#Angsty fic

[acmeangel]

Regrets | One Shot

Postwar!Levi one shot. A bit angsty. SFW. Postwar!Levi struggles with feelings of guilt, regret, and self-worth, and he finally talks to you about it. Word Count: 1487 (I couldn't stop thinking about Levi dealing with the aftermath of everything, adjusting to his new physical state, and how he'd feel about having been responsible for the kids on Levi Squad.)

Levi has a hard time accepting help from you. You have to help him in little ways, ways that feel natural.

Some nights, you massage his hand where the fingers are missing because you can tell by the tension in his forehead that it's bothering him. When you're reading together, you always sit on his left side, where he can see you better. You subtly place things -- teacups, books, pens, his folded piles of clothes -- within his reach from his wheelchair.

He'd never ask you directly to do any of this.

God, no.

He considers it a miracle that you'd settled for him in the first place - and a fragile one, at that. To him, your relationship is a house of cards. If he makes one unpredictable movement, says one shitty comment that came out wrong, places one more burden on you, it'll fall apart in his hands.

To him, he's no better than an ugly, battered stray dog with a bad history of biting. And he wants, so badly, to be good, for you.

He thinks you're attached to him by a fraying thread that could break from a breeze; you know his soul, his heart are stitched onto yours.

So, you help him.

And when he talks about it all, which is rare, you listen.

The first time you made him dinner, he ate all of the sides, then pushed the meat around with his fork for a while, before saying he'd lost his appetite.

Later, without looking at you, he told you, "One of the kids. From before. She was obsessed with food. It was disgusting, the only thing she ever talked about. Her last damn word was 'meat'. Fucking ridiculous." He took a long pause, then added, "I didn't even hear it, though. I... was in the other room."

He's never brought it up again.

Another time, he came home, muttering about how Gabi said something that sounded like something Eren would say. You lost track of how long he sat by the window, looking into his teacup that night.

You've seen him interact with Gabi and Falco a few times before. You see the wheels turn in his head before he says anything to them, as if he has to triple-check his words.

That, so far, was the only other time he's mentioned any of those kids.

He's told you about his other fallen friends and comrades before -- not in too much detail, but enough. But, those were adults. This is different.

When it came to that group of kids, he barely said a word. Really, you only knew their names, and the papers were partially to blame for that.

You wish, more than anything, that he'd open up to you. You know that he tries.

You're at home, now, and you hear the front door open and close. Your eyes fixate on the doorway to the living room, where he'd always appear. Normally, he'd go to you, place a bag from the bakery in your lap (he'd tell you some excuse about it being on the way home, but really, he just liked how those stupidly fancy pastries made you stupidly happy). Normally, he'd hold your hand and listen to your stories from the day -- things that made you laugh, complaints, the book you're reading. Normally, he'd make small comments as you talked, or scoff, or grunt in agreement. Sometimes, he'd even laugh, briefly.

But this time, he doesn't appear in the doorway. You rise from the couch and make your way down the hall, the warm glow of the bathroom light from under the door catching your eye. You stop outside the door and listen, to make sure he's okay, but you hear nothing.

You stand there for a while, until you hear a soft "Fuck."

You knock on the door, lightly. "Levi, you okay?" Your eyes sear into the door, as if your gaze alone is enough to open it, for him to let you in.

"Yeah, fine." His voice is rough, low. "I'll be out in a minute."

"Can I come in?"

The question hangs in the air for a small eternity.

A long sigh. "Okay."

You open the bathroom door. The abandoned wheelchair catches your gaze first. Then you see him, standing - standing - at the sink, clutching onto the edge of it, knuckles burning white with unyielding determination that borders on desperation. The muscles in his arms look like ropes. His head is tilted downward; he feels like that dog.

"Levi." It's the only word you can say.

"I know," he says, teeth gritted, and he can't meet your eye. To him, he doesn't deserve to see whatever sympathy is in your gaze - it'd only be wasted.

"Come here." Your voice is soft, gentle, and you stretch your arms out to him. It takes a long moment, but he finally accepts. His hands grab onto your arms as you help lower him back into his wheelchair. You kneel next to him, you take his hand in yours.

"Levi," you say, your voice urging him to look at you, "Talk to me. What's going on? You know you can't stand like that..."

He looks at you, finally, and though his expression gives away nothing, you can sense the despair, hidden away in the corners of his eyes.

"I can't do anything, Y/N," he says. "I couldn't do anything then, I can't do anything now. I can't even take a shit without almost falling first."

Your grip on his hand tightens. Your thumb traces circles on his wrist, and you can feel his heart racing.

"Did something happen today?"

"No. Yes. Fucking hell." He takes a breath. "Gabi asked me something today. I don't remember what. Doesn't matter. But, I don't know where she got the idea that I'm someone to go to for advice. Maybe I'm just being an asshole about it."

"Levi," you try to soothe him. "Whatever it was, she asked you because she trusts you. She knows you, she was there with you through... a lot. And, even aside from that... you have so much to offer. You might not see it, but you help me all the time."

"Offer?" The word barely makes a sound. "You know what was one of the first pieces of advice I ever gave Eren? I told the little bastard to make the decisions he wanted, whether it meant betting on his own strength or trusting the rest of us. I told him to do whatever he wanted, as long as it'd make him have no regrets."

"Is that what this is all about?" Your free hand finds his knee, a gentle pressure. His eyes look into yours, pleading, as if they're the only things keeping him anchored.

"God." He whispers, his voice more strained than you've ever heard. He breathes in sharply, a slight tremor to his breath. You see the veins in his neck strain. "What the hell were they thinking? Putting me in charge of those kids, as if I had any right to be, what, some sort of moral compass? Me? All I did is let them get blood on their hands. I didn't even try to stop them. And now I can't take my own shitty advice."

Your eyes remain locked into his; if he's the ship in a storm, you'll be the sails.

"You did the best you could," you whisper, so delicately, as if the air surrounding you both could shatter. "And I know you don't want to hear that. But, it's the truth. And your advice wasn't shitty, it was realistic. All of you were faced with impossible odds, and you did the best with what little you had. There wasn't an outcome where everyone would've made it, unscathed. I know you know that. And I know that none of those kids regret having you as their Captain."

His jaw clenches so hard you see it in his temples. He pulls you closer, with an urgency you've never seen from him before. Really, you've never seen any of this from him before.

His face finds its way to the crook of your neck, where it fits perfectly. It always has.

"What the fuck is wrong with me?" His words are muffled against your skin. But before you can answer, he cries. He cries. Not hard, not even with sound. But you feel the hot tears press against the skin of your neck; you feel, for a moment, as if it could leave a permanent mark, somehow.

"Nothing, Levi," you whisper, your hand stroking the back of his hair, your other arm wrapped around his back. "You're only human. And I'll do my best to prove that to you. I'll be gentle with you, even when you don't think you deserve it. Especially then."

Human. Distinctly, not a dog. Not a tool. Not a weapon.

"I have so many regrets, Y/N. But you'll never be one of them. I'm sure of that."

Masterlist

Requests are open!

[natalievoncatte]

“What I did wasn’t personal,” Lena said.

Supergirl had already turned to face her. There were words formed on her lips, but Alex struck first, bringing her viper wit where it wasn’t needed or welcome.

“You had a stash of ‘Kills Kryptonians’. It’s personal,” said Alex.

Lena ignored her, looking directly at Supergirl.

“You know I’d never use it that way.”

“You kept secrets,” said Supergirl. “Secrets change things. I don’t like secrets.”

“Oh really,” Lena spat, knowing she’d regret what came next. “You don’t like secrets. Okay. What’s your real name?”

Alex flinched. Supergirl stared her down. Even in this miserable place, she was inhumanly beautiful, even if Lena was a little resentful that she’d been bitching about walking fifty yards a few moments ago, and making light of exercise, when she had the audacity to look like that.

The pause grew heavy. Something seemed to turn behind Supergirl’s eyes, like she was working something out. Her expression softened lightly.

“Why didn’t you come to me about Sam? I thought we trusted each other.”

“How can I trust you?” Lena said. “You still hold me at arm’s length, won’t let me in, only look for my help when it’s convenient for you. Maybe I should have sought your help, but it isn’t like I have you on speed dial, is it? What was I supposed to do, toss myself off a balcony and hope you were having coffee with Kara Danvers again?”

Supergirl flinched. Looking at Lena intently, she stepped closer, and Alex grew visibly nervous.

“Supergirl…” she said.

“You want to know my real name?”

“Yes,” Lena said, her voice suddenly unsteady, her palms breaking out in a sweat despite the cool, stale air. She stood her ground before a being that could level a mountain with a look and held her gaze.

“Kryptonian names are patronymics, sort of. A man’s name is his own and that of his family. So, for example, my cousin’s name is Kal-El. His father was Jor-El.”

“I knew that already,” said Lena. “Your cousin shared that an interview with Lois Lane.”

“He can share his because he has a name that was given to him by his adoptive family,” said Supergirl, her voice softening as she took another step closer. “I still use my Kryptonian first name.”

Something about that itched at Lena’s brain, but she wasn’t sure what.

“Supergirl,” Alex hissed. “You can’t… we can’t…”

Supergirl threw her a glance. “What? Trust her?” She looked at Lena. “My father was Joe-El’s brother, Zor-El. My mother’s name was Alura In-Ze.”

Lena licked her lips.

“They gave me the name Kara,” said Kara Zor-El. “On Earth, I accepted the surname of the family that took me in to raise me when my cousin gave me up to them. My full name is Kara Zor-El Danvers.”

Lena stumbled a step back, her mouth falling open comically. It felt like the ground was bursting open and swallowing her up, her stomach dropping through her knees.

No. No, no, no, no. It couldn’t be.

“Look at me, Lena.”

Lena looked away from her.”

“Look at me.”

Lena looked.

Lena saw.

Her hair was down, but Lena knew those honeyed curls. Supergirl carried herself differently- her shoulders were proud where Kara tended to hunch down, make herself small, as if to pass through the world without touching it.

Lena hadn’t really looked before. Not like this. She’d studied Kara, maybe even mooned over Kara a little until she seemed to confirm she was straight by dating that alien jackass. She knew every part of her face from her soft lips to her feel blue eyes to that funny little scar right over her eye.

How had she not seen?

“Fucking hell, Kara!” Alex snapped.

Lena’s lip trembled. She clenched her fists to keep her hands steady, knowing they were shaking.

“You tricked me,” Lena hissed, “so many times, so many ways, running off and changing into that suit when I thought you were both people. The super-speed, right?”

“I’m sorry,” said Kara, her voice soft. “Let’s just…”

“I wasn’t finished,” said Lena. “You… you told me you were having coffee with Kara, but you are Kara. Kara… you caught me when they threw me off the balcony. You risked being killed by a kryptonite explosion when Metallo went critical. You… you were… Jesus Christ, the plane, the chemicals, that was you?”

Kara’s eyes grew wider with every syllable and even in the gloom, Lena could swear she saw tears welling up within them.

“She’s risked her life for you over and over and over,” Alex said, quietly. “Her faith in you has only wavered the once. She’s always defended you and insisted on your innocence even when I was ready to throw you in a cell,” said Alex. “She defended you from the first. Shit, she defended you from Superman.”

Lena looked from one to the other, staring at them both in turn, trying to keep her wobbly legs from completely collapsing under her.

“I owe you an apology,” said Kara, raising her gaze to meet Lena’s.

“Can you two do this later?” said Alex. “We’re on a mission, here.”

Lena swallowed, hard.

“Yeah. Let’s go find Sam.”

They did find Sam, eventually, but the plan went sideways. After they were thrust back into their bodies, Supergirl -Kara- curtly told her to help Brainy while she and Alex rushed off.

So Lena helped brainy, until it was time for her to leave. Eventually, she made her way back to her penthouse, and to a glass of single malt, neat. She savored its subtleties as she stared out at the stars.

She knew this would happen sooner or later, so she wasn’t surprised when Kara touched down on the balcony, looking utterly stunning and brave and dashing in her fancy suit. She motioned to knock at the glass.

“It’s not locked.”

“Hi,” said Kara, stepping inside.

Lena looked up. “I can’t believe I didn’t see. You’re just… you, in a different outfit.”

That wasn’t exactly true, Lena knew. As she walked into Lena’s living room, Kara had neither the mousy, retiring way of Kara Danvers nor the brash swagger of Supergirl. It was like she was seeing a third person, one who’d been fully revealed for the first time.

“I’ve been going back and forth in my mind, trying to decide what parts of our friendship were real.”

“All of it,” Kara said.

“If my brother were here, he’d say that you befriended me to spy on me and use my resources and genius for your own ends.”

“That’s not true.”

Lena took a sip, and breathed in through her parted lips after swallowing to savor it.

“I know. He said the same thing about Jack, actually. Lex always tries to convince me that anyone else in my life is just after my name or money or body.”

Kara said nothing. Lena looked up.

“Just because he’s a madman who wants to gaslight me into being a supervillain doesn’t mean he’s always wrong. Does it?”

Kara swallowed, hard.

“You’ve been very insistent on being my friend,” said Lena. “You practically barged into my life and broke down all my barriers with your earnest kindness, but you were keeping yourself behind another one.”

“The first time I ever saw you, I knew in my heart that you were nothing like him,” said Kara. “I remember every detail.”

“In my office, with Kent.”

“No. In the helicopter. That was the first time I saw you.”

Lena swirled the dregs in her glass. “Oh. Right.”

“I just had to know you. You were compelling, and the way you treated me in your office that day was a huge part of that. You seemed so… I don’t even know how to describe it. I just knew I had to be close to you.”

A fit of pique moved her arm before she could contain herself, and Lena threw the glass. Kara snatched it from the air and placed it on the table without spilling a drop.

She was closer now, standing within arm’s reach.

“You can’t just say things like that to me,” Lena almost hissed, her voice loosened by the whiskey and the one before and the one before that.

“Why?” said Kara.

Lena looked up, swaying slightly.

“You told me your name.”

“I should have sooner. We could have worked together. We could have done a lot of things.”

“Fuck,” Lena snapped. “You’re doing it again! Knock it off?”

“Knock what off?”

“You goddamn well what,” said Lena. “Or maybe you really don’t.”

“I’m sorry,” said Kara. “I just don’t understand. Can you… do you want to tell me what you mean?”

“I… sit down.”

Kara swept her cape aside and sat primly in a side chair, folding her hands in her lap, worrying at the back of her thumb with her other thumb. God, she even had Kara’s mannerisms.”

“I’m gay,” said Lena.

Kara swallowed. “But… you were with Jack… and James… and you really seem to like the letter J,” Kara said, lamely.

“It’s called bisexuality, Kara. It’s a thing.”

“Oh, I um, I don’t really get ‘sexualities.’ On Krypton, we didn’t have sexual preferences. We didn’t choose our partners at all, everything was arranged.”

“That sounds awful,” said Lena.

Kara looked away. “It was our way and it worked. We had stable families, and most people had a kind of love. My parents loved each other.”

Lena sighed. “I wish I could say that. One of my parents didn’t love anyone but himself. Your sister is gay, Kara. How can you not understand it?”

“I understand that. I just find the whole thing confusing, and overwhelming. I keep looking for this spark that everyone talks about, and these ‘gut feelings’, but every time I think I’ve had it, it wasn’t right.”

“It seemed right with Mon-El. Oh. Oh Jesus. You banished your own boyfriend from Earth.”

Kara shook her head. “I know it did. I thought it did. I just never… it was the idea of him. I was checking a box. I was with him to have a boyfriend, not to have him. We’re really different people.”

“Why are we talking about this again?” said Lena.

Kara suddenly looked nervous, and thus even more like herself.

“I don’t know. It just seems to have happened. Kind of like our whole friendship. I never made a plan to be your friend. I never had an agenda. I just needed you in my life without knowing why. You just bring me joy.”

Lena wanted to laugh. She wanted to cry, she wanted to scream.

You big indestructible goof, that is the spark!

“I should have told you about me after Medusa. I should have trusted you then, but Alex talked me out of it. I didn’t push past when it counted. I know you doubt how much you mean to me now, and I’m so sorry I did that.”

“I’d never hurt you, ever,” said Lena. “Even if you weren’t Kara. But I could never hurt her. You.”

“I know.

“For what it’s worth,” said Lena. “I felt it too. That pull, that need to know you. That’s why I allowed you to get close to me instead of being bundled off by my security. I felt it from the first, that day you came to my office. I might have felt it a little during the helicopter crash, too.”

Kara nodded.

“I feel like there’s something we’re both not saying.”

Lena licked her lips.

“I have to stop the worldkillers. I have to save Sam. I have to fix it all. I just needed to talk to you first. See you first, see you again, just the two of us.”

