern was genuine, but this was different.

You weren’t them. They didn’t pry open a piece of his mind and make a spot for themselves there as you had, insistently taking up his thoughts like some clingy house cat. That anger he felt slowly dissipated into a forgotten mist, evaporating off of him as he deflated right before your eyes.

“But next time you want to accuse me of something, at least ask first before almost ripping the damn door right off the hinges, hm?”

You raised a brow when he failed to answer you, something foreign fluttering within the pit of his stomach when he failed to maintain eye contact with you. Rapidly blinking to disguise his sheepishness, he nodded.

“Y-Yea…”

He chose to ignore the smirk he was met with when he finally looked back at you.

[riinniies]

Series : The Last Chance

RIN ITOSHI

plot : you are his younger sister, you died. and you woke up in his classmate's body, what would you do?

My writings

hiii its been a while since i post something.. 🫶🫶 how your guys doing?

Part 1

Rin hated you.

And you never knew why.

You tried—oh, how you tried—to hold onto the warmth you once shared. You were his little sister, his only sister. He loved you, once. You remembered the days when his hand would ruffle your hair, when he'd wait for you after school, when he'd share his snacks, even when he pretended not to care.

But then Sae left.

And Sae stopped looking at both of you like you mattered.

You watched as Rin's heart cracked, slowly, painfully, piece by piece. He became colder. He stopped waiting for you. He wouldn't even look you in the eyes anymore. His words, when he did speak, cut sharper than knives. And you... you endured it. Because you loved him. Because you thought—maybe, one day—he would come back to you.

But that day never came.

Instead, there was the crash.

You remembered the sound of metal twisting, the screams around you, the taste of blood filling your mouth. You remembered trying to reach for your phone—to call him. Rin. You wanted to hear his voice, even if it was angry. Even if it was cold. But your fingers wouldn't move.

The last thing you thought before everything went black was:

"Rin... I'm sorry."

And then... you woke up.

But it wasn't you.

The face in the mirror wasn’t yours. You were in someone else’s body—one of Rin’s classmates. A girl who sat near him every day, someone you’d barely noticed before. You wanted to scream, to cry, to run home—but you couldn’t. That wasn’t your home anymore. Your body was buried under cold earth, surrounded by flowers and tears you’d never get to see.

You returned to school—because what else could you do? And there he was.

Rin.

He sat at his desk, looking the same but... not the same. His eyes were darker, emptier. And when you heard the whispers, your heart shattered all over again.

"Did you hear about his sister? She died in that crash..."

"He didn’t even cry at the funeral. Just stood there..."

"Poor guy... They say he blames himself."

And you realized... he knew. He knew you died with his name on your lips. He knew that the last thing you ever wanted was him. And it was breaking him.

But you—trapped in someone else’s skin—could only watch.

You tried to talk to him, as his classmate. You tried to be gentle, kind, careful. But he pushed you away, just like he pushed everyone away. His walls were higher now, and you were on the wrong side.

One day, after class, you found him alone. His head in his hands, shoulders trembling.

You heard him whisper to himself, voice cracked and broken:

"I’m sorry... I’m so sorry... If I could go back... If I could just—see you one more time..."

Tears welled in your borrowed eyes, but you couldn't comfort him. You couldn't tell him it was you. That you forgave him. That you never blamed him.

All you could do was stand there, unseen, as the brother you loved finally fell apart—too late to know that you had always, always loved him.

Weeks passed, but the ache in your chest only grew.

Living as Rin’s classmate was nothing like you had hoped. You thought being close to him again—seeing his face every day—would make you feel less alone. But instead, it was suffocating.

Because Rin wasn’t getting better.

He was getting worse.

He came to school, he trained, he spoke when he had to. But the light in his eyes was gone. His teammates whispered about how his form was slipping, how he seemed distracted. Some said it was the pressure; others guessed he was just burnt out.

But you knew the truth.

Rin was breaking.

And you?

You were powerless to stop it.

You tried—God, you tried. You stayed by his side, made sure he was never alone, offered him small comforts disguised as casual friendship. But nothing you did could fill the void you had left in his heart.

Because you weren’t you.

You were just someone wearing another person’s skin.

And he was grieving you.

One afternoon, after practice, you found him on the rooftop, staring out over the city. His hands trembled slightly as he gripped the railing. You stood beside him, the wind cold against your borrowed skin.

Neither of you spoke for a while.

Then, his voice—soft, raw—broke the silence.

“I can’t stop thinking about her.”

Your breath caught.

“I treated her like nothing. I hated her—no, I hated myself... and I took it out on her. And now, she’s gone. And all I can think about is how I’ll never get to tell her I didn’t mean it.”

Your heart cracked open.

You wanted to reach out—to hold him the way you used to when he had nightmares as a kid. But you couldn’t. Not like this.

“I’m sure... she knew you loved her,” you whispered, trying to keep your voice steady.

He shook his head, eyes dark with guilt. “I don’t know. I wish I could believe that... but I don’t. I think she died hating me.”

The pain in his voice was unbearable.

You felt tears prick your eyes, but you held them back. You had to be strong—for him.

But that night, when you were alone, you broke down.

This second chance... it wasn’t a blessing.

It was torture.

You had thought maybe, just maybe, you were brought back to save him. But now you realized the truth—you were just here to watch him suffer.

And that... was worse than death.

The days blurred after that.

Rin grew more distant. You saw him less and less. He skipped practice sometimes. He started getting into fights—nothing serious, just stupid clashes with other players. But it was unlike him.

He was unraveling.

And the worst part?

You knew where it was leading.

One night, you followed him. He didn’t see you. He walked through the empty streets with his hands in his pockets, his hood pulled up. He stopped at a bridge—the same bridge you used to cross together when you were kids.

And you saw it.

That moment—the brief flicker—when he looked over the railing. The way his foot shifted slightly forward, as if testing the distance between him and the water below.

Your heart stopped.

“No... Rin—” your voice cracked as you stepped toward him.

He turned, eyes wide. “What the hell—?!”

You didn’t let him finish. You grabbed his arm, gripping it like your life depended on it. Maybe it did.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice sharp, defensive.

“I was—just passing by,” you lied. “I saw you, and... I don’t know, I got worried.”

He stared at you for a long moment, his face unreadable. Then, he sighed and stepped away from the railing.

“I’m fine.”

But he wasn’t. You both knew that.

That night, you didn’t sleep. You couldn’t. Because you knew... if you hadn’t been there, he might not have come home.

And it hit you like a train:

This was why you were here.

Not to heal him with words.

Not to watch from afar.

You were here because Rin was walking toward the edge of something irreversible.

And you were his last chance.

From that day on, you stopped holding back.

You didn’t care if you were “just a classmate.” You pushed into his life—invited yourself into his space, into his loneliness. You dragged him to eat with you after practice, made him laugh (even if it was forced), and called him out when he snapped at others.

He resisted at first—God, he fought you—but you didn’t care. Because you knew what was at stake.

You stayed.

Even when he yelled at you.

Even when he told you to leave him alone.

Even when he broke down—screaming that he didn’t deserve kindness, that he was a failure, that he should’ve been the one who died.

You held him through it all.

Because you were his sister. And you loved him—even if he never knew it was you.

Months later, on an ordinary afternoon, Rin finally smiled—a real, soft smile.

It wasn’t much. But it was enough.

Because you knew... he was going to be okay.

And that night, for the first time since the crash, you felt it—the warmth in your chest, the light pulling you away.

And that was enough.

[mackjlee9]

Task Force 141 x Male!Reader x Vladimir Makarov [Angst&Smut] |commission|

Warning; ghost x male reader, bad use of Russian sorry, violence, mentions of manipulation, short smut scene... Uh I might be forgetting something.

Masterlist. Commissions Rules.

Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2 (2022)

Every day was the same as it always was. He couldn't remember a day when waking up wasn't painful, surrounded by people screaming and groaning in pain while there was some cheering in the background.

He couldn't help but cringe at the sound of bones breaking, followed by the loudest cheering yet, letting everyone know there has been a "winner". (M/n) doesn't know how many days, weeks, months, or even years have passed since the first time he was taken to this place, but nothing had changed since his first day. He had been close to death more times than he could even remember.

Everything he knew about the place he was in is that its some kind of prison, and they were being kept in their cells or " rooms" until the next fight, the so-called; death arena. And well, yeah, it's exactly what you think it is.

Each passing day was a blur, mostly because he would be resting for days after being called to another fight, hating having to end someone's life just to entertain others. But one day, that fateful day, his life changed. For better or for worse, he couldn't tell, but it did.

A man named Makarov told a tale of how he had heard of this place, and he came by to maybe... buy one of their fighters, preferably, the strongest one.

That's how (M/n) found himself being woken up with freezing water was thrown on his face, making him jolt awake as he choked, having a hard time breathing.

"Get up, scum, you're leaving," he was roughly pushed out of his thin mattress, stumbling his way out of his cell and falling on his knees in front of an unknown male. He looked up and made eye contact with cold blue eyes, his (e/c) eyes observing every facial feature of the man, watching him smirking while breaking eye contact.

"I'll be going then," (M/n) watched the man reach his hand down to grab onto the chain attached to the collar he was wearing, "Let's go then, igrushka," blinking a few times, (M/n) got back up on his trembling legs and followed the men that kept tugging on his chain.

The moment the stepped outside he closed his eyes from the stinging pain caused by the natural light. He stood still, groaning as he covered his eyes, but soon, he was forced to keep walking.

"He looks like shit, Makarov," the mocking laugh of another man startled him, squinting and peeking through his fingers. Apparently, the man taking him was named Makarov... What a nice name...

And that was the beginning of it all.

At first, because of the lack of mental and emotional support (M/n) found himself clinging to Makarov as if his life depended on it, following after him like a lost puppy, developing some sort of Stockholm Syndrome. (M/n) felt in love with Makarov.

Or thought he did.

And Makarov took advantage of that, using him as if he was nothing but a toy for his pleasure, for his enjoyment, hearing (M/n) mumbling quietly 'I love you's at him, words Makarov could only chuckle at. Despite never hearing it back, the movement of Makarov's hips quickened, and (M/n) could only hold onto the male's hips as he thrusts his hips up, whining at the tight feeling around his cock, and that was all the reassurance he needed.

///////

(M/n) lived like that for years, following Makarov around, obediently listening to his orders, feeling like he lost bits and pieces of his soul whenever he was sent out to kill more people, constantly needing his love and reassurance to be able to continue on, but he was always met with being called a bother, or being told to move 'cause he was in the way, that he was a nuisance.

He was okay with that, telling himself that Makarov was just having a bad day, and he just had to unwind. (M/n) would let him, he will always let Makarov do anything he pleased.

But one night, (M/n) couldn't sleep. He kept turning around on his bed, it was one of those nights where the memories flashed in his mind, and it only got worse with the stress and self-doubt he felt during the day.

He took a deep breath and got up from the bed, slowly opening the door to his room, and walked around the halls of the facility he had memorized like the back of his hand for a short while, trying to clear his mind, dragging his bare feet on the cold ground.

His mind wandered around, observing the small details on the walls, noticing new scratches here and there, another piece of it peeling off, counting every step he took when he overhead voices nearby. (M/n) slowed his breathing, taking careful steps and pressing himself against the wall, peeking through one of the hall windows. Makarov was there, alongside Viktor, Kiril, and Lev.

"That igrushka has been getting on my nerves recently..." (M/n) held his breath for a moment, feeling his chest hurting at Makarov's words, "I'm gonna get rid of him, for good. He's useless now, and he's easily disposable."

The sound of him cocking his pistol made him release a gasp, and he saw how everyone turned toward the window, but (M/n) had turned around and was running toward the only exit that was open at this time of night. He could hear footsteps behind him, Makarov's voice calling him. Igrushka. Igrushka!

A single ricocheted by his head, making him halt for a moment, but he had to keep going, or he was gonna be a dead man soon. He didn't have much to live for anyway but... He didn't wanna die like this.

//////

His breath was ragged, his lungs painfully pressing against his ribs with every breath he took, his body trembling from the cold touch of the snowflakes landing on his exposed skin.

He had wandered around for long enough to see the sun rising on the horizon, his feet and hands numb, hugging himself to try and feel somehow heated, of course, it was a futile attempt. (M/n) walked for a few more minutes, wandering as far away as he could, but eventually, his body gave out, and passed out.

Being honest with himself, that's the last thing he's able to remember of that day, he's not sure what happened to him afterward, he only knows that he had woken up at a military medical base a few days later.

A man wearing a bucket hat approached him when he realized he was awake.

"Hey, nice to see you awake," (M/n) looked at him for a moment before blinking a few times while looking back down at his hands, "So..." The men sat on the edge of the bed and took a deep breath, "You got a name?"

Releasing a shaky breath, he nodded slowly, "I'm... (M/n)..." He added shortly, his voice meek and quiet, feeling his body tense and stiff with every small moment.

"Well, I'm John, John Price."

Unfortunately for Price, he hadn't been able to get anything else out of (M/n), except for the small 'no, sir' when he asked him if he had a place to stay. Price didn't know what the poor guy had gone through, but he was able to tell it wasn't nice by all the scars and fresh wounds on his body.

"Tell you what," Price stands up and beckons (M/n) to come with him, "You can stay with me and my team, if you don't mind," for a moment, (M/n) was skeptical, thinking this was gonna be the same situation it was with Makarov, but there was something in Price's eyes that made him trust him, not sure why, but he nodded at him and took the man's hand, accepting his help to stand up.

