#Hero with a thousand faces is wild

[gh99st]

Did bagdwella just try and make a move on draal?

[knight-of-aether]

Hyrule's gilded hero (who are you, really?)

Happy 10th anniversary to the most insane LoZ game ever conceived ⚔️✨

(shoutout to @crazylittlejester - your warriors stories and headcanons have fueled my mental illness for the blorbo in so many ways, this is dedicated to you <3)

[maidenvault]

During my last rewatch of the prequels I was actually shocked by how much I've misremembered or decontextualized certain moments in my mind because of how they're often talked about in fandom as showing the Jedi as too arrogant, too bureaucratic, generally just burying their heads in the sand while everything goes bad etc. So I'm gonna try to address every individual scene that typically gets brought up to argue that this is an actual theme in Lucas's portrayal of the Order.

The Council doesn't take Qui-Gon's account of meeting a Sith seriously.

Mace and Ki Adi Mundi do both express doubt this guy could be a Sith. (Understandably! Historically they've never known Sith to be able to hide their existence, and for them to have survived totally in secret for a thousand years is a pretty wild thing for Qui-Gon to be so sure of.)

BUT Yoda admits that the dark side is hard to see, and Mace assures Qui-Gon they'll do everything to find out the identity of the attacker. Later he's ordered to go back to Naboo and try to draw out Maul to discover more. Qui-Gon accepts this and doesn't ask for backup. Why should he? He held his own against Maul before, and Maul's probably not gonna show himself again to face a ton of Jedi. They end up missing the chance to learn who trained Maul because of how things go down, but Qui-Gon's death isn't the result of the Council mishandling the situation.

At the funeral, Yoda says the presence of one Sith means there's another out there. They know they've got to be on guard now and will be, but they've got no more leads for now.

2. Qui-Gon's not here to free slaves.

There's this idea that slavery existing on Tatooine shows the Order is apparently too tied up doing shady things for self-interested politicians (footage not found) to help the people who really need it. But Padme's shocked to know the Skywalkers are slaves for a reason. The truth is there isn't a lot of slavery in the galaxy at this time because the Jedi have helped keep it that way for centuries only by working with the Republic. In TCW we see that Zygerrian slavers have a particular hatred of Jedi because they're literally The Anti Slavery People and did so much of the work to crack down on their trade. But Tatooine is controlled by the Hutts and they simply don't have the resources to start a war with them.

(And honestly, it's crazy how people talk like Qui-Gon's a monster for honestly and apologetically telling Anakin no, that's not why he's here. This is a child he's already indebted to and who has a hero-worshipping idea of Jedi, it would be fucked up for him not to be clear about how he can't help him and his mom.)

3. They doubt Dooku could be behind the assassination attempt.

This I understand shows the Jedi to be a little naive. But they knew Dooku as a good man, and at this point he and his followers are still putting on a show of wanting to secede for idealistic reasons (and a few of them, manipulated by Dooku, actually do have good intentions). Only later do the Jedi learn they're illegally building an army before they've even officially left the Republic and clearly have no interest in the peaceful resolution Padme's been advocating for. And they only find this out because they have Obi-Wan investigate the assassin and this very quickly leads him to Dooku.

4. "Arrogance, yes. A trait more and more common among Jedi. Even the older, more experienced ones."

In context, this line from Yoda is clearly not meant to be taken so seriously. Obi-Wan says he fears Anakin is too arrogant, and this is Yoda's light-hearted way of telling him not to be so hard on him. Part of training a Padawan is learning to trust them so they can grow, and Obi-Wan perhaps needs the reminder that he isn't done learning himself.

Of course Yoda saying this could be partly motivated by them having been caught off guard before by the existence of Darth Maul and the dark side clouding their awareness, as we're told repeatedly throughout the PT they know is a problem. But it's kind of contradictory to take this as confirmation that this is a serious fatal flaw of theirs. If someone acknowledges their own arrogance then they're aware of their ability to be wrong, which means they can't actually be that arrogant. If truly meant in a general sense and not just as a gentle reproof of Obi-Wan, it's a pretty self-deprecating comment coming from Yoda.

5. "If an item does not appear in our records, it does not exist."

Chief Librarian Jocasta Nu gives this haughty response to Obi-Wan looking for Kamino, a system that's not in the Jedi Archives. So being so overly confident in the infallible knowledge of the Jedi, he takes her word for it and totally drops this lead.

Except no, he goes to someone older and wiser to figure out what this actually means. And he and Yoda are forced to conclude that the unthinkable - a trusted person among them somehow had reason to erase information from the archive - must nonetheless be what happened. This is honestly an exception that proves the rule: Kamino, and we can assume only Kamino, is missing from the archive only because it was removed, which is so suspicious it just shows he must be on the right track to discovering something. Jocasta is kind of snooty about it but theirs obviously is supposed to be one of the most accurate and complete databases in the galaxy.

6. Obi-Wan doesn't believe what Dooku tells him about the Senate.

For one thing, in this conversation Dooku's lying about basically everything but this. And I can't ever stress enough that Palpatine is a threat unlike anything the Jedi have ever dealt with before, who's already taken control of so much before they even know they're fighting anything, so the idea that a Sith is controlling the Senate would be really hard for anyone to believe.

Still, we know Obi-Wan reports this to the Council anyway. But it's a vague statement and they still don't have any information to act on. Palpatine soon has them very busy putting out fires in the war, and naturally fighting the Separatists who are led by Sith seems the best way for them to get to the bottom of what exactly is going on with the dark side. And they do finally turn their attention to how power-hungry Palpatine is getting once the war is nearly over and they've got the bandwidth for it, and think about what they might have to do if he's the threat to their democracy they fear, but of course he's too many steps ahead of them all the time.

---

So basically, what we see the Jedi being so guilty of in these examples are thought crimes. When confronted with the crazy explanation that happens to be true, their instinctive reaction is "No, I don't think that's possible." And then they do their due diligence to uncover as much of the truth as they can anyway. And Yoda, the Grand Master of them all, is often the first to admit that their first assumptions could be wrong. But Palpatine wouldn't be a good villain if his moves were predictable and he couldn't get an advantage over the good guys - that's just how storytelling works sometimes and it's not that deep.

It honestly felt stupid typing so much of this out because it's 90% just describing what actually happens in these scenes. But I guess it's a lot to ask that people actually carefully watch the films they discuss. 😒

[charcoaldustonmyfingers]

Ancient Hero’s mask pt. 1

(1-2)

A lil comic about ancient masks… and curses. While the Ancient Hero’s Aspect armor is super handy upgraded, why he gotta give me that thousand yard stare?

I thought it would be fun to put a little spin on how the item might be used in a real life function sort of way, and seeing as form changing masks of lost spirits already exist in Majoras Mask, why not make the Aspect behave the same? The three parts of the decorative belt make up an owl, a dragon, and a boar, symbols of the Triforce’s virtues, so because it’s the hero I went with the dragon face as the mask design!

Featuring the fit I mostly wore for Link, as I found the Cap of the Wild early by complete panic induced accident and refused to take it off the rest of the game. Everything dyed black or grey for color coordination of course (I’m bad at color matching, it’s why I never color my lineart lol)

The Aspect itself is an interesting design for sure. Perhaps some kind of zonai or hybrid? Who knows. Maybe he’s an evolved mogma

Whatever he is, I doubt the citizens of Hyrule would recognize Link (less than they already do). There’s room for shenanigans there!

[hunnylagoon]

The Girl That Time Forgot

Ellie Williams x Reader

Find me in one thousand years, I will always be waiting here.

Premise: Ellie is the only time traveller who uses her uncommon gift to rewind time and constantly pester you-the only immortal who made a deal with death in 412 BC and is cursed to walk the earth for all eternity. Forever was promised but you never knew the price.

Warnings: death / murder / mentions of suicide / self-harm / toxic relationship /sickness / violence / angst / war / mentions of drugs / lovers?friends(ish)?enemies? it’s complicated / mild gore / things get nuts

ONE-SHOT | WC 18k (so you know what you’re getting into)

AID PALESTINE!

Athens, Greece- October- 412 BC

Come back in one hundred years, you'll always find me here.

Rain splashes against the skin of your face in lands of ancient Greece, where the winds themselves whispered stories of gods and heroes, neither of which you were. You were nothing more than a frightened woman running away from an unforgiving husband in the dead of night where your quickened heartbeat falls in rhythm to the ocean which is almost as angry as the storm that roars above.

Carefully you dodge the jagged rocks sticking out from the sand, you had memorized each and every one after days of burning your skin on the shores. Water surged against the rocks near your feet, white froth sizzling in the waves retreating like it was trying to drag you in and take you for its own.

Your heavy breathing was devoured by the heavy rain and cracks of lighting, the sounds of thunder so deep it was like Zeus himself was stomping in the clouds. Despite the night being dark you trusted the moonlight that glimmered off of the ocean to guide you. You have nothing more than the soaking wet clothes on your back, jewelry to sell, and the drachmas you had stolen from your husband tucked away safely in a wool tagari purse.

Someone grabbed your wrist, stopping you in your tracks "Hey!" They say, though you can't quite make out the figure in the dark you know it's a woman from the voice alone. "You need to go home." Fear pushes adrenaline to course through your veins at the sound of an unheard tongue babbling in your ears.

Your eyebrows furrow, clutching the bag even harder in your free hand. "Φύγε από μένα!" You scream, trying to force your voice to be louder than the malicious storm that brews over your head. You try to pull your hand away but the woman stands firm hardly even moving.

"Fuck," She mutters, you don't understand a word. In this moment you feel like a rabbit preparing to get devoured by a wolf, whoever this woman was you were shaken to your core like you had just uncovered a dead body. "I forgot that you can't speak English yet."

You struggle under the grip of the woman, using the hand which was holding tightly onto the tagari and begin to hit the woman before you to pry her off your wrist "Δεν θα πάω πίσω, τον μισώ μέχρι θανάτου!" You shout voice loud as thunder.

"Ow!" She said wrinkling her nose and trying to apprehend the hand that was hitting her "Can you stop?" She asks, even though you can't understand her it's worth a shot in her mind.

This does nothing to stop your protest, you only hit her harder hammering your purse against her head until she finally lets go of your wrist to block your swinging. Lighting cracks and just for a moment you catch a glimpse of her. Short brown hair that falls at her shoulders, and freckles across her face, something you had never seen before. What frightened you wasn't the sharpness of her green eyes but her clothes, an alien concept to you. She didn't wear a tunic but a scratchy blue fabric tight on her legs and what to you resembled a baggy grey burlap sack with a piece of cloth hanging off the back. In recent years it has come to be known as jeans and a hoodie.

"Δαίμονα, μάγισσα, φύγε!" You smack her once more for good measure and turn quickly on your sandal-covered heel to get away from her. You were as wild and untamed as the ocean itself, with eyes that sparkled with a craving for more than honey dripping down your tongue and salt smeared across your lips.

"Remember I tried to help you this time!" She shouts, her voice is so far off in the distance that you barely heard it through the storm. Even if her words were clear it made no difference, you didn't speak her tongue, and any warning fell unheard upon your ears "Have fun being twenty forever!"

You ran even faster than you had before, you didn't even turn around to see if the woman was still on your tail.

The salty spray stung your cheeks as you ran, your breath ragged and steps unsteady. The wind howled in protest, whipping at the wet hair that stuck to your face and neck, tearing at your white peplos, turned translucent on your body by the water. But you paid no heed to the fury of the elements, for you were driven by a desperate need to escape.

As you reached the edge of a rocky outcrop, your leather sandal caught on a slick stone, sending you tumbling to the ground. With a sickening thud, your head struck against the unforgiving rock, and the world around you spun into darkness.

You were dead. Body limp on the plethora of rocks, the tide slowly lulling over your body until it swallowed you whole and sucked you in deeper. Ropes of hair twist before your dull eyes, unmoving into the deep.

You sink further in and open your eyes though you are still deceased, your body still falling cold. Selene stands before you in the form of midnight. Her body was ebony and deep blue, half woman, half moon. Long black hair like ink tipped with moonlight spills down her breasts and her hips, she watches you with her pale eyes imploring.

The goddess before you turns to lead the way, enticing you to follow. Each step sends knives through your limbs. Your mouth tastes like blood and your lungs burn red hot though every time you try to breathe you choke and sputter of nothing, still, you follow Selene into the nothingness ahead.

Finally, she turns, one finger pressed to her lips, signalling you to be quiet. Beside her, a pale soldier appears in fine silver armour chiselled against his muscular body. The areas that the armour does not cover, his arms and an area of his legs between the middle of his thighs to just below his knees, tattered bandages hang around his limbs, They sway in the nothingness and shed by themselves. You see open wounds deep and red, beginning to bleed but his pasty skin sews itself up, leaving no scar behind, nothing but smooth flesh. Wings larger than the man himself sprout from his back. Thanatos.

Thanatos bows his head, hiding his deep sunken eyes beneath a Corinthian helmet. You should be afraid that you face the god of death but you aren't. This is a better fate than being hauled back to your husband.

He takes his helmet off, long dark hair falls onto his shoulders and he regards you. Thanatos is wordless as he stares at you, taking in every of your face, every curve of your body. He doesn't speak but you understand him well, too much beauty to go to waste.

Selene has left you to take her place back in the night sky, she watches you were she hangs on a beam of moonlight. In one hand Thanatos holds a silver knife. Your voice betrays you, for once your loud screeching voice is lost.

He holds out his hand, pitch black at the fingertips. You can tell he is trying to strike a deal as if he had put his words into your mind without ever even moving his lips.

You look at his hand and then at his face, death was less frightening than you had imagined, handsome for a god who took so many lives. He lets his offer sit and settle within you, he doesn't try to sweeten the deal, he offers you another chance and that is that.

The second you shake Death's hand, he pulls away from your grip and takes the silver dagger to your heart. With ease, he slices back layers of flesh in one swoop leaving your bones exposed before him. Using what seemed to be little effort for the god of death, he breaks your ribs and pulls out your heart.

You watch it beat in his hand, the blood drifting out of it like ribbons that hook around your limbs, you know you have made a mistake. For the first time, Thanatos smiles. Oh, how the wolf wore the sheep as a wicked disguise. he squeezes the heart and at the crush of his hand, you feel ice shoot through your veins.

Your eyes open, properly open. You were alone. You wake up in nothing more than a metre of water and immediately cry out in pure terror at the horrifying images that your mind has conjured up. You run through the salty ocean and back to the shore.

The storm hadn't subsided which helped to camouflage your sobs as you frantically felt around your body with shaking hands to be sure that the god of death hadn't ripped out your heart. Surely enough, your rib cage was intact. You fall onto your hands and knees heaving up all of the ocean water you had swallowed.

The purse that held your resources for escaping had either been devoured by the ocean or stolen off your body. Your wirey hands touch the back of your hand, you expect to shudder under the pain of the open wound that knocked you unconscious. Instead of pain shooting from a gash in your head, you are perfectly intact.

You look down at your hands, no trace of blood.

Maybe it was time to start believing in myths because you were in one.

Rome - July- 116 AD

Don't they know it's the end of the world?

At the center of the world, you had been buried alive for three years after switching places with a Vestal Virgin who looked remarkably identical to you in exchange you gained a large sum for your alleged death. When you were buried you hadn't thought much about how you would get out, you just knew that you wouldn't suffocate or starve.

After the second year passed you were beginning to think that offering to get enclosed in a stone tomb with bread, water, oil, a candle, and a bed wasn't a great way to live your abnormally long life. The air grew stale, and the silence of the tomb echoed with the whispers of the dead that surrounded you on all four walls.

Before sleeping every single night, you prayed to the gods to take your life but they never listened. What you once thought to be a blessing had turned out to be a curse, no blessing would make you crave death the same way you craved sunlight and cream. You had given away the gift of aging for a sweet pleasure that quickly became bitter on your tongue.

The first few moons after you had slipped into unconsciousness you truly believed it at all been some strange hallucination caused by smacking your dead until you took a steep tumble and fell on your husband's hunting knife only to pull it out of your body and watch the skin over your stomach fix itself up, leaving no evidence behind that it had ever happened aside from the blood on the knife.

All you know to do is survive.

It's not like you hadn't tried to find a way out of it, some loophole that would shatter the deal and set you free. You had 527 years to try and make some sense of it, but you had given up and resorted to trying to find a way to end your life. Every time you did that, Ellie always showed up to help but you were back together.

You didn't understand the words that came from her mouth, all you knew was that her name was Ellie and she was cursed like you. What was she cursed with? You weren't sure but she seemed a little less miserable with you.

Ellie would come into your life now and then, usually an unwelcome surprise, she always knew where to find you. The only consistent face that you've seen for 527 years. She seemed to know more about you than you knew about her.

Overhead of the tomb, you see a crack of light slip through one of the stones that sealed you in. A tremor shook the earth, and the ancient stones of the tomb began to crumble. Light spilled into the darkness as the walls collapsed around you.

Surely enough Ellie's head looked down at you. She smiles and extends a hand to help you out "Sorry I took so long, I had to time it right with the earthquake, you picked poor timing to get buried alive." She hauled you up, and you stepped over the rubble with bare feet, careless of whether you gut them on the freshly shattered stone or not, you knew that they would heal over regardless.

Despite still not understanding her tongue you were for a change, glad to see her. As you suspected, your feet had been sliced up, leading a little trickle of blood in your wake. The moment you reached the surface, you collapsed to the ground. The city was crumbling around you but they were the ones who locked you away in the first place. You ignored Ellie's unknown words and felt the lush grass for the first time in three years, the heat of the sun resting on your skin.

Beside you, Ellie wrinkles her nose. "You've definitely smelled better," This is one of the times when she dresses appropriately for the era, a toga slung around her toned figure. "Oh, I thought you might be hungry so I brought this, I know you don't have to eat but I figured it would be nice," She unfolded a piece of cloth beside her revealing a small stack of round pastries that had little brown dark spots in it, nothing you had seen before.