Lena nodded, swallowing.

“I guess I should go.”

Lena wanted to tell her not to. To ask her to spend the night, change out of that ridiculous suit, to just be Kara and stay with her, but it dawned on her now that it could never be quite like that again. Kara was Supergirl and Supergirl had to be shared with the world.

“I want to help. I’ll come to the DEO.”

“Okay,” said Kara. “I’ll see you there.”

She stood up and walked to the balcony, pausing before she opened the door. She didn’t turn when she spoke, as if she was afraid to face Lena, to face the answer.

“Do you think, when this is over, we can try it again? Try to fix it?”

“Is that something you want?” Said Lena.

“That pull is still there.”

“I know,” said Lena. “I feel it too.”

Kara’s shoulders rose and fell, as if she’d just rolled a great burden from her back.

“Okay,” she said. “Okay. I’ll see you back at the DEO. Goodnight, Lena.”

“Goodnight, Kara.”

She slid the balcony door open and stepped out, pausing for just the briefest second before lifting off, sending a gentle gust of chilly night air rolling into Lena’s penthouse.

Lena let the breeze flow in for a while before she stood up and went to the door, meaning to close it. Instead, she stepped outside, leaning on the railing as the chill raised gooseflesh on her arms.

“I feel it, too.”

[twinglockrobins]

wildflower

jason todd. f! reader

description. harboring in the loss of your late boyfriend jason, his brother is tasked with protecting you, but he begins to think he crossed the line when the late robin is back from the dead and he already sacrificed much.

warnings. death / grief / funeral / super angsty / violence / fighting [gotham combat] / slight substance use / slightly au-ish [dick attends jasons funeral] / this is so ouch like tear inducing / pre-death to redhood! jason / platonic! dick and reader relationship /

based on wildflower by billie. adjusted to fit the story / blue lyrics match dick, red lyrics match jason and their thoughts

she was your girl, you showed her the world

things had been perfect. Perfect as assuming there were hardly any flaws or cracks surrounding the surface, so you would say that the relationship you shared with Jason was perfect. Who was to argue over movie nights, and watch the Gotham City sky-line off the rooftop under the grey illumination of the moon. Blissful kisses and dinner at the Wayne’s. 

But what you were unaware of, was the costume that was making him sick; from the inside out. Yellow cape behind him waving in the wind almost like a warning and a sign for him to slow down. To take the mask off and face the real him. The Jason behind the glamour and confusion of life yearning for the truth. Little by little robinhood was driving him crazy and his past tickled at the back of his mind. The Joker wasn’t too far behind him either. 

A few days after the two of you had begun dating, Jason bit down his pride. Anxiety bubbling in his stomach as meals were becoming less and less — as well as sleep, and though he couldn’t put a finger on the uneasiness he was having, It was making him bitter and irrational to everyone else. Including you. 

Trudging through the Wayne residence, to pull a fluffy-haired Dick Grayson aside.  Dick could see it all in Jason’s face, the existential dread, grief and sadness in one. His eyebrows furrowed and bags so deep it was leaving dark holes under his eyes. 

So Dick asked if the two of you had broken up? Perhaps he was grieving the loss of your relationship, to which Jason shook his head but snatched Dick up by the collar of his shirt,

“Can you promise me something?” Jason stammered, voice shaking and his knuckles turning white against the blue shirt Dick was wearing

“Look after her, please. I-If I were to die tomorrow and there was no me…make sure she’s okay…please”

Please. 

The six-letter word was something Dick thought that he would never hear out of the boy's mouth, but here he was; late in the depths of the night — begging him — almost on his knees. Dick couldn’t stop nodding his head, hands wrapping around Jason's wrist to pull him away from his shirt.

His brother didn’t really ask for much and a big request for his first ask was a little jarring. 

It itched at the back of his mind seeing as Jason dropped his grip on his shirt and left, almost ghostly in his appearance. 

she was cryin’ on my shoulder, all I could do was hold her, only made us closer until July 

Flowers smelled nice in the rain. But not appreciated when you were front row, looking down at a sleek black casket. White and red roses decorate the top, with a wooden picture stand to the side.  It was bittersweet how time worked. Snatching Jason down as his hourglass of time was shortening and dimming and his lucky nine lives were suddenly zero. 

You, with your mouth agape gripped onto the umbrella as the rain poured down zoned out as his eulogy was being read. 

Jason. Your Jason was in that casket, and his lack of contact suddenly made sense to you. 

Dick paid close attention to how you were moving, tears littering your cheeks and sliding down your face like it would a window pane, and the grip you had on the umbrella similar to the one Jason had on his shirt a few months prior. His eyes trickled down to your hand, that was jerking forward until you consciously pulled it away and balled it into a shaking fist.

The wave of grief you were riding, and Dick right along with you. 

It made the boy cry more seeing the way you were unraveling, the once energetic attitudes you had, dulled and destroyed with dead eyes and despair. 

His hands couldn’t help it as they trickled their way to your forearm. Sending a gentle swipe of comfort and support, to which your body felt light and your head knocked onto his shoulder. Dick froze, Jason’s words playing like a record in the back of his mind as he held onto you. The umbrella for one, becoming an umbrella for two as his loose hand took it from your own. 

Crying together was all you can do. A watchful Bruce at the back of you two, eyes burning holes into the shadow of the umbrella to his face. Guilt riddled in his stomach, was this what it felt like to lose? 

His eyes connected with Alfred who could only stay silent as he watched as the young duo cried together. 

That day, Dick publicly vowed, to you that he’d be there. For you to not be a stranger and that the Wayne Manor was always open to you, and of course Jason’s belongings. That it’s what his brother would have wanted. 

but i see her, in the back of my mind, all the time

Dick was mortified, the heartbroken look on your face replaying in the back of his mind and it’s been years since Jason has been dead. His ears would ring constantly and sleep was becoming harder. Working with the Titans eased the pain of thinking about his loss…well, your loss—

As expected, you pushed yourself away, doing what you knew best. 

It was easy to ghost the bat family shortly as the years came by. Bruce stopped calling but that didn’t mean he wasn’t watching and Dick tried to keep you updated on his life — until traveling got in the way. So you bit the bullet and changed your number. 

It settled your brain inside, to calm the panic that would rake through your body when you would get a message from Dick; almost irritated that Jason’s name wasn’t the one at the top of the screen instead— something saying that he wasn’t dead and that it’s just a prank. You would hope and you would dream. 

like a fever, like i'm burning alive, like a sign

Dick respected your silence, and your absence all together. But  it did feel like a slap to the face when Alfred would ask and he’d lie like he knew the answer when he didn’t. Truth is, his heart sank when he realized your number wasn’t the same. His cheeks got warm, his chest was burning and his stomach swirled at the thought of you, and maybe it was the selfish desire and urge to protect you and keep Jason’s word alive; because if he was honest, he was doing terrible at it. 

So he spiraled, digging up everything he possibly could about you, so he could actually sleep at night knowing you were in good hands. He wondered if you were dating again, had you changed your hair or your job? But according to the Gotham City street tv’s you still looked like a spitting image from how you looked when he last saw you. Black from the trench coat at the top of your body to your shoes, it sent a shiver down his body.

But what was he going to say to you?

“Hey y/n I hope you’ve been well?”

“I’m sorry Bruce stopped calling”

“Why did you change your number?”

Dick felt his throat run dry, a cold tough lump every time he swallowed, almost like he couldn’t breathe. Then he sunk into his chair, floppy hair pushed back by his hands as he gripped at his scalp, typing in the nearest florist that he knew. 

That evening, A mix of flowers arrived at your desk; Jason’s favorites. Your hands are entangled in the vase, fingers ghosting on the stem and leaves. Sniffing them almost took you back to standing in the rain that day. Coldness fills your body and the void that hasn’t been filled. You shrieked as your finger sliced a rectangular card of white paper, your crimson blood staining the white as you read the note;  I hope you’re well — D . G 

And you knew that name better than anyone. 

and I know that you love me, you don't need to remind me

Grunts filled the air, alongside the slapping of fist against flesh and scuffing of shoes. The redhood emerged wrecking havoc on criminal business in Gotham and it certainly wasn’t going to go unnoticed. Dick should have known the minute he put his blue and black suit back on as he tussled side to side with the rather buff and tall man in front of him. 

The red-hood shoved Dick off of him, holding onto the side of his mask in between pants “Why don’t we do this with honesty” 

Dick tilted his head in confusion as he watched the red-hood dethrone his mask. Shaking his hair out and rolling it like a bowling ball towards Dick. Jason’s hair was a tad bit longer now, money pieces frosted blonde, and a J scar etched into his cheek, his gaze was hard and so lifeless. Dick felt like his heart stopped beating in his chest, breathes shakier than ever — burning up like he did when he had a fever. The wound was reopening for Dick. To see a very much alive Jason Todd in front of him was enough to throw him off his step. Hand crossed over his hip from the punches to his stomach, Dick doubled over. 

“I’m gonna be sick, how are you…”

“fight me.” Jason spat bitterly as he stared at Dick, ignoring the way the boy was trying to piece together if his death even happened. If the body in the casket was even real, who could he blame?

“Why would I fight you, you’re my brother?” Dick argued taking off his domino mask, eye makeup surrounding his eyes as he stared into Jason eye-to-eye. He couldn’t feel his soul; he couldn’t see through him, and for some reason their meeting felt oddly eerie. He dropped the mask, the thick eye mask landing right next to Jasons mask on the floor. The dichotomy. 

do you see her in the back of your mind, in my eyes?

“Where is she?” Jason poked, but Dick just remained silent his body resting against the wall,

“Dick, where the hell is she?” Jason repeated, this time with some base in his voice as the octave got louder. 

He moved in closer.

“I can’t— I can’t tell you that I’m sorry” Dick muttered as his head hung low. Jason cursed under his breath as his body turned facing away from Dick as he had a hand resting over his mouth. “But I can reassure you, she’s safe”

“So tell me where she is!”

“I CAN’T !”

Maybe this was selfish of him, Dick thought this was the right move, the smarter choice…even; and guilt was chewing him up and spitting him out like bird food. 

“I am sticking to what you said to me, and what you requested. You can’t just go back and play house, she’s hurt!” Dick paused as he tried to gather her thoughts, “let her heal”

His comment sent Jason over the edge, as his body lunged forward, fist in the air to plummet Dick’s face, missing as Dick’s reflexes started to kick in. Dick was doing well, dodging Jason’s punches until he reached in his holster, bringing out a small gun— silencer attached and began shooting at Dick in front of him who was successfully dodging every bullet.

“You can’t find her if I’m dead!”

Jason stopped firing, staring at the boy below him, chewing at his lips as he squeezed his eyes shut. Face filled with contemplation and indecision, Jason held his finger on the trigger firing it anyways, as the bullet traveled deep into the cement next to Dick’s leg — purposely missing by an inch. It did make his heart pang seeing the way Dick scrunched up in terror, with his arms blocking his face. 

did i cross the line

Jason stood in front of your apartment building, fully suited in his suit. It was almost menacing how he looked.  Thick boots on the fire escape, wet from the light dusting of rain as he broke your window seal open to climb inside. 

Jason was immediately overwhelmed, it felt awfully warm inside but your perfume was also everywhere, every crevice of the room. His wet footsteps trickling around the room as he saw how empty your apartment looked. It almost reminded him of his own. Your white sheets, lack of red or color anywhere and that wasn’t quite like you. There was hardly any decor on your bedroom walls, but he didn’t wanna loose hope.

Jason traveled further down the hall of your apartment, the living room and kitchen separated by an island table that was closer in the kitchen, but still…minimalist and lack of pictures. He snickered to himself. It wasn’t you, or the you that he knew that encouraged him to not wear black all the time when he wasn’t out playing robin. He de-gloved his hands reaching for the photo that was facing down on the table— lifting up the glass to reveal a picture of a much younger him, and yourself together. It was taken by Alfred at one of Bruce’s Gala’s and it pained him how awkward he looked, but his eyes were vibrant and full of hope. 

Jason’s body suddenly felt warm and he wanted to rip every article of clothing off his body, he couldn’t recognize himself or what he had become, where he had even been had been a blur. His memories felt every bit of a dream. But you were constant. The memories he had of you never changed, his hand shot up to his chest like the air was suddenly hard to breathe, when he crouched to the floor; knees in front of the mantle.

Jason was planning to get comfortable, his hand reaching up to take his mask off when he heard the jingle of keys outside your front door. Cursing to himself he took off, hiding back into your bedroom with the light off blending in with the dark curtains you had and the wall shadow. 

He heard the front door open, you were walking in after your shift; struggling to stay upright as you shrugged off your coat and purse to the couch. The familiar trench coat that you always wore slightly damp but blobbed as it rested on the arm. You took off your shoes, one by one which made you notice the track of footprints on the floor. It was Gotham, meaning people liked to play on the fire-escape for fun which made you grab a knife from the knife block. 

On the way down the hall, you’ve seen the picture of you and Jason up-right, causing your hands to grip around the picture but you think it could of been the alcohol you’ve been drinking that was making you see things. Flipping the picture over and back face down to the table you followed the footsteps into your bed-room.

Pushing the door open was rather humbling when met with vacancy and silence. You couldn’t even bother to hit the light as the moonlight shined on your face and casted a blue hint into the bedroom. But the breeze of your window was frustrating you. Sobering by the minute, as the knife dropped to the bed. You mumbled words to yourself like — “get it together,” “what’s wrong with you” and it pained Jason to see how you were moving from his stance in the curtain. You’d looked so similar from when he had last seen you, but the lack of color on your body made it clear the pain hasn’t left you. You’d become him, dull and lost.

Reaching the window you finally closed it, noticing that the lock to your window was broken. Groaning knowing you’d have to call maintenance that took forever and a day, so you turned on your heels as you walked out of your bed room and to the bathroom. 

Jason couldn’t move, his feet felt cemented in the floor as he rested his body weight against the wall…He was trying to ignore the dampness of his mask and his face, as the tears cooked an obnoxious amount of condensation. 

He was gone and out the window with the flush of the toilet and perhaps Dick was right about one thing. 

i know you didn't mean to hurt me, so I keep it to myself

©TWINGLOCKROBINS 2025

[suspiciouslackofclowns]

They don’t talk much most nights. Billy will heat something up from the freezer or, on occasion, he’ll actually cook on the stove.

Max likes frozen dinner nights more because her brother doesn’t get mad if she doesn’t clean her plate. He won’t sit there and stare at her with his eyebrows raised expectantly until she reluctantly takes another bite.

Regardless of the food they’re having, he’ll ask the customary how was your day questions when he picks her up from school. He helps her with her homework, runs through times tables with her until she’s sick of seeing numbers, and he always pours over her report card when it gets sent out.

From what Max gathers from her friends at school, Billy does more than some of their parents do for them. Always signing permission slips without looking at them, letting them walk home by themselves.

Max walked home with her friend once and Billy screamed at her when he found her. She screamed back, and they didn’t have dinner that night, both closed up in their rooms.

At times, Max feels like a burden. Like when they go back-to-school shopping at the end of summer and Billy fusses about only buying supplies on rollback, and complains about the expenses at the register regardless. Makes her keep her hand on the side of the basket the entire time they’re at the store, as if she’s just dying to run away and get yelled at more.

She supposes that Billy cares, but only because he has to.

If he could be rid of her, he would.

She tries to bother him as little as possible. Tries to keep her place here secure because, after all, she has nowhere else to go. All she has left in the world is Billy.

So they don’t talk most nights.

One day in particular, when Max is striding up to the car with her backpack slung over one shoulder, she tries to be less noticeable than usual. Opens and closes the back passenger side door as softly as possible and shuffles her bag into the seat next to her, keeping her head down.

Billy glances at her over his shoulder before he puts the car in drive. Doesn’t ask about her day, which is a good sign that his was probably bad. Max takes a deep breath.

Figures that now is probably the best time, considering his disdain for arguing in the car.

“Do you remember my friend Megan?” she asks, voice small.

Billy reaches out to turn the stereo down a few notches, brows pinching together in thought.

“Lil’ redhead with the braces? Yeah.”

Max nods. Holds onto her seatbelt, almost wringing it in her hands.

“Yeah, her.”

“What about her?”

She can hear her heart thundering in her ears, which is silly, because the worst he can do is say no. She has to remind herself that she hasn’t done anything wrong before she swallows thickly and parts her lips to speak.

They’re barely out of the parking lot, fixing to turn onto the main street when Billy leans forward in his seat to check for oncoming traffic.

“Well,” Max begins, and clears her throat. “She’s having a sleepover this—“

Just as Billy pulls forward, a trucks races by out of nowhere, just barely kissing the front bumper. Max jerks forward in her seat from the abrupt stop, and then back again when Billy floors it.