//////

Reaching their base was a long, silent, and tense car ride, (M/n) stared out the window the whole time, too out of himself to be able to speak normally for the time being, but eventually, he was brought back from within his mind to get out of the military jeep and following Price silently, ignoring curious looks he got because of his appearance, or just 'cause he was a new face around, he didn't know and he didn't care. Even so, his eyes looked around for a short while, realizing this place was the same as where he was with Makarov, everything seemed so similar yet so different from that place.

It was odd, as if he was just realizing that Makarov was the bad guy in all of this.

"And this is the 141 team," Price's voice snapped him out of his thoughts, and everyone in the room looked at him making him flinch and lower his head, "Guys, this is (M/n), and... He's gonna stay here for a while."

Getting to know everyone around him proved to be difficult, but Soap and Gaz did their best to make him feel welcome. He felt at home, he felt safe. And he couldn't be more than grateful to Price for the chance of living a better life. (M/n) never said anything about his past, about the fights in that dead arena, about his relationship with Makarov, he never uttered a word about it, just briefly mentioning that he had a rough life ever since he was a kid.

Everyone was nice to him and treated him like one of them, which is exactly why he asked Price, if there was any way he could join the Task Force 141 team, and be with them because they were all he had.

It almost seemed like it was meant to be, like he was meant to be there his whole life. He had been discovering new sides and aspects of his personality, there was this bitter taste in the back of his mouth whenever he remembered how submissive he used to be, but now?

Now he had Lieutenant Riley cumming undone under him, almost unable to keep his moans and cries of pleasure quiet.

(M/n) kept a tight grip on Simon's hips, his thrusts deep and rough, barely pulling out as he watched closely every reaction on his face, observing his body shivering and squirming, trying to keep his noises down, but it was so hard when he felt like his guts were being rearranged, his eyes rolling back with every hit on his prostate.

"You like that, hm?" (M/n) whispered, reaching a hand up to wrap it around Simon's neck, not applying pressure, just keeping it there. The blond looked at him through wet eyelashes, nodding as many times as he could, whining while lifting his hips off the bed.

(M/n) chuckled and leaned down, pressing their lips together, as he stopped his movements, enjoying the desperate whines and pleas coming out of Simon's mouth.

"Don't stop, please- don't stop~ I'm gonna cum," licking his lips, (M/n) leaned back, determined on making Simon cum so many times he begs him to stop because it's too much for his sensitive cock, "(M/n)..."

His voice cut off as his mouth opened wide in a silent moan, his hips lifted and his back arching off the bed, his hands gripping the bedsheets, mumbling curses over and over, muttering how close he was to cumming.

But (M/n) didn't stop once Simon's cum stained his abdomen, his thrust only got faster and rougher, "Cum again for me, baby, come on I know you got it in ya'."

Simon whimpered as he shook his head no, his hands gripping (M/n)'s wrists, "No no no, please... I-I can't-!" He mumbled, crying at how sensitive his body felt, "Can't... Cum an-anymore, please!"

Groaning, (M/n) wrapped his hand around Simon's cock, hearing his cries getting louder as his body trembled under his grip, and with a few strokes of his hand, his flushed red cock was twitching as he came again, making a mess of himself.

Neither of them know how long they kept going, but they were certainly left out of breath and exhausted after that, cuddling and holding onto each other tightly.

To be honest, (M/n) never thought- well, he did, it was more like he never believed he would be able to live a happy life after all that had happened to him before now, but he wanted to enjoy, even when, a few hours later when the sun had begun rising, something was nagging him in the back of his mind, telling him that this happiness not only, wasn't gonna last forever, but it was gonna be shorter than be expected.

//////

This mission was important, extremely so.

Price briefed them, explaining the situation to them the best he could before showing them the picture of the men they had to stop and capture. (M/n) knew what he was getting into when his eyes hardened, looking at Makarov's features with hatred and disgust. He used to think that man had saved him... But he only took him from a shithole to another shithole, effectively leaving him more scarred than he already was.

He simply sighed and clenched his fists, Ghost noticed this and turned to look at (M/n), he seemed to be disturbed by something, taking note of how hard he was glaring at the picture on the table, placed atop the marked map where tactics had been carefully mapped. He wanted to ask, but he figured (M/n), like every other person in the room, had a personal vendetta against Makarov.

Immediately as the briefing was over, they were rushed to the army jeeps, spending the ride in silence or sleeping, but Ghost couldn't stop looking at (M/n), who had avoided any kind of physical contact for longer than need, the frown in his brow seemed to deepen with every passing minute, and he was worried, maybe... This was more personal than he had guessed.

Whilst the mission was rather "easy" capturing Makarov himself wasn't, the man was so used to escaping over and over again that he had many routes to go underground and just disappear. But (M/n) knows this place, it may not be Makarov's main hideout, but he has been here a couple of times, and he's well aware of all the places the Russian could go and knew exactly which one he was going to pick, it's his favourite go-to after all.

"Makarov!" (M/n)'s voice echoed off the tunnels as he followed the men, watching with rage eyes as he slowly came to a stop, chuckling as he turned around to face him.

Holding his pistol up and steady, (M/n) knew he had a clean shot to bring the man down, forever, but that wasn't their mission. He had to capture Makarov, alive. Maybe a few broken bones too.

"So you survived... All this time I thought my little plaything had died, but look at you..." Makarov took a step forward, his hand reaching behind him and (M/n) got ready to shoot him if he had to, but the Russian just tossed his pistol aside, getting rid of his assault rifle, gripping the handle of his knife, "Let's do this like real men, kid."

Taking a step to the right, (M/n) managed to dodge Makarov's attack, but he quickly realized that he needed both his hands to be able to fight him so, with gritted teeth, he threw his pistol and took his combat knife, taking a firm stance in front of Makarov, watching the cheeky smirk on his face... It made his blood boil.

This fight dragged on for longer than he expected, beginning to struggle against the punches, the kicks, and the knife swinging at him. (M/n) had been so sure that, even if he hadn't forgotten, he was over everything Makarov did to him, but he couldn't have been more wrong, the constants flashes of images appearing in his mind every time he blinked told him so, and Makarov had taken advantage of his state to pin him down to the ground.

"Only one of us is gonna get out alive of this one, igrushka." Makarov had ditched the knife and had wrapped his hands around (M/n)'s neck, sneering down at him, "Goodbye-"

Before he could finish his phrase, Ghost had sneaked up behind him after following all the grunts and groans, gripping his submachine gun and raising it, hitting the back of Makarov's head with the stock, successfully knocking him unconscious.

Ghost kicked Makarov off of (M/n)'s body, who was coughing as the oxygen returned to his lungs. His eyes saw Simon's boots, and he struggled to get back on his feet, dismissing the helping hand the blond wanted to give him.

"Let's... Just go... Fuck..." He muttered between coughs and groans as he stumbled his way out, knowing Simon was following him with Makarov on his shoulders.

He ignored the heavy stare in the back of his head as he reached for his pistol and holstered it, making the selective decision to leave his knife behind... He could always get a new one.

//////

Everyone was in the interrogation room, waiting for Makarov to wake up. (M/n) was tense and on edge, deciding on standing in the shadows, where he knew he couldn't be seen.

That's why he hated the shiver that ran down his spine when Makarov's eyes stared right into his, he knew he was there, he could hear his breathing over everyone else's. Fuck, even now, Makarov knew exactly how to get in (M/n)'s mind to destabilize him.

"It's been so long... Igrushka," the sound of his mocking voice and the words directed at him, made (M/n) blink a few times, looking away into the dark as he tried to ignore the flashing images in his mind, making him feel sick and disgusted.

"Go die, scum," Makarov laughed at his words, causing his body to shiver and tremble, (M/n)'s senses were heightened, able to feel everyone's stare on him, and he hated being in that place, in that specific situation, and Ghost had realized that, he was about to walk toward him, but Makarov spoke again.

"I guess you don't anything about him. Not at all."

Done with his games, Price pulled harder on the chain around Makarov's throat, making him choke but his expression of superiority never faltered.

"You know? I missed you, so much, we used to have so much fun together, and... We were so happy, but then you left, now I understand why," the sounds of his sweet and psychotic voice (M/n) snap. He was making it seem like they were actually a happy couple... How sickening. Everything Makarov had said made him feel sick.

With gritted teeth and clenched fists, (M/n) launched at him, fury burning in his (e/c) eyes.

"All you did was used me! You played with me! You ruined my life!" Before he could get close to hurting the men chained to the chair, Ghost and Soap held him back. Everyone watched how (M/n) struggled for a few seconds before falling to his knees, tears streaming down his face, eyes empty and void of all emotion, "I wanted to die every day I was with you, so don't you fucking dare say we were happy, Vladimir."

++++

@xdark-acadamiax thank you for your commission!

[03-ooz]

sasuke to naruto, set sometime during the blank period.

when i was with you i started to understand what itachi felt. I can't go a day without these vivid memories of his betrayal consuming me. at that age it was worse i couldn't control them couldn't predict them they surrounded me like- remember haku, that technique he did with the mirrors that would surround you at every angle . My mind was like that constantly, but only one mirror showed my reflection. if i look to the left, its my parents to the right, its itachi its the same every direction, every single mirror is a different memory from that day. they were always in my peripheral, and there was nothing i could do but to turn horrified circles round and round like i was that kid again who had no choice but to watch every last breath leave them. I lied to myself, said these visions motivated me to become stronger, but they just stalled me in a unbearable cycle of grife.

when we were kids, the more time i spent with you, and sakura,and kakashi, the images in the mirrors started to change. you all reminded my of a time where my helplessness was not an empty plea but a exciting opportunity. i would look at you, the image in front if me, looking up to me, so determined to outdo me, to impress me. to my left was a memory of the time when itachi and i sat out on the engawa watching sun setting beyond the wall that separated the compound from the village. my head in his lap after petulantly complaining about our fathers high expectations, he said to me that evening,

'i'll always be there for you, even if its just as a barrier for you to overcome'

thats what made motivated me, my own little brother. it used to make you so angry when i would jump in to protect you and sakura but i wasn't just showing off. I felt like if i was your barrier then i owed you better than he did me. so when i would try and protect you and fail, i felt the failure so deeply. i didn't know how to protect you i could only make it worse, and as it happened again and again i begin to wonder,

is this how he felt. did the failure ache in his bones too, could Itachi possibly regret-

i couldn't live with that thought, the failure, and the newfound understanding of my brother. there is no reality where i could have stayed here, even if Orochimaru had never targeted me, i would have left. i needed to remove Itachi from my life in every way and that meant leaving you behind too, i couldn't fail you like he failed me.

so, I've been cooking up a blank period fic for a little while now and i wanted to share this blurb its just a block of dialogue but i hope you liked it! this was partially inspired by this incredible fanart by @cloudabserk because its been stuck in my head since i first saw it 🥲

[guppybibi]

𖦹 pairing: John Price x gn!reader (i think)

𖦹 content: Fat shaming:c but no angst? idk what to count as angst, comfort & fluff, mild cursing

𖦹 notes: guess what? It's self indulgent! uhh im sick so I'll probably write a pt2 with actual comfort in it once i get better

Another year, another family gathering. You’ve always dreaded this supposedly jolly reunion, and John knew that fully well. Even if you never straight up told him, the way you sluggishly prepared for the gathering made it awfully crystal clear. He wasn't blaming you either, he's been accompanying you to these events as your spouse ever since he could remember. And he's witnessed firsthand the horrid words being thrown at you, he never expected the sweet looking grandmas to call you out for being ‘fat’ the first time he came along with you. So after that, he understood why you disliked going so much.

“Are you sure you wanna go this year, lovie? We can say we got a fever or somethin’.” He questions, arms crossed while he watches you carefully comb through your hair. “You know we have to, I don't want to come but here we are..” To which he nodded in response, chuckling dryly as he attempted to help get the knots out of your hair. “Well at least the food is good.” You nodded, mind drifting off as you imagined the taste of the continuous plates of food and its aroma. “Yeah..maybe it isn't too bad.”

The two of you took your time in preparing, making sure you guys at least looked presentable. Though it wasn't just physically preparing, mentally as well. John could tell from the way your breaths were quicker, the way your chest heaved more than normal that you were internally panicking. He knew you felt obliged to come, he subtly starts massaging your tensing back, trying his best to make you feel at ease.

Soon the time came, the both of you pulling up to the reunion on time. You could already hear the women chattering, the men drinking and the children playing around. John properly parks the car, not taking any chances to get a ticket. (is that how it works??) “You ready, luv?” He questions, shoving the keys into the pocket of his jeans and linking your arms together. “Do I have much of a choice?” You question with an unimpressed look on your face, John laughs heartily while shaking his head. “Nope, no you don't luv. C’mon, let's get you in. Don't want my luvie to stay out in the cold for long.”

Then he lightly pushed you closer to the door, guiding each hesitant step you made. The closer you two got, the louder everything got. “Oh, there you two are!” One of the aunties exclaim once the door creaks open, unveiling the both of you. Unsurely, you wave your hand and feel all of the aunties surrounding you, it seems like personal space doesn't exist in the 21st century.

“Oh Y/N, we haven't seen you in ages!” One auntie comments, not so faintly glancing at your figure. “Seems like you're well fed, you've put on some weight!” Another woman remarks, pointing at your body. John could see how you try to laugh their words off, agreeing with them just for their own satisfaction. No talking back to your elders, apparently that was the right thing to do in these situations. They've said worse bullshit before, so John shrugs it off for now and keeps his temper down for the meantime.