You furrow your eyebrows, partly in confusion, partly because your eyes were still adjusting to the light after being enclosed in darkness for three years. "Τι κοιτάζω;"

"They aren't bad I promise," She says, she had made an effort to learn Greek for you but it proved too difficult, all she knew was the odd word. "They're cookies and don't tell anyone because I'm pretty sure they don't get invented for six hundred years."

Ellie speaks freely like you comprehend every word that she says. You make a face that almost resembles a snarl as you eye her and the cookies suspiciously.

"In a few more centuries we're cool with each other," She eats one of the cookies, slowly taking a bite to show you that they were edible. The cookies are a little too good however and she eats the entire thing in mere seconds, speaking through a mouth full of crumbs "Maybe more than a few centuries," She corrects herself "It's like a thousand years and then some but you come around."

She looks once more at the confusion on your face and gives up on trying to verbally communicate, instead she just holds the cloth holding the chocolate chip cookies towards you and looking into her eyes as sharp as a wolf, you hesitantly take one.

Norwich, England- November- 1327

I can't take my eyes of you.

In the dimly lit streets of the town, where the stench of death hung heavy in the air and fear gripped the hearts of its inhabitants. People no longer walked freely around town, they were either sick and on the trek to become puss-filled corpses or they locked themselves away and observed the demise of friends and foes from their windows.

You had seen civilizations rise and fall and witnessed the ebb and flow of history itself, but nothing could have prepared you for the horror that awaited you in the plague-ridden streets of the town. As the death toll rose with each passing day, you donned the garb of a plague doctor, your face concealed behind a grotesque mask adorned with beak-like protrusions filled with aromatic herbs that helped to cover the sickly sweet smell of rotten corpses.

Armed with little more than your knowledge of ancient remedies and a desperate desire to ease the suffering of the afflicted, you ventured into the heart of the epidemic, where the sick lay writhing in agony and the cries of the dying echoed through the night like they were eating themselves alive.

"Jeez, this isn't good," Ellie appears beside you, out of thin air like she tended to do. Now she was wearing a green dress, long bell sleeves and a golden trim around the dress, she wore a white vale pushing her hair back. Though she was dressed for the time period she looked out of place in the garb of a noblewoman, surrounded by the sick and dying peasants. "I can't stick around too long because an official vaccine for the bubonic plague isn't developed until 2072."

"How many people will die from this?" You ask, voice somewhat muffled from the leather mask, stuffed with herbs.

"About fifty," She trails off "Million."

You were not a god's chosen but a god's cursed. You had already suspected her to say something along those lines. Your voice failed as you watched the searchers who had been employed by the city, dragging dead bodies off into a pit to be buried in a mass grave.

"Look on the bright side-

"There is no bright side," You turn to walk away from her, shoving Ellie into the back of your mind.

With each patient you tended to, you felt the weight of your immortality pressing down upon her—a burden too heavy to carry, yet one you could not escape. You watched as the plague consumed the bodies and souls of those around you, leaving nothing but death and apathy in its wake, a dream that this would be over soon.

Immortality was a mockery, you thought yourself to be a spectacle to the gods above, nothing more than cruel entertainment. As much as you run, you get nowhere, you always end up in the same place, watching those you developed bonds and memories with die.

As the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, you fought tirelessly against the tide of death, your resolve unyielding even in the face of overwhelming odds. But with each passing day, her heart grew heavier, burdened by the weight of countless lives lost and the knowledge that she alone would bear witness to their suffering for eternity.

A boy on his porch cries for his mom and dad who will never be coming home, his sobs echo through the narrow streets like a wolf's howl.

As the moon cast its ghostly glow upon the desolate streets, you stood amidst a sea of bodies, your gloved hands stained with the blood of the fallen. The plague had taken its toll, claiming the lives of all those you had sworn to protect, leaving you alone in a world consumed by darkness.

Henry, a stonemason who had no family aside from his little brother now cries over his body. Sam, the young boy had been hit hard with the disease, the sores covered almost every inch of his body and turned black upon his ebony skin. You had watched every stage of his sickness, there was no cure other than comfort, the only thing you couldn't offer to Henry at that moment.

You could turn the brothers into poetry but you couldn't offer up the immortality that you carried like a cross you had to bear.

He held Sam's corpse in his arms, hugging him close and sobbing. Henry was freshly infected there was no way he would make it out alive though you weren't sure that he even wanted to after watching his baby brother's hands turn pitch black and seize up.

How strange that you, someone who was not deserving of eternal life, was the one burdened with it. People are dying and you can't get a grip.

With a heavy heart and tear-streaked face, you cast aside her mask, the symbol of your futile efforts to defy the inevitable. For in that moment, you realized that no amount of healing could undo the damage wrought by the plague, and no amount of compassion could ease the pain of those who had been lost.

You turned your back on the town that had become your prison, the echoes of its suffering fading into the night. For though you were immortal, you were not invincible—bound by the chains of your own existence, condemned to wander the earth as a silent witness to the fleeting moments of life and the relentless march of death.

Salem, America- April- 1692

Immortal she, return to me.

The paranoid colonial Massachusetts was not the place for a woman who never ages. You grew careless of covering up your secret and lived on the outskirts of Salem, seen by few but that didn't aid the treacherous rumours whispered about you.

You had been there when they settled in 1626 and hadn't aged a day from the time you settled. This had spread into rumours of you dancing with the devil, practicing witchcraft, and bewitching townspeople.

Though many denied your existence, all fingers pointed towards you when two young cousins began acting erratically and were given the diagnosis of being under an evil hand.

The courtroom was a hallowed chamber of unjust judgment, where the accused stood trial before the watchful eyes of the magistrate and the hushed voices of the gathered crowd. You stood, with your hands bound and your head held high, faced your accusers with a steely resolve, eyes burning with a fire that refused to be extinguished.

As the trial unfolded, it became clear that justice was but a mere facade—a thin veil masking the insidious machinations of those who sought to rid the town of its perceived evils. Witnesses were coerced, evidence fabricated, and lies spun like silk until the truth became little more than a distant memory lost to paranoia and skepticism. In the crowd, mixed in with the townspeople, you saw Ellie.

Her steady gaze on you was unmoving and ever-focused, a small smile played on her lips while she watched you face the accusations, anger simmering deep inside you like a curse.

Despite protestations of innocence, you were found guilty of witchcraft—a verdict as unjust as it was inevitable. With a silent prayer upon your lips, you were led to the gallows, where the noose awaited you like a taunt.

You had still been bound by your hands in front of your grime-covered dress from being imprisoned in a dark cellar for a month which felt like mere hours in your lifespan.

A man named David, one of the wealthiest residents of Salem and the first to seek warrants against the accused innocent aided you into stepping onto the back of a cart. The crowd surrounding you cheered while a church member slipped the noose tied to a tree around your neck.

"Hang the witch!" Ellie shouts and you lock eyes with her, feeling nothing more than bitterness and resentment. She still seems unfazed and somewhat amused like she's seen this a thousand times, she likely has. You know she had already watched you 'die' over and over again, Ellie was desensitized to it.

"Hang her!" Another man yells, following Ellie's act in tow. They scream all around you, jeering for your death which would never come. David and the churchman step off the wagon and the crowd gets even louder, anticipating a broken neck and lifeless eyes. David gave a command and the horses pulling the wagon were off, leaving your feet to flail helplessly over nothing.

Even as the rope tightened around your neck and the crowd jeered and spat their curses. Though you couldn't die the pain of the rope restricting your breathing still ran you ragged. For just a brief moment you pretend to die, and those around you cheer. There is so little hesitation in their voices, they were glad to see you dead.

You begin to thrash around, kicking your feet. When the townspeople realized you weren't deceased their cheers of victory fell into silence as you coughed and sputtered on the build-up of saliva and blood choking you. An eery silence falls upon the land while they watch in horror, waiting for you to die. Ellie bites back a smile from where she watches you. You bring your hands, bound together by the wrist to reach up and grab the rope that you hung by. Gathering all the force you can you yank it harshly, over and over again until it finally snaps and you fall to the ground.

David's face falls completely. You had known him to not truly believe in witchcraft but the murder of innocents and threatening women. The look in his eyes when he saw you stumble to your feet. "Witch!"

"Ay, I am the witch!" You shout, the townfolk backing away. You slip your hand where the rope strangled your bent neck, the moment the noose comes loose you pull it off over your head, holding it in one hand. In only seconds the broken bones in your neck heal and you bring your head up, chain raised tall, the wound where the rope dug into your neck disappearing "I am older than your oldest god, I am more ancient than the winds, and more sacred than your cross." You say, only to frighten them.

"Kill her!" David shouts to which no one answers, they are either running or frozen in terror, saving themselves before anyone else.

David isn't fast enough to run, you grab him by his hair and drag his struggling body back beneath the tree where he had hung you. In the blue hour of the day, you hooked the severed noose around his neck and began to walk, dragging his trashing body back to your home on the outskirts of the town. David's body eventually fell limp, still, you dragged it over the rocks and lumps of cobblestone. You had succeeded in making him as afraid of you as you were of him.

You were the first woman who hung in the trials, far from the last. "Headed west now?" Ellie asks, walking beside you, utterly unfazed by what she just witnessed.

Boston, America- March- 1770

In the darkness I will meet my creators, they will all agree that I'm a suffocator.

In the cobblestone streets of colonial Boston, where the talks of revolution were murmured, propaganda poured. There you resided, someone once worshipped as a god whose true name had long been forgotten by history.

But amidst the fervour of the American colonies on the brink of rebellion, you found yourself drawn to the heart of the struggle after the church bells had been rung sending confused people onto the streets covered with snow and out of their homes.

It was on the night of March 5, 1770, that tragedy struck with a swift and merciless hand where a pull of a trigger would be written into history textbooks—the night of the Boston Massacre. As tensions between the colonists and the British soldiers reached a boiling point, you stood amidst the thronging crowd.

The air crackled with tension as the soldiers, emboldened by their orders to maintain order at all costs, faced off against the angry mob, assaulting them with snowballs, chunks of ice and oyster shells for hours on end. With shouts and hollers ringing through the night, protesting the raise of tax brought by King George.

Before the rage-filled crowd stand nine English soldiers holding their ground while the mob grows more and more impatient. This had started when a wig maker apprentice got in a spat with a private stationed outside of the customs house who in turn clobbered the boy with his musket.

The eight soldiers and the captain endure the jeers of the crowd led by Crispus Attucks. The Captain, Preston, refused to fire upon the crowd though as he commanded them from the front, in the line of fire.

You push your way up through the crowd, interweaving through hundreds of people. You watch the nine men stand tall against the sea of angry colonials. One of the men is hit hard in the head with a jagged rock, he falls back to the ground his musket clattering neck to him, just then, behind them in the darkness shouts a voice "Fire!"

With little to no hesitation, the man who fell over quickly scuttles to his feet, firing into the darkness of the evening. Then, in an instant that seemed to stretch into eternity, the first shot rang out—a deafening explosion that shattered the silence of the night and sent shockwaves rippling through the crowd. The other men follow, firing a volley one at a time. Beside you, you hear the thuds of heavy bodies hitting the ground, you don't have much time to process it before a bullet lands right in your head, the bullet finds its mark, striking you down with a force that seems to rend your immortal body asunder.

For a moment, time stood still—the world around you spinning in a dizzying blur of pain and confusion. "Hault!" Preston the captain orders, the soldiers cease fire at his command, confused as they believed him to be the one who ordered fire.

You used the rising surge of anger and fear emanating from the people around you to disappear into the crowd. Men grew even more angry at this, some dispersed but many stayed put. There were only a few women in a horde of hundred, it was difficult to go unnoticed with a bleeding gash on your head, you looked more monster than human, skin on your face replaced by a mass of flesh and blood. You brought your hands up to rest on the top of your head, arms out in front of you to cover what was once your face so your already scared neighbours wouldn't see a breathing corpse.

You stumbled around on your feet, pushing yourself through the mass of people, all moving in your opposite direction, making it harder for you to keep your head down. "Is something wrong?" A woman asks, you disregard her, shoving her away from you to keep moving. Your head rang with a high-pitched whistling, echoing through your brain, and you could hardly see straight with the one eye you now had, eyesight fuzzy. Each person ahead of you blurred into the next, blood gushing down your face, so much that it trickled into your eye and tinted your vision.

The wound wasn't clean by any means, not a neat through and through. The gunshot had got you right up the cheek and into your forehead, half of your face entirely blown off. The close impact of the shot caused your right eye to burst, you were scrambling away with no face and one eye.

Already you could feel your body working to put itself back together, still blood flowed down from the horror that was your face, down your neck to soak into your stay and your once grey skirts. You leave a trail of blood in your wake, dripping into the snow that is sure to be found my morning.

At last, you finally pass the crowd, though you don't stop. You stumble into the dark streets, running until you tumble on cobblestones slick with snow and slush, eyesight heavily impaired. "You've seen prettier deaths," Ellie sucks a breath through her teeth, she isn't in the dress that a woman would wear in that decade, instead, she's clad in a red coat, the uniform of a British soldier, her hair tied up and tucked beneath a black cap that all of the soldiers adorned.

She stretches her hand out to help, you take it. Instead of being gracious that she came around to help you off the ground, you take a swing at her face, and when your face makes contact with her cheek you hear a crack. Ellie takes a step back, shocked as you haven't hit her since the night you first met, 2181 years prior to that moment. "Why would you scream fire?" You cry. The second you heard the voice, you knew it was Ellie though you hadn't had time to process it before your face was blown off. "Those men are dead, Ellie, they will never go home to their families or take another breath!"

"They die anyway," She retorts, one hand hovering over her now broken cheekbone. You look at her now, your skull re-intact, eyeball sewn itself up and found its place back in your socket, flesh weaves and stretches over your bones to its rightful place. "Fuck," Ellie mutters, wincing as she touches to fingers to her newfound injury "The second that soldier gets hit with that rock, he gets back up and starts shooting, every single time."

You freeze "Every single time?" The very moment the words fall from your lips, Ellie curses herself "How many times have you been here, on this day?"

"Maybe like," She raises an arm in defence the other still cradling her cheek as she winces"Thirty-seven times give or take."

"You've never stopped it?"

"I have," She says, eyebrows furrowing with a certain longing "It ruins everything, if those men don't die, the American revolution never takes place." Ellie's gaze softens "I know that it's awful but it happens whether you're here or not, it was meant to happen."

Ellie reaches out to hold one of your blood-covered hands, but you are quick to retract it, pulling it away. Your eyes move from where her hand waits for yours to intertwine with it to her freckled face. "How many lives have we lived together?"

Her outstretched hand falls to her side. "I don't want to answer that."

"I want to know."

She shakes her head "You'd hate me."

"I already hate you," Your mouth acting faster than your head.

Ellie doesn't seem shocked by this statement, just a little hurt. "We've had good lives together, you don't hate me every time."

"Who have I been to you?" You ask, new questions surging through your scrambled mind, questions you were sure you wouldn't like the answer to. You knew Ellie had the ability to jump between time periods, though you hadn't known that she'd met you in other timelines.

Looking deep into her downturned eyes your mind runs rampant with who you could've been to her in other timelines that defined what you meant to her now. It was like trying to recall memories that didn't belong to you, but another version of yourself- what could've been.

The hushed silence finally dissipates when Ellie opens her mouth again "I'll see you in a hundred years." With that, she turns and walks away into the darkness, her body shrouded by the cold night where screams of the freshly dead hang in the winds like sickening howls.

Nebraska, America - June - 1883

I'll be seeing you.

"Not a bad place to camp, huh?" Tommy smiles at us while the sun blazes overhead, the group disregards him as they set up camp in a grassy clearing with just enough trees to offer shade to the overworked horses. Few pitched tents while the majority prepared for a night of sleeping under the clear sky, unprotected from the elements.

His question falls upon deaf ears "What's in Montana?" Another man, Issac asks. "We're going all this way and I want to know what I've uprooted my life for."

"Untouched land, you'll be a rich man." Tommy takes the cowboy hat off the top of his head, using it to fan himself off, protesting the sweltering heat that devoured him whole beneath layers.

You eye him, unsaddling your horse, Shimmer. You were in a group of people headed to settle in Montana, many of whom you had never spoken to and didn't necessarily want to. The only ones who you had properly known were the Miller family, Maria had been the one who told you about the trip initially, telling you they needed more gunslingers. With a face that doesn't age, a decade was getting a little too long to stay in Cody and here was your offer to get away.

Joel was speaking in hushed tones to his daughter, Sarah. She was nodding along to each word her father said, you had guessed it was a set of rules, him telling her not to run off or chase down wild animals.

You shower your sweaty chestnut horse with little pats and scratches, and she gives you a snort in response as you begin to wipe away the grime she's accumulated over the day's journey. Your entire life was packed away into two saddle bags, there wasn't much room for luxury in the Wild West. Times were harsh and lands were rugged, more commonly violent than anything you'd ever seen.

As you move in front of Shimmer to pet her soft face, she sneezes on you, reverberating on the rubber lips. You scrunch up your nose, and bring your sleeve to wipe your face "You're lucky you're cute," You mutter, hearing the sound of giggling and looking to find Sarah "Hey little lady."

"Hi," Her accent was thick, she came straight from the heart of Texas. Sarah was still young, the things you knew about her dad were only what she had told you, oversharing their personal life.

"Leave her alone now," Joel walks up behind Sarah, her wide eyes looking up at him.

"I don't mind, Joel," You answer. "I saw some sour cherries by the river if you care to come pick 'em with me," You say looking at Sarah whose head immediately shoots to her dad "As long as your father says it's okay."

Sarah silently pleads with her daughter, his gaze is still cold like steel. "Maybe tomorrow," He answers and Sarah's face drops. Despite knowing the Millers for months, Joel was always iffy about letting Sarah out of his sight. He knew almost as well as you how vile the world was, especially to young girls.

"Maybe tomorrow," You repeat Joel's words, digging around in your saddlebags for a small wicker basket and cloth to spread out at the bottom "I'll see y'all around," You give the pair a nod before heading down the bank.

The walk was quick and scenic if you ignored the overwhelming heat and the entirely too many layers you were sweltering beneath. You closed your eyes and let your spirit lift with the sounds of rustly grass and the flowing river nearby. The air was thick with the sweet smell of wildflowers mixed with an earthy bitterness from the ground beneath your feet.