His driving is usually mildly anxiety-inducing at best, depending on the day, but right now it’s just plain scary. Max grabs onto the door handle, eyes wide as she stares at her brother with his fists clenched tight around the wheel.

They make it to the truck at the next light, which is red, and Billy throws the car in park before he climbs out. In the middle of the street.

Max has never seen him so angry in her life, face red all the way down his neck, veins popping to the surface of his skin as he stalks over to the truck.

The driver mistakes his intent and rolls the window down, probably looking to hurl an insult or two, but Billy reaches in and unlocks the door. Hurls it open and drags the guy out of his seat by his shirt, stretching the seatbelt with him as he starts to dangle half upside-down.

Max rolls her window down, unable to tear her eyes away.

“Why the fuck are you driving in a school zone like that?” Billy growls. He keeps a fist tangled in the front of the guy’s shirt and draws his other back before landing a punch hard on his jaw. “I got my little sister in the car, you piece of shit, I would’ve killed you. Do you understand me?”

Before he can respond, Billy hits him again. Snaps his head back from the force, and blood trickles from his nose.

He gasps out, hands flailing to grab onto anything to keep himself upright, and shakes his head when Billy rears back again.

“Jesus, man, I’m sorry!”

Billy holds his glare for another beat before he clenches his jaw and shoves the guy at the ground, leaving him tangled and still semi-suspended by his seatbelt as he turns and walks back around the car.

When he slides into his seat, he’s breathing hard. Throws the car back into drive just as the light turns green and double checks before he goes, freshly paranoid and still on-edge.

Max watches the man stumble and try to push himself up as cars behind him honk, only rolling the window up once they’re far enough away that she can’t see him clearly anymore.

Billy’s skin is red and bloody around his knuckles, fist clenched around the wheel. After his breath starts to calm, and his hold loosens, he leans back more in his seat and sighs. Glances at Max in the rear view mirror.

“Y’okay?” he asks.

There’s a slight shake in his voice. Max’s heart drops.

“Yeah,” she says. “I’m okay.”

Billy nods. His eyes are glassy when he returns his attention to the road.

“Good. You, um…” he trails off, clearing his throat. “You said something about Megan having a sleepover?”

Max looks down at her lap, fiddling with her seatbelt again.

“I don’t have to go.”

“When is it?”

His voice is so gentle, it almost sounds hurt. Somehow it makes Max feel worse than she does when he yells.

“Saturday,” she says. “It’s okay, I don’t—“

“Hey, relax, I’m not mad at you, alright? I don’t care if you wanna go to a friend’s house this weekend.” He switches his hands on the steering wheel, clenching and unclenching his fingers before he rests his bloodied hand in his lap out of view. “Just let me know what time to drop you off.”

Max nods. She looks back up at Billy when he laughs.

“What?”

“I’m pretty sure that guy pissed his pants.”

She smiles and crinkles her nose.

“Gross.”

“I know.” Billy taps his fingers on the wheel. “Since the sleepover isn’t tonight… you wanna go get a burger or something?”

Max quirks a brow.

“But I have homework.”

“Screw homework, I’m starving.”

She giggles at that. Watches through the window as they pass their usual turnoff, feeling that regular pool of dread morph into something warm in the pit of her stomach.

[rippersz]

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐃𝐨𝐠𝐬

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

Fem!Named!Reader x Larissa Weems; (Fluffy, romantic, ships in the night, angst) (8K word count)

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

Why are you here?

Why are you here if you’re so tired? So exhausted? So bored?

Why are you looking for meaning in a foreign country? And why can’t you find it? Don’t you know passion isn’t found in the street? Don’t you know it doesn’t just exist beneath the light rain and cold wind? Your shaking body won’t get you anywhere but across the cobblestone bridge - and even then, you must trudge. Wade through the distinct desire to fall asleep.

Why are you trying so hard to stay awake?

You have come here for a reason - for an escape - and yet, you are plagued with the same thing that haunted you back home. It is inescapable, this distinct feeling of emotional helplessness. You feel too much or you feel too little. You explode with desire, with sadness, with anger, or you are cool and detached. You cannot find an in between. You cannot find a warm, soothing balance. You walk the line of extremes and get upset when the grey areas cease to exist.

So you run away to France and think that you can find yourself in what? Hm? In the Eiffel? In the lights? In the love? Please. You have not felt love. You have not felt real love. You have not felt anything beyond passion and lust, and even then those feelings were artificial. Forced, almost. You have looked at men and you have seen their shoulders and you have witnessed the bobbing of their throats and the easy fluff of their hair and you have been thoroughly unimpressed. For what exists for you there? What is in their strong arms? What is in their DNA? What lies in them that cannot be discovered elsewhere? Why are you expected to view them and want them?

Why are you expected to love?

So many questions, not many answers. They swirl around inside like the milkiness of an oatmeal bath, opaque and bottomless. They swirl and you watch. Utterly mesmerized. Hypnotized until you feel the distinct desire to fall asleep. Constantly tired, you are. Always so exhausted, dragging your feet along the pavement. Blindly clutching the collar of the black coat that covers your arms and back. Its hood leaves your face bare for the elements. Wind sweeps and rain smacks and you are certain you’ll get sick from walking out so late at night in the cold.

What on Earth came over you? Who could ever be so stupid?

Shivers run the length of your body. You feel like a wet dog thrown out in the street, proving far too difficult for the family to continue dealing with. Too loud and too needy and too caked with mud everytime you walked into the house, so they had no choice but to discard you. It is better, after all, than having a defective animal. No one wants a dog who cannot love. No one wants a dog who cannot be understood. No one wants a stray. And no one-no one-wants a shivering pup walking slowly on unsteady legs. No one wants that. No one wants you.

Except for the sign in the distance, blurry and far away - past the stoplight and across the street. A golden light flickers brightly above an evergreen background, and you can just barely make out, through squinted eyes, the bold gold lettering. ‘Madame: A 1920’s Brasserie’. You can’t help but think that it’s a rather silly name. Madame. Can’t get more French than that. And, it appears, can’t get more authentic. The restaurant stands out in a way that borders on tacky. It is all dark mahogany, golden accents, and small details of matte red and green. The sconces on the walls glow like mini-fires, and you find yourself… drawn. Intrigued. It is inviting and it is late. The windows are dark; the world inside is its own. And you need an escape. A proper one. None of this wandering shit that leads you to nowhere but a random spot with aching feet and the distinct feeling of dissatisfaction. None of this waiting around emptiness.

You are cold and it looks warm and you are just an abandoned dog. How can they expect you to deny yourself some peace?

–

The very moment your boot slides over the threshold, tapping down lightly on a dark wooden floor, your body is changed. A veil of something different flows over your shoulders, draping behind you, and suddenly you feel as though you’ve stepped into another world.

Have you? Or were you just hit by a car in the middle of the road and slipped into the Afterlife?

If that had happened, and you were indeed dead, then the Afterlife was an absolute treat. It seems like a small speakeasy, with a stage at the very back of the restaurant - lit up by a few spotlights and otherwise empty aside from a single microphone stand and a piano. In the dark corner beside it, there’s a cello, a trumpet case, and a deconstructed set of drums. The lights are dimmed so intensely that only the flickers of tabletop candlelight and a few burning wicks by the bar help you squint through hazy darkness. It feels like a dream as smoky hands curl into the air and caress your lungs as you breathe, creating something intoxicating when paired with the heady scent of mixed perfumes. Mixed perfumes that all seem to belong to women. Only women. It’s not crowded but a few souls linger. Couples leaning into each other at their booths, their pupils melting into hearts. Friends sitting lazily at one of the center tables, toasting to something you can’t hear. A group of flirts. A lonely soul or two nursing martinis by the stage. A woman at the bar. The bartender. One server drawing in a notebook, tucked away from the rest of the world. All women. All… dated. Old fashioned. It feels like you’ve stepped into the 1950’s - or something like that. You’ve never been very good with time. But they are different. Wearing dresses with pulled in waists, collars, square necklines, bateau necklines, coats and hats and heels and gloves. Not a phone in sight. Some are in suits, too. Marlene Dietrich type suits. Tipping The Velvet type suits. Very dapper. Very clean. You’re overwhelmed.

Distantly, somewhere, the gentle keys of piano jazz fill the buzzing room - and you feel lightheaded. Dizzy with warmth. The rain purrs against the windows, blowing with the wind trying to get to you. But you have reached safety. Nirvana. And you find yourself itching to shrug out of your coat and disappear into a glass of something tangy and sweet.

“Amaretto sour,” you murmur to the lady behind the bar, sluggishly pushing back the hood from your head.

“Choose somethin’ else, sweetheart.”

The response is immediate. And annoying. You pause, halfway out of your coat, and look from the polished mahogany of the bar’s surface to the amused glint in the bartender’s eyes. There’s a cloth thrown over her shoulder and a dark loose vest sitting tight against her button up. White. Sleeves scrunched by the elbows. A smirk on her lips. Your gaze melts into a glare.

Stop looking at me like that. I’m just a dog. I don’t want whatever smiles you have to offer.

“I don’t know,” you growl, tugging the coat from your body so harshly it nearly tears your arms off.

But she doesn’t seem to mind your irritation, and better yet, she doesn’t really seem to care. Her eyes only track the way you throw your coat over the back of your chair and push yourself onto the high-top stool. You reason your anger is probably out of place in such a dreamy world, just like your choice of alcohol, but you’re too tired and cold to bother giving her a smile. And being kind has proven to be more and more exhausting as the days go by. It’s not like she deserves it anyway, being so casual with you. Standing so tall, with such confidence, not even the slightest bit weary or weathered from the long day. You don’t even know what time it is - only that it’s late. Past the twinkling stars kind of late. Way past sunset kind of late. So late that you think the restaurant may be closing but you’re not even sure. No one has left. The women are still happy, buzzed and delighted by the concoctions in their glasses. Still all lonely by the stage. Still knee-deep in the quiet place of Madame.

Still a silly fucking name.

“Bailey’s Colada then,” you drawl, running a hand through your messy curls. “And an extra shot of pineapple juice. I dunno.” You shrug, leaning into your hands as your elbows press into the wood of the bar. They’re cold, covering your eyes. Damp. Tense with the chill from the rain you just escaped. And eager to feel something grounding.

Too bad the bartender is still a bitch.

“I’ll give you one more try.” She thinks she’s so clever, smiling at you like that. She thinks she’s so charming.

You want to rip her happy eyes out.

You want to sleep.

“Just. Get. Me. A. Fucking. Drink.” Your gaze shoots daggers, piercing her right through the heart between the gaps of your fingers.

If you were any more aware of your surroundings, instead of just appreciative, then you’d notice that the only liquor they serve is the kind produced during the 1950’s. The popular drinks back in the day. True to the time. Devoted to the piece. Overall very good with details. But details are not something you have the energy to notice. And there’s not a damn thing on Earth that can tear you away from the drugged feeling of your eyes slowly drooping. Growing hazy with fatigue. Vision blurring. Body shivering, still dripping small beads of water from your coattails onto the floor. Distantly, you hear the bartender speak.

“Hey- are you okay?”

No, you want to say. No, fucker. Can’t you see I’m not okay? Just get me a damn drink and-

“If you don’t mind my interrupting,” a voice - deep, English, breaks through your haze. “I suggest a Tom Collins.”

Great. And I suggest you shut the Hell up.

“That work for you, princess?”

You want to reach across the bar and strangle her so bad that your cold fingers twitch, but something stops you. No- someone stops you.

“She’s exhausted, Leslie. Leave her be.”

Yeah. Finally a person who has a fucking clue.

You want to speak, and perhaps tell the person to go away, or throw your hands up in the air and yell ‘Halle-fucking-lujah!’, but before you can open your mouth, the seat next to you squeaks. It spins around, dragged lightly by a white-gloved hand, before it moves to accompany a figure. A figure with a lot of misplaced confidence and a lot of audacity. A lot of self importance and a lot of gall. A lot of… oh.

You swallow.

A lot of height, as well. A lot of height and a lot of elegance. She slips into the chair with practiced ease, placing her hands in the right places and her heels on the right rungs, tugging the chair to spin around and face- you. You. Of course you. You, who are the odd one out. You, who waltzed in from 2024. You, who are not one of them. You, an abandoned dog and you, who are cosplaying as a content human. Of course the stranger turns to face you. And of course she is beautiful. All pale skin and shining blue eyes and snowy curls pinned extravagantly atop her head. A jawline that is softer than fresh downy pillows and could cut glass if it grows tense. Long arms. Long legs. Red lips. A scar-so faint you have to squint-but a scar nonetheless. You wonder where she got it from. You wonder why you wonder.

“It’s palatable,” the stranger speaks. The tip of her nose moves with her words. It’s cute. She has a very distinct face. Sharp features. Eyes not too hooded but not too wide. They don’t look at you directly, and instead focus on a spot near your hand. On the mahogany, where it’s (thank god) clean.

The bartender turns her back to make the drink and you take that moment, away from her bastard prying eyes, to speak.

“I hope so.” It’s ruder than intended, but doesn’t seem to offend. Those red lips quirk into a smile, and she looks at you- finally- from beneath dark lashes. Her makeup is fresh. Her skin looks warm.

“The Amaretto Sour and Bailey’s Irish Cream only rose to fame in the 1970’s,” her covered fingers run along the smooth wood, “The Mai Tai, Tom Collins, and Sloe Gin Fiz, on the other hand…” She tilts her head, shrugs one shoulder, and flicks her eyes from you to the bar. It’s endearing, annoyingly enough. And you’re sure that for a second, the blush on her cheekbones is a figment of your imagination.

For some reason, you shoot her a wry smile.

“Lemme guess… popular in the 50’s?”

An auburn eyebrow ticks up, splashing feigned surprise across that pretty face.

“How did you know?” Her tone is pitched a bit too high as she gasps. A bit too hysterical. It makes you roll your eyes and look away, taking a moment to glance at the dark floor beneath your feet. You shake your head.

Maybe it’s her beauty. Maybe it’s her humor. Maybe it’s the fact that she understands you’re so tired you could fall asleep right there where you sit.

“Tom Collins,” the bartender steals your attention. The glass is full, sliding across the bar at top speed, and you can barely hope to reach out and catch it before the stranger’s white glove is stopping it from tipping right over the edge. Only a splash of the sweet drink spills onto clean leather. You watch. You get the distinct urge to lean over and lick it clean.

Just like any other mutt. Eager to lap up the scraps. Even when they’re not yours.

“Shouldn’t you be finishing up, Leslie? I thought the bar was closed.” Leathered fingers curl around the tall glass, squeaking lightly beneath the strength of her pressure.

“And why would you think that, Larissa?”

Larissa. Name fit for a dream.

The bartender doesn’t look too happy. There’s something acrid in her expression, something that pulls at her lips in a way most unpleasant. She looks sour. Jealous. Of her? No. No, not of her.

Of you?

Yes. Absolutely of you. You can see it in the way her green eyes shift- running from your face to Larissa’s and back again. Upset. Betrayed. Let down. It makes you want to smile. Larissa seems kind. The bitch behind the bar isn’t, you’ve decided. Not fucking kind at all. And you’re happy when Larissa’s pretty red lips stretch into a bright smile. The very lingerings of derision hide in the sweet lines beside her mouth.

“It’s a quarter after midnight, Leslie. And you close at-”

“11:30, yeah I know. Whatever.” And with that shit attitude, Leslie tugs the cloth from her shoulder and walks away; leaving you to your precious company.

Your precious company who takes the glass from the bar and holds it out to you, completely unphased by the cold condensation wetting her glove. It’s later than you thought it was, but you don’t have anywhere to be, do you? No. No, you don’t. So you hide your surprise and stare into Larissa’s eyes instead.

“A peace offering?”

Her smile, this time, is genuine. Wide and perfect, showing off those white teeth and the delightful little scrunch of her nose.

“Yes,” and the warmest chuckle rumbles up from her pale throat, “a peace offering.”

You nod and take the glass. It’s very cold, but you don’t feel it. Not when she’s looking at you like that. Watching you raise it in a silent toast and a quiet thanks. Her eyes follow you when you bring it to your lips, when you drink, and when you allow your expression to scrunch up only the tiniest bit. She lets out a loud laugh at the sight of that, and brings a large palm up to cover her open mouth, probably finding her exquisite joy to be too unladylike. You almost tell her to take it away, to allow herself to cackle freely, but it’s not your place. You’re just a dog. And you’re too busy swigging down more ‘zesty lemonade’ to pause and perhaps mention that her bright laugh is something to be marveled at. To be joined in.

You’ve never felt this way.