Now (almost) everyone in the family is sitting at the huge dining table, the squirmy children already munching on the food because they could literally care less and since their family’s couldn't be bothered to sit them at a kiddie table. By due time, everyone is settled and happily eating the food prepared. Some small talks were made about how everyone’s life is doing, some well, some not so great. You and Price subconsciously engage with nods and commentary, so far they haven't asked you two any unnecessary questions that made you feel that your privacy was being invaded.

So far this was the case earlier, but now was the time apparently. “Speaking about our diets, it looks like our Y/N here hasn't been on one!” One woman spoke up, chuckling smugly while she downed a glass of wine. “Well it can't be helped, huh? It might be because of genetics, she's always been a pretty chubby kid!” Another noted, almost everyone at the table nodding along as they recalled how Y/N looked during their childhood. You could handle this, you thought to yourself. You've endured years of their countless insults, what's a little more going to do? Right?..It won't hurt as much anymore, right?

You sniffled as quietly as you could, possibly as quiet as a mouse. However, even if it was, John could hear it crystal clear. As if your feelings were a mere glass door for him, a fully opened book. Carefully, John wipes his mouth with the provided napkin. While you stare at him in mild confusion, wondering why he looks like he's about to dash out of here. “Excuse me and Y/N, something urgent came up. I’m afraid we have to leave now, thank you.” You could sense the hurry in John's voice, bowing your head slightly to apologize to your family as he drags you out of the venue.

Now John is driving you two back to your shared home, the radio playing a random jingle that neither of you cared for. “You didn't have to y’know..I can handle them.” “Doesn't mean you should endure them, if I were you I’d probably never show up ever again.” He sighs exasperatedly, the grip he has on the steering wheel tightening even further.

“They're still my family.”

“And true families don't treat family like that.”

“..You're going to have a rebuttal for everything I say, don't you?”

“No doubt about it, now sit back and relax while I take you home.”

[mylittlediarys-stuff]

Bit Back Part 12

It was one of those dinners Amaka actually liked because no one else was there but her. Everyone had gone on patrol earlier than usual due to some emergency. Was it a bit lonely? Yes. But she was happier, and that was what mattered.

On days like this, Alfred took his time making dinner, and Amaka would want to help the man cook. Even Alfred, with his meticulous methods, would sometimes let her assist.

Currently, she was zoning out in the kitchen, watching Alfred cook pasta while thinking about her newfound powers.

“Miss Amaka, may I ask you a question?” Alfred’s voice broke her thoughts. She nodded absently, not fully listening to the man.

“Why haven’t you been wearing your glasses?”

The question snapped her attention back to him. Since gaining her powers, she’d stopped wearing her glasses since her poor vision was gone. She hadn’t realized that anyone would notice.

“Oh, I’ve been wearing contacts for a while,” she lied, praying Alfred wouldn’t see through it. “I thought they looked better than glasses.”

“Really.” His tone was polite, but Amaka knew he didn’t believe her. She made a mental note to order some contacts and wear her glasses occasionally to keep up the act.

Why am I even doing this again?

After dinner, Alfred had gone to be Bruce’s computer guy, leaving Amaka alone with her bright idea of practicing her powers. She figured it was a good opportunity to work on jumping off buildings and swinging through Gotham like some seasoned vigilante.

-

Currently, she stood atop one of Gotham’s tallest buildings, trying to psych herself up.

She had three thoughts: I could die, this could be fun, and if I get close to dying, that weird sixth-sense thing will save me. The logical part of her was leaning toward I could die.

“Jumping shouldn’t be this scary. Damian does it all the time,” she muttered, taking a deep breath. “But he’s a trained assassin.”

She started running toward the edge and, with a leap, was freefalling. For a second, panic froze her.

 Is this how I die? 

Then she remembered: I could shoot webs.

Her instincts kicked in, and she fired her webbing. As it latched onto a nearby building, exhilaration flooded her. The city stretched out below her, dark and chaotic, but somehow beautiful in its own ugly way.

Amaka swung from building to building, trying to perfect shooting to building to building.” While enjoying the night, she spotted a group of five older men surrounding a teenage boy.

This isn’t my problem... but he could get hurt. Or worse.

Her grandfathers voices echoed in her mind, the old man before he died once told her, with great power comes great responsibility.

Reluctantly, she swung into action.

“What’s your name?” the boy asked after it was over.

Amaka had dealt with the attackers in under five minutes, leaving them webbed to a wall. She’d call the police later, maybe a hour after she got back to the mansion. For now, she wanted them to stew in the cold.

“I don’t have one,” she said, kicking a stray rock. Her lack of a “hero name” had only come up twice before, but it always felt like a loaded topic.

“Well, a hero like you needs a cool name, and my name is Harry” the boy said.

“A hero?” she snorted. “I’m not a hero. I’m just someone who saw something bad happening and stepped in to stop it.”

“Yeah, you stopped it with your superpowers. Normal people don’t shoot webs out of their hands.”

“Are we close to your house yet?” she asked, hoping to change the subject.

“What about Spider-Woman? Or Spider-Girl?”

“Sounds taken,” she replied tersely. “And ‘the Spider’ is just... ew.”

“What about Black Widow?”

“There’s already a Black Widow. If I took her name, I’d just look like a wannabe.”

“You can’t just stay ‘Nameless Hero.’ That’s boring.”

“Instead of talking about me, let’s talk about you. Why are you alone at this time of night, and why were those guys after you?”

“Easy. I got in a fight with my parents, and those guys were mad I called them out for catcalling.”

“Calling them out? Props to you for that—not many guys would. But running away from home over a fight? Really?”

“It’s not just that,” Harry admitted after a pause. “They don’t trust me. They’re always on my case about school, grades... it’s like they think I’m still a kid.”

Amaka turned to face him, her voice softer now. “Look, I think they’re just scared. They know Gotham’s dangerous, and they’re afraid something might happen to you before you reach your potential. If you had kids in this city, you’d probably feel the same. Or worse.”

The boy fell quiet for a moment, then chuckled. “Never thought I’d get life advice from a wannabe superhero. By the way, my name’s Ned.”

“I’m not a hero,” Amaka muttered.

“Nameless Hero,” Harry teased, “your outfit’s pretty lame, by the way. Black face mask, oversized hoodie, cargo pants—it’s giving budget vigilante. You need a signature color.”

“Black’s already taken by, like, everyone in Gotham,” Amaka replied dryly.

“Exactly. So what about green?”

Amaka thought for a moment. “Light green. If I had to pick, it’d be that.”

“Green’s different. Pairs nicely with pink.”

“Are we close to your place yet?” she asked, exasperated. They’d been walking for what felt like forever.

“Almost there,” Harry replied. “Be patient.”

Notes:

I just realized I haven't updated in a while and I felt bad for you guys. This is Amaka's second time doing spider stuff!! I haven't figured out what to call her yet.

@mariadvorak @mynameisnotlaura @azure-drag0ness

[royonninjago]

The Ninja's Roles Within the Team

Something I think the various Ninjago shows do really well is the characterizations of each Ninja. If it was bad, then kids wouldn't wanna watch the show or buy the Lego sets to reenact their favorite moment and create new scenarios for the Ninja to go through.

However, for the past few years a problem I've had with the TV show is that some characters feel more... useful than others. Then there are moments when one character is missing, but the team seems to operate just fine without them, and I think that does a real disservice to the characters.

In contrast, take the ATLA episode "Sokka's Master". It's one of my favorites because it separates Sokka, the only non-bender in Team Avatar, from the rest of the team. The episode demonstrates to both us and the rest of Team Avatar why Sokka is essential to their team. Without him, they're bored, can't figure out where they are or where they're headed on a map, and are overall completely directionless. Its like the precursor to those dime a dozen fantasy mangas where the weak member of a dungeon divers gets fired and the rest of the party ends up deeply regretting it.

I want the Ninjago TV show to demonstrate to us why each member is essential to the Ninja Team, and why without one of them the Ninja Team is worse off or have to work twice as hard to compensate.

Dragons Rising had such a good opportunity to explore this, but unfortunately it seems like the biggest problem the Team faces from being separated across the merged realms is lack of manpower and not much else. In lieu of this, here are some of my ideas as to how each character could prove to be essential to the Ninja.

Lloyd - The Leader. This one is definitely the most obvious. He's had a very clear leadership role since he became the Green Ninja, and ever since Wu left this distinction has only gotten more pronounced. However, I do find myself wishing to see a bit more of a dark streak with him. He was originally introduced as an antagonist, and I don't know about y'all but I still find myself enjoying Three Days Grace ever since I played the Halo 3 campaign at a friend's house while listening to AMVs of their songs.

Kai - The Weapon Master. Although there was never anything to support this, I always thought that Kai made the weapons that the Ninja used in the pilots. He is a blacksmith, after all. I think it would be cool if this aspect was more leaned into and not only make him the guy that creates all the swords and throwing stars and whatever other simple weapons the Ninja use, but to also be the best one at using those weapons. A sword is obviously his go to, but put any kind of simple weapon in his hands and I think he'd be able to use it very well. Imagine how much cooler it would have been in season 11 if Kai managed to defeat Aspheera's sheer power with his incredible swordsmanship skills. It'd certainly tie into his arc that season much better than what we actually got.

Jay - The Scout. Remember that scene in the pilots where the Skulkin cars were trying to reach 88 mph or whatever and Jay was gaining on them just by running? The writers sure don't! Though in all seriousness, whenever the Ninja need to learn a new technique to do something, Jay always picks up on it really quickly. First to perform Spinjitzu and summon his Golden Weapon Vehicle, second to unlock his true potential, third to summon his Elemental Dragon, he managed to surprise Ronin when practicing Airjitzu, not to mention his laundry list of hobbies. If they really leaned into his speed, combining that with his skills as a Ninja would make him perfect for running ahead and reporting back on the enemy forces. In my own little world, I like to imagine him as a PG version of the Scout from TF2 (Jay even had a slight Boston accent in the pilots!).

Cole - The Muscle. This one is also fairly obvious due to Cole's signature Earth Punch, but I feel as though it should be noticed more when he's not around, especially in Master of the Mountain. If I'm remembering correctly, they don't fully acknowledge his absence until they're locked up in the Vengestone cage about to be executed. If I regularly hung out with a dude that could lift a car over his head, I'd be lamenting about his absence whenever I needed to lift a heavy box.

Zane - The Information Officer. Another obvious one, but in this case I feel as though they lean a bit too heavily into it. Yes, he's a robot and yes, it's his job to know things, but I want to see his more dorky and silly side from time to time. Give us more Zane following a bird because it danced and him just chilling (literally) in the fridge at midnight for no reason type of stuff. After all, his greatest fear is losing his humanity.

Nya - The Strategist. I feel as though on a 'don't judge a fish by it's ability to climb a tree' level, Nya is just as smart as Zane. Due to his physiology, Zane can hold much more raw information many times over Nya, but I feel as though Nya is much better at putting that information to use. Going back to Master of the Mountain (I realize I'm referencing it a lot, its still fresh in my mind), when Kai and Zane were lost, they relied entirely on the raw data from Zane's internal compass, and because of that they got lost and had to rely on Geckles capturing them to reach their settlement. On the other hand, when Lloyd, Jay, and Nya were lost, Nya was able to determine the location of the Munce settlement by searching for signs of life and finding footprints. Also, I think this characterization fits the Master of Water really well considering water adapts to whatever environment it resides in.

The new Ninja from Dragons Rising are still very inexperienced and still haven't really found their grooves within the team, but I'm still gonna try and analyze them here.

Arin - ???. Right now, Arin's main skills are his unique Spinjitzu skills and his talent with a grappling hook. Its still so early in his Ninja training that he hasn't really carved out a distinct role for himself, though I hope this changes as time goes on. Not too long ago I proposed a cool idea for his future if any of y'all wanna take a look at that here.

Sora - The Technical Specialist. While I don't enjoy the idea of PIXAL being replaced as the Ninja's primary vehicle builder, with Sora being the Elemental Master of Tech it seems very possible that this is where things are headed. Instead of that, I think it better for her to either focus on using her skills in the field or to specialize in Mechs. Both of these ideas come from the Elemental Mech mini-series. I thought the idea of switching up parts on a mech in the middle of a battle to be a fun concept and one giving credence to her being a Field Tech, and whenever she uses her Elemental Powers its for the purpose of creating or altering or fixing a mech about half of the time.

Wyldfyre - The Dragon Expert. Even before the Merge, the Ninja encountered Dragons a lot. Now that there are dragons seemingly everywhere, Wyldfyre seems like the perfect liaison for communicating with these dragons, assuming she can learn to cool off when its needed. She also seems to know a good amount about dragons, considering that she was easily able to identify the Wasting Sickness and make a soup to help ease the pain it caused. There's still a lot she needs to learn before anyone can consider her an expert, but with her love of dragons and the belief that she is one, I think she'd be more than willing to learn.

And there you have it. If you have any ideas or head cannons or questions surrounding this topic, I'd love to hear them!

[look-a-yandere-fandom-blog]

Reader tried to break into Moira's lab but ended up messing up something which led them to get injured and caught.

They thought they were ready for anything but turns to their surprise the doctor seems to have taken a sort of liking in them.

Reader is not sure if it's better or worse than simply being treated like a spy.

(Yes the Overwatch one. Sorry I wasn't aware that there were others with the same name among your fanchises as I'm only familiar with OW.)

Break-In | Oneshot

Moira O’Deorain / Gender Neutral Reader

Fandom: Overwatch 

_________________________________

Ambiguous yan - can be read as platonic or romantic.