You walked towards the tree, carefully plucking ripe cherries. They reminded you of the same ones you once picked back in Greece, as you ate them the juice smeared down your lips you laughed with your sibling, pretending that you had been blood drinkers or angry gods drinking the wine that was poured for them.

You often find solace in reminiscing over all of the people you have been in the span of one lifetime. You've been a wife, doctor, witch, god, poet, farmer, handmaiden, dressmaker, priestess, and now you were just a woman picking cherries and planning out her next facade. What awaited you in Montana? Hopefully somewhere peaceful, a cabin by a stream where you could live alone and lay outside in a grassy meadow, waiting for the sun to swallow you whole.

After filling the wicker basket, almost to the brim with small sour cherries, a little larger than the end of your thumb. You turn to walk back to the campsite, though you pause at the incline of the riverbank and decide against it, instead, you find yourself sitting under the shade of the cherry tree, staring to the other side of the riverbank.

You thought that you could've spent the rest of eternity under that cherry tree where you listen to the songs the earth sings for you. Here, the air is clean. The river itself was a sight to behold, a ribbon of shimmering blue that wound its way through the landscape, its waters sparkling in the sunlight like a thousand diamonds. Here and there, small ripples danced across the surface, creating patterns of light and shadow that played upon the sandy riverbed below.

Someone sits next to you, you can sense them awkwardly shuffling around to try and get comfy, from that alone you knew it was Ellie. "Hi, it's been a while," You say, voice quiet.

"Hey," She takes a cherry out of the wicker basket beside you, she bites into it, juice dribbling down her chin, nose scrunches when the sour taste hits her tongue. "Fuck, that's sour."

"They're supposed to be, they're sour cherries," You look at her face to see a large dark bruise engulfing one of her cheekbones, it spreads under her puffy eye bag, giving her a real shiner over her eyelid. "What happened to your face?"

"You," She says, pressing her lips together "After the Boston massacre you hit me pretty hard, remember?"

Your eyebrows furrow "That was more than a hundred years ago."

"For you," She corrects "It's been a little under a week for me."

Your gaze shifts to the glimmering river in front of you "That must be nice," That familiar sense of bitterness set in once again, the reason why you could never stomach being around Ellie for too long. She could blip in and out of your life as she wanted but you were the one forced to sit through thousands of years of torment and longing for the sweet release of death that taunted you in mirrors and the eyes of those who thought they knew you well.

She falls short of words to say. In your eyes it was nice, in her eyes, she faced the woman whom she had married in another life who held nothing more than a little resentment for her now.

"I am sorry that I hit you," You mutter, spitting out the pit of a cherry beside you. "You did cheer for the colonials to hang me though."

"And I am sorry about that," Ellie rolls the stem of a cherry between her fingers, more focused on it than any of her beautiful surroundings. She had seen every bit of scenery that there was to see, her favourite was seeing the dinosaurs, they were much more scary in person than they had been "At least you're an urban legend now."

"What's it matter to be an urban legend when you've already been a god?" You say "It just does not get more interesting than that."

"Yeah, watching you eat your own heart in front of terrified ancestors was pretty cool." Ellie flicks the cherry stem into the river, watching it get swallowed and pulled away by the currents "I'm glad you aren't still mad at me, if I were you I'd probably have a knife to my throat by now."

"I think I'm finally getting wise after two thousand three hundred four years," You joke, digging your teeth into the flesh of another cherry.

"What? You don't look a day over one thousand," She teases, a smile ever so slightly playing on her face.

"Thanks, I was worried."

"Don't be, you look great for your age."

She was joking, her tone light-hearted but something inside you breaks just a little more. You look at your hands, not a wrinkle or callous, no sign of the exciting and extremely terrifying life you had lived, just smooth young skin stretched over ancient bones.

You should've been nothing more than a skeleton buried beneath centuries-old rubble and flora by now. "Yup."

Ellie fiddled with her hands, trying to think of something else to say, she didn't want the conversation to be over just yet. She clung to every word you spoke like it was scripture and she was the most devoted follower. "What are you gonna do in Montana?"

"I think you know better than me," You answer, eyes focused on the water glittering in the blistering sunlight, beads of sweat resting on your brow. "Care to share?"

"Can't say."

"How come?"

She shrugs "I don't think you want to know."

"Well, how many times have I travelled with this bunch?"

"I've lost count," Ellie lies through her teeth, she knew every statistic, she had turned back time to the ancient cities 872 times to be with you. It slowly got easier to face you every time though it never replicated the love you had that first time, a high Ellie was forever chasing.

"Oh," You respond, leaning against the trunk of the cherry tree, sinking into yourself.

The silence stretches between you two. You had actually missed Ellie in the century that she disappeared completely; you found yourself waiting for her to show up around a corner and say something to annoy you.

After swallowing back another cherry in silence you open your mouth to speak "Ellie, whatever I meant to you, whoever I was, I need you to know that I'm not that girl-

"I know-

"I don't think you do," You say, discarding the stem of the cherry beside you "I need you to forget about any life we had together, at least until you get bored of this one."

"I don't get bored of it, I could never get bored of you," She answers.

"Then why start all the way from the beginning over and over again?" You ask "Just to watch me beg for death?"

Ellie shakes her head "I just can't let go of you." She listens to herself "I guess you're right, I'm holding onto someone who doesn't exist anymore." You watch the realization strike Ellie, with each rapid blink her eyes get more and more watery "I'm sorry, I know it's selfish."

"It is," You answer, feeling no urge to coddle "I'm not her, I know that you loved me but I don't remember what you used to be to me. I'm sure I loved you a lot, but I doubt that I do every single time."

Ellie nodded, using the heel of her palm to wipe at the tears that threatened to spill "Okay," Her voice hardly above a whisper "Just see this life through and I promise I'll fix everything, you live a good life, I promise." You stare at her blankly for a moment before nodding. She must know what waits for you in the future, something sweet perhaps, like sugar resting on the tip of your tongue. "I'll always hold you close but I'm learning you let you go."

"I appreciate it," You say, the ghost of a melancholy smile on your face.

The heat of the day finally disappears into the coolness of night and with that, Ellie disappears too, likely to be seen in another year.

The night was draped in the thick, velvety darkness that you only got in the west, where the only illumination came from the crackling flames of a campfire. Around it sat your sorry crew of companions, their weary faces highlighted by the flickering light, casting shadows that danced across the rugged landscape. They had ridden hard all day, herding cattle across vast plains and navigating treacherous terrain, but now, as they rested under the vast expanse of the starry sky, they sought solace in camaraderie and laughter.

"Y'all hear the one about the preacher who walked into a saloon?" Tommy began, his voice gravelly from years of dust and tobacco. Several others in the group had already called it a night, resting their heads beneath the stars that hung in the ink black sky.

The others leaned in, eager for the punchline.

"He says, 'I'm lookin' for the man who's been sleeping with my wife!' And a fella at the bar stands up and says, 'You'll have to narrow it down, preacher!'" The group erupts into bellowing laughter at his words and you can't help but smile at the pure joy written on these gruff men's faces.

"Alright, alright, I got one more for ya," Wyatt announced, his voice carrying a hint of challenge. He was an unnerving man from the looks of it, tall and intimidating but after the first day you had spent with him, he treated you like a baby sister, ready to go to war for you at the drop of a hat. The others perked up, their interest piqued by the promise of one last ribald tale."So there's this rancher," the cowboy began, "and he's got himself a problem with his bull. See, this here bull is getting up there in years, and he just ain't performin' like he used to."

A ripple of knowing laughter spread through the group, anticipation building for the punchline. Joel sat beside you, he had no interest in the jokes nor did he find them funny, all he got from it was a small detox from his life of overworking himself into exhaustion.

"Now, this rancher, he's heard all kinds of remedies for puttin' a little pep back in a bull's step," the cowboy continued. "But none of 'em seem to do the trick. So he finally decides to consult the local veterinarian."

The rest leaned in, hanging on every word.

"The vet takes one look at the old bull and says, 'I got just the thing for him. There's this new experimental treatment I've been workin' on. It involves a little bit of whiskey.'"

The campfire erupted with uproarious laughter, the group hooting and hollering at the unexpected twist, it ws far from the funniest joke you had ever heard, still, you laugh. Some slapped their thighs, others doubled over with mirth, and a few wiped tears of amusement from their eyes.

"And you know what?" the cowboy concluded with a grin. "After that little glass bottle was emptied, that ol' bull was buckin' like a bronco."

As the laughter at last subsided, the fire crackled softly as men began to say their goodnights and lull for the night. They sat in comfortable silence, their thoughts drifting to the vast expanse of the frontier and the challenges that awaited them come dawn and dreams of the promised land of Montana.

"Y'know, fellas- and madams," Wyatt addresses you and Maria, "We've been tellin' jokes and carryin' on like a pack of fools, but there's somethin' to be said 'bout the bonds we share out here on the range," he began, his husky voice tinged with sincerity.

The others nodded, aside from Joel who was studying the fire in front of him, tuned out from the conversation.

"I reckon there ain't nothin' quite like the brotherhood of the trail," he continued. "We ride together, we work together, and when the chips are down, we stand together. Through thick and thin, come hell or high water, we got each other until death takes us all." Wyatt takes another swig of his moonshine "We may come from different walks of life, but out here, under these stars, we're all just cowboys," the cowboy mused. "And there ain't no bond stronger than that."

"That ain't true," Issac poked up "I know that not one of us will see each other once we get to Montana, we're all goin' our separate ways."

"Don't mean there's no bond," You peep up.

"How's that?"

You shrug "Your heart is just too young to realize."

The group stops for a moment before erupting into ragged laughter, Tommy almost has tears in his eyes at the fact that you had called the man seemingly 15 years older than you young "Kid, you're too young to realize how bad life gets."

"Sounds about right."

Cape Cod, America - May - 1937

To say the things he truly feels and not the words of one who kneels.

In the hazed ambiance of the club, the air reverberated with the lively tunes of Duke Ellington, and the floor pulsed with the infectious rhythm of swing. Amidst the whirl of dancers, there you were, dancing so exuberantly that others backed away in fear of you swinging on them; though that was the nature of swing dancing, almost a fight to keep your nose unbroken.

But even the most seasoned dancers could only keep up for so long. As the night wore on and the music continued to play, you found yourself in need of a moment's reprieve. With a smile still lingering on your lips, you tapped your partner, Richard's shoulder, signalling your desire to take a break. You hadn't known him well by any means but he was a good dancer.

Leaning against the cool plaster of the club's wall, you breathed deeply, chest rising and falling in time with the music. You closed her eyes, savouring the lingering sensations of the dance. Little did you know, your moment of respite was about to be interrupted in the most unexpected yet delightful manner.

A voice, smooth and warm, broke through the cacophony of sound around you. "Mind if I join you?" the voice asked, accompanied by a gentle tap on your shoulder. Opening your eyes, you found yourself face to face with a strikingly handsome man, his eyes twinkling with a hint of mischief. His black hair parted to the side and slicked over as well as his dark eyes soft as snow added to his undeniable charm.

A bemused smile tugged at your lips as you nodded, welcoming the interruption. "Not at all," you replied, voice carrying a hint of amusement.

With a casual elegance, the man leaned against the wall beside you, his gaze drifting out across the dance floor. "You're quite the dancer," he remarked, his tone tinged with admiration. He was wearing a white button-up tucked into pinstripe trousers being held up by black suspenders.

"Thank you. I've had a good bit of practice." You smile softly "Your name is?"

"Jesse," He answered "Care to tell me who I'm talking to?"

"Midge," you lie, it was the name you had picked up for your residence in Cape Cod.

"Midge," he repeats smiling as the name rolls off his tongue "You might just have the prettiest smile in Cape Cod."

You can't help but grin "And I thought I had already met all of the gentlemen around these parts."

"Must've been wrong," He said with his crooked smile. Then, after a moment's pause, he extended a courteous offer. "Can I buy you a Coke? It's the least I can do for such a captivating dancer."

You couldn't help but be charmed by his sincerity and manners. With a twinkle in your eye, you nodded in agreement. "I would like that very much."

Your conversation flowed effortlessly as you sipped on your cokes, exchanging stories and sharing laughter amidst the ringing of the club and chatter of individuals all around. With each passing moment, the two of you scrambled for things to talk about, desperate to keep the spark of conversation alive. You had just prayed that you could pull yourself away from his magnetic charisma.

As the night wore on, the music gradually began to fade, signalling the end of another unforgettable evening. Reluctantly, you rose from your seat, a sense of disappointment tugging at your heart while you watched Jesse lean back in his chair studying you like a textbook.

"Well, it looks like the night's coming to an end," you remarked, a wistful smile gracing your lips.

Jesse nodded, his expression mirroring her sentiment. "Indeed it has," he replied, his voice tinged with a hint of hopefulness. "But perhaps it's just the beginning of something new?"

"Perhaps," You agreed, gaze lingering on his handsome face.

That was when you had broken the only rule you created for yourself 'Don't fall in love'. One year later you were so head over heels for Jesse that you were getting married. Dressed in your floor-length wedding dress, hair carefully curated after spending hours trying to perfect it.

You hadn't any family to fill up your side of the aisle, so instead you had asked your friends from work and the jazz club to take their places. After telling Jesse you were orphaned, he didn't bat an eye at this. You had frantically searched for someone to fill the shoes of your father who walked the earth centuries prior on the shores of Greece, it was a relief when Jesse's father stepped up.

Walking down the aisle of the church, arms hooked with Jesse's father you see him then, standing at the end waiting for you and he looks like the rest of your life. "You clean up nice," You mutter to Jesse quietly to be sure no one else can hear your little remark.

"I try my best," He smiles, hands in front of him as he waits patiently for the pastor to speak up. He looks handsome as the day you met as you look remarkably the same, not a new scratch or wrinkle upon a single inch of your skin.

As you exchanged vows, the both of you unable to fight the wild smiles on your faces, the world seemed to stand still, as if holding its breath in anticipation. With each word spoken, you pledged your love and devotion to one another, promising to stand by each other's side through all the joys and challenges that life would bring and you meant every word.

The reception was nothing short of perfect in your eyes. Everyone gathered at Jesse's parents' home, flowing in and out as they pleased. You however preferred the outdoors aspect of it, where people chatted happily with a glass of champagne in hand.

"Congratulations," Ellie says "Little bummed that I didn't get an invite," There's an odd sense of bitterness in her voice. She's wearing a blue tulle dress at tea length, blending in perfectly around the other guests, long white gloves to cover the tattoo on her forearm, and she even had her shoulder-length hair pin-curled.

"I figured you would be coming around either way."

"You know me too well," She takes the champagne flute out of your hand and swallows it back.

"You're actually the one who knows me too well."

She nods, faces expressionless while she looks around at the scenery of the yard. "Good luck."

"I'm sorry?" You furrow your eyebrows trying to seek out some tell on Ellie's face that would give you any indicator of what's racing through her head. Still, she's unreadable.

"With your marriage."

"Okay?"

"What's the plan here anyways?" She asks picking up someone's glass of wine the second they place it down on the garden table and turn their head away. "In thirty years, you're still married to Jesse, he's sixty getting wrinkly and you're still young and beautiful?"

As Ellie goes to drink the wine you take it out of her hands, putting it back on the garden table. You think of something to say to her, anything, but the words die in your throat, shrivelling up, never to be said.

"I will say that you becoming a history teacher is very funny."

"Did you just come here to sulk?" You ask.

She shakes her head slightly "I've come here to celebrate your union," Ellie glances around the yard once more.

"Then celebrate," you throw your hands out "I don't see you doing anything other than slinking around."

"Honey, who's this?" Jesse strolls up beside you, putting one hand on the small of your back. He smiles brightly as he looks at Ellie, he has known all of your friends which wasn't a bountiful number to begin with, just other teachers you worked with and some people you danced with.

"Oh!" You force a smile onto your face "This is my old friend from New Orleans, we really have some catching up to do."

"Nice to meet you, I'm Jesse," He holds out his hand.

"Ellie," She says shaking it.

"When did you become friends?" He asks "Midge hasn't told me a whole lot about her school days."

Ellie looks at you, she doesn't say anything but you get the message being conveyed. 'What the hell are you doing?' she shifts her eyes to look at the groom "God this one was just wild, keep an eye on her," Ellie forces a fake laugh.

"Really?" He has that goofy lopsided smile painted on his face as he looks at you.

"Yup," Ellie says "So, when are you planning on having kids?"

"Oh," Jesse chuckles, somewhat nervously "We haven't discussed that much."

"It seems like something you should talk about before getting married-

"Thank you," You cut her off "Ellie," You couldn't stand the idea of outliving your child let alone your husband, though it was already an inevitable fate.

"Of course," She's wearing a smile that is bordering somewhere between penitence and condescension, Ellie's looking at you like you're in the gutter.

"Looks like rain," Ellie glances up at the increasingly greying sky before walking inside the cover of the house. "Bad idea," She whispered in your ear as she brushed past. In mere moments after she enters the house thunder cracks and rain dumps from the sky, heavy and harsh, beating against your skin.

Everyone rushes inside, covering their heads as rain showers and soaks them. You and Jesse are frozen, you watch Ellie's figure retreat into the group of people clamouring into the house while Jesse's eyes are trained on you, he can't hold back a laugh.

"Oh no," Jesse's eyebrows furrow as he takes one of your hands in his own and puts the other on the back of your head, staring at your face, makeup running from the rain, hair weighed down by fat droplets dribbling off your collarbone "You spent so long on your hair, what are you gonna do?"

You shake off Ellie's words, cryptic as usual. Your attention snaps back to Jesse once you can no longer see her. The gentleness of his touch, that is his beauty "I'm not sure but I've got half a mind to kiss you," You giggle.

"Yeah?" He takes a step forward "I like that half," Jesse plants a gentle kiss on your lips "The other half is great too."

"You're so odd."

-

It was a quiet Saturday evening in the summer of 1943, the echo of a fuzzy-sounding record player scraping a vinyl filled the room, enveloping you in a certain tenderness.