This way… what is this way? Amusement? No. You’ve felt that before. Happiness? No, because it’s not that. You’ve felt that - a long time ago. Contentment? No. You don’t feel safe. You don’t feel like you want to stay forever. In fact, you kind of want to leave. It suddenly feels too stifling. Too… romantic. Ah. That’s it. Romantic. Looking into those twinkling blue eyes and finding genuine intrigue there. Interest. She is beautiful and you want more. More conversation. More of her voice. Because there she sits, waltzing over to your spot, making your eyes widen, and giving you a drink. One that isn’t too bad either - after getting over the initial tartness that sort of stings your tongue. And she just sort of expects you to be okay with it? To not want more? And more? And more? You are a dog and you want to tell her that.

I am a dog, Larissa. I have learned to be desperate. I have known what it is to want for more. Can you give me more? Just another smile for a sweet stranger?

“I don’t mean to laugh,” her voice is gentle, becoming clearer once she takes her hand away from her mouth, “but your face was- it was…”

“What?” You lick your lips, tilting your head. “What was it like?” And you can’t help but pull another face, exaggerating it, crossing your eyes and frowning, smoldering, and sneering all at the same time. Thank goodness it seems to do the trick as in the next moment, you hear a surprised stuttering laugh fill the air. It makes for the most beautiful harmony with Madame’s soft piano music; lilting and light and gorgeous. A silver lining. A golden undertone. You follow in her beautiful steps and join her in laughing.

“Was it like that?” You grin, taking another sip. “Just like that?”

“Yes,” Larissa gasps and nods, pressing a hand to her chest, “Precisely.”

Your combined chuckles eventually fade and silence falls like the rain outside. Softer, now. A light brush against the windows - like the storm decided to calm as soon as Larissa sat down beside you. But that’s a silly thought. Storms don’t bend to the actions of women.

Except, you ponder, watching Larissa pick invisible fuzzies off of her beige coat, they may make exceptions.

“Where are you from?” You say it so quickly you don’t even realize it comes from your own mouth. Just your luck that your inner thoughts betray you.

But Larissa only looks charmed, and possibly grateful for a conversation starter. She straightens up in her spot, giving you her full attention. It is excruciating. It kills the shivering you’ve been indulging in since your outside excursion - and fills you with something just short of… giddy.

“The United Kingdom originally, but Vermont is where I stay now,” she responds, resting her palms along the bar’s edge.

Vermont? Odd.

You raise an eyebrow.

“Long way from Vermont, aren’t you?”

Those red lips twitch with the ghost of a smile. True, you think she says in her head. Very true.

“Indeed,” blue eyes sparkle, “I figured I needed a holiday.” She tilts her head and you know the question is coming. “Are you a long way from home as well?” It’s a wonderful question. A good question. A perfect question, truly. You want to tell her yes but you’re not sure if that’s the truth.

“I-” Well. Abandoned dogs don’t have homes, Larissa. Can’t you see that in me? Can’t you recognize it? Don’t you know?

Apparently not. Her beautiful face is still open and inviting, unshaded by judgment. Unperturbed by your unfamiliarity. You don’t know how to react to that. How to respond to her kindness. Her patience. She is unknowingly opening a can of worms and you are knowingly staring at her, mouth flapping open and closed, trying to conjure up words that don’t sound like I have no home.

“Please don’t feel obligated to answer,” Larissa waves her hand in the air, “I understand it’s quite personal.”

Oh. How sweet you are to a stray.

“No, I just… I’m a little lost right now,” you admit with a sigh, tipping the glass back until you can swallow the rest of the liquor in one smooth gulp. Something shifts in Larissa’s expression while you lose yourself in the feeling of alcohol sitting in your throat. It’s a miniscule difference when you look at her again, but you spot it anyway. Sadness. Melancholy. Understanding. Pity. All scuttling around in the depths of her eyes and the furrow of her brows and the downturn of her lips.

Normally you hate pity. Normally you despise it. Normally you figure it isn’t for you. You don’t deserve it. You’re just a person with no wind and no destination and no path. You’re just a dog overdue. So why do you need pity? Why do you have it? Why do you get so angry at anyone who wants to give it to you? And why is Larissa any different? She’s still a stranger. Just one with a pretty face. And beautiful hair. And the most gorgeous voice…

“Doing a bit of soul searching then?” Her tone is intentionally light.

“Yeah,” the glass makes a small ‘clink’ against the bartop, “I guess so.”

Kind of. Sort of. Yes? And no. Whose soul are you searching for? Which life do you want? Why are you so lost, when they say that everyone has a place on Earth? Where is your place?

Do you have one?

“Why France?”

“Good question,” you shrug, not really knowing the answer yourself. “City of lights, I suppose.”

“Hmm,” Larissa nods, drumming her fingers against the wood. “City of love, as well. In case you haven’t heard.”

Yes. She’s right. Very right. You lick your lips and nod along. City of love, indeed. City of love with the way that dress looks on her, for sure. City of love with the way she looks at you, too. City of love with the way she smells. Like vanilla and jasmine. Strong, intense, a cologne that probably costs a million dollars - for a woman that looks like a million dollars. City of love. It’s written in the piano that fills your silences. In the air that breathes between your bodies. In the bubble of privacy that lives on when Leslie disappears from behind the bar with a heavy clang of its trapped door. She throws the cloth onto the wood, shoots one last glare at the two of you from over her shoulder, and fucks off into the dark of the stage area. Probably to pick up some other sad woman that���s just as lost as you.

On any other night, I may be the person she takes home. But right now I’m with Larissa. And that’s where I’m gonna stay.

“Not for her,” you snark, watching Leslie retreat before turning back to your company.

Larissa hums, but her eyes don’t follow the bartender like yours did. Instead, they stay on you. Glued to the side of your face, then to the full of your features when you give her a small disgusted expression. You’re rewarded with a light chuckle. “Yes, except for her,” she clears her throat. “Unfortunately, Leslie has always been…”

“Rude?” You start, putting an elbow on the bar and leaning on your palm, “Annoying? Flirty? Shitty? To name a few,” you roll your eyes, flipping your hand in the air.

Larissa only closes her eyes and snorts. “She has always been… eager? I guess that’s the right word. Eager.”

You don’t like the sound of that. Eager people are desperate people. Desperate people are loose cannons. They’d do anything for- well- anything. And Larissa is not an ‘anything’. Larissa is not a reward. And you are not a desperate, eager person. You are not a loose cannon. You’re just a lost one. A rusted lost contraption that was thrown off of the side of a pirate ship. Silly loose cannon, searching for land. No reward.

“For you?” The disapproval that colors your tone does not seem to surprise Larissa. In fact, it only makes her nod.

“Yes, I’m afraid. Though I can’t imagine why,” those broad shoulders of hers shrug, “I’m not nearly as fascinating as half of the women that grace this bar.”

That’s what you think.

“I beg to differ.” It comes out so confidently you kind of want to punch yourself in the mouth. What the fuck do you mean you beg to differ? What would you like to follow that up with? What would you like to say? Oh no, Larissa. You are WAY more fascinating than the people that ‘grace this bar’. You are WAY more intriguing. Leslie has good taste, sure, but a shit attitude about it. I can imagine why she fancies you. I can imagine why anyone would. Yeah right. You can’t say that. But you’re still curious, so instead of giving her a moment to register and respond, you ask the burning question. “How long have you been on holiday if you’re so sure?” But really the question is: How often do you come here?

The pink in porcelain cheeks has deepened. You’re sure it’s from your comment, but you refuse to allow the buzzing of your heart get any worse. It’s already filling your ears, drowning out the piano, and you yearn for the safety of contentment. The same contentment you didn’t feel before. Is this still romance? Or was this never romance at all?

“About three weeks. An extended stay. Though I must admit, I’m nervous about returning to work. I fear I’ve left it too long,” she frowns, twisting her lips in a way that says ‘But what can you do?’.

“Three weeks! What do you do for work?” If there were some more drink in your mouth, you probably would’ve spat it out by accident. Three weeks? Sort of a long time. A long time to be away from work and a long time to be alone.

Unless she isn’t alone… to which you’d actually like to leave right now if that’s the case.

There's hesitance in her eyes. "I'm... a school principal," she says slowly, looking away. “But I needed it. Prolonged stress isn’t good for me. Or for anyone, really.” Her voice softens, carried away by the music as she glances down at her hands. You get the strange desire to hold them. It pops up first as a soft urge in your mind before barrelling forward and pressing hard against the front wall of your thoughts. Reach out and hold them. Hold them. They are soft. They are the kind of hands that reach out and pet the strays. Feed the strays.

But you’re too scared you’ll bite.

“Preach,” you murmur, unsure of how to continue. What are the duties of a school principal? “But- ya know. Good for you I guess. Are you returning to Vermont soon?”

“My flight leaves at seven tomorrow. I’ll get back at approximately half past five in the morning if I’m lucky.”

“Hm. And if you’re unlucky?”

Another small smile.

“Then I’ll never get back.”

You find that to be quite interesting. She’s not worried about her job in a way that speaks to severe anxiety, but in a way that speaks to nervousness regarding her passion. Regarding the children she has to look after. The parents she has to (no doubt) reassure. The world that she is important in. The oil that runs through the machine. She keeps them going - and she has been gone for three weeks. You’re rather curious about the aftermath, and about the scene she will return to upon arrival, but it’s hopeless and misplaced. You will not see what happens. You will not spot the relief on her face. You will not know how life continues for her. Because she is leaving, this beautiful stranger, and she has a home. And you are a stray dog. Abandoned. Hungry. More, more, more. She does not want. She is satiated. Larissa has lived out her dream here, her relaxation, and now it is time to turn around and face the music. Return home. And be part of the family again.

How does that feel? Family?

“How long do you plan on staying?” She asks, looking just as curious as you feel.

A sigh rattles your bones as you lean your head back and push out your chest, relishing in the pops that run down your spine. Exhaustion is creeping again. You didn’t even notice it was gone.

“Probably… forever?” It’s not the truth.

“That can’t be true.”

“No,” you groan, “it’s not. So I don’t know. Maybe forever. Maybe I’ll leave tomorrow, too. We’ll see, I guess.”

That pretty gaze burns into the side of your face. It is full of questions, even when you’re not meeting it, and you’re suddenly sort of scared to look at her again. Scared that she’ll know everything. Scared that she’ll realize what you really are. Not just lost, but hopeless. No way of being found. Because what will you do and where will you go? Nothing and nothing. That seems to be the answer these days. Nothing.

“Do you have any family you’re traveling with?”

Her voice is soft again. Colored with feeling. What is she feeling? Is it still pity? You glance at her, out of the corner of your eye, just to check. No. Yes? No. Maybe. Could be. Or it could be something else. Could be hope. Could be sadness. Could be something better. You can’t clock it, so you return with a question of your own. It stings you to say it- embarrasses you to wonder- but you can’t help yourself. You’re just a dog. You need more.

“Do you have anyone that will be waiting for you at 5 in the morning?”

Her eyebrows twitch for the smallest shade of a second. It’s barely there, but you see it anyway. You see how she frowns and recovers. Maybe that was too far. Maybe that was too blunt. Maybe you should just hold your fucking tongue and stop digging into other people’s business-

“Honestly? No. I’ll probably have to grab a taxi from the airport.”

Oh.

For some reason that’s worse. Worse than if she said yes. Worse than if she started to go on a tirade about a lover waiting for her. Worse than if she mentioned a gaggle of friends or even a coworker. How can she just have- that? That? A taxi? You can’t hide the way your face falls. You just can’t. And you can’t contain the way your heart breaks a little. Crackling like a burning fire, pounding away behind the frailness of your chest. Dropping pieces all over the floor of your innards as you see Larissa get lost staring into space. Probably looking over the different types of liquor bottles as she figures out how best to get a cab from the airport with the least amount of trouble. You kind of want to reach over and shake her shoulders. Take her out of her own head. Insist that it’ll be okay. But of course it’ll be okay - she never said it wouldn’t. She never made any indication that being alone was something she didn’t like.

However, she did walk over to you, didn’t she? And she did sit down next to you. And she was alone at the bar. So maybe the isolation is getting to her. Maybe she needs to go back home. Maybe you need to go with her.

Maybe you need to shut the fuck up.

“I don’t have any family,” you respond, figuring it’s only fair. “So it’s just me.”

Larissa gives you a distracted hum before she takes her eyes away from a place over your shoulder and moves them to your face. To your eyelashes and your eyebrows and your cheeks and your nose. You don’t know what she sees. Hopefully not a dog.

“And no prior commitments? No one waiting for you either?” She seems hesitant to ask, but you know it’s just because she doesn’t want to be impolite.

Oh, Larissa. You can’t offend dogs, Larissa. Others can but not you.

“No. No roots, if that’s what you mean.”

She nods. “I see.”

“Do you?”

A long leg goes sliding up to cross over the other and for a second, you’re lost in the smooth length of them. Her calves and thighs are gorgeous. The hem of her dress falls below the knee. A little restricting but classy. She is very beautiful. And slowly, as the night progresses, you’re beginning to fear what will happen when she leaves. Which is silly, because she’s still a stranger. She doesn’t even know your name. And she has a home to return to and you’re doomed for the rest of your life.

“I believe I do, yes.” And that’s enough of an answer for you.

From that sweet point on, you fall into silence.

The ambience of Madame hasn’t shifted in the slightest. The earlier smoke only renewed itself once certain cigarettes ran out - and the piano looped into another song. Probably playing over a speaker system you couldn’t see or a record player somewhere in the dark. No one takes center stage. No one leaves. It’s still empty drinks, empty hearts, empty heads, and full laughter. Easy chatter. Women getting closer. Women holding hands. Women with their palms on each other’s thighs. Women with lipstick marks on their cheeks. Women with perfectly pinned hair, like Larissa’s, are left with loose curls and messy ends - easily destroyed by a wandering hand or a particularly heavy kiss. You refuse to blush at the sight of that when you turn around and make eye contact with a woman at a booth, but your body doesn’t listen. Your body finds it scandalous. Your body finds it exciting.

There are no threats. There are no men. No shouts, no loud drinking, no busy football games, no beer-stained tables and hugs that hit a bit too hard. There’s no gag-worthy cologne and no clumsy feet stepping on the toes of ladies and no drunken asks for a number or company home. There’s only peace. Sweet and fragile, not even broken by the wind and rain that beats and floats against the windows. You wonder when the place closes if it’s already so late.

You wonder why there’s so many women.

“There was no um-” your throat grows hoarse before you clear it, putting a hand up to your mouth while you look at Larissa. She’s waiting patiently for you to continue. “There was no… advertisement? I guess? That said this place was- is it like… a lesbian… bar? Or something?” You sound more and more childish the higher your voice goes but Larissa’s smile is gentle.

“There’s no advertisement needed. Everyone knows Madame in Paris is a place of community acceptance. However, it’s apparently more popular in the Spring. Tourist season and all that.”

“Oh.” Oh.

Larissa’s brows furrow. “Something wrong?”

Well, yes. Sort of. Kind of. Uh…

“No I just- it’s not Spring now?” You frown, lifting your elbow from the bartop and putting your arm in your lap. What does she mean?

“No,” Larissa shakes her head slowly, stopping the light drum of her fingers. “It’s Autumn. November, actually.”

November? But…

“Huh,” you blink, “must be more lost than I thought. Weird.”

The very beginnings of a frown pull at those red lips, giving away her worry; and for some reason, you’re hasty to reassure her.

“But it’s probably just the exhaustion or something,” you huff out a self-deprecating smile, “No biggie. Maybe I’m like- too buzzed to comprehend. Or too hungry. I don’t know,” you gesture to your head, waving off the concern that she was going to show you.

But it doesn’t work.

“Perhaps you need dinner then,” Larissa tilts her head, looking at you from beneath her eyelashes.

In that moment, she’s perhaps the most glorious thing you’ve ever seen. Lit by low candle light. Shadowed by her own form of mystery. You kind of want to lean over and kiss her - which is weird, because her lips are just like any other person’s lips, and you’ve never wanted to kiss someone so badly before. But dogs change sometimes, don’t they? Just like any other creature. Dogs change. And instead of wanting for more, they want for something different.

“Yeah. Perhaps I do.”

Your company takes a moment to look behind you, running her gaze over the interior of the restaurant. You see her blue eyes flit from couple to couple and group to group and crying woman to the next crying woman. You see her nose wrinkle when she spots all of the cigarettes and you see the twitch in her kitten-heeled foot before she’s uncrossing her legs and moving to stand. Every nerve in your body jumps to stand with her. To follow her lead and let her whisk you away. But you don’t know if that’s what she wants - and you don’t want to assume just to be let down. You don’t want her to look at you like ���What the fuck are you standing up for?’ so you stay in your seat and watch her fix up her coat, straighten her gloves, and grasp the purse on the back of her chair. Everything about her is so elegant. Smooth. Maybe you’re hallucinating and she’s only a dream.