_________________________________

Content Warning: Injury detail, blood, implied obsession, Moira being condescending as hell (so pretty much how she usually acts).

(If there’s anything else I need to add to these warnings, please let me know.)

Thank you for the ask anon, and also thanks for the additional clarification! Moira’s always been a fave of mine, so this was super fun to write! (outside of tumblr glitching out and not letting me save to my drafts haha)

_________________________________

The job was simple.

Get in.

Steal the vial.

Get out.

What was in the vial?

To be honest, you had no idea.

The mission brief was the same as the previous two, so you didn't pay much attention.

You knew the drill, having worked alongside Overwatch for a few months now. You weren't exactly a member of the group, but your knack for infiltration led to you being roped into a few assignments here and there.

These missions allowed you to stretch your wings: they gave you a chance to hone your skills in the field, without being limited by the security of a simulation or training program. Every mistake would cost something, every slip-up would eat away precious time. This was the real deal; which made every victory that much sweeter.

And apparently, your actions helped prevent an array of nefarious plots from being carried out. That's a nice bonus. So, despite the little pay, it's not the worst gig you've had. 

You start to climb through the lab's window carefully. The alarm was easily disabled during your first mission here, and, after a quick check, you confirm that it's still inactive. 

The security here must be pretty lousy to not have fixed the alarm, you think. And even lousier to not have noticed it’s deactivation. It’s weird… as you remember the brief saying this was a pretty high-tech place. High budget. Higher-profile investors. Fancy gadgets and all that. 

But, if it saves you from having to find another way in, you’ll take advantage of their ignorance. 

You swing your legs over the window frame, setting yourself down on the tiled floor of the laboratory. The room was meticulous, as always. Its occupant must be the diligent type. 

Test tubes, chemicals, and strange-looking contraptions that you couldn’t even try to guess the purpose of are dotted about the room. They’re kept in organised groups, neatly distributed on the lab’s countertops. 

It’s spotless. Shiny. Blinking lights of green, blue, and red reflect off the countertops’ dull steel. The garish gleam of artificial colour bounces off the edge of every surface, lining corners and curves while the rest of their forms remain shrouded in darkness. 

You tread the room carefully, eyes trained in their search for any new cameras or alarms. It doesn’t matter if they catch you on film, as long as you can escape before they alert any guards. 

After a few moments, you see movement on the edge of your peripheral vision. A camera is lodged in the corner of the room, attached to the ceiling, panning back and forth blindly. The hunk of metal is indifferent to you, continuing its monotonous loop.  

So there have been changes since your last visit. And with it, a chance someone could be watching you. 

But you’re already in. It’d be a waste to back out now. 

Swiftly, you start to rifle through cabinets, through drawers, searching for that vial. Intel had given a vague description: it being rather small, glass, easy to miss, and containing a purple fluid. They couldn’t get much more on it, the lab’s owner intent on keeping most others out. 

The name of its owner continues to elude you. It was mentioned during the first mission’s brief. Upon hearing it, those attending alongside you gave each other concerned glances, but you didn’t pay much mind, focused instead on memorising the building’s layout. It didn’t much matter to you who worked here, only if you could get in. 

Then, finally, you spot it. Tucked away in a corner of a cabinet. Just a little too high for you to reach. 

Damnit. 

You shift to stand on the tips of your toes, leaning on the countertop to keep yourself steady, as you reach up. Your fingertips grasp at nothing, while your thoughts are occupied with prayers that you don’t knock the cursed thing further back. 

Almost, almost, then…

Pain. 

Sharpness tears into you. Air knocked out of your lungs. You look down. 

A trap digs into your leg. Rippling patterns upon it as it strives to blend into the floor. Cloaking technology. Near-invisible until activated. 

Your vision blurs. Adrenaline fogging up your sight. Like smoke filling an enclosed space. Choking. Inescapable. 

It does nothing to dispel the sting. Agony biting into your leg as you sink to the floor, trying to pry your limb from the trap. But every movement only makes the injury worse. 

Blood, your blood, glints with blaring colours. Green. Blue. Red. 

Red coats your hands, making the attempt to free yourself clumsy. Blood pools atop the pale-tiled floor. It gathers in the shallow channels between each tile. Flowing like rivers from their human source. 

Gritting your teeth, your heartbeat pounds in your ears.

You can’t hear the sound of a door opening, nor that of footsteps stepping closer. 

You can’t see the figure approaching. Assured. Confident. Striding close with an aura of victory. A hunter returning to their snare. 

Their outline shifts into focus. Faint colours saturated by the blinking lights of the lab. Red hair. Black shirt. Purple tie. The details fade in and out. It's all blots and blotches and assumptions. 

Then, the figure crouches down right in front of you. 

She is right in front of you.

“Awh…” She coos, condescension falling from her lips in waves.

"Aren't you just pathetic..?"

A hand emerges from the haze. It rests upon your face, thumb and forefinger along your cheekbone, ring finger against your jaw. 

"Did you really believe you could fool me thrice, little thief?”

Your hand fumbles to hers, trying to push it away. Blood smears across her pale skin as she chuckles. Words rise in your throat, but are smothered by your lung’s ragged breaths.

“Marvellous contraption, isn’t it?” She continues in her rhetorical speech, knowing that you’re in no state to reply. Her hand trails down to your injured leg, nails brushing against your punctured skin, captivated and cruel. You look down to the trap, its blurry outline barely visible. 

“One of Sombra’s works. Remotely activated, imperceptible, and immobilising.”

“While the disorientation-” She grabs your chin, suddenly yanking your head back up. Eye to eye. “That is thanks to something of mine.” 

“In fact, it’s what you came here for. Laced along the points. Distilled, of course. I wouldn’t want you to be… permanently afflicted by it.” Your vision swims, your surroundings fading in and out. Her face remains the only constant, the only thing your cloudy eyes can keep their focus on. 

Then, even that begins to fade… your eyelids feeling heavier by the second. Falling closed, despite your efforts to keep them open, prompting another laugh from her. 

“There’s no point in fighting, little thief. You wouldn’t make it far regardless.” Amusement fills her voice. You both know that there’s no escape for you here. Not now. With this concoction in your system, and this metal jammed into your leg. 

No escape… no way out…

As you slip away… into the unknown of unconsciousness… the last thing you see is her face… mismatched eyes glinting in the blinking lights of the lab.  _________________________________

[rugggie]

"SCARY CAT!"

My school bus graveyard obsession has come back, and what better way to indulge it than writing abt it🤞

Sbg Drabbles... my favorite characters x fem! Reader

LOGAN FIELDS.

You and Logan have been friends forever, forever being since middle school, 6th grade to be exact. So You've been though a lot of each other's cringe phases, relationships, family issues, drama.... So it was no wonder you guys were so close, what you didn't expect was to be going through this together. Every single night since the savannah field trip was like hell, Roman eating creatures trying to kill the 8 of you, running like your life depends on it, being scared to go to bed at night, not being able to tell anyone.

And now to make it even worse.. you just watched the side of your best friends stomach get scratched open.

"H-how bad is it.." Logan chocked out though sobs, while everyone just looked at it "why aren't you guys saying anything?! It's bad isn't it, it hurts I'm scared!" He said in obvious panic.

You walked over to him sitting down in front of him "no, you're good bro." You spoke calmly smiling, lying to his face.. even though on the inside you were also freaking out. You took your hand cupping his cheek, and wiped his tears away.

He was still crying, like a lot but he was definitely calming down. "Ashlyn, can you pass me the pain medicine?" You said, still trying to keep your composure.

"Mhm, here.." he said passing you one of the pills, you took it out of your hand offering it to Logan "here, take this it should make it hurt less..."

Logan didn't say anything, he just nodded his head and swallowed the pill..

"Hey, Logan remember that one time in like 8th grade..." you paused scooting into a more comfortable position "..where you got in trouble for calling Mr W an idiot,, because he marked your test wrong and wouldn't change it.. than I felt bad and called Mr W a mother fucker so we could both get lunch detention together..?" Logan nodded, looking at you smiling a bit.

"Oh! and that one time my dad took us fishing and I got a fishing hook stuck in my hand and I made you pull it out?" Logan laughed a little.

"That was horrible, I was so scared I was gonna get it more stuck" he mumbled with a shaky voice.

"Oh my god.. remember 7th grade?!" You said with wide eyes as if you were having flash backs, which you were...(dark times..) flash backs to your bad anime phase, and Logan's stranger things phase.

You laughed, giving you the look.. you both knew what you were talking about. Everyone around you two looked very confused.. aiden even started asking questions that you both could never answer.

You kept talking to him as Ben patched him up, it was definitely helping him calm down.. you grabbed his hand when ben was about to disinfect the wound. Logan death gripped your hand biting his lip. You just smiled and kept bringing up stupid stuff the two of you have done.

It was probably obvious to everyone but Logan that you liked him, Taylor asked you about it before, You tried denying it but it was obvious

You were the only person in the world that would sit and listen to his 10 hour rants about astrology, the only person in the world that stands up for him constantly, you wanted to be the only person in the world that liked him. It was painful to see him hanging out with Taylor, of course you knew Taylor wouldn't ever do something like that to you. But you couldn't help but think he would end up liking her she was smart, funny, positive, and so so pretty. You never knew when the right time to tell him was, or if he even liked you like that.. but for now its best for everyone if you just stay friends.. you wouldn't wanna go messing everything up, and you definitely don't want Logan to feel awkward around you.

AIDEN CLARKE

You and aiden were the definition of polar opposites, he was a thrill seeker, dare I say crazy.

You were carful, and a lot more prone to freaking out in situations like this.

"A-Ashlyn what was that... it looked like the thing we saw at the weed house..!" you said, panic and fear present in your voice. You had just left you, and your friends shared room. "A-and where is {friends name}?!" You started to cry, wanting to turn back and go get her.

"She wasn't in the room with you?" Taylor gasped, more than a little freaked out. You shook your head no, Ashlyn stayed quiet leading the two of you out of the room.

"Taylor!" You heard a relieved voice, that had to belong to Tyler yell.

"Ty!?" She said in what sounded like disbelief.

"Oh so it was you guys, why are you running? And why are you crying y/n?" Aiden teased with his usual smile on his face.

"The thing from the serrel weed house.. it was in Ashlyn and Taylor's room.." you breathed out, still terrified.

"What's going on!?" Tyler asked, hugging his sister.

"There's something in the-" Ashlyn all of a sudden stopped mid sentence turning around.. the thing was there again. Right in front of you again.

You looked at it wide eyed, still trying to put some sort of reason, or logic behind this all, tuning out everyone. You were pulled out of your thoughts by Aiden grabbing your hand and pulling you out of the room. You all got out safely, making sure to slam the door shut.

"W-what was that thing.." Logan stuttered out, shaking with fear..

"According to Tyler, that would be the "prank" from earlier today." Aiden said, in a very condescending tone. "You know what I find kinda weird,, no one's even come out of their rooms even after all the screaming and banging." The door knob wiggled, thankfully Ben grabbed it before the thing could get out

"That could've been bad!" Aiden smiled, and laughed

"Could've?!?" Tyler spoke angrily, looking at Aiden like he was crazy. You still haven't said anything, you just kept staring at the door still gripping Aidens hand. completely disconnecting from everybody.

"STOP TAKING THIS AS A JOKE, ITS BEEN BAD! THE SKY IS RED FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!" Tyler angrily yelled Trying to knock some sense into aiden, they kept bickering only to have it interrupted by Taylor's quiet voice

"G-guys.." she paused almost in fear "look down.." everybody but you looked down, you did not want any part of this anymore. "Out of sight out of mind" you kept repeating in your head

"How far away is your room?" Ashlyn asked Aiden

"5, or 6 doors down.." he said almost nervously, well you could tell he was nervous. The grip he had on your hand tightened.

"Y/n, Aiden give me the strings off your shorts.."

"Kayyy,,,, why?" He asked pulling his string out of his pants..

You quickly pulled it out handing it to her.

"Y/n.. are you okay, your face is really pale.." Ashlyn said with concern examining your face..

"Y-yeah I'm totally finnee" you weakly whispered out, still on the verge of pissing your pants. She told you guys her plan on using it to trap the devil spawn. She told everybody to go, you were still paralyzed with fear, and the person who was dragging you alone let go of your hand tying the rope to a pole.

Ben let go of the door so the others started booking it, Aiden yet again grabbed you and yanked you along with them. You were struggling to keep up with everyone, maybe due to the fact you're fairly unathletic. You were already panting and gasping for air by the time the thing was right behind you. Turing your head fast enough to get whiplash you saw it reach out for you, Aiden tugged you forward causing it to only rip the back of your shirt. Ashlyn crashed the cleaning cart into it, slamming it against the wall.Ben gave you a look of concern, like he was asking if you were okay. You nodded your head sorta understanding what he meant.

"Y'know.." Aiden said letting go of your hand and grabbing a bottle of bleach "this could be pretty fun!" He laughed looking like an absolute crazy man, he sprayed the bleach in the creatures eyes.. the side of its face started to melt and its mouth unhinged, as if it was supposed to be screaming but none of you could hear anything.. well except Ashlyn, by the why she was plugging her ears.

"Why isn't it screaming..? Is it mute lol" Aiden said tilting his head.

"Ew, why does it look like that.." you whispered finally getting a good look at its terrifying ugly face.

"Y/n, Aiden c'mon! We gotta go!" Ashlyn yelled at the two of you.