Jesse, in his crisp white shirt and neatly pressed trousers, held you close, his hand resting gently on the small of your back as they moved together in perfect harmony. Your hair cascaded softly around your face as you rested your head against Jesse's chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat matching the cadence of the music.

As you danced, the cares of the outside world didn't seem to exist, leaving only the intimate space you shared. The faint scent of your flowery perfume drowned out concerns. In the dim light, your shadows danced on the walls. Jesse had never been the better dancer between you though he was particularly tense on this night, his eyebrows were stuck furrowed like every thought running through his head was a worry.

The final notes of the song faded into the stillness of the night, Jesse hesitated, his embrace tightening around you as if reluctant to let you go. Sensing his unease, you looked up at him, concern etched in her features.

His unease wasn't difficult to sense, you pry yourself away from him to take him in completely. "Jesse, what's wrong?" You asked softly, voice barely above a whisper.

Jesse took a deep breath, steeling himself for what he knew he had to say. He held you at arm's length, his eyes searching over your features. "I've been drafted. I received my notice this morning." His voice trembled just the slightest as he took a shaky breath.

Your heart skipped a beat, breath catching in her throat and you thought that this must be what death feels like. For a moment, the world seemed to spin out of control as the weight of Jesse's words sank in. Six years with Jesse was not enough, you needed an eternity.

"We can find a doctor to exempt you-

"You know that's not right," He spoke so softly and you knew he was speaking the truth. You could never convince Jesse to do something as heinous as faking some disease or injury to get him out of the war.

"I know," You say and he steadies himself, staring deep into your eyes and through your soul "My whole life, all I've ever known is loss and I have never cared about anything the way I care about you-

He pulls you forward into his arms, rubbing that familiar calloused hand on the small of your back to soothe you "It's all gonna be alright, love, I'll be back before you know it and then it's smooth sailing for the rest of our lives."

You copied the crook of his neck, the warmth of his arms, the curve of his nose to memory. You caught all that you could before it slipped through the empty gaps of your mind. You hadn't realized that he had been doing the same, memorizing the smell of your perfume, the texture of your hair, the way your eyes caught the light.

He told you to look to the future when he finally walked back through that door and you could dance again but the only thing you could see was the end of the world, starting with you saying goodbye to him.

July 12, 1943

My Dearest Love,

I hope this letter finds you well and in high spirits. It's been quite some time since I last wrote to you, and I apologize for the delay. The days here in Europe seem to blend into one another, filled with moments of both intense action and serene contemplation.

As I write this letter, I find myself missing you more and more. You are what keeps me going through these harrowing and relentless days

Please know that you are always in my heart, my love. No matter where I may be, you remain my constant source of hope and inspiration. I dream of the day when this war is finally over, and we can be reunited once more, never to be parted again.

Until then, stay strong, my love. Know that I am fighting for you, for us, and for a better tomorrow. Keep me in your thoughts and prayers, as I do for you each and every day.

With all my love,

Jesse

December 18, 1943

My Dearest Love,

As Christmas draws near, my thoughts turn to you more than ever. I find myself reminiscing about the holidays we've shared together, specifically the weekend we spent at the cabin. How I long to be by your side once more, to hold you close and celebrate the season of peace and goodwill together.

But even amidst the turmoil of war, I see you in every good thing. Here in the trenches, my comrades and I have found solace in each other's company, we are united in our common humanity and our dreams for a home cooked meal.

I am reminded, now more than ever, of the importance of compassion in times of strife. It is love that sustains us, that gives us the strength to endure even the darkest of days. And though we may be separated by miles and oceans, our love remains as strong as ever.

As I write this letter, surrounded by the sounds of gunfire and the cries of my fellow soldiers, I find comfort in the knowledge that you are thinking of me, just as I am thinking of you. Your love is my guiding light,

This Christmas, as you gather with our loved ones know that you are in my thoughts and prayers. Though we may be apart in body, our spirits are forever intertwined, bound together by the enduring power of love.

Wishing you a merry Christmas and a happy New Year. May the coming year bring us closer to ending this war.

With all my love,

Jesse

March 19, 1944

My Dearest Love,

The world is now brighter than the sun because you're here, that is why I will remain giving you everything that I have.

I have been looking at the moon over and over again and wondered if you stare at it the same time as I do, please say yes. I think the battlefields are turning me into a poet, I would love some critique from a wordsmith such as yourself.

Everything here is frightening (redacted)

In light of the events I've just shared, I am looking forward more than ever to waking up and saying good morning to the sleepy woman lying next to me, that's you if you were curious. Here's to the future!

With all my love,

Jesse

August 8, 1944

My Dearest Love,

It is with a heavy heart that I write to you today, for the horrors of war have taken their toll on both body and soul. The past few months have been filled with unimaginable hardship as (Redacted)

The knowledge that our sacrifices are not in vain, that we are fighting for a better future for generations yet unborn keeps these weary bones standing straight.

But oh, how I long for the comforts of home, for the warmth of your embrace and the gentle touch of your hand. In the midst of so much death and destruction, it is your love that reminds me of all the beauty that still remains in the world.

I fear that I may never see you again, my love, that this cruel war may rob us of the future we had planned together. And yet I'm not ready to give up. For as long as I draw breath, I will continue to fight for a world where love triumphs over hate, where you and I can go back to life as it was.

All of the living are dead and I have noticed an oncoming silence.

With all my love,

Jesse

May 7, 1945

My Dearest Love,

I can scarcely believe it – the war is finally over, and victory belongs to the Allies!

We won! Or we think we did, a true win would likely have less bloodshed.

But amidst the celebrations and rejoicing, my thoughts turn to you. How unmanly to cry though I find myself doing so as I write this. The thought of being reunited with you fills my heart back up despite those who have emptied it, for you are my everything, my reason for living.

I cannot wait to return home to you, my love, to begin our lives anew in a world free from the shadow of war. Until then, know that you are always in my thoughts and prayers and that my love for you knows no bounds.

It looks like I'm coming home soon! I'm looking forward to some dance lessons with my one and only.

With all my love,

Jesse

Though you weren't the only one occupying the seemingly empty house, you lived with ghosts. Every step you took they lurked behind you as permanent reminders of everyone you've ever let down; months stretched into years and you clung onto each word in Jesse's letter like it was doctrine. The moment you received that final letter from Jesse you ran out into the streets and hugged the very first person you saw.

"Ellie now isn't a great time to be here," You tell her as she stands behind you in your vanity while you reapply your lipstick "Jesse's home today," You can't help the smile that stretches across your face. After years of hearing from your husband in nothing more than ink over paper, you would see him again and not just in the pictures that you had hung around every corner of the house.

"I'm here to celebrate," She says though she doesn't seem enthusiastic in the slightest. She wears black cigarette pants and a short-sleeved blouse tucked into them. You, on the other hand, had pressed your hair flat only to do it up in pin-curls, wearing your finest dress and most expensive jewelry for your husband's return home.

"If you're going to water down today, you could at the very least pretend to be happy." You were so ecstatic that you didn't even mind that Ellie had chosen today to bum around your house. For once it wouldn't be empty with nothing but your hollowed cries.

"I am happy," She answers "Are you going to wait here for him?"

You shake your head while you put in earrings that Jesse had gifted you on your third anniversary "I'm going down to the train station so I can hug him the second he sets foot back in Cape Cod."

"Nice," She nods "Have you thought about what you're going to do if it doesn't go as planned?"

You furrow your eyebrows, putting the other earring down on the vanity so you can turn back and look at her. "What do you know?" Your smile dropped at her words. Ellie isn't as unreadable as usual, she has traces of guilt across her features and that makes you all the more concerned. "Ellie, what happens?"

Before she can even open her mouth, you hear a firm knock at the front door. "That," Ellie says, you push yourself up from the vanity so fast the chair tips over. You snatch the other earring off of the vanity and awkwardly force it into your piercing as you rush down the hallway as fast as you can in your heels, clickity clack over the floorboards, Ellie trailing slowly behind you.

Your heart was pounding so fast that it reverberated in your head like an echo bouncing off the walls of your mind. A click. A slow creak and you open the door. Sun floods into the room and your heart pinches at the sight of the officer, clad in military excellence with baubles and an olive green jacket.

"Who are you?" Your stomach drops at the sight of the stranger who stands in the place where your husband should be.

The man stared at you, a certain solemn yet controlled grief lurking in his pale eyes. "Ma'am, I am Sergeant Reynolds of the 45th Infantry regiment. Are you Mrs. Midge Maisel, wife of Jesse Chang?"

Your throat went dry. "Yes," You curled your fingers inward, feeling nails push into the soft palm of your hand until the skin broke and you pushed even harder.

You didn't know who helped you sit down when you couldn't move. You only remembered fuzzy voices and the pace of your heart becoming too fast for your body to handle. There was not enough air in the world for you to swallow. The world felt so far away, as did anyone who tried to comfort you or explain the circumstances of Jesse's death.

"After Germany was concurred, he intercepted a grenade ambush from stragglers, saving the lives of many in his platoon."

Everything had stopped spinning, leaving you nauseous where Ellie sat beside you her face smeared in your vision blurry from tears.

Accept our sympathies

Funeral arrangements

The return of personal effects

Bits and pieces of Reynolds's words jumped out at you but you couldn't hear them. Restless nights for centuries were instead what clouded your mind. Outside you could hear families and friends celebrating the return of their loved ones, while you ushered the man out of your door screaming at him to leave. Music played, a celebration you would not take part in but watch bitterly from afar while you plan out the next life you will live.

Ellie begins to speak when the eery silence becomes unbearable "I know you don't want to hear it but this was inevitable-

"Leave," You mutter, resentment simmering inside of you.

"What-

"Leave," You repeat "You knew this was going to happen and you didn't tell me? You didn't stop it?"

"I can't turn the world upside down just to make you happy-

"Then why are you here?" You ask, rage carved in deep despite the tears across your face "I thought you were in love with me and that's why you won't leave me alone."

Her words fail her. She stares at you blankly, trying to scrounge up an answer that would put you both to rest. "We have a good life-

"Ellie, this is not a good life, for you maybe because you don't have to watch me suffer since you can keep skipping to the parts where I'm happy again," You correct her words, fat teardrops streaming down your face while you try to compose yourself the same way that you would a song or a speech. "I'm going to tell you now so you have to get it into your head- We are not friends, I certainly don't love you, I don't even like you and if I ever see your fucking face again, I'm bashing it in."

Bethel, America- August - 1969

If we were vampires and death was a joke, we'd still go out on the sidewalk and smoke.

They wandered through the makeshift villages that sprung up amidst the chaos, where hippies and freaks shared food and shelter, and strangers became friends in the blink of an eye. Your hand was clasped tightly with Dina's while your pupils went wide under the influence.

She refused to let go and lose you in the crowd of sweaty bodies, despite your states you understood well that you would easily lose each other in the sea of people at the music festival and wouldn't cross paths again till night time. She was wearing a turquoise bell-sleeved top paired with a skirt of all sorts of funky patterns and had on at least six beaded necklaces. You'd think that she'd be hard to miss but in this crowd, she blended in perfectly, looking a little bit like everyone else as everyone seemed to bleed together.

You were already high out of your mind the world warping around you, everything moved in frames like an old film. The ground was morphing and breathing under your feet, you giggled with each step, following behind Dina to find the rest of the little group you had come to Woodstock with.

The two of you were nowhere close to the stage, you had only partially come for the music. To you, it seemed like another historic event to add to your list. While most people sit on the ground swaying to Janis Joplin, your small circle of friends was dancing; it was something like them loosely waving their bodies around.

"No one asks me for dances because I only know how to flail!" Dina shouts, laughing so hard that she leans on you for support. You laugh too, head resting on top of Dina's. Her words weren't funny at all but everything seemed funny when fractals hoovered around your eyes. You lifted your head just slightly to see that same freckled face that had haunted you for centuries.

"Ellie!" You shouted, letting go of Dina's hand and making your way towards her, eyes half-lidded and hazy. Dina lulled in place watching you run away from her.

Ellie looked frightened that you had stuck true to your promise of bashing her face in the next time you saw her but instead, you wrapped your arms around her tightly and began to sway gingerly. It was just the beating of hearts like two drums in the rain.

"I'm sorry," You mutter into the crook of her neck. "I missed you, you should visit more."

Hesitantly, Ellie hugged you back, folding her arms around your torso and letting herself sink into you. In the past 2380 you had never hugged Ellie, you hardly touched her. She closed her eyes letting delusion flood her brain, thinking back to the first time she had seen you and then seventy years later when she realized you were immortal and every other timeline she had lived with you.

"I missed you too," She muttered, trying to ignore the fact that you were only saying this because you were high.

You pull back away from her and take her in, all dazed. You give her a boop on the nose with your index and erupt in giggles while Ellie furrows her eyebrows. An idea strikes you and it's apparent on your face as you light up, eyebrows shooting up. "You should come to tell my friends about all of your time-travelling stories!"

Ellie starts to shake her head but you pull her away despite that. She trails behind you as you refuse to let go of her hand, dragging her back to the grassy patch where your friends danced, some of them taking a quick break flat on their backs. "This is Ellie, we've been friends for a long time."

The group acknowledges her, mainly with waves and giggles but Jimmy goes the extra mile, standing up and extending a lanky arm "It's good to meet you."

"This is my best friend in the world forever!" You sling an arm around Dina, calling for Ellie's attention. Dina leaned into your touch, a drowsy smile on her face. "Ellie can actually travel through time."

You tell the group and they all look toward her, eyes squinted and bodies relaxed. Ellie didn't mind, knowing that they were too high to believe her by the time they sobered up even if they did she could go back and fix it. She nods along "It's true and she's immortal." Ellie points at you.

"No, you're not," Dina pokes you.

"I believe it," Weston speaks up from his spot on the ground where he lies with Patricia, her ash blonde hair strewn across the grass "I have never seen this woman so who am I to not believe her." As opposed to the majority of the group whose pupils were dilated from LSD, the whites of his eyes had turned red from the herbs he smoked.

Stevie is still dancing, her loose white dress rustly so slightly in the gentle breeze. Dawn dances with her, her hair the colour of fire tied neatly into two twin braids, she doesn't care about anything besides the way her feet carry her.

"One time I cut out my own heart and I ate it," You giggle, head resting on Dina. Her face was sunkissed, accentuating her freckles. She had let her dark hair run loose.

Jimmy looks at you, through his sunglasses. He has Ellie sitting next to him, his ebony skin a contrast to her paleness. "How does that work?"

"I slice my skin open and then I break my ribs, rip out my heart and shove it in my mouth.

He looks you up and down "Ribs look fine to me."

"I can show you," You look around to find something to cut you open, and you see a large rock with some smaller ones stacked around it. You walk over, all eyes on you as you put your wrist on top of the larger rock.

In your free hand, you pick up a smaller jagged rock that fits into the claw of your hand. You raise the jagged stone up and smash it into your wrist with little effort after the strength you have gathered over the years.

Dina lets out a scream watching your arm bend out of shape, wrist twisted so your hand doesn't sit where it's supposed to. You bring the rock up and slam it down again, making sure to dig into your skin, flesh mangled up on your arm and you brought it up to show everyone. Jimmy scrambled to his feet in a panic, racing through the crowd to find a medic.

"No, it's healing!" You shout after Jimmy. Weston looks at your mangled arm with wide eyes before buckling onto his knees and throwing up. Dawn and Stevie pause their dancing, Dawn froze in fear and Stevie backed away. "Do you see?" You shake your arm trying to show them that the wound was fixing itself.

-

"I can show you," You look around to find something to cut you open, and then your eyes settle on Ellie who shakes her head at you. You knew this meant she had seen the outcome and it wasn't good so you decide to drop the topic, plopping yourself onto the grass.

"Don't you wanna dance?" Dina asks.

You shake your head. You had reserved dancing for Jesse who you knew you wouldn't see again, not even in death since it would never come for you.

The day had eventually faded away into night, the concert still rang loud but you stayed far in the back of the crowd, lying on the ground with Ellie and looking at the stars. "I'm really sorry for everything you've been through," Ellie breaks the pure hum of music.

"I'm really sorry for everything you've seen," You answer. "I thought the war would finally be over," You murmur, thinking back to Jesse and the idea you conjured up of his corpse; you imagined him to be blown into a million pieces, a thought that never left your mind no matter how high you got or what you drank you knew it wouldn't end. You had thought World War two to be the last until the Vietnam War plagued the news and began to pluck men from neighbourhoods all around.

"It doesn't end, not ever," Ellie tells you.

"You should fix it."

"I've tried," There's a hint of sadness in her voice "If one ends, a new one will always spring up."

The two of you fall silent for a moment, heads side to side but you don't look at one another, only the stars. There's something so calming yet unnerving about the inky black sky; it reminded you of the nothingness that consumed you on the night you had given up your mortality.

"I don't want to live," The words fall from your lips so effortlessly. The LSD was wearing off, leaving you to be in control of your thoughts and your body all over again.

"I know."

"I've seen more men die than I can count."

"I know."

"I can't seem to hate you though."

Ellie turns her head to look at you and you do the same. Her green eyes are shining beneath the moonlight, just the shadow of her face illuminated. You lean forward just the slightest and connect your lips into a kiss, Ellie seems surprised but she doesn't fight it.

Once you pull away, you can only seem to make out one sentence "Don't leave this time."

Greenport Village, America - April - 2011

A handshake of carbon monoxide, no alarms and no surprises.

As the late afternoon sun cast its golden hues over the rolling hills of the Greenport, you made your way home planning a quick visit to the beach before doing so, arms laden with bags filled with groceries from the quaint village market, arms laden with provisions that you had no need for, save to fill the endless hours of your existence.

You walked with your timeless beauty that seemed to shimmer like a mirage in the fading light, you had called the Greenport Village home for six years now, finding a position there as a history teacher, your favourite job of the hundreds you had worked. Though the passing decades had left their mark on the landscape and its inhabitants, you remained unchanged, frozen in time like a moth preserved in amber.