“I know a place nearby. Do you want to join me?”

You look from her hands to her face, caught frozen by the timber of her voice. Do you want to join me?

“Is- are you sure?” Your heart is screaming.

“Yes. Why wouldn’t I be?” Larissa gives you a small confused smile.

You lick your lips. “You don’t even know my name.”

“Alright. Do you want to tell me on the way?”

No one ever asks. Everyone stopped a long time ago. There’s no need to wonder, to know, when everyone understands that you’ll just disappear sooner or later. Abandoned dog with an abandoned mind. But here she is asking - and it would be rude to ignore her.

“Sure.”

—

The weather is still brisk when you step outside. The rain is not as harsh and the wind not as bad, but the chill is just as strong. It seeps through your coat rather quickly and you have to shove your hands in your pockets to hide the way they shake. Larissa seems to be faring much better, walking along at a steady pace and adding to the clicks your boots leave behind on the pavement. Despite the dreary weather and the dark sky, threatening to break with another downpour at any moment, the streetlamps are beautiful. Guiding you both through the midnight haze and the swiftly settling fog. You feel like a ghost, floating along there by your company’s side, trying to keep yourself from staring up at her. The bar’s seating apparently did her no favors as when she stood up and led the way outside, you nearly tripped over yourself upon noticing the height difference. She is… she is something extraordinary. You wonder why you’re the one there beside her. Maybe Leslie had a better chance. Maybe you’re just a placeholder until she leaves.

“Are you going to make me guess?” She says eventually, pausing mid-stride to look down at you.

There’s only a few inches difference. Maybe a near foot. You’re not sure. You haven’t asked. But you want to. Curious dog.

“Sure,” you shrug, amused by the way she sighs and continues forward. “It’s not that hard.”

“Elizabeth,” she starts.

Cute.

“No.”

“Emily.”

“No.”

“…Erin?”

“No. What’s with all the ‘E’ names?”

“Would you prefer I start at ‘A’?”

“Might make it easier.”

“Nothing will make this easier.”

The walk feels like it goes on for ages the more she speaks. One name after the other after the other. You smile at the ones that are close and snort at the ones that could never suit you. Larissa only rolls her eyes and tries again. It’s silly and fun and lighthearted and you feel something inside you lighten. Though maybe it’s the Tom Collins, finally kicking in after a day of no food and one boozy drink. Larissa doesn’t seem to mind your occasional giggles and huffs - she even joins you, especially when you almost trip over your feet walking along the curb and she has to reach out and tug you back from the street and the ground. Her coat is cold but her body feels warm. There’s a small droplet of rain that hangs off of a strand of white hair behind her ear and you’re desperate to brush it away, but you don’t. You can’t. Can’t gather the energy to reach out. Can’t gather the energy to get your hopes up. So you move away and the game continues.

Down the street, along this turn and that, through rights and lefts and around lamp posts and street lights and intersections and parks. Far far away and all over the place. You walk for so long your legs begin to twinge - and then she says it.

“Jasmine?”

“Nope.”

“Lilith.”

“No.”

You’re waiting for a stoplight to turn red, but Larissa breezes past you. Head held high. Strides long. Back straight. The world does bend for her. And so do you.

As soon as you reach her side, she takes a steadying breath.

“Iris.”

Why your heart decides to take that moment and skip multiple beats is something you’ll never understand. Maybe it’s just the way she says it. The way it tumbles off of her tongue and slides from between her teeth and disappears into the ether. Maybe it’s the look she gives you and the way she stops when you’re a bit too quiet for too long and the corners of your mouth can’t help but quirk up. You’re not proud of her - that would be silly - but she certainly looks proud of herself. If that slowly spreading grin is anything to go by.

“Iris. Is that it?”

You nod and watch as her nose scrunches up with joy and her gloved hands make little muted claps in excitement. You think you can get used to the way she says it. Like it’s something to be cherished - something delicate and soft. Iris. Eye-riss. Iris. Slow and measured. Careful. She wants to take as much caution as she can when she says it. And when she finally goes to resume your walk, she lets out a little hum and glances down at you from the corners of her eyes.

“It’s a lovely name.”

Oh, Larissa. You’re killing me here.

“Larissa is nice, too. Very… elegant,” you respond, trying desperately to take the attention off of you. It’s been so long since you last heard a compliment like that, you’re unsure how to react. How to be normal about it. How to stop yourself from circling her body and pulling her close and pushing your head against her chest to listen to her heart. To see if she’s real. Because only fake people pay attention to strays - and she’s too wonderful to be anything aside from a figment of your dear imagination.

“That’s very kind of you, Iris.” Oh say it again. Please god, say it again.

But she doesn’t. And you don’t push it. And you don’t look at her for fear of bursting into flames. And you continue your walk until you come across a park bench and you sit down - drawing her attention and luring her back over to stand while you rest your legs.

“Feels like we’ve been walking forever! Where are you taking me?” You glare at her, all playful looks and pouts.

“To my lair. Are you scared yet?” She shifts on her white heels and you can’t help but give her a small chuckle.

“Me? Scared of you? Yeah, right. In your dreams, blondie.”

“Oh you haven’t seen anything yet. I can be quite terrifying when I want to be,” Larissa defends, crossing her arms and cocking out a hip.

“Yeah. To school children maybe,” you grin, spreading your arms out over the back of the bench to sit comfortably. “But not to me.”

“Hm. Not yet, anyway,” her tone is airy, making you blow air out of your nose with amusement.

“Uh huh.” You pause, close your eyes to bask in the chill that bites at your skin, and then open one to look at her. “How tall are you, anyway?”

She towers over you there - standing beside the wrought-iron arm of the bench while you sit and crane your head back. Outlined in the soft glow of the park lamps, you begin to wonder if Larissa is not an imaginary friend or a ghost but instead an angel. She certainly looks the part. You really wouldn’t be that surprised if huge ivory wings sprout from the defined lines of her shoulder blades.

“How long have you been wanting to ask that?” Oh, she’s teasing me now. You roll your eyes.

“Since you first stood up.” The truth is always best. And it makes her smile softly.

“Six foot, three.”

Your lips part, falling open before you catch yourself. Six feet and three inches?! Jesus, woman. You swallow around your delighted shock and push yourself off of the bench - bringing yourself to your full height on the backs of your heeled boots.

“There’s no way,” you snark, crossing your arms.

“Oh really?” Those red lips grow into a smirk and never in your life have you wanted to feel something more. Never.

“Yeah. Really.”

And of course that’s how you sign your heart away - for a split second later, there she stands. So close you can smell the old wine on her breath and see the individual lines in her face. It’s only half lit by golden light, but that doesn’t matter. You’re beginning to think your eyes were made for seeing her. And you’re beginning to think your body was made for standing so close. She smells like the rain now. Like the rain and the stars, which twinkle brightly behind her head as you resist the urge to step back and look at her. There is no backing down from this. There is only matching her height head-on, even though that’s impossible. But that’s the joke. So you move to stand on the tips of your toes and get into her personal space and only when you do, do you realize your mistake. She’s even closer. And her blue eyes have gone wide. You see a deep black abyss take over the oceans of her irises and suddenly, you think your name is very inadequate in comparison to the gorgeous cerulean of her gaze. To the way it envelopes you and electrifies you and warms you all at once. She is a vision. She is everything you want to look upon. And her eyes dart between your own, carrying shock and admiration with them. You don’t know what to do. You don’t know what’s happening. This doesn’t feel like romance anymore. This isn’t contentment. You don’t know what this is. You don’t know why you want to lean into her and fall.

And you don’t know why she decides to pull away.

“I’m sorry,” she says so quickly, so quietly, you think it’s just a whisper of the wind. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

Her eyes are still wide, but they’ve been captured by something terrible. Something sad. You open your mouth - to say what? - you don’t know. But she’s taking a few steps back and you close it. Her hair is still perfect, but there’s one strand loose. It flits wildly in front of her ear. A sign of her loss of control, perhaps. A sign that someone got through. She’s not a guarded woman and yet she is. She’s not private and yet she is. You didn’t have the deepest talk of all time and yet you did. You don’t know what to do. You don’t know what to say to get her to stay. So you just say her name.

“Larissa-”

“It’s been very nice to meet you, Iris,” she murmurs, interrupts, clears her throat, and adjusts the purse on her shoulder. Those blue eyes glance around madly, like she’s scared of being caught. “But I’m afraid I have to go now. I have a busy day tomorrow.”

“Your flight leaves at seven.” You don’t know why that’s the thing you say. You don’t know what that’s going to do - but before you can even hope to say anything else, she nods and looks at you again. With unwavering strength. With a hint of an apology.

“Yes. It does.” Her lips press together firmly. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

And with that whisper, softer than the distant break of your heart, she’s turning around and walking off into the rain.

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Lazily waves my hand around before walking away. - Rip x

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TAGS (please keep in mind Tumblr won't allow me to tag certain accounts): @oddball21 @kaymariesworld @bloommushroom @readingtheentrails @thegoddamnfeels @theonefairygodmother @theflashesoflove @sweetderacine @opalthefrog @gwensfreak @shyladyfan @erablaise-blog @bellatrixsbrat @sunnyanon @emilynissangtr @lex13cm @sugipla @hasthebaconinhispants @deongocrazy @nocteangelus15 @eveymay @one-pining-queer @azu-zu @niceminipotato @hopelessly-sapphic @barbarasstar @enchantressb @syrenacrainn @im-a-carnivorous-plant @willowshadenox @aemilia19 @ladylarissaweems @scarlettssub @ladysdraga @willisnotmental @gela123 @h-doodles @zillahofviolets-bayolet @weemssapphic @the-bearr @amateurwritescm

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[bloodycassian]

Bow + Scrape, angst. TW - cheating/mention of bodily harm/groveling

Anon Req. "in the mood for angst lol what about cassian x reader, marriage in crisis, grovelling etc"

Thanks anon, this was a bit therapeutic

A deep, soul level crack had been leveled inside of you when you’d seen Cassian being bounced on by a petite female at Rita’s.A server off her shift, likely half as drunk as Cassian was, and a horrible dancer as she leaned up against him and shook her body at him. A deep well of unnerving feelings erupted from the canyon in your being, followed by a cold, calm fury that overlapped all else. 

You watched for a long while, sitting across the bar, debating if killing your partner would land you in a regular trial or if you’d be dragged straight to the prison beneath the mountain by his brethren. 

His eyes half closed and dazed could only half focus upon her as she twirled and stomped to the beat the band played. His hands rested upon her hips, but didn’t move from there while she swayed to a slower song. The hands that had done everything from wipe away your tears to make you squirm while he was making you come. The ones that now betrayed you, that took your trust and care for the male and tossed it into the abyss of your heart as it split wide. 

He slammed a handful of coin into the females hands at one point, and began stumbling through the crowd. You slipped out the door before he could notice you there, racing back to your apartment. The burn of cold air against your lungs a welcome distraction from the hatred and disgust that roiled in your stomach. 

You slept beside him that night, cringing away from his hands and flushed body. Your eyes were wide, staring out at the glow of streetlights through the sheer curtains. Planning, curating your hurt and betrayal into something tangible. With every small detail that fell into place, it made it more bearable to be at his side, at least for one more night.

The tears came silently, but profusely in the bathroom. You mourned, you pleaded to wake up from the nightmare, but there was no end. The only relief from the hot, overwhelming grief was the chilled tile against your cheek when you passed out in the bathroom.

In the morning you cooked his favorite breakfast, and ran down to the shops to get his favorite coffee. You plated everything, then particularly loudly began doing dishes. He emerged shortly after, rubbing at his face and groaning. He sighed when seeing the bevy of food, and began eating immediately. No good morning, no thanking you, not a single acknowledgement. 

Your rage began anew. You gripped a butter knife, stared at the small serrated edge, and scrubbed viciously at it’s surface.

Your love for him had been replaced by the cold bitterness that you’d honed into a million different words, different jabs and arguments to hurl at him now. Killing him wouldn’t give him the same suffering he’d offered you. Death was too easy, living and knowing he’d hurt the one who loved him most was a much better alternative. 

Once the dishes were done, you sat across from him, where half the plates sat empty and a small drip of coffee marred his white shirt. His head rested in his hands, nursing the pounding in his head. Your excitement to make him hurt was ungodly. 

“Tell me what you did last night.” You demanded. There was no room for conversation in this. If he didn’t tell you on his own, there would be no point in trying further. It was your sign to get out.

He cradled his head in one hand still, gnawing on a piece of bacon. “Huh? ‘Dya mean?” He breathed, scratching at his tangled hair.

“You have two chances to answer me Cassian. What did you do last night?” You said the question slowly, allowing him to hear the rage in your voice.

“You know where I was, we talked about this before I went out.” His tone sharpened, and he looked at you with a frustrated expression. It only fueled your fire. You wanted him to worry about this, you wanted him to stress. You wanted to see your pain tenfold be unleashed upon him. A vengeful, dark part of you wanted his penance to be unending. You’d given him everything, every part of you without limit, an unending well of love and he so easily went and… nausea made your stomach clench in disgust at the memory of his hands upon her, the way he’d watched her.

“With Azriel, right? At Ritas… So who else was there?” You spat, wishing you had something to hold on to, somewhere to place the tension that seeped from every fiber of your being.

He froze, his face going paler than it already was. His mouth popped open, then his brows pulled together. “Did I-” He began, then the food fell from his hand. “I-” He stood, the chair scuttling out from under him when he did. 

You watched, cold and furious as he recalled exactly what he did. 

“Baby I-” He went to you, making the distance in two long strides of his muscled legs. He stopped though, his hands reaching for you. He knew better. He knew just what kind of injuries he’d end up with if he tried touching you when you were angry. He’d had to learn the hard way more than a few times, but never to this extent. 

He’d never done this. You’d never expect him to do anything quite like this. It certainly wasn’t predictable by the way he treated you normally.

“Holy shit.” He buried his face in his hands, his voice going muffled. “Holy shit honey, baby- I’m….” His head moved back and forth slowly, and when his hands moved in front of him, in a praying motion, his eyes were glassy, wet marks appearing upon his cheeks. “I am so sorry- no… Sorry doesn’t begin-” He sighed, and a fresh wave of tears washed across his face.

You couldn’t help but smile at them. At his hurt. At the same time, the part of you that cared for him - the part that was locked away behind a frozen door at the moment - reached for him, cried with him and wanted to hold him and make him better. That part of you, the portion of you that loved him that he’d torn to pieces, and you weren’t sure if it could be fixed.

He reached for you, and when you did not move he placed a hand upon yours. You were frozen, stuck between the strange sense of wanting to go to him and wanting to crucify him. “I thought- no… I- I’m-” He struggled for the words, his other hand pulling hard at his hair. “I’m going to fix this.” He said, his eyes meeting yours. 

“How? I dont think they’ve made a potion to erase memories yet, Cassian. I guess unless you get as drunk as you did, then that counts as one.”

“I know I- I’m a fucking idiot. I… There are no excuses. There’s not a thing I can fucking say to justify it and-” He stood suddenly, then went to the bedroom. You waited, nearly getting up when he came back with his weapons belt. He went back to his knees before you, laying out the items, different knives, small tools, a blunt hammer, the black stone you’d gotten him to sharpen his blades with. “Take your pick. Do what you’d like.”

“I wont-”

“I’m deserve it.”

“I know. Hurting you like this isn’t even close to the pain that you’ve made me feel, though.” 

He crumpled at that, tears rushing down his cheeks as he paced the dining area, his hands upon his head as he took deep, choked breaths. He wasn’t used to this kind of anger from you. He was used to the yelling, to the easy hot and fast arguments that left your voice raw and made wanting to slap him so easy. 

“She didn’t even look like me Cassian-”

“I know, I was drunk and fucking stupid and thats all I have as an excuse.” He managed, his voice wavering. 

“Did you want to fuck her?” You asked calmly. 

He bit his lip, eyes squinted shut and shook his head. “No.” He breathed. 

“Or you already have, and I just caught it before it could happen this time?”

“No, nothing like that- not ever. I have no reason. Not when I have you.”

“Had.” You corrected quickly. 

He hung his head. 

A long silence passed, the pale sunlight painting the dining area in blues and greys. Children outside laughed and screamed as they played in the puddles left overnight. Your mind flashed to the instances when you and he had discussed children, how he’d held your belly, imagining it round with his child. The hands that’d held the hips of that barmaid. 