"Nah c'mon I think we can take 'em! There's enough bottles-" Aiden went back to making his crazy face, you grabbed him this time pulling him back and running to the room with Logan, Tyler and Taylor.

You shut and locked the door, finally relaxing and falling backwards onto the floor trying to catch your breath. "GAH!" You yelled and jumped back as the monsters started banging on the door.

"Maybe we should put the couch in front of the door.." Ashlyn said. You guys moved the chair, you sat on the floor next to Aiden calmed down a little.

"Hey, Aiden.. thank you for saving me like 6 time out there.." you sheepishly whispered, avoiding eye contact with him.

"Nah, it was nothing! But it was super funny to see you so scared!" He laughed hardly elbowing your side.

"Nuh-uh! So not funny it was scary!" You protested elbowing him back

"Okay, scared cat.. you couldn't even move" he said laughing 10x harder than he was before.

You giggled with him a little bit, sorta embarrassed about how much of a baby you were being in front of him. And even more of the fact that you guys were holding hands.

[weepingchoir]

DOCTOR WHO SERIES 14: A FULL SEASON REVIEW

Another decade, another frantic Doctor Who resuscitation. (Not that there were news of potential cancellation, but things must’ve been dire for the BBC to sell one of their most storied shows to the Mouse.) Chibnall is out, Moffat on retainer, Russell “Thee” Davies is in. The theme song is the best since Matt Smith, which, through weird and inexplicable coincidence, was also the last time I watched Who with any serious interest. Good start.

The Star Beast

While not technically part of the season, the specials preceding series 14 signal the beginning of a shift in tone and rules for Doctor Who, including the introduction of the new Doctor. Not yet, though. First we get an OLD DOCTOR FUCK YES DAVID TENNANT IS BACK.

I already know Tennant won’t stick around, and I’m glad. That would’ve stunk of Disney nostalgia-raking. Nevertheless, as a returning viewer, I’m grateful for the breakfall. “The Star Beast” doesn’t yet carry the magic that’ll characterize Gatwa’s series. It’s a standard scifi monster of the week serial, and the monster rules. Looking for returning companion Donna Noble, the Doctor runs into the Meep, a no-pronouns gremlin-Yoda puppet living in Donna’s shed, under the care of her daughter, Rose.

UNIT comes under attack by Kamen Riders. The Meep tears off the blorbo mask to reveal a genocidal dictator on the lam from the Intergalactic Criminal Court. It’s a hilarious turn in an episode whose emotional core relies on Rose’s transgenderedness. Pronouns are a real-time strategy game and evil space aliens are better at it than humans.

Quick dustup on weird plot shit: if Donna remembers the Doctor she dies. She has to remember anyway, in order to stop the Meep’s ship from taking off. Turns out that she’s since become immune to Time Lord neuron overload by offloading it on her daughter. Donna and Rose expel the toxic memories by harnessing their feminine emotional intelligence.

I don’t want it to land. Facing the Doctor, who was a woman one episode ago, Rose says that a man could never understand how she just harnessed the divine feminine. Nevertheless it passes, maybe because any representation of a transgender woman as through-and-through female is a gasp of fresh air. For better or worse, this also cues the season’s cardinal rule: what you feel is true is more important than what makes sense.

Wild Blue Yonder

The TARDIS crashlands at the edge of the universe and disappears when it senses danger, one of those things that it’s never done before and will only do again if it’s funny or cool.

The “edge of the universe” is a spaceship floating in ink-black, with Marvin the Paranoid Timebomb making its way down the hall, one step at a time. This is a great opportunity to ease us into the budgetful new Doctor Who, with sleek but understated shots of the spaceship’s exterior. When the Doctor and Donna split up to fix the ship, they converse with each other’s doppelgangers: “not-things” from beyond reality, looking to assimilate physics. Communication with the not-things goes awry as an eerie set of medium close-ups pull back to reveal their overlong limbs.

Backed with half a decade of set chemistry, Tennant and Catherine Tate ace all four characters in this bottle episode. Much of the runtime consists of the Doctor and Donna’s mind games against each other. It’s less a restatement and more a self-justifying exploration of why bother with a last hurrah for two fan favorites. Well-earned, too, as the Doctor nearly leaves the real Donna to die in the ship’s explosion. It’s impossible to be done exploring the fullness of a relationship. But one day, and soon, we will have to move on.

The Giggle

 Two crucial stopgaps against the not-things. One, a line of salt on the floor, which the Doctor tricks them into thinking they can’t cross, since they’re sorta vampires. Two, cognitive dissonance. It’s hard enough for the uncreatures to assimilate beliefs, let alone simultaneous contradictory ideas.

The Doctor fears that, by invoking fiddly rules at the edge of reality, he’s opened a door for fell mythos. This episode stars the Toymaker, a villain from a partially restored First Doctor serial. Originally a Fu Manchu caricature, the new Toymaker is Neil Patrick Harris putting on a German accent, which he can always do, it’s never racist.

The Toymaker has snuck a mind-warping signal into every screen, starting with the 1925 Stookie Bill experiment. Now mankind is mad , reacting with explosive hostility at any confrontation. Over the last decade, as writers have moved from mocking subsets of people for being on phone to everyone being on phone, we’ve uncovered more cohesive portrayals of what 24/7 connection is doing to us. Writ large, more and more of us are looking to win arguments. Even losing is a thrill.

It’s a contrived plan for a villain whose power transcends mere limitless control over physical matter. The only thing that binds the Toymaker is the rules of the game. We can trace the evolution of TV drama by comparing his first appearance to his last, William Hartnell’s almost congenial gotchas to Tennant’s panic at genuine omnipotence. The Toymaker traps the Doctor and Donna in a theater for a puppet play about the many deaths of the former’s companions. The Doctor, ever the hero, denies them three times.

Well, are they dead? These specials have proven that, even in the megacorp mines, fan favorite returns don’t have to be Rise of Skywalker gruel. Donna, and the Fourth Doctor’s returning Mel Bush, bring necessary continuity to the transition into new-new Who.

Not everything, at least, has to end in tragedy. When the Toymaker commandeers the giant laser gun the government is cool with UNIT keeping in uptown London, the Doctor bigenerates, splitting into straight Tennant (presumably) and gay Ncuti Gatwa. Together they beat the Toymaker at catch, which banishes him for good.

From here on, we follow Gatwa’s Doctor. Tennant stays with Donna. There is movement in rest, organic, within. Their relationship may continue to develop, just where we can’t see it. Not everything is for screen consumption.

The Church On Ruby Road

Every time I see this episode’s title I get Hüsker Dü’s “Girl Who Lives On Heaven Hill” stuck in my head, except the Inter Arma cover because that’s the first time I heard that. The Doctor is fortunate enough to run into one of the few actresses that can match his energy, Millie Gibson as Ruby Sunday: songwriter, orphan and ingenue. Ruby lives a zoomer kitsch apartment with string lights on the walls, alongside her adoptive mother and grandmother. She suffers from a curse of bad luck, bewitched by an airshipful of baby-eating goblins.

The Doctor and Ruby stop the goblins from eating a baby, to the tune of an R&B paean to Jabba-the-Hut, the only logical step from the Toymaker’s Spice Girls lipsync sequence. The goblins retaliate by traveling in time to eat baby Ruby, abandoned by her mother on Christmas day on the porch of The Church That Lives On Ruby Road. Watching Ruby’s mother go, Gatwa cries his series-first tear of silent grief. He’s very good at that.

The Doctor’s rule of no self-interaction has fucked his opportunity to let Ruby meet her biological mother. Pay attention, this’ll be on the test. Other than that, “The Church” is an easy, fun, low-stakes introduction to the Doctor’s companion and many of the season’s dominos, only some of which will receive a proper knockdown.

Space Babies

The first real ostentatious show of Disney budget is a quick but lush visit to James Cameron's Mesozoic. A CGI diplodocus doesn’t have to be bad. CGI baby mouths, on the other hand.

Budget cuts strand a colony spaceship, replete with babies in a bizarre state of semi-suspended animation: they’ve been toddlers for six years. Only accountant Jocelyn remains. The babies are terrorized by the Boogeyman, a snot monster generated by glitched-out educational software. Jocelyn almost airlocks the Boogeyman until the Doctor reminds her that it’s kind of her baby also.

The Doctor’s memory of Ruby Road changes to feature Ruby’s mother pointing at him. It starts snowing indoors, another magic plot puzzle piece. Cue tear of silent grief. There’s not much else to say about “Space Babies”. It’s a lot of terrible ideas, executed with functional neatness: quoting a friend, the platonic ideal of a Russell T 6/10.

The Devil’s Chord

1925 again! There’s a whole pantheon of Toymaker-type evil gods. This one’s Maestro, the god of music, played by a spectacular Jinkx Monsoon. Over the course of four decades, Maestro ruins music so thoroughly that even Abbey Road sounds like dogwater.

The Doctor and Ruby negotiate with the Beatles, who make dodgy gestures towards the whole of music being an embarrassing business. It’s never made clear how Maestro has convinced the world of this, or, like the Toymaker’s giggle, why they bothered when they have the power to eat music itself. We’ve crossed into the realm of magic. It’s not about the method, but the goal: within a hundred years, musicless mankind will self-exterminate to vent its anger, leaving Maestro to enjoy pure aeolian tones.

It’s hard to agree that music is the salve keeping mankind from abject violence when contending with the history of, Burzum, Chris Brown or Meni Mamtera. Nor does the idea that Maestro can be defeated by a seven-note scale available to basic Western music theory hold much water. “The Devil’s Chord” is an altogether less cohesive “The Giggle”, and only three episodes after its predecessor, too. On the other hand, as a piece of musical cinema, it’s a brilliant watch for Monsoon’s performance, the playful metanarrative gestures, and the closing number, ‘There’s Always A Twist At The End’.

Boom

On the ravaged planet of Kastarion-3, there is only war. A landmine vaporizes a guy, attracting an 'ambulance' automaton to euthanize his friend Vater by reducing him into an awesomely gross flesh tube.

Gatwa leaves the TARDIS in a super-sexy leather jacket and steps on a mine. What follows is ten agonizing minutes of the Doctor and Ruby figuring out the logistics of the situation. The Doctor can’t move off the smart mine or exhibit high emotion. On finding Vater’s tube, Ruby convinces the Doctor to let her hand it to him to use as a counterweight, in a move that almost kills them both. The pressure is immense, achieved with nothing but close-ups to tears of silent grief and a silly prop of a landmine with LEDs.

Vater’s daughter finds the duo, triggering the flesh tube to generate a grief counselor hologram of her father. Ruby gets shot while managing a haywire ambulance. The only way to get the ambulance to treat her is to admit that the Kastarians never existed. With a full third of characters dead, Cyber-Vater betrays its parent corporation to end the war. This is the most stressful Doctor Who gets, in all the best ways. For a second, and against all logic, I was even convinced it might be the end of Ruby Sunday.

“Boom” is the closest Gatwa’s Doctor has to a companion capsule episode. This focus on their relationship might’ve gone over even better if it’d been earlier in the run, especially given “The Devil’s Chord” has the opposite problem. I suspect the prime reason why it’s placed in an awkward middle slot is to not give away the game: “Boom” front-and-centers Susan Twist, who’s played minor roles in almost every episode since “Wild Blue Yonder”, as the face of the combat ambulance AI. There’s always a twist at the end, remember?

73 Yards

The Doctor’s always stepping on some bullshit. After intruding on a ritual circle, he disappears, leaving Ruby alone with a mysterious woman that’s always standing 73 yards away. Everyone who talks to the woman flies goes no-contact with Ruby: a hiker, a bar-goer, UNIT, even, in a harrowing turn, Ruby’s adoptive mother. So Ruby spends the next twenty years alone. Without her family, and also alone in this ethereal way where she’s meant to be on startlit adventures, not half-there on a wine bar date.

Gibson carries this mammoth episode on her shoulders, evolving from panicked 20 year old to middle-aged, purpose-driven mercenary. The closest thing to a co-star is the cinematography, following her eyes towards the woman-shaped hole in the near horizon. This is one of the subtler metanarrative moments of the season: the woman is impossible to photograph, blurry in pictures just as she’s never in focus for the camera.

Ruby makes up a mission: save the world from ‘Mad Jack’ Roger ap Gwilliam, a presidential candidate whom the Doctor off-hand warned would lead the world to nuclear ruin. Infiltrating, Jack’s presidential campaign, she maneuvers the woman into manifesting next to him, which makes him run screaming from office. The world is saved. Ruby isn’t. As she lays dying of old age, alone, the mystery woman is revealed to be herself, traveling back in time to warn the Doctor off the circle.

This is the furthest Doctor Who can stray from its own standards before becoming a different show altogether. The theme song doesn’t even play (shame). Not a coincidence, it’s also the episode to most demand that we trust emotion over logic, and it pays back that trust with dividends. It doesn’t matter that we never find out why there was a shrine to Mad Jack atop a cliff in Wales twenty years before his time, or the mechanism by which Ruby created a closed time loop. The important bit is the emotional resonance, the click of catharsis when we discover just enough details to let it rest.

Dot and Bubble

I feared, as “Dot” opened on a woman so dependent on social media that she can’t navigate her immediate surroundings without GPS, that this would be the Phone Bad episode “The Giggle” had managed to surpass. The truth is more complex: Finetime’s residents can afford to spend all day Whatsapping because they’re the offspring of another planet’s leisure class, here on permanent vacation.