You still struggled to come to terms with the fact that death would never take you though Ellie tried to make it easier. All these years and it never felt any better, it was still difficult to swallow the truth.

There was no solace to be found in the quiet beauty of the world around you. For two thousand years, you had walked the earth with Ellie, you, a solitary figure doomed to wander the endless expanse of time and her, the shadow that trailed behind and mocked your existence without intending to. You had seen kingdoms rise and fall, witnessed the birth and death of countless generations, and yet you remained unchanged, untouched by the ravages of time. All of the identification you had forged didn't make you into who you said you were.

Walking towards the beach, you could've sworn that you recognized every face you saw but that was just how long you had lived; everyone you've ever known slowly bleeding into everyone else like a suicide cleanup. You would outlive the kids playing on the seesaw and the toddlers scrambling around them, you would outlive their offspring too and every other generation after that.

Eventually, you found yourself in your usual spot in the park, an old beaten bench outlooking the sea where sunlight danced off of it like sparks.

After the seventies, you had accepted that the land was your only friend, ever-changing just like you, yet it remained miraculously intact. You had Ellie, on occasion, though calling her a friend would be a loose term. You weren't sure what she was but butterflies and maggots had a field in your intestines every time you thought of all of the things she knew about you and how little you know of her.

The lack of trust always lingered. You never knew if she had gone back in time and forced you to forget about something she said or something you asked. How many times had you begged her to go back to the beginning and let you ebb away with old age?

As you sat in silent contemplation, lost in the labyrinth of your centuries-old thoughts, a frail figure approached, leaning heavily on a gnarled cane. It was an old woman, her face etched with the lines of a life well-lived, her eyes twinkling with a spark of something you couldn't make out.

You shifted slightly on the bench, making room for her unexpected companion. The old woman, her steps slow and deliberate, lowered herself onto the seat beside you, exhaling a contented breath as she settled into place.

For a long moment, you sat in companionable silence, each lost in your own reverie. "You must be an old soul," The woman next to you speaks, covered in sunspots and wrinkles, grey and white streaks all through her black hair. "When you're old all you want to do is sit and stare at the scenery."

"Yeah," You give her a tight-lipped smile "I'm mature at heart."

The woman furrows her eyebrows for a moment, deep in thought as her brown eyes rake over every single one of your features, studying you like scripture. "I'm sorry," She shakes her head "You just look like a girl I used to know."

"Really?" You ask and then it strikes you like lightning. Despite the withering of her face, it's the same bump of her nose, the freckles across her skin, the curve of her jaw, it was your Dina.

She waves it off "She's long gone by now, haven't heard from her in years." Dina looks off to the ocean, the screech of kids is far off in the distance. Her face drops just the slightest at the mention of this.

"Who was she?" You press, just wanting to hear Dina's voice after decades of replaying memories and performing autopsies on expired conversations like you could somehow revive them and the people who came with.

"Oh, um," Dina hadn't expected you to carry on the conversation, people had stopped caring about what she had to say when time hit her and dragged her skin down. "A friend of mine, way back before you were born. If you could see her, gosh," Dina mutters, salt and pepper hair braided down her back "You could've been her twin."

Your heart was slamming against your ribcage like it wanted to be set free. "Uh, I'm sorry if this seems odd," You say with a shakey breath "But could you just keep talking? I don't want to have to think right now."

Her eyebrows knit together just the slightest, concern growing with your words "About what?"

"Just," You shrug "Reminisce maybe," Nearby there were birds on a wire chirping, it felt like every one of them was talking to you, beedy eyes prying into your veins "I just like stories."

Dina slips a small smile, her teeth not quite as white as they used to be but her smile holds all of the comforts nonetheless "My stories are no good, I'm sure you'll have better ones when you're my age."

You shake your head on impulse, grasping the pieces of her that you still held close to your ancient heart. "No, I don't think I'll get there," You aren't trying to ramble yet here you are, scrambling to reconnect the two of you like this is a film that ends well.

Her smile falters, trying to comprehend the odd woman beside her, beginning to contemplate that you're high on something, suspicion growing more solid with each shake of your hands and blink of your watery eyes. "Are you alright?" She lowers her voice.

"Yup," You nod, already feeling her slip through the space between your fingers all over again like she had years prior. At this point in your life, you should've been a better liar but you just sat there, tears rolling down silently while you forced your teeth to bear a smile. You wanted to tell her how nice it was to see her and remind her of all of the days and nights alike you had wasted on each other.

It was easy to see how she didn't believe you, from your trembling hands gripping your thighs in an attempt to steady them to the manufactured smile you wore on your face, sadness seeping from your pores. Unlike Dina, you felt that age had made you no wiser. Years you spent studying and chasing careers just to end up faking death and restarting all over again from scraps, losing a little piece of yourself every time.

She places one of her calloused and withered hands over yours where it grasps to the fabric over your thighs. She meets your gaze "Whatever it is, you'll be okay."

Something inside you shifts, then cracks, and crumbles completely. The agonizing pain accumulated by thousands of years spilled out of you in the form of tears as salty as the ocean spray that simmered on your skin. It was like every awful thing you had ever felt was going to burst through the gaps of your teeth.

There was entirely too much going on in your head when you inched forward and wrapped your arms around Dina, chin resting on her neck. It took a minute but you felt her bony hands rest on your back while she returned the gesture, albeit confused.

You were glad you got to see her again. Every time someone passes through your life you think of all of the things you would do to speak to them one more time. You had finally been given a blessing, something that balanced out the bitterness of eternity. "I'm sorry, Dina."

The second you spoke you regretted it. With what little grace you have left you manage to pry yourself up, sheepishly standing to your feet and trying not to wobble like a colt. Dina's bygone face held more confusion than ever, mouth slightly ajar as she watched you with wide eyes like a doe. "Honey, I think you have the wrong person."

Your feet move faster than your head, not leaving Dina behind a second time but a complete stranger. You had only been sick with nostolgia. Panic shot through your veins like box cutters trying to find their way to your heart, which they surely would.

Your day's shopping had been left behind at the bench along with all of the dreams you once etched into indigo skies and sandy shores, now all they did was rot at your feet, at least they had the pleasure of aging.

The feeling of screaming was creeping up your body in shivers, you hugged yourself all the way home, swivelling your head every minute to be sure that ghosts weren't following you but they always had a way of sneaking up on you.

What purpose did you serve? Anything mildly important you had ever done was lost to time, gone, forgotten. You didn't get the luxury of having children with the one you love, you didn't even have anyone to love. You drag your mud-covered heels all the way up the steps of your stoop slamming the door behind you.

With trembling hands and a mind consumed by anguish, you began to tear through her home with frenzied desperation, your movements fueled by a maelstrom of emotions too powerful to contain, the urge-no, the need to die. You ripped books from their shelves, their pages fluttering like wounded birds as they scattered across the floor in a flurry. You overturned furniture with reckless abandon, the sound of splintering wood and shattering glass echoing through the empty rooms like a orchestra of destruction.

You open your cabinets, dragging your hands behind all of the ceramic and glass, pushing it to the ground and watching them shatter at your feet. What need did you have for a fridge full of food when you don't have to eat? Or a feathered bed when you don't need to sleep, you can't even bring yourself to sleep these days.

Each crash and thud seemed to reverberate through your empty, a haunting reminder of the pain and turmoil that threatened to consume her from within. Memories, once cherished and dear, now lay shattered and broken like all of the ambition you should have forgotten, fragments of an overwhelming life that had slipped through your fingers like grains of sand.

With a guttural cry of anguish, you sank to your knees amidst the wreckage, body racked with sobs that seemed to tear at your very core. You clutched at your hair in despair, her fingers intertwined in the tangled strands like thorns in a bed of roses.

Your eyes snagged on the cabinet below your sink. You crawl over to it, shards of shattered glassware sticks into the soft palms of your hands, porcelain china cutting up your knees. It didn't even feel like anything, you just wanted to feel something.

You pull the cabinet open pushing the other cleaning supplies aside and grabbing the ammonia and bleach. Twisting the caps of and discarding them among the wreckage, you take a deep breath before raisng the bottle of bleach to your lips and drinking, the harsh and ancrid taste making you cringe but you kept swallowing until you could feel a burning in your throat, taking a quick shallow breath and then doing the same with the ammonia, tears brimming your eyes and hitting the few beams of sunlight that struck through your closed curtains like the glimmer from the ocean.

God, it tasted rancid but for a moment, a brief one it had felt like death or something similar. Mouth feeling like plastic throat burnt to rubber you drank until both bottles were empty. You pressed yourself as flat as you could on the floor, soaking in the last moments of feeling as your insides contorted before stillness.

All of the cells you killed were fixing themselves up and after a minute, you felt numb like you tended to. You hiccup, body jerking upwards just the slightest, a spat of vomit now dribbling at you chin.

Deep inside of you, you knew Ellie would be back to fix your wreckage and leave you oblivious to the destruction you not only caused but craved. She would just keep going back until you help something on the spectrum of happy.

Define happy.

Smiling?

Joking?

Laughing?

Not digging through the dictionary to find new ways to try to kill yourself?

That last one sounds right.

"Ellie, I can't do this anymore!" You screeched hoarsely to the empty room, despite the freckled girl being nowhere in sight. "Can you please let me die now!"

You call for her until your throat is as dry as sandpaper, hollow words scraping themselves dry before they can leave your mouth. Your voice is reduced to a pathetic rasp and you pray that she regrets stealing blood from your veins.

"Please!" You scream, fingers gripping onto the marble counter to haul yourself up. You stumble for a moment as you adjust to the jagged shards you stand on. "I know we've done this before but you'll just lie and make me sound like I'm fucking crazy," A sob falls from your mouth like a howl.

You pull a long kitchen knife from the knife block, and watch the silver blade glimmer, a warped reflection of yourself staring back at you. With little hesitation, you plummet it into your stomach, again and again until your midriff is a mangled fleshy mess. Blood pooling out of you like cherry wine. Nothing new.

"Asshole!" You cry out "I know you're hiding around here somewhere!" Your mind immediately went to how many times this situation had played out, on this same day. Maybe you had done something worse.

Lungs burning from screaming, cries throbbing inside of your throat, you have one last idea that had to have happened before. "Can you please stop?"

You turn to face the voice, hair matted, clothes torn and bloody, vomit from makeshift mustard gas sliding down your chin to your neck. You drop the knife, it clatters against the tiles "No," You approach her, each step more certain than the last. "You need to stop, this isn't right."

"I know," She says, face stone-cold a hint of irritation in her tone. She's back in her grey hoodie and jeans, finally, she fits into the time period.

"If you know then why have I been pleading with you to go back to the start and stop me from dying in the first place and making that deal?" You're inches away from her, voice carrying challenge if not bitterness. "Like I've asked you over and over again." Your voice is unsteady like it's being crushed beneath the weight of the world.

"Because I love you," She says, raising one hand to cup your face.

If it were for the chemicals flattering through the air making you nauseous, this act alone almost brought you to your knees with sickness. You don't bother to move her hand though, just shuddering under the touch. "Do you really?"

She nods, gaze softening "Yes."

"Then you'll go back and you'll fix all of this right?"

Her hand falls from its resting spot on your face. "You want to forget?"

"No, I want to die." Silence falls between you. Each rise and fall of your chest shaky and ragged "You keep forgetting that I'm a person, I'm not a concept you've curated in your head." It was hard to find yourself being gentle to her. It was hard to feel bad for her in general with how she treated your entire being as something for her to tune in and out of as she pleased.

Ellie takes a breath in, eyes unwavering from yours "Okay."

"Okay?" You don't believe her "You'll fix this and you'll leave me alone and let me live a regular life without knowing you?" You breathe the moment in, the hopes that this will be over soon. The taste of heartache and war could be washed away from your mouth, you wouldn't meet Joel and watch his daughter die in front of him or meet Jesse and fall in love. The humiliation to be made of rotting flesh then it hits you- how many times have you had this conversation? "I want you to promise-

Athens, Greece- October- 412 BC

I prayed for your breath right here in the shallows.

Rain splashes against the skin of your face in lands of ancient Greece, where the winds themselves whispered stories of gods and heroes, neither of which you were. You were nothing more than a frightened woman running away from an unforgiving husband in the dead of night where your quickened heartbeat falls in rhythm to the ocean which is almost as angry as the storm that roars above.

Carefully you dodge the jagged rocks sticking out from the sand, you had memorized each and every one after days of burning your skin on the shores. Water surged against the rocks near your feet, white froth sizzling in the waves retreating like it was trying to drag you in and take you for its own.

Your heavy breathing was devoured by the heavy rain and cracks of lighting, the sounds of thunder so deep it was like Zeus himself was stomping in the clouds. Despite the night being dark you trusted the moonlight that glimmered off of the ocean to guide you. You have nothing more than the soaking wet clothes on your back, jewelry to sell, and the drachmas you had stolen from your husband tucked away safely in a wool tagari purse.

This time around, Ellie doesn't intervene. She watched you, panic-stricken, fumble over wet sand and glide past slick rocks. Trying to outrun your fears of wasting your life.

As you reached the edge of a rocky outcrop, your leather sandal caught on a slick stone, sending you tumbling to the ground. With a sickening thud, your head struck against the unforgiving rock, and the world around you spun into darkness.

You were dead. Body limp on the plethora of rocks, the tide slowly lulling over your body until Ellie kneeled down next to your body and gingerly guided it into the ocean for it to take. The blood from the wound in the back of your head is sucked away into the sand. She watched your corpse drift out and get pulled down, all she needed was another lifetime with you. You didn't know how miserable you were with her anyway. 

This is not a story about love.

A/N: guys I’m breaking hiatus to post this bc I realised it’s been hanging in my drafts for a century (century haha) Anyways I actually hate this but it felt too long to scrap so thanks for reading.

Perm tag list: @ellslvr @gold-dustwomxn @bready101 @whenlostinthedarkness @veeveeisgay @vqxen

[sky-kiss]

prompt: Raphael giving a genuine love confession to tav (that is unintelligible due to him being a devil…a too subtle love confesion?… maybe something that sounds like a threat or an attempt for deal for their soul? i just would like if you could show me this clown being a failure at emotions XD)

Raphael kept his word. 

There’s no ambush waiting for her in the House of Hope. It’s only Raphael, resplendent in a black silk shirt. It’s a far cry from the elegant doublet he favors, simultaneously more expensive and relaxed. Relaxed is what she fixates on; a weight has been lifted from his shoulders. The devil’s smile could nearly pass for genuine. 

He offers his arm, helping Tav into her seat. Raphael has left nothing to chance: the table is set, lavishly. The wine is rich and decadent, the finest vintages in his expansive cellar. The cost must amount to a small fortune, but the devil spares it no more than a passing thought; what Tav has provided is infinitely more valuable. 

The Crown of Karsus. The key to his freedom and his heart's desire. One thousand years of longing brought to a suitably climactic conclusion. The cambion settles into his seat with a small sigh, massaging his forehead. The nightmare will pass. He will establish himself as Archdevil Supreme. He will…

“You’re more subdued than I would have expected,” Tav says, tracing the rim of her glass. A bruise stretches from the curve of her jaw to the bridge of her nose, splotchy and ugly, a blemish on an otherwise lovely face. It must hurt; when she smiles, she winces. “No theatrics? I’d have expected an impromptu poetry recital if nothing else.” 

“Loathe as I am to disappoint you, pet, I have nothing to offer.” 

“I understand.” Tav slumps in her chair. The newly christened hero of Baldur’s Gate looks small, hair wild, bags rimming her eyes from too many sleepless nights. “It’s wonderful to reach the end. But…” The smile and its accompanying wince. “I just find myself feeling tired.” 

He dislikes seeing her like this: small, delicate, and yielding. It isn’t his mouse. His pet is fire and drive, her ambition mated to his own. The cambion hums, tapping his jaw. “And still you’d return to the Gate. You’ll play the hero.” 

Tav chuckles and finally sips the wine. He considers slipping a restorative draught into her next cup if only to deal with the damned bruise. He hates looking at it, hates seeing his toys marked by a hand other than his. “Someone has to restore the city.”

“Shall it be redemption, mouse? Striving to set right sins you barely remember?” She doesn’t respond. He knows he’s struck a nerve. In a perfect world, she’d rage at him, all her delicious fury brought to bear. Raphael cocks his head to the side. He speaks the words carefully, slowly, as if tasting a fresh dish and still determining the flavor. “Let it die, hero. Wretched as your mortality may be, it is full of such delicious potential. If you must tie a millstone around that lovely neck…” he frowns. Tav watches him, eyes narrowed, and lips pursed, as if she’s waiting. As if she expects what he’s about to say. He loathes it; the damned little thing should never have been allowed so close. “Let it be mine. Serve me.” 

“Serve you?” She laughs. “Raphael, I’ve only just reclaimed my life. Why would I put it in your hands?” 

“Why not? Have I not been reasonable? Have I not treated you well?” 

“For a devil.” Conditional approval. Fury roils in his belly. 

“You would have power and wealth. Everything a mortal desired. Under my yoke, you will be kept young and beautiful. We will dine like this every night.” 

Tav licks her lips. The House is too warm, and she is so mortal. Her eyes glitter with something. Not desire, not strictly, but something like pity. “And what? I kill your enemies? I run your errands? Warm your bed?” 

The stab of want threatens to choke him. When he speaks, it’s only just above a growl, the words rumbling through them. “Yes. Eternally.”

“Raphael.” she sighs, scrubbing a hand through her hair. Messy, like all her kin. He wants so badly to impose order. If he could only have her if she would only submit. The hero stands, crossing to him. It’s a strange twist. The mouse touches his cheek. Her skin is warm. An inane voice in his head chants to him: take her, taste her. He wants to taste her. “I should go.” 

He could make her stay, could break her. But it would taste like ash on his tongue. He holds his head high, smirking. “You will receive no better offer.” 

She doesn’t backpedal, just presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You’re probably right. Give them hell, devil.” 

And as is so often the case, he’s left alone. 