He went to the pantry, and came out with several bottles of his various liquors. A tendril of his siphons power popped the corks on several, if not cracking the glass mouth entirely. He then laid them all down in the sink and went to you, grasping your hands in both of his own. 

“I am going to fix this. Look-” He moved his head to catch your gaze. “I’m going to do everything. I’m going to make this right, if you want me to burn Rita’s to the ground I’ll make it happen. I’d defy the mother to make it like it never happened. I can’t change that it did, I can’t take it back but gods above I would if I could. If you’d give me the chance to though, if you’re willing to allow me to try -” His voice caught, his chin quivering before he continued. “to make you love me, make you trust me again. If you’d have me.”

Your eyes swam, your cold demeanor, your will to see him suffer cracking beneath his words. 

The hurt still roared beneath it all though.

But if he was willing to try… if he still wanted you, if it’d been a drunken mistake- 

“Nothing you ever do can make this go away.”

“I know, I know baby.” He brushed his thumb over your knuckles. “I don’t expect it to.”

“You’ll never be away from this, from your fuck up- are you saying you’re okay with hearing about this for the rest of your existence?”

He cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears that hadn’t truly stopped since you’d left the bathroom. “Whatever it is, the answer is yes. If it lets you tolerate me, then yes. As long as I can still be with you.” 

You sniffed, unable to hold back the burst of hurt, of fear and sorrow any longer. He held you, rocked you and gave you your space when you wanted it. He bowed his head and nodded when you screamed at him. He went to his kees and clutched your legs when you were nothing but a statue before the window. 

Your heart ached, your body and soul ached by the time the sun crested over the city and fell behind the ocean. 

Cassian watched over you while you slept on the couch, passed out mid conversation while he tended the fire. He watched you all night, taking in every inch of you while he could, because if when the sun rose, and you decided he was no longer yours, he’d need the reminder that something as exquisite as you was worth living for. 

[dean-winchester-is-a-warrior]

Christmas Fics

Thought I'd reblog out all my Christmas Fics here for easy access. If I write anymore this year, I'll link them here too. 😊

Christmas in the Bunker Series (5 Pts)

Dean x Reader

Flash Fic Christmas Snippets (7 flash fics)

Dean x Reader, Jensen x Reader, Beau x Reader, Soldier Boy x Reader

Lend a Helping Hand

Dean x Reader

The Christmas Present

Jensen x Reader

Regrets I've Had a Few

Soldier Boy x Meredith (OFC)

Favorite Gifts

Dean x Reader

[eclecticpatrolroadlawyer]

Illicit affairs (chapter 1)

Summary: Bucky and Y/n are in arranged marriage. Bucky is having an affair. This is all it is about... Let's see where Y/n's fate lies... Should we?

Pairings: Bucky x reader, Bucky x Dot ...

Genre: angst, affair, unrequited love

'Love' The word floats between all of us on a soft gust of air. 'Deep, abiding, unconditional love. You want it so much you're willing to live for it' Most people think the greatest sacrifice they can make is to die for something. They are wrong.

The truest act of love someone can make is to live for something- to allow it to consume you and turn you into a version of yourself you never recognize.

It is a tale of 4 souls twisted and helpless in their love lives. It is a narrative that contains some heartbreaks, the bitter taste of unreciprocated affection, and one that dared not to unveil itself- which takes courage to love for so long from a distance.

This is a story where one soul offered everything at love's altar, a vulnerable sacrifice, while another callously exploited that very vulnerability, sowing discord where passion once blossomed...

Y/n's pov

The room feels colder than usual as I stare out the window, my heart sinking with every passing minute. The anticipation is suffocating, and my patience wears thin. "Again," I whisper, the word heavy with disappointment.

I watch the street below, searching for a familiar figure that is yet to appear. The seconds drag on, and my anxiety intensifies. The lump in my throat grows, making it harder to swallow. A sigh escapes me, a mixture of frustration and hurt.

"He is late again."

I can't help but clench my fists on the curtains, the fabric bunching in my grip. The emptiness in the room echoes the ache in my chest. Tears threaten to spill, and I fight to hold them back. I bite my tongue, tasting the metallic tang of frustration as I try to steady my trembling emotions.

I force myself to look away from the window, taking in shaky breaths to regain composure. Each breath feels like a struggle, a battle against the rising tide of disappointment. I look up, my eyes blurred with unshed tears, and will myself to find strength.

Deep breaths. In and out.

I wrestle with my emotions, fighting the urge to crumble. It's a lonely battle, and the weight of unspoken words hangs heavy in the air. The silence is deafening, broken only by the echoes of my own heartbeat.

half an hour later

The sound of the door knob rattling pulls me from my thoughts, and I turn to see him entering, supposedly from his so-called 'jogging' session. His disheveled hair and the hickey marks on his neck don't escape my notice, but I keep my gaze down, focusing on chopping the ingredients for breakfast. The rhythmic slicing helps channel my frustration into the task.

Silence hangs in the air, heavy with unspoken words and the weight of disappointment. I clench my jaw, determined not to let the emotions bubbling within me overflow. Why me, I wonder.

I put on a fake smile, a mask to conceal the turmoil beneath the surface. Breaking the tense quiet, I decide to confront the reality before me, choosing words carefully as I break the uneasy silence.

"How was it?"

The question hangs in the air as I continue chopping, my hands steady despite the storm raging inside me. The tension is heavy as I await his response.

He seems startled, caught off guard by the unexpected interruption to your silence. Nervously, he stammers a response.

"Huh? W-What?"

"Jogging... You went jogging, right?" I press, my eyes focused on the task at hand, but my peripheral vision catches his every move. I put down the knife, turning to face him with a fake smile plastered on my face.

"Oh, jogging... Yes, jogging... Yeah, it was good... good," he replies, the words rushed and accompanied by a forced smile. The tension lingers, hanging in the air like an unspoken truth, and I maintain my fake smile, masking the hurt that hides beneath the surface.

The question hangs in the air, a carefully veiled inquiry concealing the knowledge I already possess. "Bucky," I murmur, the weight of the question palpable in the room. "how many years has it been since our arranged union? One or two?" I lock eyes with him, searching for a flicker of guilt, a hint that he might confess to the secrets he thinks are well hidden.

The room feels heavy with the unspoken truth as I press on, my voice carrying a subtle undercurrent of accusation. "You would never hurt me, right?" I ask, knowing the answer even before the words leave my lips. His eyes betray a hint of unease, a fleeting glimpse of a man caught in his own web of betrayal.

I turn my attention to the task at hand, my fingers gripping the edge of the counter as I continue, "It's just, sometimes I wonder about our arranged marriage. Do you?" My words linger in the air, a calculated challenge, as I maintain a facade of innocence, masking the storm of emotions that swirl within me.

Bucky shifts uncomfortably under the weight of my penetrating gaze, his eyes momentarily faltering before regaining composure. "Uh, yeah, it's been two years," he answers, attempting to sound nonchalant. His attempt at a casual demeanor betrays a hint of unease, a subtle acknowledgment that he senses the underlying tension.

I maintain my facade, the corners of my lips twitching into a semblance of a smile. "And you'd never hurt me, right?" I press further, watching for any subtle changes in his expression. Bucky hesitates, a fleeting moment where the truth seems to hang in the air. "Of course not," he replies, the words lacking the conviction they once held.

As I turn back to my task, the air between us crackles with unspoken truths and concealed betrayals, creating a rift that neither of us dares to bridge.

Bucky's POV

Bucky's response hangs in the air, a weight on his conscience that he can't shake off. As I turn away, the guilt tightens in his stomach. He can't escape the unease, knowing he's betraying not just the arrangement but the person at the center of it.

He sighs, heavy with remorse, as he heads for the bathroom. The sound of running water becomes a feeble attempt to drown out the turmoil in his mind. Bucky leans against the cool tiles, steam clouding the mirror, mirroring the fog in his thoughts.

"What have I done?" he whispers, the weight settling in his stomach. The jog's facade crumbles, revealing the truth of his choices. The affair, the lies—it's a web tightening around him, and he's not sure how to break free without causing irreparable damage.

Under the shower's cold stream, Bucky stands, his hand braced against the tiles. The water pounds against him, a feeble attempt to wash away the guilt. As each droplet falls, he confronts the consequences of his actions. The arranged marriage, once a distant pact, now feels shattered. Bucky closes his eyes, trying to block out the guilt threatening to consume him. In the cascade of water, he faces the mess he's made, uncertain if there's any way to salvage the delicate threads holding their union together.

The cold shower beats against Bucky, a stark contrast to the heat of his thoughts. His hand tightens on the tiles as he battles the storm inside. The water's steady drumming echoes his emotions, a chaotic mix of regret and confusion.

"What am I doing?" he mutters, the words lost in the shower's noise. The images of his mistakes play on a loop in his mind—the marks on the neck, the messed-up sheets. It's a vivid reminder of betrayal.

The truth is undeniable. The affair breaks trust, a breach of the commitment he made, even if reluctantly, in this arranged marriage. As the water rushes over him, Bucky tries to wash away not just the physical traces but the guilt staining his conscience.

The fogged-up mirror reflects a man in conflict. His guilty eyes meet their own gaze, and for a moment, he doesn't recognize himself.

"What have I become?" The question lingers, unanswered, as he stands beneath the unrelenting water. The bathroom isn't a refuge; it amplifies the loneliness. Bucky is stuck in a silent struggle, torn between duty and desire, unsure if he can find a way out without leaving everything shattered behind.

Dot's POV

(girl with whom Bucky is cheating with)

"He is gone again," I murmur to myself, my gaze fixed on the fan dangling from the ceiling. The bed beside me feels emptier than usual, a constant reminder of his absence. The weight of silence settles in the room, and once again, I find myself engulfed in loneliness...

Every day, it's the same struggle. A battle between the promise I make to myself and the undeniable pull he has on me. "Every time... every day. I let him in," I admit in the quiet of my thoughts. The bed, cold and untouched, bears witness to my internal conflict. It's a routine of surrendering to a love that should never have blossomed.

"I can always stop," I tell myself daily, a mantra of resistance that crumbles with each passing moment. The realization hits hard — I'm ruining myself for him. The weight of guilt presses down as I acknowledge the gravity of my actions.

"I am so bad," I confess silently, my heart heavy with self-loathing. I'm entangled in an affair with a married man who has a loving wife. The reality of my choices echoes in the hollow spaces of the room. "I'm so sorry," I whisper to no one but myself, a futile apology to the shadows that witness my moral descent.

"I hate myself... I hate it," the thought echoes, a painful admission of the self-destructive path I tread. Love, tangled with regret, becomes a poison that seeps into every corner of my being. Yet, despite the self-flagellation, the ache for him lingers, a bittersweet melody that refuses to be silenced.

The room, my safe place, now shows the mess inside me. I turn from the fan's spin, lost in the shadows. The secret love has left marks, stains that no apology can wipe away. As I try to understand this mess of feelings, I wonder if I can ever fix the pieces of my self-respect that have shattered.

The words slip out in a hushed murmur, barely audible in the quiet room. "I am sorry." The weight of the apology hangs in the air, a fragile attempt to mend the fractures that linger between us. It's a simple phrase, but it carries the echoes of regret and a longing for forgiveness. The weight of regret settles in, and I can't help but wonder if these simple words will ever be enough to mend the fractures I've created.

The illicit affair has left its mark, a stain that no amount of whispered apologies can erase. As I search through the wreckage of my emotions, I'm left to wonder if the fragments of my self-respect can ever be pieced back together.

Not everyone gets the same version of me.

One person might tell you I'm an amazing beautiful soul.

Another person will say I'm a coldhearted bitch.

Believe them both, I act accordingly.

-love

Chapter 2

Note: Hey guys! Hope you like it. English is actually my second language so if there's any mistake you can inform me by messaging me privately. And PLEASE REBLOG AND DON'T STEAL MY WORK. Please like and comment too so, that I can know your views. Thank you for reading guys! Have a nice day and please comment if you wanna be tagged in.

Taglist: @angstysebfan @cjand10 @learisa @themorningsunshine @binkszamsstuff @dreamerglassesgirl @winterslove1917 @perfectpieslimeprune @nikkivillar @bethexo07

[weewookinard]

tidbit tuesday because i remembered to do it!

i am cheating, it's a little part i already sent to my friends on discord but i got tagged by @nine-one-wanton & @evansbuck-ley & @racerchix21 & @bidisasterevankinard

& @bangpop91 & @perfectlysunny02 & @lavenderleahy & @typicalopposite

& @theotherbuckley and YES I KNOW MY FRIENDS ARE AWESOME❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

a few more lines from wedding!buck angst.............

“Evan, stop the bullshit. Tell me what's going on. Tell me if I should start the car back up and take you away from here." The proposal elicits a mirthless laugh from the man. “Eddie already offered me the same thing, he left his car not far from here just in case.” Running away. That's what his sister does so well. What Eddie did for a long time too. Running away was Tommy's choice that night.

[nburkhardt]

Inspired by this

Because the movie has wrecked me.

Eddie wakes up and blinks a few times, glancing around and a smile tugs on his lips before resting his head back on the pillow and snuggling into it, closing his eyes; content with being held.

He manages to fall back asleep.

Steve doesn’t know what happened, they were happy and he was in the middle of saying ‘I love you’ when Eddie stops him with a kiss. That night they fooled around and the next morning, he woke up alone.

No note, no goodbye kiss, nothing.

He doesn’t understand what happened. Their trip was amazing, just the two of them against the world. He really thought they had something, that Eddie cared for him just as he cares for him. That they were on the same page.

Tries calling, tries asking his friends and gets rejected by them too, asks Robin to help and finds out something new about Eddie.

He shuts down sometimes and there’s no knowing when he’ll come back around.

That doesn’t stop him, Steve refuses to let that stop him actually. Mind made up, he gets the only person he knows that can help.

~

“Ed! I’m going out, don’t wait up!”

“Why would I wai-“ Eddie stops, eyes wide and takes in the view in front of him, “Steve”

Steve stands there nearly soaked from the rain, “I’m not sure what I did for you to leave and ignore me.”

He shakes his head, “you didn’t do anything, it’s- you should leave”

“No,” Steve is glaring, moves closer towards him “I thought we were something and then suddenly, the man I love is gone, not answering my calls. Ignoring our friends, ignoring me. I love you, Eddie and I tried telling you too. Tell me what happened, tell me where I went wrong.”

Eddie’s eyes are stinging and he sets his jaw, hoping to keep his face from breaking. Turning around, hoping to put space.

“You- I, it’s not you.”

“That’s a load of shit,” Steve huffs a laugh and moves closer, “I love you, Eddie. Why can’t you let me? Why did I have to go through hoops and trick you into talking to me again? Why spend all that time with me, falling in love just to rip it away with nothing? Am I not enough? Or was it too much? Am I too much?”

His hands are shaking and he feels the tears rolling down his face as he closes them, too afraid to turn around but forces himself anyway. Opening his eyes, Steve’s right there red face and his cheeks are puffy, eyes red with tears. He can’t handle it, knowing that he caused it.

Shaking his head, running a hand over his face before gripping his hair and stepping towards Steve again, “No- no. Steve, it’s- really me. It’s me, i’m- I’m afraid, so afraid of this- whatever this is”

“Whatever this is?”

Eddie nods, taking another step and wanting to reach out but still refusing, “I’ve never had something like this before and when you tried saying it that night, it scared me. So, so I left and shut you out,” taking a deep breath before finally, grabbing hold of Steve’s equally shaking hands.

“Sweetheart, I’m so damn sorry for being a coward, I just, this is scary and my feelings for you scare me”

Steve’s eyes are locked on their hands, “feelings?” It’s a whisper and shaky.

Despite his gaze not being on him, Eddie nods and squeezes Steve’s hands, “yeah, because I love you so damn much, honey. So so damn much that it scares me and I ran, hurting you in the process.”

It’s silent in the trailer besides their shaky breathing and Eddie doesn’t know who moves first, next thing he knows their crashing together into a rough kiss. He does know who pulls away first, it’s Steve and he rests his forehead against his. Eyes closed and lips swollen from the near bruising kiss, “Eddie, baby, I’m afraid too, but I love you so much that I’m pushing forward anyway. I love you and I want you in my life”

He closes his eyes and leans to press their lips together once more in a simple kiss, letting go of his hands only to wrap them around him. Steve quickly wraps his own around him and holds him close, “let me stay, please baby, let me stay. Let me keep you”

All words caught, all Eddie can do is nod against Steve’s shoulder and press a lingering kiss on his shoulder.

Steve wakes up slowly, blinking the last of sleep away and eyes meet the beautiful view of a kiss shaped bruise forming on Eddie’s naked shoulder, he smiles as he squeezes the wrist in his hand and lets his head fall back on the pillow.