Giant man-eating slugs have invaded Finetime, and the Dot-Bubble navigation system is walking people straight into their maws. Our lead is neither Gatwa nor Gibson, but Callie Cooke as Lindy Pepper-Bean in yet another of the acting masterclasses that characterize this season. An ongoing tension point is whether Lindy can keep her Bubble down long enough to string together two tasks. This means the season’s highest ratio of close-ups to other shots. Cooke carries this focus with recidivist disdain, processing the situation in arbitrary bursts only to default to anger at the Doctor for intruding on her groupchat, or elation at meeting a celebrity singer.

The slugs are an invention of the Dot, which, after years of servicing Finetime, has learned hate. Huddled outside the habitat dome, the all-white survivors reject the Doctor’s 'dirty' safe passage, and strike out to colonize the wilderness, ‘like their ancestors’.

Laterally to Phone Bad, an ongoing trend in wronghead fiction is Rich Bad. Movies like Bodies Bodies Bodies portray the bourgeoise as a self-obsessed bunch who will fall snarling on themselves at the first provocation. This is not what makes the bourgeoise dangerous, but in fact the exact opposite: because the rich have everything to lose, they will close ranks against you, no matter how much good you’ve done for them, no matter what you could yet do.

Rogue

Before the season ends, anybody want to defend England one last time? Playing nobility at a Regency London ball, the Doctor runs into Rogue, a bounty hunter who mistakes him (at gunpoint) for a shapeshifting, murderous Chuldur.

The Chuldur are fans of Bridgerton, on Earth to cosplay it to death. In order to lure them out, The Doctor and Rogue publicize their whirlwind romance. If “Dot and Bubble” was a response to the idea that Gatwa might run into racism if he travels to the past, “Rogue” is its inversion: the plan works because the modern Chuldur can’t resist the titillation of wearing a black gay man. They run after the hypervisible Doctor, while the white Rogue becomes “the other one”. He’s less problematized, less interesting, the one you get stuck with if you don’t call intersectional shotgun.

After the trap is sprung by accident, Rogue's banished alongside the Chuldur to a random dimension of nobody’s knowing. The Doctor declares it’s impossible to find him. We’ll see about that.

For all its nods towards fandom, “Rogue” isn’t a po-faced condemnation of fan culture. Ultimately, the Chuldur too are defeated through cosplay. Plus, it’s a straight beat-by-beat of the strongest points in Who structure: strong side characters, scifi logistics, a villain as goofy as it’s horrific. Whether its back-to-back placement with its thematic mirror, or as a segue to the season finale, is ideal, is anyone’s guess. 

The Legend of Ruby Sunday

The Doctor asks for UNIT’s help in figuring out why Susan Twist follows him everywhere. On 2024 Earth, she’s Susan Triad, tech CEO on the verge of releasing some kind of Alexa thing. But before we get to that, the Doctor decides now’s the time to meet Ruby’s biomom.

Using a ‘Time Window’, Ruby visualizes The Church That Lives On Ruby Road. Ruby cries: the Window refuses to show her mother’s face. The machine goes all creepypasta on some UNIT boot. Panicked, the Doctor chases down Triad, who reveals she can remember her past lives in dreams.

Triad pulls away to her conference. Though she’s live worldwide, her soundstage is empty, the crowd canned. Where much of this season has dealt with the phenomenons of mass media and TV, “The Legend” digs into a grief specific to Doctor Who, an ill-kempt archive of decades forever on the verge of cancellation.

Little else happens, for two good reasons. First, this episode is a two-parter. Second, much of its runtime is dedicated to extracting maximum stress out of the situation. Ruby is too compromised to act, while the Doctor and UNIT are late from the start, only just figuring out the situation in time to witness it unfold. The big reveal paying off all this anxiety, crossed purposes, fear and despair is, unfortunately, a CGI dog with a hat.

Empire of Death

Sutekh is a Fourth Doctor villain who’s been locked in the Time Vortex for thousands of years or a dozen seasons, whichever’s longest. He has spawned harbingers like Triad in every planet that the Doctor’s visited, and his “dust of death” has the power to kill nost just everyone, but everyone at every point in time. In the era of streaming television (and stream-only television), the C-suite can overnight erase all evidence that a show ever existed.

Through a bit of absurd circular logic, the Doctor declares that the Time Window’s memory of a TARDIS is in fact a functioning TARDIS. The crew escapes to roam a deserted universe. The memory TARDIS begs to tie long-dangling plot strands into knots of neat logic. Instead, a bunch of nonsense dialogue happens. When Ruby asks the Doctor why Sutekh has a The Mummy thing going on, the Doctor answers “cultural appropriation”, and fails to elaborate. Laterally, when Ruby casually lists the chameleon circuit’s AOE as 73 yards, the Doctor asks how she knew that. She’s not sure. Nothing comes of this.

Because Sutekh is incapable of seeing Ruby’s mother, the Doctor decides it’s all tied together and heads to a government office in Mad Jack Britain, containing the UK’s forcibly harvested genetic data. Much more cohesive commentary on racism than reminding us cultural appropration is a thing Doctor Who has done. Armed with knowledge, the Doctor baits Sutekh into the Time Vortex, where he forces him to, like, kill death and then die in turn.

It’s a fantastic turn of character for the Doctor, who oft makes a spurious point of not killing in order to condemn villains to fates worse than death, or adopts a ‘War Doctor’ persona which kills a bunch of people anyway. It’s a matter of framing, but also a genuine point of no return. As for less satisfying character beats: Ruby gets to meet her mother, who’s just some middle-aged Instagrammer with a bad haircut and a passion for rocky beaches.

So why was this character immune to everyone from the Time Window to Sutekh, and the unwitting carrier of Ruby’s inherited power to make it snow? Because, the Doctor explains, we cared about her.

Which begs the question: who is we?

The easiest answer is: the last people left alive in the universe. But Ruby’s been making it snow since “Space Babies”. Not proximity to the Doctor either, else the Doctor himself would have magic powers: on the contrary, he’s spent the whole season grappling with his limited ratfic ability to deal with the supernatural. And there’s millions of orphans out there. Ruby is, in this regard as in most else, not special.

Taken all together along with the season’s metanarrative overtures, which keep going right up to the last second of “Empire”, the only answer is that we are the audience. Or the audience and the crew, anyhow: the camera, the screen, Ruby’s protagonism and the people that accept it. We have imbued Ruby Sunday with transcendental power, because we would like her to transcend.

This doesn’t work unless I am more emotionally than narratively invested in Ruby Sunday.

Not that I didn’t get torn up when Ruby met her mother. But that’s just cinema trickery. A season’s worth of promises, a bit of music, very good acting: of course I was going to care. Not more than I care about finding out what the fuck was going on, though. As an explanation, this all rounds out to: what was going on is what was going on. Ruby’s mom was important because she mattered to us, and it mattered to us because she was important. Me, I refuse to be complicit.

There is an unpleasant extreme to the logical lens, the CinemaSinners combing through scripts, sacrificing the greater story to the tendentious idol of Plot Holes. Doctor Who has long been plagued by these types, pitfalls of being an easy-watching BBC show with a large audience. Series 14 scans like a concerted effort to not give these guys an inch. In overcorrecting, it created a maudlin mess of unfulfilled promise.

That is as far as the season's connected plotline goes. Fortunately, most of the episodes are gems, directed with a sense of fun almost unseen in the revival series’ longstanding gloom. The Doctor has turned into a killer, maybe for good. We are promised that his tale will end in tragedy. I hold out hope that, next time the story tries to hit me where it hurts, it’ll follow through.

7/10

[justnerdy15]

FlashFictionFriday 4.11.25

wc: 1984

prompt: @flashfictionfridayofficial rise and fall

notes: companion piece to this; attached to HOTN

warnings: light gore, description of injuries

Theo sits at her daughter’s bedside, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest, listening to the low whirl of the machines as the blood transfusion and IV drip slowly work their way into Eva’s body. Her brow is furrowed, skin a sickly pale where it isn’t a deep violent purple, and she’s silent, mostly, except for the occasional whimper.

Cassandra warned her this would take time, that she would look worse before she got better, but the sight of her poor girl squeezes a tight fist around her heart. This whole mess has created a sinking feeling in her stomach she hasn’t felt since Daniel died.

Theo doesn’t even understand how they got here. Any of them.

She reaches out with one hand, gently pushing away the damp curls clinging to Eva’s forehead, before tracing the soft curve of her face. Like any parent, even those who have grown up in the Hunt, she hates the sight of her child in pain, but there has always been the spike of terror, a consuming fear, whenever Eva ends up in one of these beds.

Eva seems so small when she’s here, like the room will swallow her whole, that it makes her look younger than the grown woman she is now. Theo knows it just her mind, the trick of fluorescent lights and a mother’s worry, but it’s hard to remember that in the moment. Eva has always been larger than life, her bright star in dark nights, that there is something instinctually wrong with her quiet stillness.

Sighing, Theo strokes her thumb softly against Eva’s cheek, stoutly refusing to glance below her jawline, as if that could make the bloody, bruised mess of her neck not exist. As if Kha — as if Eva’s former recruit hadn’t buried his teeth there. As if he hadn’t nearly killed her.

A shaky breath escapes and Theo squeezes her eyes shut. She’s fine. She’s alive.

She’ll get better.

She repeats the words over in her head, letting her hand fall to Eva’s sternum, resting just enough to feel the rise and fall. When she hears the creak of the door, she assumes it’s Gareth and keeps her eyes closed, counting each breath Eva takes.

“I’m not leaving, Gar, and I don’t feel like eating.”

There’s a moment of silence, a well-meant argument probably dying on his tongue, but instead of his warm, comforting voice, there’s a stiff throat-clearing noise.

“Mrs. Clark. My apologies for interrupting.”

Her eyes snap open, turning towards the door as she stands while her hand drops to her hip, reaching for the vial in her pocket. But when she sees who is in the doorway, she freezes.

DuPont.

He stands there with his hands loosely curled at his sides, looking at her with guarded apprehension. Portions of his face are rubbed pink and his clothes are different — a solid black shirt has replaced the white button down, turned red by —

It was stained. That’s all.

She glances down at his hands, droplets clinging to clean skin, and the memory forces its way to the surface, of those same hands cradling her daughter, the panicked look on his face as he gave her to Jia-Ahn, the way Eva held onto him, begging DuPont to help the recruit.

It doesn’t make sense.

She shouldn’t even know a vampire. Much less him.

“What do you want?” Theo asks, forcing herself to relax. She watches his gaze shift towards the bed and an uncomfortable feeling grows as a . . .look crosses his face. “Mr. DuPont,” she says again, firmly, though he does not look her way. “What do you want?”

His gaze slowly drags its way back towards her. “I wanted to check on her condition.” He clears his throat again and adds, “For Khalil.”

Theo can’t help but flinch at the addition. It should concern her, how quickly she has turned away from the recruit, the sweet young man that Eva is so fond of, and maybe in the future, it will. But, for now, she can only think of his face, bloodied and wild, as he lunged at her daughter.

A small part of her hoped that DuPont had done his duty and already disposed of him.

She does not want to be the one to tell Eva they must call a Hunt.

He’s staring at her again, lips pressed into a thin line, and Theo wants to move, to shield her daughter from his gaze, deny him the opportunity to observe her vulnerability. Before she can, however, he frowns.

“Why hasn’t anyone cleaned up her?” he asks, brow furrowing, as he takes a step into the room.

Theo bristles, the criticism hitting a bruise nearly 4 decades old, and matches his step. “Cass and Vera took care of her wounds. Now, it is just a matter of waiting on Jia-Ahn.” How dare he? Her indignation rises at the flat look he gives her, unimpressed.

“I’m talking about the blood all over her neck, Mrs. Clark.”

Her jaw clenches. “I know that, Mr. DuPont.”

“Then why —” He cuts himself off as if he finally realizes who he’s talking to. An apologetic look flits across his face, one that she raises her head at, before he breathes out deeply. She grinds her teeth together, willing her eyes to stay dry, as he gives a brief nod.

She can’t do it. She can’t look down at her sweet daughter’s neck and not picture Daniel. Not remember the jagged edges of his torn throat, the sliver of startingly white bone revealed between sections of wet flesh, blood coating his skin —

She can’t.

Theo expects him to turn tail, to utter a short apology, if he even says anything, and disappear to whatever hole he crawled out of.

“May I?” DuPont asks her instead.

She blinks, bewildered. “I’m sorry?” May he what? Leave?

DuPont swallows and he looks back to Eva, tilting his head in her direction. “Do you mind if I help her?” He glances back to Theo. “Evangeline won’t like waking up to that.”

“Eva,” she corrects him out of instinct. “She doesn’t like being called by her first name.”

“Really?” he says with another frown. “She never said.”

Theo shifts on her feet, curiosity flickering, as DuPont takes in that information. Perhaps they weren’t as familiar as she feared, if he didn’t know that. Eva was quick to correct people on her name, Imma aside. But that is not the conversation at hand.

“I don’t think,” she trails off as she looks back at her. She still can’t look, but she sees the spots dotting the line of her jaw and chin.

“I’ll tell her it was my idea,” DuPont says, causing her to look back at him. He offers a slight shrug. “I don’t think she’ll mind, but.”

She looks him up and down, conflicted. Theo doesn’t understand why he cares, why he hasn’t left, but a part of her doesn’t care. He wants to help Eva — right now, that’s enough for her.

“Okay,” Theo says, ignoring his look of surprise, “But I’m watching you, DuPont. Just — just be careful.” She takes her seat again beside the bed, laying a hand on Eva’s wrist, pressing her fingers gently into her artery, feeling the steady pulse. It soothes her enough to let him come further into the room.