[aphroditesmoon]

death grips

modern!jacaerys velaryon x fem!vampire!reader.

summary: you live vicarously through passing mortal's eyes as a creature of the night, doomed to a life of immortality, and jacaerys is the hand that extends, an opportunity you're reluctant to welcome.

warnings: biting, blood drinking, descriptions of assault, mentions of self harm, vampire esque violence, writer!reader, reader's characterization is highly inspired from the book "Woman, eating."

wc; 5.7k

special dt for my babe @hxtd

YOU HAVE NEVER felt so hungry. It has been at least two weeks and a half since you fed.

You have suffered longer weeks before, impressive lengths of starvation that you held on to the same way mortals do with air. It was a test at first. You wanted to see how far you could take it, how much until it would finally kill you.

The answer was disappointing. You had walked around the city aimlessly for almost 3 months, staggering as you moved, hands trembling and eyes wild as your stomach churns and begs for blood.

But you did not die. You merely suffered like a living corpse.

Once the realization set in, the starving had soon morphed into a form of self-destruction. A penance you inflicted upon yourself.

Death would never take you. No matter how hard you've tried, your curse was to never have an end to your suffering.

Even as the scars healed and the monsters died. The sorrows and the horrors you've endured replays themselves like clockwork in your mind everyday.

To try and enjoy life like humans do was impossible. Life did not feel worth living when you've died a thousand times, but your body refused to rot.

You thought you knew grief when your mother died, but the universe played a cruel joke on you on the day you were turned a vampyr. A young girl you were, still growing, and kept growing even after you were turned. And yet once you turned 18, your body's growth froze itself, and you then had to learn how to mourn the girl that you were, and the girl you could've been if it had just never happened.

Now, you merely endured.

I've grown weaker somehow, you thought to yourself. The pit of your stomach burned as you rested your head against the hard brick of the nightclub building. You could hear the loud music bouncing through the walls, the tunes so vivid in your ears.

You figured you'd make your attack inside, surrounded by drunken visions and easy targets. No one looked twice at the girl with her face buried a random person's neck in a club at saturday night. But then you heard him before you felt him. His ragged breathing. He watches from afar, predatory eyes and a perverse mind, coming up with ways he would entrap you.

So you make your way to the side of the building where the wind is soft against your skin, making a rise of goosebumps. And like a dog, he followed you.

He thinks he's quiet with his steps, but you can hear arrogance a mile away, and with those impatiently big steps, you feel bloodlust in your veins and on your tongue. You clench your jaw as you feel his presence next to you.

"What are you doing out here when the fun's all inside." His scratchy voice spoke up. You could smell the vodka coming out of his breath, and more importantly, you coulf smell the tangy metallic scent of his blood.

You moved only your gaze up to meet his eyes. And at once, you were ready to pounce. He was so near. So big and so weak, unknowing on what is about to happen. But as his quick hands moved to snake around your waist, another voice intervened, suprising both of you.

"I would think twice before touching her." The other man spoke.

He looked straight at your meal, standing only a few steps away from him. When did he get so close? You did not hear him.

"Walk away man, this is my girl." Your almost victim answered back in annoyance. You tilted your head to get a better view of your supposed hero, curiosity overcoming the hunger.

"Right, that's why you were staring off at her for 3 whole minutes from the other side of the road before you got here." He sassed back.

"Why the fuck were you staring at me for 3 whole minutes ass face." Your meal shouted, his patience thinning.

You wanted to shove his face against the concrete when he had the audacity to grip your waist. But instead, you just cracked his fingers apart from you as he yelped out in pain. "The fuck-"

"Walk away until your legs fail you and forget this ever happened." You muttered at his face before pushing him off of you.

The shock in his fave dissolves slowly, he turns to the other man and back at you in confusion before walking off like you compelled him to.

You watched him until he disappeared from your eyesight, hunger returning again, now that the entertainment has ended. Maybe you'll just eat this one, you thought.

No, you shook your head slightly. You don't kill good men. But a bite would not hurt.

"Are you alright?" He asked you, you could tell the concern was genuine. He neared you until he could see you clearly under the night sky.

He had a regal looking face, one could even say royalty, and a tinge of sincerity in his eyes that added to his charm. You nodded your head once and looked him up and down.

"Not to sound like that kind of guy, but being in a dark, empty space alone in a place like this is like a death wish, isn't it?" The corners of his eyes crinkles as he questions you.

"Maybe I'm suicidal." You retorted in a monotonous voice. "And this is really how you wanna go?"

A smile forces its way on your face, no more arguments left in you.

"Does my saviour have a name?" You shouldn't have asked. Not when you're planning to drain him in a few minutes. As much as your kind claims to be the creature of the night. When the doors are closed and the bloodstains are washed off, guilt washes over you the same way they do to anyone. Attachment is never a good idea.

"Jace. Jacaerys." He had a small smile of his own. "Jacaerys." You enunciated every word with a raised brow. "You must be someone's rich son with that kind of name."

His face flushes and he immediately shook his head, eager to change the subject. "And what's your name?"

You gave him your real first name and felt a small sense of freedom released from your hollow soul.

Everything went quiet then. He looked at you as if he had more to say but his lips were currently sewn. It was either now or never, you've done this a million times, and your aim isn't to kill anyways. But at this very moment, you just noticed that you had completely tuned out the music, the honking cars and the chattering voices. You only heard your own slow beating heary, thumping gently by your chest.

----

Everyone has a little voice inside of them. The voice of reason, voice that intrudes, the voice that weighs the good and evil.

But the voice in your head took the form of the younger version of yourself on th day you were turned. Tha child had been strongly hurt. And you'd like to think that you've quite moved on from what happened, and yet, stuck in your nervous system, like a ghost that haunts, she speaks to you like she is her own person, apart from you.

And as of right now, as you let Jacaerys walk you home, the voice is yelling out insults and scratching at imaginary doors as if imprisoned.

He isn't like that. You tell her. I can tell, i can see it in him.

The voice gives up, all she does is ask one last question before you shut the locks on her completely. And how has giving a strange man the benefit of the doubt served you before?

Your mother died when you were only 8. She was no saint, but she was the only person in the world who had a single goodness to offer you.

After her death, your father's violent tendencies worsened. You had to walk to school for 45 minutes back and forth every day for scraps of education. Every penny he made had been used for liquor and weed. Food became a privilege you had to earn, not a right. If you're lucky, you'd get to eat at least once a day from a portion big enough for a rat.

Because he did not care for you anymore. It was evident then that you could either be invisible, or abused. And for a long time, neither options were something you could just wake up and choose for.

It depended on his mood that was rarely well. And it's worse on nights he's drunk of his ass, insisting that you are the mirror of your mother.

The day you were turned, was the day everything changed.

You were 13.

13 and walking back home from school. And there he was, your maker.

It was dusk then. The sun had sank down. Not that it would make a difference, The heat would've never burned him to death.

And as the dark angel approached you, with red eyes and sharp fangs, like a story you've heard to keep children off the streets after sunset, you're shaken, halted in place.

He was terrifying, but he had looked at you with what could be interpreted at that time as adoration.

But he was no father of the orphans, nor is he a lover of the helpless. No, he was a perpetrator. He is the evil that mothers warn their babies of. He wasn't some wretched creep wanting a feel like all the other men. He was worse. He perversed innocence, and intimacy, you understood it immediately as you're left to pick yourself back up from a back alley, bleeding and gnawing with your newfound teeth, hours after he had drained and fed you.

Despite the newfound strength you had gained becoming immensely helpful when it came to your father, you would never claim it to be a gift. For every defense it had a hand in, it also took, and took and took from you. You were a changed woman at the age of 13, that was the cost of naivety.

"I am not so stupid now", you whispered under your breath.

"Hm?" He looked to you, eyes wide. You hummed ignorantly, facing the road again.

The streetlights brightened your path as you made your way to the large apartment building. Jacaerys struggled to find words to keep the conversation going, but you could feel the screws and gear going off in his pretty head, itching to come up with something smart.

If he were to ask questions, you'd give one word answers and it'll be back from square one. If he were to talk alone, that would be egoistic and irritating.

So instead, he chose to try and make his own assumptions. "You are an artist." He said confidently.

A smirk shadowed your features. "What makes you say that?"

"Most masochists are." You laughed then. Something you haven't done in a while. "I'm a writer." You corrected.

Understanding flowed through his eyes. "Of course you are." He smiled, nodding to himself. "So are you the kind that writes of murder fantasies or are you more of a torturous poet kind of girl?"

You liked him, you decided then. There are lots of things that can make a man attractive, observance is one of them. "A little bit of both. Poetry is essential, and sometimes from the torture and the poetry, a story can be born."

He hummed attentively. "You are a student too, i assume?" You nod. "That's where I study." You pointed a hand towards the glowing building of your university, a sight ti be seen from miles away. "No shit?" He laughed.

"I go there too." He follows up after. You weren't suprised, he looked the typento be able to afford to study there. In a different universe where you were a common girl, neither of you would have ever bunpedinto eachother in this kind of setting. Money had always been an issue back then, and before you had been cursed, you would imagine years of school work being flushed down the toilet as you knew that your dream to further your studies would never be funded.

But now your father's funds and your mothers inheritance are fully under your responsibility as your deadbeat old man lies in a nursing home all the way back in your village.

And if those funds run out, scamming rich men would become your career. You can even start with this one, you joked to the voices.

"And let me guess, finance?" You nudged him with your shoulder. He scoffed and rolled his eyes teasingly. "Business major actually."

"Of course you are." You used his own sentence from before.

His grin was endearing, you almost flashed one of your own back, teeth and all.

The two of you stopped right in front of the main doors and felt disappointment lingering. Should you have talked more as you walked before? No. You did the right thing, to fawn over some business student with great hair isn't a you thing to do, you guard your boundaries strictly.

And yet, as long as you can remember, you have never met anyone that made you want to talk this much.

He looks at you with eyes that were begging you to invite him in, but if you do, there would be no going back. You would eat him, or you would string him into your mess of a life that he could never understand.

So you gave him one last glance before you began to enter the building. "Thank you." Was the last thing you said to him before you returned to your seclusion, and his deep brown eyes was the last thing you thought of before you fell asleep.

—

He felt his heart beating fast as he watched you disappear into your apartment building that night, a sense of regret washing over him regret of what, he's not so sure. Or was it longing that he actually felt?

It doesn't matter. He had done what he's supposed to, what conflicting emotions he's left with after was not your responsibility, it is his own to look after them.

Jacaerys knew who you were when he saw you that night, or the right rephrase for the sentence is, he remembered you.

You clearly don't recognise him, but he still remembered the first time he laid eyes on you during an unremarkable welcoming frat party on the first week of his semester. You had appeared on the staircase, leaving Dalton Greyjoy's room. The boy had been absent for the rest of the party that night.

Jace wasn't sure just what it is about you that had stood out to him. You dressed just like any other girl, you walked just like any other girl, and yet he noticed how dead your eyes were, not a single shine nor expression. It almost felt sociopathic to look that uncaring. It was alluring.

And yet, a few nights ago, when he had walked you home, your dead eyes glowed slightly under the moonlight, and your rare smiles occasionally made an appearance. He decided then, to retract the opinion he had made before knowing you.

Whatever it was about you, he wanted more. He wanted to know more, to experience more. To be the one who filled sparks in your dull orbs and to be the one who knew how to fish out a laugh from inside.

And so he decided to look you up. All he had was your first name and your course name, even with the privilege of being the dean's son, going through the list of over a hundred thousand people with the same name was a chore, but he was willing to put in the work.

But gods, how disappointed he felt when he couldn't find you after hours of scrolling. There was only 150 students with the name, and none of them were you, and all had different courses.

He wondered if maybe he had spelt your names again and had come up with a list of different variations of your name to try again. By the time he finished, it had been 2pm, and he had remained unsuccessful in his pursuit.

Jace slumped on his chair, closing his eyes as he ran his hands over his face in frustration. This was incredibly stupid. You probably lied about your name because you didn't like him. Why didn't he think about that before?

And trying to hunt you down using his mother's official email adress was starting to explain why you were right to do so.

The right thing to do right now was to leave it up to fate. He saw you once, and then twice. What are the odds of a third time?

That has always been a fatal flaw in Jacaerys' personality. He wanted to believe that things that are meant for him will find him, but he is also very impatient. Always eager for the feeling of control. Fate is only fun as a concept.

But accepting fully that you might not get the things you want the most because it's just not for you is harder than it looks.

He wanted to believe that if he were to try enough, he'd get what he wanted despite the universe's intervention.

And right now, what he wanted is to find you, to learn the proper way to know you, to really know you. While his presence had been seen as amusing to you, yours have bewitched him. If you were to tell him to leave you alone, he would. But first he would try.

Jacaerys opened his tired eyes again, facing the bright screen of his laptop. The battery was dying. Jace stood up to pull out the charger before plugging it into his laptop, watching it brought back to life again before he sat back down on his chair.

He could go back to sleep now, or he could try again for the 4th time. He wanted to try again, bit as his eyes fluttered sleepily, fighting against his will, he decided to give in and turned off the device before climbing onto his bed.

Let fate intervene, and if he never sees you again, he'd learn to live with that.

This is just an infatuation, he told himself. Infatuation dies when you don't feed it, and so this too shall pass like everything else in his life. As he lets sleep overtake, he dreamt of empty oceans and hollow skies hovering above, sand through his toes as he walked closer to the body of water. And your voice, speaking from behind him, saying: "you don't survive loneliness, you accommodate it."

—

The water under the bridge was so clear that you could see the small shape of your reflection from above.

It's 3AM, and the quiet is calming. It's hard to find peace of mind as someone whose senses are heightened. And what other time do you have for a walk anyway?

You've stood here for a good hour now, just staring down while your thoughts run wild, Tchaikovsky's Valse Sentimentale playing in your airpods on repeat. It's been 3 days since you fed. After you were walked home by Jacaerys, you found that your only option was the security guard on a smoke break by the bathroom.

Ever since then, you have resumed your routine of boredom. Attending your afternoon classes and walking for hours in the evening until night, imprisoned by your thoughts.

You were sure that there was no one in the world who loved revisiting the past as much as you did. After all, the past is all you have.

When you were first turned, there had been no words to describe how it all felt. The overwhelming hunger and confusion, the survivors guilt, blaming yourself and going over the scenario over and over, trying to imagining how different each outcome would be if you had acted differently, if you had ran faster, pushed harder.

Amd even now, there are no words. Was this how Laika the dog had felt? Saved from the streets of Moscow to be sent up to space as the pride and joy of Russia in the space race, but doomed to die by the narrative from the start. To think that you've finay been saved, just to be pushed into a much worse and scarier circumstances? That must be it.

What am I doing? Compare myself to a dead dog. At least Laika died. You can't even do that.

Shoving yourself away from the railing, you decided it's time to go home. So you turned yourself to your right and began to make your way to your apartment.

Funnily enough, you felt your ankles ache as you moved. Your feet is heavy in your one inch heels, that's a first.

You smell the smoke of cigarettes as you crossed an alley, the cold breeze enhancing the scent. You've always had an addiction to them, smoke scents, gasoline scents, bug spray scents, there was something soothing in it. You slowed your steps down and took in as much as you could before exhaling slowly and oicking up your pace.

Something has changed recently. But you can't quite put a finger to it. It was just that you were beginning to feel more pain than usual, you were also feeling more lost and conflicted than usual.

You had always known what your life plan would be like, how once you've reached an age that you aren't able to explain non existant ageing, you'd start all over again until you make enough money to buy yourself some privacy and isolation.

You'll spend the thousands of years to come reading and writing until your hands fails you and your fingers break.

But these past few days, your resolve has been cracking. Is that really what you want? To be so goddamn lonely forever, so alone that not even death can be honoured to it.

It's not about what I want, it's what's going to happen anyways.

Footsteps. Loud and clear footsteps. You stop on your tracks and crane your neck to look behind you. There is no one there.

Absolutely nothing.

You look back to your front and tried to start walking again, but you're stuck, like you're being held back.

It's hard to see in the dark, since when was it hard to see it in the dark? The panic hasn't settled in yet, you were still rational. Or maybe just too tired to freak out.

But when you heard the voices, Your body shook. It was as if your whole world jas been frozen in time, and shadows loomed over your shoulders, taunting you, speaking to themselves in languages you can't understand.

Loud and clear, you feel the darkness around you and you hear their chatter. What is going on?

"Stop it." You muttered out. Thats was supposed to be a scream. "Stop it." You repeated.

Why can't I fucking move? "Stop it stop ot stop its stop it stop it-" You couldn't find the scream in your throat. You had obly your trembling legs and arms as prove that this was real.

When you cracked your head and you're finally able to spin around, every single vision and noise faded into nothingness by a second, and the alley was just an alley. Not even the smoking man was there anymore.

The last thing you saw from your hallucination before it turned into air was a white line, by your feet, like a moving animal that vanished when you flashed it with your phone screen.

"What the fuck." This could not be happening. You looked around you with furrowed brows, your stomach growled. "Jesus fuck."

You hear ambulance sirens away from where you're standing and physically flinch. Was that real or a hallucination, too?

It has been long since real fear had ever crept into your cold soul. But now, your head is dizzy, and every little thing you see and hear feels like an attack.

I need to move. You force yourself forward, counting from 1 to 50 over and over as you walked in the direction of your apartment. But you're weirdly slow, and nauseous.

You pause again like you've been struck by something and looked up to the sky. The dark clouds hung over you moved slowly but surely as it's supposed to be, you find comfort in knowing that the stars are at least real.

And then you felt a hand on your shoulder and jumped. "Fuck."

It was him.

You faced him with an annoyed expression, wondering where he came from. He spoke your name once. Your real name, not the one you give to everyone else.

"Are you following me?" You snapped at him.

His face went from worried to defensive. "No, god no. I'm just heading over the uni library to work on a late assignment that's due this morning, and I saw you walking. I was gonna leave you alone, but you were stopping a lot, and you don't look very good."

You studied his face for any deceit and found none. "I don't feel so good." You admitted honestly.

"What are you doing up at 3AM?" He shook his head.

"Taking a walk." You mumbled while massaging your temple with your thumb.

"Taking a walk?"