“Good morning, Love.” He hears and realizes that Eddie’s awake too, “can you let go?”

“Should I?”

Eddie doesn’t respond, instead tries wiggling around before Steve finally lets it go and all Eddie does is turn around to wraps his arm around Steve.

“I love you and I don’t want to run away anymore, I love you so damn much”

“I love you so much, Eds”

~

Had thoughts and this came out. Went a little differently than the movie.

Also: just so you know the very start and end take place after the middle. The start is Eddie’s pov of the next morning, he woke up before Steve. The end is Steve’s pov. Hopefully that wasn’t confusing!

Idk where to put the read more soo it’s hiding the tag list instead 😅

@spectrum-spectre @itsfreakingbats @mysticcrownshipper @artiststarme @thereindeerlady @justforthedead89 @ronniescontinuum @freyaforestafay @littlewildflowerkitten @estrellami-1 @gregre369 @zerokrox-blog @bookworm0690 @flustratedcas @carlprocastinator1000 @marvelmwah @solliesolesito @navnae @i-less-than-three-you @grimmfitzz

[30somethingautisticteacher]

Tommy Missing fic update

The search continues as more painful truths about Tommy's past are revealed.

Excerpt:

"He was here. Tommy was here," Buck said, pacing the cramped motel room.

"Yeah, Buckley, it's true. Just like it was true the last twelve times you said it," Sal grumbled from his bed. "Still doesn't give us a lot to go on other than that we're heading in the right direction."

"We should just get out of here and continue the search."

"It is 11:30 at night and it's pitch black outside," Sal pointed out.

"I just feel so useless. He's out there somewhere and he was upset and he could be hurt and-"

"Buckley! Snap out of it, this isn't helping," Sal barked. "You spiraling isn't going to help us find him any faster."

[fish-fillets-official]

Send me angsty fanfics. Please.

[allmyfuckingobsessions]

BROKEN HEARTS | Chapter 1

Two people, who time has turned into strangers, will meet again amid their miseries, embarking on a journey in search of what they both desire most.

Alternate Universe - Modern Settingbased on a kdramaExes to LoversMentions of CancerSuicidal ThoughtsImplied/Referenced SuicideAngst and Hurt/ComfortAngst and FeelsSmutin my opinion very angstyInfertilityPOV First PersonDevoted Sasuke/SakuraLight Bondagehappy ending or you will be happy because it ended? well.. you have to read to know

[rippersz]

ᴀ ꜰᴏᴏʟ'ꜱ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ

---

---

(Brienne of Tarth x Named Reader; Angsty; Hurt/Slight Comfort) (TW: Suic*de attempt; Suic*dal ideations/thoughts; Slight Romanticization of mental illness)

---

“An autumn whisper between the maples kept urging: Die with me.” ~ Anna Akhmatova

---

A Fool’s Death.

That’s what they call it.

A Fool’s Death. You’re a coward if you do it. You’re a lazy bastard if you live with thoughts of it. You’re a selfish prick of a soul either way.

There’s no winning and there’s no losing. There’s no talk of it. Not even a mention. Not even a whisper. And if there is, you are spoken of. Judged. Scrutinized until The Fool’s Death becomes your death. Until the village and its people and everyone in your family are forced to spit upon your narcissistic bones and claim you disowned even though there is nothing left to claim and nothing left to disown. Just a corpse that is cold and dull and useless.

Cold and dull and useless.

You think that’s how you’ll do it.

Winter has already carried her snow and chill and winds into the region, laying it all upon the land like a warm blanket around a small child’s body. Painting everything white and leaving it to glisten to sludge beneath the eventual heat of the spring sun. A perfect time for rebirth. A perfect time for death.

—

Your hands shake as you slowly pull open the door to your quarters, wincing while it creaks and groans, forcing you to stop every time a noise rings out into the empty hall. Your heart, pounding away in your ears, ruins your sense of hearing while you stand like a statue within your own doorway. Anxiety slips through your bones. Fear pulls at you. The last desire you have is to wake everyone in the castle and call attention to yourself. No, having eyes and ears on you while you lay in the snow and wait for the freeze to set in is less than ideal. A Fool’s Death, after all, is never A Fool’s Death if done with company.

So once you decide that the corridors are empty and you can slip out through the back entrance into the kitchens, you do exactly that. A singular torch is lit, burning away within its stone perch, nearly beckoning you closer with its dancing flame. You trail toward it and stop there, watching it for a moment, reveling in the last bit of warmth that your skin will ever feel. You know that some hours later, when the moon is long gone and the clouds block the sun and the stars keep themselves veiled, you will no longer be able to feel fire. You will no longer be able to feel ice. You will no longer be able to feel the breath in your lungs leave you in short pants. It will all bleed into the same numb feeling. And you will freeze until Mother Nature tells you to thaw. And once your body has been revealed to the changing air of the seasons, once the earth’s creatures start to take advantage of your indirect kindness, you also know that your frozen flesh will not be mourned. Because no one will cry for you. And no one will beg the gods, both old and new, to bring you back. And no one will waste another precious breath worrying about who you were.

You, who were just another soldier out of an army of hundreds. A faceless woman. A person easily replaced. Inconsequential in every sense of the word. Your family was dead, your acquaintances were no more than good mornings and good nights, your position would be filled as soon as you broke rank. And no one would notice your absence. The Lord Commander wouldn’t even blink. The royal family wouldn’t even spare a thought. Though then again, it wasn’t like you deserved their thoughts, their sympathies, their prayers anyway. You weren’t a war hero and you weren’t important and you didn’t do anything beyond follow orders and live your life. Well- that last bit would change, of course. As soon as you pull yourself away from the torch and get going.

The chill of night is a harsh contrast from the few minutes of firelight, but you find that your body, already shivering and slow beneath the thin white nightgown, doesn’t take true notice of the cold. You’re only propelled forward by a distant urge. A previously agreed upon understanding with no one but yourself: This was necessary. This is what it was going to come to anyway, whether you died a fool sooner or later. This was the way of the world and you were just another pawn amongst the masses. Going to war, front of the line, hoping to die in glory.

But there was no glory there. There was no glory in your measured footsteps and there was no glory in your sagging shoulders and tired expression. And there was no glory in your desire. How could there be? How could the good gods ever wish to touch you after your blasphemy? How could you hang your soul out to dry and still expect to find your place in Nirvana? They will call you a coward. They will call you a fool. They will call you a rotten whore and they will say that they wish you’d done it sooner. They will walk past your nonexistent grave without a wandering thought as to what your name was. You could’ve saved everyone the trouble, they will say. Could’ve saved them the breaths. Spared them of your quiet awkward presence. Making everyone uncomfortable. Leaving the men to tease and toss aside the idea of censoring themselves just because you were a woman. Not the only woman, but a woman nonetheless. Of course they held their tongues when The Lord Commander walked past, or sat at the table, or existed and breathed in their general vicinity, but that didn’t matter. Brienne of Tarth was not always around to control them nor comfort you - not that she did the latter anyway. You weren’t important enough for that.

And the universe seemed to agree. The path was laid out before you, lit by the silver moon, traced by the glow of the white ground. You’d decided on your resting place only a few days ago. During a morning patrol with some of the newer trainees, you came across a spot of smooth Earth. Two logs, parallel to each other, framed a large empty patch of snow. From where you stood, it looked like a beautiful painting that had yet to be finished. There was no subject- no goal- no lesson to be learned- no deeper meaning and no unintentional intentional wicked talent. But before that could be rectified, before it could be completed, it would have to be ruined. Once you’re long dead, you’ll find the time to apologize to Mother Nature, but as you trek over the last hill, you’re more focused on becoming one with the frozen ground.

The site of your death is far enough away from civilization, near the edge of a tall cliff, so any wandering strangers won’t bother to come too close. Well that’s what you tell yourself, living in hope as per usual; but in reality nothing is stopping another living creature from stumbling across your frozen corpse. The snow is thick, yes, but not thick enough to hide all of you. And the sun is only some hours away from rising. Oh well. It won’t matter anyway. You’ll be passed out by then, icicles hanging from your eyelashes and blue coating the lining of your lips. Your heart will be quiet, weak, in your frozen chest. Your hands will be limp. And the rest of you will be blanketed by the sweet tasty frost of death, creating a home for its festering teeth. Teeth that will bite and gnash and taste and tear - but their attacks will be in vain. You will be numb. So wonderfully, perfectly, fatefully, numb.

And your fingertips, for what it’s worth, are already tingling with the beginnings of it.

The beginnings of it.

‘It’ being your end, of course.

‘It’ being the thing you want. Desperately.

‘It’ being the Fool’s Death you were born to have.

Oh so poetic it was…

Oh so… lovely.

…

…

You blink suddenly, forcing the chilled tears out of your eyes. Damn wind… so cold… so refreshing… Your knees bend to crouch into the snow, slow and exhausted like the sluggish looking of your eyes. ‘Hello’ the snow grins- beams- smiles so cheerfully up at you, ‘come to see me again, have you? It’s only been a few days. But I have missed you so much. We all have missed you so much.’ And you glance up to take in the ‘we’; the looming trees and the deep blue sky and the twinkling stars and the sweet bright moon, and you nod to yourself. Yes. This is how it is. This is the perfect atmosphere.

This is the glory of a Fool’s Death.

This is the peace of a Fool’s Death.

This is salvation.

No loud men and no flickering fires and no furs and no royals and no company and no messy thoughts and no sleepless nights and no terrifying dreams and no days of forced starvation and no sadness, no sadness, no sadness, no sadness, no sadness, no sadness, no sadness, no sadness, no sadness, no sadness, no hope, no love, no happiness, no reason, no reason, no reason no reason no reason to live live live live live live live- live!

The thin white slip on your body shields you from nothing. Your palms sink into the soft fluff of the ground. Instantly, upon laying down, you’re soaked to the bone. Water finds itself languishing along your body, playing games and laughing while it gathers in your scalp and dances on your fingertips. And the snow, whispering near your ear and beckoning you to salvation, stretches its hands and says ‘Come, dear friend. Come rest here. I am soft. I will give you everything you want.’ So you rest. And you give in. And your body relaxes; your muscles unclench and the tension slides from your shoulders as a sigh bubbles past your lips.

Is it one of relief? One of stress? One of defeat? You’re not sure. You don’t know. Your heart is shuddering- pulsing- with excitement, but it’s a mystery as to why. Death is not supposed to feel good. Death is not supposed to feel powerful. Death is not supposed to feel like you’re finally grabbing life by the balls and saying HAH! THIS IS IT! THIS IS MY MOMENT! THIS IS MY DEATH! MY END! AND YOU CAN NEVER TAKE THAT AWAY FROM ME.

… So why does it feel that way?

Why does it feel so good?

…

…The night is quiet. It does not have answers for you. The moon looks on with unblinking eyes. You feel yourself grow heavy.

But the deed is not over yet. There is still one thing left to do. Slowly, the snow falls away as your limbs stir. They move on autopilot, not drawn by the thoughts in your head but again pushed by that faint desire.

Heels digging, nails running blue, curling into the snow, pushing it away - only to drag it back five minutes later; hastily working to complete the masterpiece. Desperate to become one with the Earth and fall into oblivion. A deep, bone-cold, quieting oblivion that will leave you shivering before it leaves you dead. Even beneath the blanket of snow that caresses your skin, that lays over your bare legs, that nuzzles the sensitive parts of your body, you begin to shake. And you begin to think.

The thoughts, interestingly enough, don’t freeze like the rest of you does. Instead, they grow. Swirl like a winter’s storm. Obsessive and rough, they pull you under like they always did.

This is great, isn’t it?

No, you think in response to yourself. It hurts, actually.

Oh stop whining. It will be worth it.

Why? How?

For years, it has been worth it.

That doesn’t answer anything. How has it been worth it? Is that why I’ve been hurting so much? For the sake of worthiness? Or something else?

Well you never felt worthy of anything else.

But I feel worthy of this?

Death? Yes. Everyone is worthy of death. Even The Lord Commander.

…What does she have to do with this?

You know what.

Your hands grasp at the snow, mindless and desperate. Pulling and pulling and pulling - clawing at the crisp white so it can cover you until no part of you is left to the air. Shielding you from the hatred of the universe. From the angry eyes of the gods. From the venom of the men. From the disinterest of the women. From the world… and its lack of care for you. And its lack of positivity. And its rude- disgusting- vile- way of treating you. And its overwhelming desire to kill you before you could kill yourself.

Too late now. We’re at least one foot deep in the ground! This is it. Keep digging. Keep digging. Keep digging! No stopping here! No energy left. Nothing left, actually. Not a goddamn thing. Nothing. Nothing at all.

Nothing at all….

Nothing.

At all.

Your eyelids flutter shut.

—

It’s two hours later when Ser Brienne of Tarth starts to wrap up her last duty of the evening.

A quick patrol of the furthest border is something not necessarily reserved for The Lord Commander, but is more of a safety measure she enforces upon herself before retiring for bed. Exhaustion pulls at her before she sets out, yes, but sometimes the nightmares… the white walkers… they leave her paranoid. Expectant of an attack that will never come. Worried about an enemy that no longer exists. Thus, she does it alone - and with only the royals’ knowledge.

It’s always a quiet affair, drawn along quickly by her and her steed Valour. They work with sharp eyes and a torch through the dark, stopping every few paces to listen for threats. There aren’t any, of course, but that doesn’t stop her from clip-clopping along the terrain with tense shoulders and keen senses, looking through the din of the torch’s fire in her hand. She has to be careful not to set her furs alight, but it’s not a hard task. Keeping it level, shunting it toward the ground and out toward the trees, proves to be more difficult. There’s no use in a flame if it can’t illuminate a damn th-

HUFF.

Valour’s hooves press into the snow, leaving them to stop - suddenly, quickly, with a jerk - as hot breath puffs from her nostrils and curls into the air. She’s tense, Brienne realizes. Tense and alert, with white ears twisting to take in sound. They stand in silence. Blue eyes watch as the animal’s head turns - first to the left and then to the right. But aside from the night and the usual rustle of the world, there is nothing. Nothing to hear, nothing to notice, nothing to fight or defend. Nothing to… find?

With one last sweep of the flame, she catches something quick. It’s nearly unnoticeable. Buried beneath the snow, but not one with the ground. It’s foreign. Out of place. A mere lump with no distinct beginning and end. Brienne chances a glance down at the horse, interest and apprehension dancing through her veins once she sees Valour’s eyes have caught the same thing. The same… intruder. The same issue.

When she slides off of the horse, half expecting to see the thing rise from the ground, one hand shoots to her sword. It waits. Curls around the hilt. Stretches beneath her glove. Twitches with adrenaline.

But there’s nothing. Not even a tremble beneath the dirt.

“Stay,” she whispers to Valour, moving the hand from her blade to gesture, palm facing the ground, for the horse to stand in wait.

And as cautiously, as quietly, as she can, Brienne approaches the mystery. She rounds one of the logs, taking notice of the odd placement, and tries not to wince each time her boots make a small crunch in the silence. Footprints will no doubt be left behind, but that doesn’t seem to bother her much as she catches sight of another pair in the distance. They’re small, the knight notices. With no distinct shape if not for a slight curve. The snow is kicked up, forced from its smooth blanket. Hurried in their demeanor. But slow in the amount of distance between each print.

Human, she thinks.

Human indeed, the snow hums; bearing all to see as it glistens beneath the firelight of her torch and brings Brienne to her unsightly treasure.

Frosted skin. A soaked nightgown. Arms and legs bitten by the chill.

Dead, she thinks.

No. Alive. The snow breathes.

—

Someone is taking off your clothes. They’re cold, sticking to you, and little grunts follow as bits of your nightgown rip with the effort. Your body is shocked, shivering so hard that the stranger can’t keep you still and isn’t quite sure what to do. Eventually, a mind is made up and you’re stripped completely - then covered with woolen hose. At least two pairs- both of which are too big for you and hang by the feet and are quite loose around the waist, but the dresser doesn’t seem to care. Trousers are next. How many pairs? You don’t know. Then shirts. And furs. And even a pair of leather gloves that droop at the fingertips and gape at the wrists - but they’re warm and lined with wool and you can’t feel your body but that’s okay. You didn’t want to anyway. More grunting and growling and small whispered curses follow until you’re very much tucked into a bed far bigger than your own. It’s warm. Good. You’re numb and half-dead, but it’s good. Lovely, really. And the outside world doesn’t call your name as you close your eyes.

Waking up was not on your agenda.

It wasn’t even in the cards.

And you don’t really want to - but the universe never cared for your opinion. And it did what it wanted whenever it wanted anyway. So you have no choice.