“I would expect nothing less,” he says, lips twitching into a slight smile. He walks over to the sink on the other side of the room, taking a wash cloth off of the vanity’s shelf, and turns on the water.

Theo watches as he tests the water, adjusting the handles, until it’s a temperature he apparently prefers, and wets the wash cloth. He carefully wrings the cloth out and brings it to the other side of the bed.

His eyes flick up to meet hers, briefly, before he leans over and begins to gently wash Eva’s neck. Taking a steadying breath, Theo’s fingers flex around Eva’s wrist, keeping an eye on DuPont as he wipes away the tacky blood.

“You should know,” he says quietly, “that you’ll be able milk this for a while with Khalil.”

Theo stiffens and a sharp retort is on the tip of her tongue just as she realizes that he wasn’t saying that to her. He isn’t even looking at Theo.

“He’s shaken up,” DuPont continues, rotating the cloth to a clean section, moving up her neck. “Which is understandable. He’s worried sick, and feeling guilty, but I was able to get him to calm down. I don’t think he’ll want to leave until he knows you’re awake and on the mend.”

Disbelief settles in her as she watches DuPont clean Eva up with methodical attention, his voice low and soothing as he talks to her. It discomforts her. All the pieces she knows she’s missing. Theo looks at her daughter’s face, soft and calm under DuPont ministrations, and she has to know. The words force themselves out before she can hold her tongue.

“How do you know my daughter, Mr. DuPont?”

His hand stills, hovering over Eva’s skin, before he looks up at her. “We met at the Ball.”

“We didn’t introduce her to you.” The Ball was months ago and she can’t bring herself to believe that Eva has been keeping a secret for that long. Not from them.

His jaw ticks. “No, you did not.” He huffs out a breath and returns to his task. “Don’t worry; she didn’t tell me who she was.”

“Then how did you find out?”

“I ran into her one night when she was Hunting. We were after the same fledgling.”

“And when was that?”

“Jesus,” he bites out, stopping again to look at her. “Just ask what you want to ask.” His eyes are narrowed, frustration bleeding through, and he steps away from the bed to head back to the sink. His back is a tense line as he wets the cloth again. “If you were wanting an interrogation, you should have had your mother here.”

Theo’s mouth thins and she wants to scowl at him. Eva is her daughter and she’ll ask as many questions as she damn well pleases. She doesn’t need Imma here to do it for her.

“Fine,” she says flatly, “How long has she been lying for you?”

DuPont turns around, incredulous, as he demands, “Excuse me?”

“My daughter is a lot of things, Mr. DuPont. But a liar has never been one of them. Until now,” she motions to the room. “She’s been lying and speaking half-truths and sneaking around. And all of that has led to this.”

DuPont scowls at her as he approaches the bed. “I don’t appreciate the accusation, Mrs. Clark,” he says with a glare even as he returns to his original task.

“Then tell me how long this has been going on.”

“If she hasn’t said anything, then I’m sure she has her reasons.”

“Bullshit. Dammit DuPont, just tell me —”

“No,” he says, tone final. He straightens from where he’s leaned over, folding the cloth into a square, and looks her straight in the eyes. “She’s Jocasta’s heir, right? As such, maybe you should have a little faith in her and trust that she will tell you when she’s ready. Maybe you should spend some time thinking about why she’s been reluctant to tell you.”

[hobiebrownismygod]

Rising - 1610!Miles Morales x Fem!Reader

~3.1k words

Synopsis: Miles knew he would have to battle with his guilt from his Uncle Aaron's death, but he never expected to get involved with the Prowler again. This time, the Prowler returns with a new face.

TW: Death, Mention of Murder & Robbery

A/N: Reader doesn't have a specified race. I talk about Reader's eyes a little bit, but nothing is specified other than them being pretty <3

Edit: Based off prompt by @homiesondaweb go check them out

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10:36 A.M. Aaron Davis's Funeral - Miles' POV __________________________________________________

"Thank you for coming." Miles watched as his mom quietly whispered her thanks to the numerous family members approaching them with their kind words and back pats. He forced a smile as a woman he didn't even know cupped his face in her hands, her condolences barely audible over the loud murmurs of the rest of the funeral crowd. The cold Brooklyn breeze sent shivers down his spine, his thin suit coat doing little to prevent the goosebumps from rapidly spreading across his skin.

It was a gloomy day, dark clouds on the horizon blocking the sun, the inevitable chance of pouring rainfall growing closer and closer as the wind pushed the overcast towards the funeral service. It had been exactly one week and two days since his Uncle Aaron's sudden death. The cops, well Miles' dad Jeff, had done a good job covering up his uncle's involvement in the collider sequence that generated the tens of tiny earthquakes, shaking New York to its core and leading to thousands worth of property damage. It was as if the Prowler had never existed. They said that his uncle died during one of the earthquakes, trapped under the rubble while trying to help evacuate a neighborhood but Miles knew better.

He knew the truth. He knew that his uncle wasn't a good guy. He knew that he'd been working with Kingpin. He knew about the Sinister Six. But worse than all the rest, he knew that it was his fault his uncle was dead. Because if he hadn't been bit by that damn spider, Aaron Davis would still be alive.

"Dear friends and family, we gather here today in grief and love to remember the life of Aaron Davis and to support one another during this difficult time. As we come together, let us take a moment to offer a prayer of comfort, healing, and strength..."

It was starting. Miles quickly took a seat next to his mom who was silently dabbing the corner of her eye with a small, white napkin. She put her hand on top of Miles' squeezing gently and shooting him a slight smile before they both turned their heads to look back over at his father, who was approaching the podium to give his farewell speech. Miles watched as his father pulled out what looked like a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket, looked at it for a moment, and then shoved it back in with a sigh. He placed his hands on both sides of the microphone, eliciting a small, high-pitched screech, evoking subtle winces among the crowd.

His dad cleared his throat, and began to speak, his voice wavering slightly with every change in tone. It was hard for him, probably harder than it was for Miles. Miles couldn't help but feel a little proud of his dad for being able to stand up there and talk about the man that they'd lost, because he knew that if he himself tried to go up there, he'd break down and never be able to build himself back up again.

"Aaron was my baby brother. But more than that, he was my best friend." His dad chuckled slightly, memories flooding his mind as he continued, "I remember when we were young, how the two of us would go out causing trouble like we were invincible. Like nothing could break us..."

As Miles's focus slowly wavered, he felt his father's voice becoming more and more muffled. Miles' mind was overwhelmed by unwelcome thoughts, flooding his senses and making his swallowing sharper and his eyes heavier. If I hadn't been bit...would he still be here today? He closed his eyes quickly, to prevent himself from breaking down right there, swallowing back his tears before opening them again and looking back at his father. If I hadn't been followed...would he have survived?

If I'd shook him off my path that day, he would've never realized that I was going to Aunt May's house. And he wouldn't have caught me. And I wouldn't have taken my mask off. And he wouldn't have been shot.

Miles heard clapping and opened his eyes again, forcing a smile onto his face and clapping along with everyone else while his dad sat down in the seat next to him. Another person went up to the stand, someone Miles didn't know. As the person began to talk, Miles felt his mind wandering again, back to those horrible, horrible thoughts. But there was a hint of truth behind them, wasn't there? If I hadn't-

He felt a tingling sensation in his body, the hairs on his arms standing up and a weird, almost nauseating feeling entering the front of his forehead. His spider-sense. It was detecting something.

He subtly turned his head to the side, where the sense was telling him to look. His eyes scanned over his surroundings, taking in the faces of all the people there, most of whom he'd never met before. Many of them were relatives on his dad's side, people who he didn't meet often because of his dad's messy relationship with his parents. He'd never told Miles why exactly he never got to meet his grandparents, but Miles knew not to ask. Family issues were difficult.

His eyes landed on a pair of people, one larger than the other. They were both covered from head to toe in funeral attire, the larger one wearing a black suit and the smaller one, probably a young girl, wearing a simple black dress. They looked just like everyone else, except for the fact that they were wearing face-masks to cover their faces, something you didn't often see at a funeral. It was as if they were trying to hide something.

Miles continued to stare at the pair, gears turning in his brain as he tried to see if he could recognize them. Despite not being able to see their expressions, they looked solemn. His spider-sense began to die down and he decided it must've been a fluke, but even then he couldn't help but continue to gaze at them. Especially at the girl. He was mesmerized. He couldn't even see her face, but he felt some kind of weird connection. Like he knew her from somewhere. Or she knew him.

Suddenly, her eyes darted towards him. He immediately looked away, feeling his face turn hot as he pursed his lips together, looking down and fidgeting with his fingers. His spider-sense went off like crazy and he could feel her hard stare boring into his skull, those entrancing eyes glaring right at him. He stayed like that for a few minutes, barely even breathing as he waited for her to look away. When she did, he looked back more subtly this time, and then looked back at the stand with a newfound sense of focus.

"Aaron Davis was a good man who died a hero's death. May his soul Rest In Peace for all eternity..."

Another person who must've been close to Miles' uncle was talking, preaching about how perfect he was. Miles couldn't help but wonder...if only they knew. His uncle was a hero, but not for the reasons everyone else believed. He'd saved Miles. But Miles couldn't save him.

Eventually, after all the speeches finished, Miles stood up and walked with the crowd toward where his uncle's coffin would be buried. Everyone watched intently as the coffin was lowered into the ground and everyone stayed silent while they threw in their white roses and other flowers. Some were crying, some were sniffling, but Miles stayed quiet. He couldn't break down yet. Not here. Not in front of everyone.

Once everyone else was finished, Miles approached the coffin silently, a single sunflower in his hand. He raised his hand out toward the coffin, and let the sunflower fall down, catching on the wind and slowly drifting onto the top of the coffin. "Goodbye, Unc." He whispered, just loud enough for nobody else but him to hear. He felt red hot tears filling up his eyes as he stepped back from the grave. "I'll miss you."

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8 days earlier, 17 hours after Aaron Davis's death Your house - your POV __________________________________________________

"Hey kiddo."

You looked up as your father walked into your room, sitting down on the bed and watching you as you continued working on your newest project. Hover-shoes. They looked like normal shoes, but the soles were replaced with a strong magnet which would push you off the floor and help you hover for a little more than a few minutes. They would be useful if you ever needed to sneak around without making noise, because they'd prevent you from touching the ground.

You placed the shoe sole you'd been manipulating down and looked over at your father, eyebrow raised. He rarely delivered good news like this, so something must've happened.

"Hey? What's up?" You asked, slightly nervous as you watched him put his hand on the back of his neck before looking away from you. The guilty look on his face told you something was definitely wrong. You quieted your voice to a whisper before leaning toward him slightly. "Don't tell me...we've been compromised?" You asked, eyes wide with fear as your mind immediately went to the worst.

You and your father weren't the average duo. Actually, you were a lot more than average. Murder, espionage and robbery weren't father-daughter dates that were revered in modern society. But it was how you survived. It was really all you knew. You were just a little kid when you discovered what your father really did for a job, murdering and stealing for unknown bosses, a mercenary of some sorts. But unlike a normal child, you were excited. You weren't scared of your father's job, in fact, you wanted to be a part of it.

Your genius intellect might have had a hand in that reaction, considering you were never normal to begin with. Always the top of your class, always having to wait for the others to catch up, life was phenomenally boring for someone like you, so a bit of excitement never hurt. Your father's job also helped you build connections, connections with people most would be scared of. Except these connections did more for you than any fancy private school ever could. Learning from the best, although the public would consider them the worst. Being taught how to accomplish impossible feats. A life fit for a little Einstein.

"No, nothing like that" your father said quickly, waving off your fear that you'd been caught. The constant meetings between criminals in the apartment you stayed in would probably raise suspicion eventually, but for now the two of you were in the clear.

You leaned back in your chair, arms folded over your chest as you tilted your head at him. "Then what?" your breathing slowed down as your fright subsided, heart-beat back to a regular pace. Being a genius didn't prevent the occasional panic attack, although occasional could be considered an understatement. They happened often and randomly. You were never 100% safe when the chance of losing your ability to move and breathe was always on the corner. It was one of the reasons your father was so against you being out in the field. But you wanted to be there anyways, because after all, where's the fun in staying to the side?

"It's about...Aaron."

Your eyes widened as you leaned forward again, hands clasping in your lap. "What happened?" You asked quietly, dreading the response you'd receive. Aaron Davis was the Prowler. A revered member of the Sinister Six cartel. The mercenary of all mercenaries. Your role model. Your dad's best friend. Nothing could happen to your idol, the man who ate dinner at your table just three days ago. Nothing.

"He's dead."

You swallowed that sharp pain in your stomach back, blinking away the arrival of a tear in your eye. "What happened?" You repeated, voice a little bit harsher, tone a little bit colder.

"We're not sure. He was killed during his hunt for that kid. The new Spider-man." Your expression hardened. "Spider-man?"

Your father nodded solemnly. "We're trying to figure out who this kid is. The rest of the cartel wants him too. Aaron...we think he killed Aaron. Our cameras show him fleeing the crime scene."

You nodded back, folding your arms over you chest as you leaned back in your chair for a second time. You tilted your head so the back of it hit the top of your chair, before rolling it to the side, looking back at the pair of shoes you'd been working on. "So what's the plan then?

Your father stood up, putting his hands in his pockets before he approached you. "Before we go over the plan, I have something that might cheer you up, kid." You looked up at him, a little surprised. A present of some sort? Unlikely. Why would he bring it up after dropping something so heavy on you?