"Yes, and I'm leaving now, so you can go do whatever you're about to do." You did not wait for his answer and left immediately, but just as you silently expected, he followed you.

"I'll walk you home." He offered, or stated moreso.

I don't need you to walk me home like some guard dog, you wanted to say. But deep down, you were kind of grateful for some company after what had just occurred.

"What about your assignment?" You asked. The route you were using was the opposite of where he's going.

"It's not important." He assured, fixing his laptop bag on his shoulder.

"Not important?" You shot him a glance. "I can cram it in 2 hours before the submission time." You'd argue in a different night, but it wasn't this one.

The first few minutes of the walk, you were resigned to being silent, going over what had just happened to you over and over. Your first thought was that something more evil and monstrous than you cursed you for something you had done.

You wouldn't call yourself the devil, but you haven't exactly been the nicest person to people around you. Had you bitten a witch's man or something?

The second assumption that so far has sounded the most logical, is that you're insane. You've had hallucinations before of course. Little voices in your head. Hearing things that aren't there, seeing shadow people. But they always disappear on second glances, fast enough for you to blame it on the trick of your mind.

But the recent one? It was vivid, and clear. It was real. Or at least to you it was.

You were glad Jacaerys wasn't forcing a conversation either, but once you reached your apartment, you turned to him and asked him the one thing you wanted to the first time you met him. "Do you want to come in?"

"Yes." He answered, too quickly. "Okay."

You made him a cup of tea as he politely sat on the couch, bag on the floor. "Sugar or no?"

"Sugar." You added sugar.

You'd get him something to eat too but in truth, you have nothing. There are stale biscuits that exists in your kitches as fillers to the empty space and some fake fruits on the counter, but nothing truly edible.

"Here." You placed the cup into his hand, your fingers brushing together.

You move casually to the seat opposite him and laid down on the cushion, facing him.

He had questions. That was obvious.

"Cig?" You offered, pulling out a pack and a lighter from your back pocket. "No thanks." He declined politely.

Your hands shook lightly as you struggled to light the cigarette, balancing your elbow on the material of the couch, you try again and succeeded this time. You feel the whole day's exhaustion catch up to your tired body.

"So what happened back there?" He spoke finally. You looked up to him. "What?"

"I saw you then, you were just standing. You looked lost, what happened?"

"Oh that." You shrugged. "I thought I saw something." He nodded slowly, taking in your words. "Did you?"

"Did I what?" You raise a brow. "Saw something."

You gave yourself a second to really think before you answered, "Yes, I did."

He did not push for more answers surrounding the situation, accepting your response as it is.

He leaned back against his seat, relaxing properly. The small dim light that shone down on the righy side of his face makes his eyes look like they're golden, the same way yours would be sometimes when you fed.

The idea of Jace as a vampire is conjured in your head for a moment, you imagined he'd be the good kind. The type to suffer guilt for every kill and never get used it. Or perhaps you're wrong and he's much more resilient than you think.

As you settle into your thoughts, finally having the space to unravel from you earlier fears and shock, you notice just how disheveled he looks. It wasn't that he looked a mess, but more that he's such an open book to the poinf that his emotions are all over his face against his will.

"You look tired." You chose your words carefully, trying to open through his cracks.

He shifts slightly, looking up to you from the carpet. "Tired? No, no I'm good."

You gave him a few seconds, letting the silence push him.

"I'm just a bit frustrated." He continues. "Oh?"

"I had a fight with my mom this evening." You hummed, letting the context of it all fall together. "What did you fight about."

"She says I'm distracted- from my classes." Jace shrugs.

"Are you?" He raises a brow. "Distracted, i mean."

He hesitates but then chooses to deny it by shaking his head. "Sometimes there are things you can't help but be completely average at. There are classes I excel in, and there are those I just can't force myself to."

"I'm sure that's not true. You put enough effort, you do good in it even if you believe you won't."

"Maybe." He idly agrees. "But what if I don't think it's important enough for me to put all my energy in until it drains me too much that I can't do what I like?"

You offered him a small smile and copied his earlier shrug. "Then you just don't do it. I guess in the end, it depends on how much you want that thing to happen or work. And if you don't want it that much, then it shouldn't matter."

"Exactly."

Quietness seeps into the are again very slowly, but before it could catch up into awkwardness, Jace spoke again.

"And what about you?"

"What about me?" You asked, amused.

"Do you often see things that aren't real." Whatever response you had in mine died in your throat and was replaced by a suprised laugh. "Excuse me?"

He grinned. "Just making sure you're not schizophrenic."

"And what if I was, is that a turn off for you?" You retorted teasingly.

"No, of course not. I like my women neurotic.”

"And I like my men credulous."

You stood up and grabbed his empty mug to clean it at the sink, but his own hands were wrapped over yours, stopping you. But before he could offer assistance, you said; “Let me get us something stronger than tea.”

—

You awoke the next morning, comfortably on the right side of the bed with your blanket over your shoulders, a position you rarely place it in.

The soft sounds of footsteps force your eyes open immediately as you twist yourself to face the ceiling. You push yourself upwards using your elbows, looking fixatedly on his naked back that's hovering over your desk.

"You're still here." You stated the obvious.

"What's the rush." He mumbled back, you can hear the sound of paper being flipped in his hands. " 'I could drown in those eyes. So it's summer, so it's suicide.' Did you write this?"

You snorted, pleased be thought so. "No, that's Richard Siken for you." He responds with a soft 'oh' before turning around to see you.

"When can I read yours?" He asks gently. You see the way his gaze lingered on your face, refusing to look anywhere else. "Usually that happens after a few dates."

"And do you wait after a few dates first before telling people your real name or?" You frowned, confused.

"The name you gave me when we met, it was never in the university system."

"Why were you looking for me in there?" He clicked his tongue, averting his eyes somewhere else.

You weren't really worried that he had tried and failed miserably in an attempt of stalking you, in fact, you felt a sense of glee fill your hollow soul at the thought of it.

"I didn't lie about my name." You confessed after a while. "I changed it a long time ago into something else."

"I see." He relaxed visibly. "So you just have two names?" You nodded. "Then what do I call you?" He genuinely asks. "Whatever I ask you to." Not meaning for it to sound as scandalous as it did, Jace's face broke into a smirk. "Right, you like your men credulous."

"Come back to bed." You demanded, placing your head back onto the soft pillow. "Whatever you want, my girl."

It was at that moment, as you feel the bed shifts and his hands reaching for your waist, did you realize just how satiated you hunger has been since last night.

You were sure that this was doomed to end in a devastatingly ugly way. The love between two humans itself often destroys itself despite efforts against it. A love between a cursed being and an innocent soul is a one way ticket to never being the same again for either of you.

“And what happens from here?” A different voice speaks from behind him. A voice you dreaded to hear. Your maker tilted his head, judging the circumstances with humor.

I don't know. You figured you had your whole life worked out for you. Your mundane immortality wrote its own story before you could put pen to paper. And this boy is an unexpected chapter.

[librarygarten]

#2 Chain x Isekai! Reader - You Play Their Games

Part 2 includes Legend, Four, and Wild Slight trigger warning for Wild's part? He grabs your wrist harshly Part 1 ✿ Part 2 (you are here) ✿ Part 3

When you first met the chain, it had quickly come to everyone’s attention that you already knew them. At first, they thought perhaps you had somehow heard tales of them, passed down through the generations. But you knew things about their adventures they hadn’t told anyone. You knew the names of people and places that surely wouldn’t have survived the thousands of years the stories would have taken to reach you.

You tried your best to explain to them how you knew what you did. Thankfully, you had your Switch, which made explaining what a video game was to them a bit easier.

Legend

Oh this is seriously pissing Legend off. He’s glaring daggers at your Switch like it just insulted his entire bloodline. His adventures? Games? Children’s games? It’s disturbing. It’s degrading. His uncle died! Zelda was imprisoned! He had to fight Ganon in the freaking Dark Realm! And that was only his first adventure! You apparently had ALL of his adventures as games on that device. His life wasn’t some cool toy! (He is slightly smug about having the most games of the chain though.)

He knows you’re not the one who made the games. He understands that you had no reason to view his adventures as anything other than some story a person in your world made. But the fact that until recently, you viewed him as a fictional character? That before you met him, you had seen him as a toy? That hurts. 

Legend starts avoiding you. When the group walks somewhere, he’ll change his pace to make sure he’s not next to you. When the group settles down for the night, he keeps himself busy rearranging his items. He tries not to make it too obvious, always having a reason ready if someone asks what he’s up to. Eventually, though, the others catch on to his behavior.

✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧

“You know, you can’t avoid them forever.”

Legend looked up from his bag, which he had been reorganizing for the last half hour. Warrior was standing next to him, arms crossed in the “I’m-not-mad-just-disappointed” dad stance. (How he had snuck up on Legend without him hearing was a mystery).

“I’m not avoiding them.”

“Yes you are.”

Legend sighs. He’s not getting out of this conversation, is he?

“It’s just…How are you not bothered? They have all our adventures on a little device. They went on our adventures from the safety of their couch! Do they even see us as people? Are we just a game to them?” Legend snaps his mouth shut. He hadn’t meant to start rambling. Warrior raises an eyebrow, considering the younger hero.

“Go ask to see one of your games. Watch them play for a bit.” Warrior puts up a hand to silence Legend when he begins to protest. “I can’t have you treat a teammate like this. Go.”

Later, Legend begrudgingly found himself sitting next to you. The group had come across a town, so most of the chain was off exploring and gathering supplies. Warrior had practically dragged Legend over to where you were sitting, but you were just happy Legend was finally okay being near you.

“So,” you smile, turning on your Switch “I know Wars is kind of forcing you to do this, but which game do you want to see? There’s A Link to the Past, A Link Between Worlds, Link’s Awakening…”

“Are all my games puns?” he scrunches up his face, cringing at whoever decided on these names. He could guess which pun correlated to each of his adventures, except for one. “What’s Link’s Awakening?”

“Oh! That one’s probably my favorite. It was actually so popular they re-made it a few years ago.” You open the game, and begin moving the game Link around the world.

“Is that supposed to be me?” Legend asks, “Why is my head so freakishly big?”

“It’s not that bad! It’s just the art style! Everyone looks like that. See?” You tap the screen, pointing to another character. Legend recognizes her immediately. Of course. Of course you had Koholint in your device.

“So, how much of my adventure do you see in this game?” Legend asks hesitantly, a blush creeping onto his face.

“From talking to the others, all of the enemies and places are the same,” you explain while moving game Link up a staircase. “But the things you guys say to other people aren't. Links don't talk in games, like, ever.” He nods, and watches as you enter the Wind Fish’s egg. When you finish the final boss fight, you hesitate to walk up the stairs.

“Sorry, I always get a bit emotional at this part.” You give him a half smile, “If I go up the staircase, the Wind Fish will talk, and then the game ends.”

“Isn't that the point?” He raises an eyebrow.

“Well, yeah, but I’ve never liked this game’s ending. It’s… frustrating. And sad.” You throw your hand up, clearly frustrated. “Like, I get that the stupid fish needs to wake up, but what about everyone else? I hate that I can’t get a happy ending for everyone.”

“Why do you care? Isn’t it just a game?” Legend crosses his arms, but his expression softens.

“It is- er… was.” You blush. “I don’t know. Even before I met you guys. Back when I thought none of this was real. I still wanted a happy ending.”

He lets his bangs fall in his face. You can’t see his expression when he talks again.

“I wanted one too.”

Four

(I know Four Swords is on the Switch now, but before that it was so ATROCIOUSLY difficult to play that I had to include The Struggle)

Games? About him? That's… concerning to say the least. It's not that he minds. He's honestly a bit flattered! But also. That means you know about the colors. Which he hasn't really told anyone in the group about.

He's preparing himself for an awkward conversation, but it never comes. Whenever another member of the chain asks about his games, you either only talk about his adventures with the Picori, or go on a half hour long rant about how hard it is to play the games.

Then during one of these rants you mention that Four Swords is your favorite game, and he nearly chokes on his own spit. He had thought you hated it from how much you complain about getting it set up. Something about emulators and linking cables? He doesn’t understand most of what you say, but knowing that he’s your favorite (well, his games are) makes him break out into a huge grin.

He watches you play occasionally, mostly out of curiosity. He usually has other things to be doing, like fixing Wild’s sword. Again. But on the rare occasion he has free time and is feeling especially bored, he’ll watch you.

✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧

Four finds you and Wind buried in a mass of wires. Your Switch, another box, and several smaller devices are scattered around the ground. You curse under your breath as you attempt to untangle the cords and plug them into the box.

“That’s it. I’m out.” Wind gets up and lets the wires that were in his lap fall unceremoniously to the ground . “Four’s adventure can’t be worth this much trouble to see.”

Wind walks away, and Four takes his place next to you.

“So… what is all this?” he asks, picking up a mass of wires and attempting to undo some of the knots.

“This, my friend, is all the equipment needed to play your game.” You say exasperatedly, trying yet again to plug the still-tangled wires into one of the devices.

“Are all your video games this complicated?” Four grimaces at the mess in front of you. He’s inclined to agree with Wind on this one. His adventure can’t be worth this much effort to play through.

“No, just yours.” You scowl and jam the end of one of the cables into one of the devices, hoping it will stay put this time. You have no such luck. “Four Swords is only a multiplayer game, and each person playing needs to own a copy of the game, plus have a way to connect to the other players. Hence… this mess.” You motion tiredly at the pile in front of you.

“Multiplayer?” he tilts his head questioningly.

“It means you can’t play it alone,” you stick out your tongue as you concentrate on finally putting the cords in their proper places. “You need to have multiple players.”

He nods. It makes sense, he guesses, considering how much focus he had to put on teamwork during his adventure with the Four Sword. He watches you try to boot up the game, then curse again as you fiddle with the wires again. Finally, you get it working.

“Sweet!” You clap your hands together, and Four smiles at how happy you seem to finally be able to play his game. To his surprise, you hand him one of the controllers. “Want to play with me?”

“Uhh… What about Wind?” He’s not sure he wants to actually play his adventure. Doing it once was enough, thank you very much.

“He ditched me during setup. Now he doesn’t get to play,” you say. “That’s been the rule at my house since we started playing this game.”

“Seems fair.” Four reluctantly takes the controller. He doesn’t want to seem rude and say no. Then who would you play with? “So, how do I do this?”

“It’s basically just a contest to see who can collect the most gems in the level. Not much story. Fastest wins.” you explain.

“Wait, really?” He's a bit surprised. He was expecting his game to be a bit more complicated. He suddenly doesn’t mind playing so much. “That sounds… really simple.”

“Yeah, it’s an older game, so it doesn’t seem like a lot of your adventure actually transfers over to the game.” You pick up a controller and smile mischievously. “Ready to lose, Smithy?”

“As if!” He grins, matching your enthusiasm. “Care to put your money where your mouth is?”

Wild

Wild isn't sure what the feeling that's settled in his chest is. He's not thrilled at the idea of you playing games about his adventure. He’s been through a lot, and the idea that it was all just a fun game to someone? It hurts. It’s upsetting. He’s honestly a bit annoyed at you for a while. You also seem to know something he doesn’t? What’s that about? Why won’t you tell him?

He decides that if you won’t answer his questions, he’ll trick you into showing him. He watches you play Breath of the Wild while he cooks, or while the group is walking, or really any chance there’s downtime. He quickly realizes that most of what you do is just run around killing monsters and finding Koroks. Nothing very noteworthy or interesting. Certainly, nothing worth hiding from him.

Then, you let it slip that his games are your favorite, and oooh boy is he smug. For about a day. After the initial ego boost, he realizes you said games. Plural. He’s only seen you play the one, though? What’s that about? He’s not getting answers, and it’s starting to eat at him. Eventually, he just steals your Switch and tries to find out for himself.

✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧

Wild throws the Switch at the ground next to where you’re sitting. You look up and see that he is absolutely fuming. Anything you could have said dies in your throat. Without another word, he storms off.

“What was that about?” Twilight asks, watching Wild walk away. You shrug, completely bewildered, and pick your Switch up off the ground. There’s dirt in the headphone jack, and a corner of the screen is cracked. You turn it on, testing how much damage has been done, and all the color drains from your face.

“Oh.” Is all you can think to say. Tears of the Kingdom is running. It looks like Wild started a new save file on your account. He’s still in the underground area at the beginning of the game, so he must have just finished watching the opening cutscene.

Before Twilight can ask any more questions, you drop your Switch on the ground again, probably cracking the screen even more, and take off sprinting in the direction Wild went.

“Wild? WILD!” You yell into the forest as you run, trying your best to follow which direction you think he might have gone. “WILD!!? LINK?!”

You stumble into a small clearing, and stop dead in your tracks. Wild is furiously swinging his sword at a tree, each strike is less precise than the last. After what feels like hours, but in truth was only a few minutes, he drops the weapon and falls to his knees. His breathing is ragged as his fingers claw into the dirt beneath him.

“Wild?” you whisper his name, tiptoeing to his side. Hesitantly, you kneel down next to him and place your hand on his shoulder.

“You knew.” His hair hides his face from view, but his voice has an edge you’ve never heard before. He sounds ready to murder you, but he doesn’t move from his place on the ground, only digging his fingers deeper into the ground. “You knew I was going to lose everything again. And you didn’t tell me.”

“I…” you gulp. What can you even say? What comfort can you offer? “I was planning to tell you… sometime.”

“Oh! Sometime!” Wild grabs your wrist and his face is suddenly inches from yours, eyes dark with anger. “And just when was this sometime going to be?”

“I don’t know!” You twist your wrist, attempting to escape his crushing grip, but are unsuccessful. “I was trying to figure out a way to tell you! Or to stop it from happening in the first place!”

“Stop it? Just how do you expect to stop that from happening?” Wild releases your wrist and combs his hands roughly into his hair, pushing it away from his face angrily. You take a moment to rub where he had grabbed you. It aches, but there isn’t even a bruise.

“Well,” you speak softly as you stand up, taking a few steps away from him. “I figured, if we ever passed through your time, all ten of us could go wail on him before he even breaks the seal. There is the chance of him escaping and wailing on us instead, though.”