Thus, your eyes flutter open and your lungs expand with breath and suddenly the world comes flooding back in one confusing twist of fate. Nausea wastes no time in tearing you down; instantly going to churn in the pit of your stomach and curl in the back of your throat and pound against the skin of your temples. A deep groan slips from between your chapped lips. The lining of your skull feels as though it’s been replaced with cotton.

The snow really took its chance, didn’t it? Brutal. Ruthless. At least the Earth doesn’t lie to you. At least the Earth doesn’t save you.

But someone did. Someone has.

They’re actually shuffling over; measured footsteps sounding like big loud stomps in your head. You close your eyes. Everything is too bright. Everything is too much.

“Morning.”

Hm. The voice sounds familiar. A bit wonky, like it’s far away, but familiar. You don’t have the energy to respond so you just let out a grunt and allow it to taper off into a weird rumbly hum.

“Hey,” there’s a sudden clicking noise near your ear, making you jolt and snort when your eyes flick open. There are fingers - long pale fingers snapping beside your head, falling silent when you glare up at the offender, only to find-

“Lah Commandah?!” Your tongue and throat are stiff and achy, keeping your speech limited and your voice strangled. You grimace at the sound and instantly try to growl the discomfort away, but she cuts you off.

“Don’t do that- you’ll just make it worse.” It comes out in a huff and silences you with ease.

She doesn’t look or seem very happy, which in turn makes you frown. It was a shot straight through the heart when the Lord Commander was in a bad mood - which surprisingly wasn’t always. In fact, she’d grown a little softer over the years. The tales talk of her unwilling attitude and stubborn pride, but sometimes she’s full of wit and humor. And on the best of days, she’ll give the most successful troops a small smile and a bow of her head. The only sign of ‘You did well’ that anyone would ever get from her. You’d never gotten a reaction like that before.

I wonder why she didn’t leave us out in the snow.

“Can you sit up?” Glacier blue eyes run over your face.

You’re not sure what you look like but you suppose it doesn’t matter. She’s seen worse.

“Dun-no, Lah Commandah,” you breathe, trying to do exactly that.

After the fifth try of shifting your arms and legs and quickly running out of strength, she seems to get the hint and suddenly large strong hands are sliding under your arms and tugging you up, then pushing you back. It’s done in one swift movement, leaving you dizzy while you rest your head against the wooden headboard of-… of a bed that certainly isn’t yours.

No, you’re definitely not in your own room. The layout is completely different. It’s more… it’s not pretty but it’s better looking than your own. Complete with greys and blacks and silvers and even a hint of red here and there. The fire that’s been crackling steadily in the background is clean and well-kept, where your room doesn’t even have space for one at all. And the curtains are drawn over the windows covering the right wall, leaving the place shrouded in a darkness that would have existed there anyway even if the curtains were open - it’s nighttime, pitch black outside, and suddenly you’re very much aware of the fact that you’ve kept your Lord Commander- The Brienne of Tarth- out of her own bed for more than a day.

By the time you blink yourself out of your dizzy distracted haze and try to find her form again, she’s already busy doing something else. Wringing out cloths over a bowl… and then returning to your side. Your lips, chapped and still tinged blue, open in an effort to say something- anything- but then a soft hot cloth is draped over your forehead, covering your temples, and suddenly you don’t have a damned thought left in your mind. The feeling is so nice. So blissful. You could stay like that forever.

If only the universe showed you mercy.

“It’s been two days since I found you,” the Lord Commander says, placing the bowl down gently on the side table beside the bed. Her eyes glance over your coverings, making sure the furs and gloves and shirts are all still in order. They are. She was very thorough before. She would not have made a mistake. There was no room for error.

But there’s room now for judgment. Judgment and disdain, and you’re terrified of those things and you really don’t want to have to hear her tell you that you’re a stupid wench and that the rest of the troops will forever make fun of you for your idiocy, so you swallow and wince and your hands twist together in your lap. The leather of the gloves is soft, well-worn, and the wool is only the tiniest bit matted - and you can’t help but admire the craftsmanship as you bring them up to your abdomen. They’re obviously not your gloves, just as everything else is not yours either, but you don’t know what to do first: apologize or thank her.

Honestly, you don’t really want to thank her - because she ruined your plan - but at the same time, she saved your life. Whether you wanted to end it or not doesn’t matter… because she would’ve helped you no matter what. And perhaps you’re selfish for being a little bit angry about it, maybe you’re being self-centered and dumb, but you can’t help the feeling of bitterness creep into your heart. You wanted to die… and she took that from you. She wanted you to live.

It was a duty. She doesn’t want anything. Anyone would have done it.

But that’s not true.

The men would have left you. Or hurt you. Or anything else.

But there she is, having gone through the trouble of saving you… and she’s looking down at you with a frown on her handsome face and a furrow to her light brows that seems like it never leaves and you wish so terribly that you could just tell her-

“I-m sorr-ey.” It’s a pathetic rasp of an apology, but it’s out of your mouth before you can catch it.

She blinks. You don’t know why her expression changes, why it softens into something less stern and concerned, but when it does you feel your breath catch in your throat. How anyone could see her as anything less than glorious is something you’ll never understand.

“Why were you out there.”

It’s a demand.

You look away, baring your eyes to the fire.

“…I sl-leep-wa-lk someti-”

“Bullshit.” She spits, one hand reaching down to curl into the bit of blanket that drapes over the side of the bed. Her expression has twisted back into one of anger. “Don’t you dare lie to me.”

But what other choice do you have?

How could you be honest?

Why did she, of all people, have to find you? And why like that? Why couldn’t she have walked into the bathhouse during the few times you’ve wept your eyes out in the steamy silence? Why couldn’t she have caught you staring at your horse, dread in your eyes as you fantasized about running away and never looking back? Why couldn’t she have stumbled upon your vulnerability when you were still willing to live?

Why did it take a Fool’s Death to finally grasp her attention?

You want to tell the truth… but you can’t.

You can’t.

So you lie again.

“Was out- on a s-strollll. Got- um- lost.” You try not to cringe at the sound of your own bad grammar. Turns out not having full feeling back in your mouth does indeed prohibit being able to speak properly.

The Lord Commander doesn’t seem to care much. In fact, she doesn’t seem to be focusing on that at all. Instead, her face has grown slack - and she’s looking at you hard. Leaning both of her hands on the side of the bed, broad shoulders going up near her neck, eyes peering through light lashes - like she’s using her stare alone to dig holes into your soul and she doesn’t need to say anything in order for you to understand that she simply doesn’t believe you. And why should she? Your lies are so obviously half-baked; only muddying up the truth; ruining what little of it can be said.

Still. She doesn’t let up. Her gaze starts to burn. Shame tugs at your cotton-lined skull. Guilt claws its way to the surface.

Pink lips, scarred on the top right, part slowly. There’s a soft inhale. You brace yourself, clutching your warm hands into fists.

“You were buried,” the Lord Commander says, barely even blinking as she looks at you. “Covered with snow.” She shakes her head and allows it to fall to her chest, letting out a scoff so quiet you had to strain to hear it. “One of the smartest soldiers I have… and you expect me to believe that you got lost on an evening stroll?” Her head comes up, eyes pinning you in place with such dull ferocity that you can’t look away. “You can’t be serious.”

It’s at that exact moment when you realize that you’re sweating. It is the amount of warm things covering your body? The clothing and the furs and the gloves? Or is it your Lord Commander’s attention? And the fact that it’s never been placed on you like that before? With such… such focus. Such- dare you even think it- care?

You swallow against the nervous lump in your throat.

‘One of the smartest soldiers I have…’

Well if you were as smart as she thinks you are, you’d be fucking honest, wouldn’t you? Yeah. You’d tell her the truth. You’d admit that you’re a coward.

But you can’t.

You can’t.

She spends all of that time training you, keeping an eye on you, making sure you’re fed and well-rested and looked after in her own roundabout Lord Commander type of way… and you repay her with…with what?

With suicide?

So disgraceful.

So horrible.

So shitty of you.

How terrible can a person be?

How-

“Are you crying?” Your Lord Commander gapes, certainly caught off guard by your sudden emotion.

“N-no?!” You stutter, just as shocked to find yourself reaching up and smearing salty tears along your cheeks.

Oh how embarrassing-!

You stupid girl!

This is why you wanted to do it in the first place!

Because all you do is just fucking embarrass yourself-!

“N-no? No- s-sorr-y La-Lor-d C-Com-”

“Enough with the Lord Commander,” she admonishes, cutting off your bumbling apology with a swift tsk. “In private, it’s Brienne.” Then she hesitates before letting out a sigh and taking a seat next to you on the side of her bed. “…I’m not your superior here.”

All you can do is blink.

I’m not your superior here.

So what are you?

That’s all you want to ask.

What are you to me then? What is this now?

But even if you did find the courage, you’re not sure what she’d say.

“Okay,” you sniff, trying your damnedest to stop the tears.

But they’re a direct result of your aching heart. And aching hearts have veins that scream in agony, wishing for nothing but silence. Utterly tranquility. The very absence of tension-filled life. And you can’t get rid of aching hearts and screaming veins without getting rid of yourself…. And your only chance to do that was destroyed. Trampled upon. Interrupted.

I just wanted to die. It rests on the very tip of your tongue but never spills out into the air.

Brienne is so clearly unsure of what to do; she’s sitting rigid in her spot and staring at a mark on the floor. You want to tell her it’s okay. You want to tell her that she doesn’t have to comfort you. You want to tell her to just let you go back into the woods again… let you find yourself back in the snow. And she can go on with her life and forget it ever happened.

But you can’t.

That’s not how it works.

That’ll never be how it works.

Foolish girl.

“…Why were you out there, Anya?” Brienne’s voice is softer than fresh lilies.

You know why.

You know why.

“…I c-can’t- I-”

Her head turns. Midnight blue eyes trace a line from your neck to your face, taking in the exhausted circles beneath your eyes and the blue-ish tinge to your skin and the utterly defeated look that blooms behind your expression. A war happens in you, taking place in the span of a moment, and you can do nothing but blink through lingering tears and stare at her.

“I can’t.” It’s a whisper. A confession all on its own.

I can’t… because you’ll think I’m a coward. And you’ll hate me. And I already hate myself enough for the both of us.

Brienne’s lips form a hard line, but she doesn’t say anything. She just peers back down at the floor and allows silence to creep into the room and lay between you both like a tired direwolf on its last legs.

The fire burns in the background. The sweat on your body cools. The dizziness in your head subsides.

It’s going to be okay, some part of you speaks. It’s going to be okay.

But you’ve told yourself that before, haven’t you?

And look where that got you.

It has to be at least 30 minutes later when Brienne finally speaks.

“There was a girl I knew once, in my early youth,” you watch her mouth move, enchanted and confused. Where was this going to lead? “She was older than me by two years. A pretty girl- like you.” Your heart trips over itself, but you don’t have time to dwell as she continues. “My father saw that, out of the very rare few, she was good to me - and so we were allowed to play often. For her it was ‘horsies’ and ‘hide and seek’, for me it was ‘swords’ and ‘knights’.” There’s a soft smile on her face, half hidden by the natural shadow of her body facing away from the hearth and half lit by the fire that lived there. Her lips twitch and she begins again. “We did everything together. She was a village girl but that didn’t matter… until it did. Time eventually caught up to us and we were forced to live our lives on our own. No more days of play and no more sharing stories.”

A soul-deep sadness settled into her eyes. She had yet to look at you. Maybe because it would make her too vulnerable… maybe because she didn’t want you to cry again. Either way, you felt yourself frown. Why was she telling you this? What happened?

And as if she could read your thoughts, she continues.

“By the time I was old enough to decide that I wanted to leave, she was already married. Kind husband, even though I only met him once. It was when I stopped in to say goodbye. I wanted to tell her that I’d write, whenever I found the time and place to do so.” Her hands, you notice, are fidgeting - running over and pulling each other quietly within her lap. The natural lines in her face grow darker as she falls back into her memories. “…I didn’t know she was struggling. I was so busy with my own life. My father’s wishes, my training, my fights with the men who challenged me… our communication grew slim. So I didn’t- I-… well.” Brienne swallows. “Her husband answered the door and when I asked after her, he burst into hysterics.”

Your heart stops.

She- no… She didn’t….

Brienne’s head goes up, her eyes turning to look at the ceiling - keeping her tears in her eyes, resistant in letting them fall. Resistant in being weak. You want to hold her and let her cry, but you know it’s not the time. She sniffs and her chest heaves with a sigh and it takes everything in you not to start sobbing. Tears build, they fall slowly, but your throat aches with held back sounds of distress.

“…She ended her life two days before I arrived.” A pause. Then- “A butter knife…,” she scoffs out a laugh and shakes her head, still pointing her face skyward - as if the gods have all the answers to her grief. “… I didn’t know what to do with myself. I didn’t know what to do with her husband. So I gave him my condolences and I left. Cried in the woods for as long as I could and kept going. And since then, I haven’t stopped.”

Despite her efforts, tears still creep over her eyelids and race down her cheeks. They mirror the ones on your own face - warm and sad and annoying in the stiff little trails left behind.

And you sit like that for a while, silently crying. Her gaze stuck to the heavens, thinking about the friend she lost; and your gaze stuck on her, thinking about the possible metaphor behind her actions. Behind the full circle-ness of it all. She couldn’t save her friend but she saved you. What did that mean in the grand scheme of your lives? What did any of it mean? How would you continue to train everyday after seeing your Lord Commander cry? After witnessing her care?

She saved us. She saved us. She saved us.

“Thank you,” comes your hoarse whisper- the first in-tact thing you’ve said since waking up.

The sound of your voice tugs Brienne out of her stupor and draws her eyes to your sad face. You don’t have the energy to give her a sympathetic smile, so you settle on a soft look. If it says all you need it to say, she doesn’t show it - but she does look away quickly and reaches up to brush the tears away.

“What for?” It’s rough - hard - a sliver of the tough Commander she’s used to being.

No no no - don’t go back to that. Your heart is safe here. I won’t judge you for your tears.

“…Saving me.” It’s more courtesy than anything as you say that, but it’s fine. You’re not magically going to wish for life again after Brienne shares a sad story with you… though it already has your heart struggling against its achy confines.

Brienne shakes her head, the gold of her hair catching the fire’s light so beautifully that you have to take your eyes off of her in order to catch your breath. If we were her friend in her youth, we would have surely fallen in love with her.

“You shouldn’t have gotten to that point,” her voice is watery- muffled with the lingerings of sadness. “No one should.”

You nod. What else is there to say? What else is there to admit? Clearly she knows. Clearly she understands. And yet… you’re still curious…

“…Why do-n’t you hate me f-or it?” Your words come out in a squeaky whisper, but you don’t care. You just need to know. You just need to make sure that you’re not reading things wrong- that there’s a chance she may actually care- and that perhaps there is a reason to stay…

Brienne doesn’t respond immediately. It’s clear that she takes a few moments to bring herself back to the present. To clear her throat and wipe her eyes again and sniffle a few times and then turn back to you. She’s tried so hard in clearing herself up, but the eyes have never lied. And you see the sadness breeding there. Festering. Sadness is wicked. You don’t know if you’re the cause of it.

“You’re strong, Anya." A pause. "Training wouldn’t be the same without you.”

But you know she means to say Nothing would be the same without you.

---

Something I've been working on for a bit. It's not as good as I hoped it would be, but I'm tired and my back hurts so whatever. I hope you're all doing well.

And if you're not and you need some help, here's the National Suicide Hotline: 988 - And the link https://988lifeline.org/

It's gonna be okay, my friend. One second at a time. - Yours, Rip x

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[clockwrkpendrxgon]

when the fic has letters in it >>>>

[rosellerivers19]

Dc Damian fanart/fic rec

So recently I’ve gotten into the DC fandom specifically the Wayne family (don’t ask how or why)

And after the tiktok ban was abruptly ended my fyp was filled with Batfamily content.

I ended up getting a fic recommendation of an au where Damian sacrifices the memory of him (like Peter in no way home) and everyone he knows in loves forgets him and there’s no legal proof of him ever existing.

Alone and on the streets with no home to return to-Yet!

What does the former heir of Ral Al Gul (correct me if I’m wrong) decide to do in his current position?

he decides to become a waiter! Even if it’s begrudgingly given the fact most jobs need to see legal records so this was the best he could do.

His uniform was described as a stiff button up shirt and charcoal slacks so I created this 🎉

This is still an unfinished artwork but I was really enjoying the fic so I decided to make a doodle while I was at it.

Man I haven’t read a good fanfic in a while.

So while I’m bout to binge this fic if anyone else knows any Damian centric fanfics (preferably angsty) recommend some in the comments.

Anyway Bye!