You stood up and followed him out, arriving in the living room where a medium-sized box sat on the couch. He leaned down and gently lifted it before handing it over to you. "Open it." he said with a nod.

You scrutinized his expression, trying to guess what might be in the box before you opened it. "What's this, then?"

"Just open it, (reader's name)."

You chuckled softly before removing the top of the box, peering inside curiously. A soft gasp escaped your lips, eyes watering at the sight of the present. Removing the top layer of tissue, you pulled out a mask.

The Prowler mask.

"He-he-did he-?"

"He left a voice message saying it was for you." Your father forced a smile at your expression. He was trying to support you, but he was obviously frightened at the idea of his daughter growing up so fast. Of his little girl turning into him.

"Thank you." you whispered, blinking back your tears. This gesture was almost too much. Your idol wanted you to carry on his legacy. It was almost poetic in a sense.

Your father nodded, putting his hand on your shoulder in a comforting way. "Lets talk about this plan, shall we?"

____________________________________________________________

7:50 A.M. - Monday Two days after the funeral - Miles POV

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"Mami, I'm gonna be late for school!" Miles said quickly, dodging another one of his mom's sloppy kisses before walking out the door. "Hey, un momento más! Dame un kiss first!" Miles groaned as his mom grabbed his face and placed another kiss on his cheek, but he couldn't help but smile at the gesture. She handed him his bag before walking back inside.

Miles was already late to school. He had 5 minutes until class started and it took 10 minutes for him to walk there. There was no way he'd be able to make it in time, unless...

ten minutes later

Miles arrived on top of the school building, panting slightly as he struggled to pull his school uniform over his head after three minutes of intense web-swinging. Swinging was almost as tiring as running, but Miles would never complain about how it felt to swing through the city as Spider-man. The adrenaline pumping through his veins, the exhilarating feeling of the cold wind slamming against the skin of his suit, speeding past cars and trucks, threading the needle between buildings and alleyways.

He was still going to be late, he realized as he tried to fix his tie while he ran through the hallways. He skid past the door he was supposed to enter and tripped, falling onto his face before he recovered and swung the door open, right as the bell rang.

The entirety of the class turned to look at him, the silence so loud you could hear it as he walked inside, beads of sweat still wetting his eyebrows. "Nice of you to join us, Mr. Morales." His physics teacher said with an eye roll, her voice barely drowning out the sound of his bright red Jordans squeaking across the floor while he attempted to sit down. "Nice of you to wait for me" he replied with a sheepish grin, setting his backpack down.

His teacher gave him a fake smile before gesturing for him to stand up. "Actually, I'm going to have you sit next to someone else for a little while." she said, eyeing the boy Miles had sat down next to. Ganke Lee shot her a sly grin back before subtly giving Miles a high-five under the seat.

"Back corner of the room. Quick, don't keep us waiting." Miles looked back at the area she was pointing at and shuffled toward the empty seat. He barely gave his new partner a glance before he sat down. He looked over at the person he'd have to share a table with and he let out an audible gasp.

Those eyes...

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Your POV

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You glanced over at him, eyes narrowing as you began to recognize him, scanning over his figure. An amused grin spread across your face as you watched him shut his mouth and turn away, obviously embarrassed at how loud he'd just been. You shook your head gently, a soft chuckle escaping your lips.

"Everyone pull out your textbooks and turn to page 76. Today we'll be learning about-"

Despite the teacher's ongoing lecture, you could feel his eyes on you, unmoving from your face. You bit the inside of your cheek, debating with yourself on whether or not you should ignore him. You decided to confront him, but before you could say anything-

"Hey. What's your name?"

You looked over at him, tucking a strand/lock of hair behind your ear as you did so.

"Y/N. You?" You tried your best to seem dry. You weren't here to make friends, but you couldn't help but shoot a smile at the sweet-looking boy next to you. He returned it, resting his face in his palm and leaning against the table as he watched you.

"I'm Mil-" his voice cracked slightly and he ducked his head in embarrassment, looking away. You stifled a laugh, covering your mouth with the back of your hand as you nodded at him. His face was a little flushed when he looked back at you. "Miles. Miles Morales."

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[mystic-writings]

remember the nights | chapter eleven — o, atlas, pt. i

WORD COUNT — 2,154

WARNINGS — angst, depression

NOTES — god this chapter just. ugh. (also sorry for the late post i forgot to queue it last night)

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You haven’t been able to look Thomas in the eye for almost a month.

It’s been just a few days short of three weeks, and you were finally in the classic, snowy December that you’d waited all year for. The snow had begun to fall the day after the party and had let up very little since, as though the weather was linked to your mood. 

Before you’d moved, you wondered exactly what Woodstock would look like during the holiday season — covered in snow, twinkling under the moonlight and lit up in color with decorations on every house. You were correct, of course, and despite its beauty, you didn’t have the energy nor the emotion to properly admire the town for all the beauty it displayed under the constant cover of snow. 

While the morning of the first snow was hard, it hadn’t gotten any better. You woke up that morning and went through your usual motions, the ache in your chest feeling like a gaping void that swallowed up all of your happiness. Your first decision that day was to let it consume you, but after you cried all over again after folding up Newt’s jacket and tucking it away in your closet, you knew that feeling it all the time would only make things worse for you. Especially when you realized that if Newt was serious about what he said, it was almost a certainty that the jacket would never leave its place in your closet. 

After that, a constant cold — and even colder silence — seemed to blanket the house in the same way the snow did. Because not only could you not look Thomas in the eye without feeling a surge of anger, but you couldn’t stand speaking to him, either. For the first few days, he tried his best to talk to you, to explain himself, but once he realized you were serious about not talking to him anymore, he gave up. 

Maggie and your dad seemed okay, and you were thankful that their relationship wasn’t as altered by the change in yours and Thomas’, but the concern that rolled off of them in waves when you were in their presence was so strong that you could barely be around them, too. 

Chuck was the only person who didn’t treat you any differently than he did before. He still persisted, inviting you into his room to play video games or watching movies on your laptop in your room. He was an entirely welcome presence in your life, and a very welcome distraction to whatever thoughts were lingering in your mind. The silence within the house was growing to be suffocating, and if it weren’t for Chuck, you wouldn’t know what to do with yourself. He was the only person in the world right now who didn’t look at you with that gleam of pity in his eyes, and for that, you were thankful. 

You did your best to ignore the lingering thoughts in your mind. Thinking about what happened — and all the possibilities of what was happening to everyone else after, or what else could have happened instead — just made that aching void worse. Because the group that had once welcomed you with open arms, the one that had so quickly become your family, was shattered. And it was partly your fault. 

Thomas and Teresa stuck with one another, that much was expected. Newt, as he’d said, wandered off on his own, opting to spend all his free time with Frypan. Brenda, though, was determined to not leave your side. She had been one of the many front row witnesses at the party, and had reminded you several times that she believes both boys were at fault and overreacted, whereas you didn’t deserve any of what happened. 

Minho and Gally, ever the peacekeepers, had spent the past few weeks on a rotating schedule of spending their time with each of you separately. Sonya and Harriet did the same every so often, but aside from Sonya coming over every once in a while and reminding you that she was on your side, they had gone off on their own, too. 

You stopped sitting beside Newt in chemistry class. Brenda had forced Clint, the boy who used to be her lab partner, to switch seats with you. It gave you a little peace of mind, sitting across the classroom from him. But it made the ache worse, too. You still saw him at his locker every day, though. And there was no way you could get around that. 

Despite the sudden temperature drop, you stopped going to school with Thomas and Teresa. You’d either walk, occasionally take your dad’s car, or ride with Brenda on the days she risked driving her beat up, barely road safe, 90s Dodge Neon to school — without snow tires. Anything was better than stewing in the obvious tension between the three of you.

Everything felt like too much. You could barely manage with the aching pressure of your emotions, of processing and living with what happened — but lately, you were being pressured into college applications, figuring out what you wanted to do for your entire future, and it was all too much to handle. 

At first, Brenda tried taking you to Mickey’s one Friday evening to see if it would help to take your mind off things, but you could barely stomach walking through the door. Frypan spotted you through the order window, and you saw the pity flash through his eyes — and within seconds, Newt had walked out of the bathroom, and you knew you wouldn’t be stepping foot back in the diner anytime soon. You were just lucky enough that he didn’t see you before you left, because you wouldn’t have known what to do if he did. 

She’d ordered it for you once, too, a few days after that evening. You appreciated that she was trying, but no matter how much you wanted it to work, it didn’t. The bitter taste of regret burned your throat as you swallowed each bite, and it reminded you of Newt, of the willow tree and how you were able to trust him so quickly to tell him about your childhood, and him to do the same. 

All it did was remind you of how Newt was the first person you were able to talk about your mom to since Amina and Fernanda. About how you told him things you hadn’t even told them. 

With every day that passed, you wished more and more that you could get rid of every painful reminder — which seemed to be embedded in everything that surrounded you, into the very fiber of your being — and to get over it. But you couldn’t. You wanted desperately to move back to the city, to the floor-to-ceiling windows you grew up with. To have sleepovers with Amina and Fernanda again, to eat frozen yogurt with them and throw pieces of pizza to the pigeons in the park again. To go back to before you ever crossed Woodstock’s town line, so you could forget you ever knew the boy called Newt. 

So you could relieve yourself of the constant heartache. 

But, like most things in life, there was nothing you could do to change how things were now, let alone go back to when things were better. All you could do was live with it, bear the pain and hope that, someday, you could let go of it, or forget about it. That you could get back to how things used to be, or build a new version of it, at least. 

Sitting at the kitchen table, in the dead of morning, you appreciated the quiet that settled over the house. It was different to the suffocating blanket that covered everyone during meals; it was peaceful. 

You were wide awake despite it being dawn on a Saturday, but you just couldn’t sleep. With your laptop and an ocean of papers in front of you, you decided it was the perfect time to drown in college applications. 

Even though you were entirely clueless on what you wanted to do with your life after high school, you were sure that college applications were a must. It was the one thing that was enforced constantly throughout your time at school, so they had to be important, right? Besides, you could always figure out what to do after you got accepted somewhere, right?

You lifted your ballerina mug — practically filled to the brim with coffee — to your lips as the sound of feet shuffling down the stairs caught your attention. Looking over your shoulder, you spotted your dad turning from the stairs into the kitchen, sporting some of the worst bedhead you’d ever seen. 

“Whatcha doin’?” He asked, voice gravelly from lack of use. 

You sighed, looking back at the ominous spread of papers and glaringly bright computer screen. “College applications,”

Your dad nodded and came to stand at your right side, now holding his own cup of coffee. “Where were you thinking of going?”

“Not sure anymore,” you shrugged, picking up a piece of paper and skimming over it. “Maybe Syracuse? They’ve got good programs.” 

“I thought your friends—the girls, I mean—were gonna go to NYU together? What about that?”

“That was when I could do everything from the condo, and I didn’t have to worry about paying for accommodation.” You told him. “But that doesn’t really matter anymore, since I’d have to pay for some sort of dormitory no matter where I go, now.” 

Your dad took a sip of his coffee before placing a hand on your shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Don’t worry about any of that, kiddo. We can cover it no matter where you go, okay? Hell, if you wanna run off to Australia for school, we can cover that, too. Just pick somewhere that you’re gonna enjoy, okay? Do what makes you happy.” 

You smiled and looked up at your dad, ignoring the slight build of tears along your waterline. “Thanks, dad.” 

“Don’t worry, kiddo. We’ve got this.” He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, squeezed your shoulder one last time, and headed to his office to finish up some of the projects he’d been working on. 

Even with Brenda at your side at practically every hour of the day, making dozens of attempts to distract you with whatever came to her mind, school never felt as lonely as it did now. Everyone else still ate their lunches in the cafeteria, but you and Brenda started eating in the computer lab with some of her more casual friends. Thomas and Teresa still took their spots at the main table, but Newt and Frypan began occupying a small corner space by the windows. 

You’d stopped participating in all of your classes almost immediately after the party, and you were sure that word of what happened had gotten to everyone in the school by now — and what little amount of people didn’t know could likely see that something was wrong — but you didn’t have enough energy left at the end of the day to care that much about it. 

You were lucky in your old school, with class sizes large enough and teachers stretched thin enough that not participating was something you were easily able to get away with if you wanted to, but in a school this small, you were practically out in the open. Your teachers were forgiving enough to let you keep your head down most of the time, except for Mr. Henley. It seemed that his failing marriage made him apathetic to everything in the universe, and utterly horrible at his job. 

It all just felt like too much. Everything took too much effort, too much energy. Energy you just didn’t seem to have, even if you have been sleeping ten hours every night. 

You didn’t even have enough energy to focus on doing your homework anymore. Instead, you’d opted for clearing the snow off the roof in front of your window sitting there for hours every single night, staring up at the night sky until your fingers went numb and dried tears made your cheeks feel like ice. 

But every time you came back inside, you passed by your desk and everything on it. The wall behind it, covered with Fernanda’s drawings, sticky notes scrawled with reminders from months ago, and the photo strip from the mall. 

You could barely stand to look at it. 

No matter what you did, somehow, everything around you had become a reminder. A reminder of what you had, of what you lost, and of what could’ve been. And every time you remembered, it felt like you’d become Atlas, bearing the weight of the world, of a thousand mistakes that you didn’t even make, on your tired, aching shoulders. 

And there was nothing you wouldn’t give to let someone else take over.

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