“THAT’S your plan?” He laughs as tears roll down his cheeks. “Sure! Let’s just go in, guns blazing, and all die of gloom poisoning!”

“That’s why I was waiting to tell you!” You throw up your hands. Your words sound louder than you intended them. Are you yelling now? “I have a couple design plans in the works for the Purah Pad and Sheika Slate, depending on which one is available, but none of them are finished yet!”

“Design plans?” Wild’s anger melts off his face, replaced with hesitant hope. “What are you designing?”

“Three words: Weaponized. Spinning. Top.”

[blindmagdalena]

The Athenaeum Portrait

18+ 4.7k homelander x f!reader. established relationship, first time having sex, reader has a complicated relationship with sex, abuse of superpowers for cunnilingus, overstimulation, penetrative sex, lite sublander, praise kink, slight coercion, unhealthy dynamics, implied codependency, implied verbal abuse.

Your relationship with Homelander is a delicious, precarious thing. Like a perfectly ripe peach, its closeness to something bruised and rotten makes it all the sweeter.

AO3 link. inspired by this anonymous prompt. thank you! 🖤

Homelander did not enter your life so much as he bull-rushed into it, a living whirlwind that uprooted you and hurled you into a familiar yet strange new world as unceremoniously as the tornado that took Dorothy to Oz. 

Vought Tower sparkles just as vibrant as the Emerald City, and provides no less surreal of a backdrop to your new life. Homelander's penthouse is a bizarre caricature of personhood, loaded with hundreds of years of American history. It would ring false, just another aspect of his brand, if not for the fact he can—and often does—regale you with a laundry list of historical facts on any piece in the collection.

This is how you find out that Gilbert Stuart is one of his favorite painters. When you ask Homelander why that is, he shrugs. "He painted over a thousand portraits, and he's most famous for the one he didn't finish. Ironic, huh?"

The Athenaeum Portrait, it's called. An unfinished portrait of George Washington that was replicated and sold by Stuart over a hundred times before his death.

The original was never completed.

The more time you spend in proximity to him, the more you start to understand why the piece resonates with him. You see replicas of him sold throughout the world on a daily basis, his face synonymous with Vought’s branding. There is a completeness to the commercial image of Homelander, America’s wholesome hero, but behind closed doors, you see his frayed and unfinished edges.

You feel his desperation for someone who will complete him in the way he touches you. He takes hold of your hands and brings them to the places where he is sketched at best, a ready and yielding canvas for your fingers. He likes when you stroke his hair, and sometimes touching his face turns his eyes glassy. There is a woundedness to the way he seeks your love, like he’s never entirely sure whether to expect the carrot or the stick.

You’ve never raised the stick to him, but it’s clear that those who came before you certainly did. It’s difficult to imagine that a man as powerful as him has been hurt like this, but he is a painfully obvious man at times, wearing his emotions like the scars his impervious body will never show.

When you lie down to read on the couch, he’s drawn to you like a magnet. He has no problem making space for himself within your bubble, sprawling on top of you, snaking his arms around your middle, his head settled on your sternum. You smile to yourself and rest your book on the top of his head as you read.

He gives a small grunt of complaint, but you’re fairly certain he’s smiling, too.

For every night of domestic bliss, so too are there sudden perils. Unexplained nights of absence, wild mood swings, fits of paranoia. He fights as many battles in his own mind as he does on the city streets and on foreign soil, a living weapon used to the fullest extent by Vought and the American government.

It feels like you lose him temporarily, like he becomes someone else. He paces around you like a caged tiger with his teeth bared, daring you to give him a reason to bite. You never do, and he never does, but sometimes you worry just how close of a call it was.

Occasionally he comes to you spattered in muck and bloody viscera. On these nights, he can’t seem to comprehend your presence, your gentleness, your love. It’s as if these concepts ring false in the wake of everything he has been made to endure. It’s suspicious to him that you would love something so repulsive, so opposite of everything Vought has polished his image into being.

He screams at you for this, takes you by the shoulders and demands you explain what he cannot understand, but you can’t. You can’t explain something that you don’t always understand.

Your relationship with Homelander is a delicious, precarious thing. Like a perfectly ripe peach, its closeness to something bruised and rotten makes it all the sweeter.

When things are good, they’re very good. He’s sweet, a romantic who learned everything he knows about romance from jewelry ads and Valentine’s Day specials. He brings you roses on random days of the week and adores showering you in gifts, especially the kind you wear. He tends to gravitate towards soft, velvety fabrics for your clothes because he likes the feel of them. He buys you perfumes that smell like vanilla and pink pepper. He likes fresh, warm scents. Nothing too floral or artificial.

Most importantly, he likes you. There’s rarely a day that the two of you don’t make each other laugh. His sense of humor is strange, but in the same way that yours is. Sometimes it feels like you’re two aliens creating a brand new language that only the two of you will ever know. The more time you spend together, the less the people outside of your relationship seem to understand you.

Not that it matters much. You spend the majority of your time with him these days, consumed by the excitement of this thrilling new thing the two of you share. Homelander is profoundly tactile, always needing to feel or touch you in some way. He loves to kiss you, content to make out languidly with you until your lips start to chap.

You’ve learned to keep lip balm on hand at all times.

Inevitably though, his hunger for intimacy outgrows quaint touches and kisses. You’re cuddled up together on his couch, only half paying attention to the movie playing. Homelander is nuzzling at your neck, pressing warm, wet kisses to it while his gloved hand slips beneath your shirt, fondling your breast through your bra. There’s something endearingly innocent about it, like a fumbling teenager piloting the body of a man in his forties.

Sex is nice enough. You have nothing against the act, but you’ve never felt as though you get as much out of it as the partners you’ve had in the past. Homelander’s touch feels good to you because it’s his, and because you know he wants to make you feel good in his enjoyment of you. You reciprocate by pushing your fingers into his hair, nails scraping along his scalp, eliciting a sweet, rumbling moan from him against your neck.

“Want you,” he mumbles fervently against your skin, his need so palpable it gives you goosebumps. “Can I have you?”

You knew this was coming. It’s not that you don’t want to fuck him, it’s that he’s not the only one whose portrait feels incomplete. You’re a fully grown adult, and never in your life have you managed to pleasure yourself to completion. In your youth, you’d just faked it for partners once you’d had your fill. With Homelander, you’re not even sure that would work. You’re not sure you would want it to.

He’s got a thing about lies, even little white ones.

You swallow and softly say, “Yes.” Ultimately, you do want him to have you. You just hope that what he gets doesn’t disappoint him.

He smiles into the crook of your neck, withdrawing his hand from beneath your shirt. He kisses you as he gathers you effortlessly up into his arms, carrying you to his bedroom. His strength is another aspect of why sex has made you nervous: the internet is full of horror stories of accidental sexual mutilation occurring between humans and supes. 

However, Homelander seems hyper aware of your fragility versus his power. He’s never harmed you. It seems to come naturally to him after years and years of navigating a world not made to withstand him. In the same way you’re capable of handling an egg without shattering it, he has learned how to hold you.

He lays you down on the bed, and then begins the ritual of shedding his signature suit, starting with his belt. You recline, content to watch him, but your gaze seems to make him uncharacteristically self conscious. You’ve never seen him without his suit before, another little quirk that you’ve largely just accepted to this point.

“Aren’t you gonna…” He gestures vaguely to you, expecting you to undress as well.

“Just enjoying the show,” you say coyly, attempting to lighten up a bit of the tension in his expression.

It doesn’t work. The furrow of his brows deepens slightly. “Ah, well. Y’know, the suit, they uh, pad it up some, so don’t–it’s different,” he says, fumbling over his words.

Your expression softens. “I know. It’s okay. I’m excited to see you,” you say, sitting up. In solidarity, you pull your shirt off first, and then wiggle out of your pants, kicking them off the bed. Homelander smiles at this, and works his pants off the rest of the way, kicking off his boots as well, leaving behind just a pair of dark red briefs. You sit up on your knees to help him with the fastenings of his suit top, which he seems to be the most apprehensive about.

To distract him from it, you kiss him. He melts eagerly into the press of your lips, slipping his tongue between yours with that same hunger to taste, to feel, to have. He’s bolder now that you’re no longer playing the part of spectator, shrugging his top from his shoulders and letting it fall with a surprisingly heavy thud to the floor. His ungloved hands skim up your sides, warm and positively thrumming with excitement.

You explore him as well, mapping out the slopes of his body that have previously been hidden from you. He’s leaner, more manageable than the ridiculous bulk of the suit. Part of you had always assumed there was a level of exaggeration in the chiseled, over the top musculature of the suit, but his build is still more slender than you expected. Regardless, it does nothing to detract from his raw strength as he catches you by the backs of your thighs and flips you onto your back, startling out a giddy bark of laughter from you.

He grins down at you, descending to catch you in another slow, consuming kiss, making space for himself between your legs. His lips trail from yours to the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your neck. He turns his head to messily suck two fingers into his mouth, and then slips his hand down the front of your underwear. He finds your clit with surprising precision–someone definitely taught him that–and begins to rub slow figure-eights over it, as gentle as he is deft. It does feel good, so you close your eyes and try to simply enjoy it for what it is, for the touch and warmth and intimacy of it all.

It doesn’t matter if you don’t come. This is still nice. You can feel his desire for you in the heat of his body, in the hot huffs of his breath wafting across your skin between kisses. He eventually slips a single finger inside you, patiently working you open. You drag your nails up his back and into his hair, breathing deeply, willing your mind to pause and let you experience this pleasantry in the same way you would a hot bath or a nice massage.

However, no matter how you try, the looming matter of expectation weighs heavily on your mind. You’ve never been comfortable with the attention being solely on your pleasure: it feels like dangling a treat in front of someone on a treadmill. They’re running for something they’ll never reach.

“Hey,” Homelander calls quietly, yanking you from your mental downward spiral. You see him above you, no longer tucked against you, working your skin with his lips and teeth. His brows are slightly furrowed. “You’re quiet. Am I doing something wrong?”

“No,” you exhale, the question immediately putting a wash of guilt through you. “No, not at all, feels good. I’m just really in my head right now,” you admit, cupping either side of his face. “You’re doing great, I’m ready. I want you inside me,” you tell him in a breathless flurry, pulling him down into a kiss. 

He does relax at that, sinking in against you for a moment before lifting himself back up. He shucks his underwear down and then pulls yours off as well, lifting both of your legs over his shoulder as he slips the panties completely off of you. While he does that, you unclasp and toss your bra aside. He turns his head to kiss the side of your leg before he lowers them both back down around his waist, lowering himself back down atop you.

The thick head of his cock presses wetly to your cunt, sliding up and down, spreading his slick and yours. You can already feel his excitement in the tension of his body, his shoulders drawn tight beneath your hands. You knead them, rolling your palms against steel-woven muscle. “That’s it,” you encourage, working to relax the both of you. “Nice and slow, mmm… Fuck, you’re big,” you say, biting your lip as he spreads you around the girth of his cock.

“You’re tight,” he moans in response, already sounding frayed. He moves his hips in slow, slightly jerky motions–clearly holding back for your comfort–until he finally bottoms out, keening so sweetly in your ear you can’t help but stroke his hair, hushing him.

“Good, good, feel so good in me,” you coo, the words a familiar script. He shudders for the praise, kissing down your chest, mouthing hungrily at your breast, the same he’d been fondling earlier. His mouth is hot and wet, perfectly pleasant as he sucks at your nipple, moaning into your skin. You cradle his head in both hands, adjusting to the onslaught of sensation. 

It’s been awhile since anyone fucked you. The feel of it is just as alien as you remember, but you’re distracted by the persistent swirl of his tongue alternating with the pull of his lips as he lavishes attention on one breast, and then the other. With his bare skin against yours, you’re more aware than ever of the superhuman frequency of his body, how he seems to literally vibrate with restraint and eagerness in equal measure. It’s like there is a line of semi trucks driving by you, the bed itself buzzing with it.

“You’re amazing,” you marvel quietly, tightening your legs on either side of him to feel that preternatural hum against even more of your skin, tingling your inner thighs. “You feel amazing.”

He grunts out a needy, strained noise at that, followed by a jagged thrust deep into you. To your surprise, you realize then that he’s coming apart, dull nails biting crescent marks into your skin, clutching you as tightly as he dare allow himself. You thought that maybe his powers would give him superhuman stamina as well, that he might fuck you raw before he came, but if the shaky cadence of his thrusts are any indication, he’s already holding himself back.

“I can feel how bad you wanna come,” you murmur, carding your fingers through his hair. “Mm? You can, you can come in me,” you say, feeling his whole body shiver from your words. You clench, tightening up around his cock so suddenly that it makes him gasp.

“Fffuck, fuck, oh god, y’can’t–fucking Christ, you–mmm, fuck!” He rasps, choking on his own breath as he comes, burying his face between your breasts at the same time he slams in deep, fading into tight, erotic little whimpers as he loses himself to the rhythmic clench of your cunt. You do it purposefully, milking him of his orgasm, enamored with how thoroughly you’ve reduced a demigod to these simpering noises. The flood of come is hot inside you, already dripping out where your bodies are connected.

All that, and he still never lost control. You doubt his fingerprints will even bruise, though you find a part of yourself wishing they would. 

Homelander comes down gradually from his high, limp against you, breathing shallowly against your skin. He looks dazed, eyes only half open. It’s cute, which isn’t a word you necessarily would have ever thought to associate with The Homelander before you started dating him. When he looks up at you, you smile, already more satisfied than you’ve been with sex in your life.

“That was playing dirty,” he tells you, voice a touch fried.

“I just wanted to make you feel good,” you respond simply, watching as he nuzzles into your hand.

He rumbles out a low hum, kissing your palm. “Which means it’s my turn to make you feel good,” he says, moving to slide out of your hands. You stop him, taking hold of his arm.

“You don’t need to,” you assure him, tugging gently to lure him back up. “Really. That felt incredible.”

He frowns, looking every bit like a confused puppy. “But you didn’t come.”

“I know,” you say, that ball of tightness coiling back up in your gut. “It’s okay.”

He exhales an incredulous little scoff. “What kind of boyfriend d’you take me for? I’m gonna make you come,” he says, shrugging off your hand as he moves down your body, sliding out of you.

“Homelander,” you implore, reaching out for him. “Really, it’s okay, you don’t need to–”

“What, you don’t think I can?” He asks. You can see the challenge in his eyes, but you also recognize the potential of a stinging wound to his ego in those words.

You sigh, folding your arm over your eyes as you lay your head back. “It’s not that I don’t think you specifically can, I’m… Eugh.” You take a deep breath. “It’s not something that I do. I can’t. I’ve never been able to,” you say to the darkness of your arm, fingers rolling apprehensively. “And I don’t want you to take this as some kind of challenge, and then be upset when it doesn’t happen,” you say, speaking from very specific experience.

The space between you is silent for long enough that your curiosity beats out your apprehension, and you lower your arm. Homelander stares at you from between your legs, expression pinched, eyes flickering slightly, as if he’s solving the world’s most complicated puzzle in his brain. His eyes narrow softly, his bewilderment showing.

“Like… You haven’t come… Ever?”

“Ever,” you confirm. “It’s not that I haven’t tried, there’s just something broken.”

He processes that a moment longer. “But all of this still felt good, at least… Yeah?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course it did, I liked it. You really do feel amazing,” you assure him, lest he think you were lying with what you said earlier. “It just never finishes for me. That’s all.”

“Alright,” he says, the gears in his brain clearly turning. “So. Sure, no crossing the finish line, but I can still, y’know. Take you for a cruise? A little joyride?” He asks, making you laugh softly.

He really is cute. Sweeter than one might expect, too.

“A joyride?” You echo with a quirk of your brow, smiling.

He smiles, too. “Yeah. No destination, just a little drive.”

“I can do a little drive,” you say, feeling that knot of tension in your gut begin to untangle itself.

“Good,” he purrs, shouldering down between your legs. “Gimme that pillow,” he says, which you promptly do. He slides it under your ass, adjusting your hips until the angle is just right. He smooths his hands up and down the outsides of your thighs, glancing up at you. “Now, you just sit back and relax. Close your eyes, and imagine some smooth jazz.”

“I hate jazz,” you laugh.

He laughs as well, breath rolling over your wet pussy in hot waves. “Well, fuck, imagine something you do like.”

Relaxing back against the bed, you exhale a deep breath, closing your eyes. The first wet, hot slide of his tongue makes you jump a little. He responds by gripping your thighs and pinning you still, which does admittedly run a little thrill up your spine. You test his grip by pushing against it, and when that fails, pulling away, but neither grant you any leeway.

“Squirming already?” He asks between drags of his tongue.

“I like feeling your strength,” you say through a pleased little smile.

He gives an intrigued hum at that and spreads your legs wider, forcing them down against the bed. To even your surprise, that pushes a small, thin noise out of you. Encouraged, he presses his tongue inside, lapping up the mess he made inside you. It feels fine enough, but after a bit of his tongue pushing in and out of you, you give his hair a little tug. “Clit,” you say simply, a command he happily obliges, drawing back up to suck your clit between his lips.

Without the looming pressure to achieve some kind of euphoric release at the end, you find yourself more capable of simply enjoying this for what it is. Homelander is good at this, but it’s really his persistence that elevates the experience. At no point do you feel him begin to waver or slow, or shift and breathe in impatience. He’s relentlessly consistent, swirling his tongue and lapping at you like he’s starved for the taste.

You sigh, idly scratching his scalp as you toy with his hair. “Mmm, that feels good,” you say, more aware of the effect your praises have on him. He makes an appreciative noise, nuzzling into your cunt. One odd thing is that your clit is starting to ache in a way you’re unfamiliar with. You shift back a touch, but Homelander pulls you right back in.

“Greedy,” you accuse, which draws a low laugh from him, the rumble of it making you shiver a little. You must be growing oversensitized. You’ve lost track of how long he’s been at this.

He pulls back, and the cool air almost stings for the loss of his hot mouth, but that ache was beginning to grow uncomfortable anyways. You’re just about to thank him for his service when a whole new sensation steals the words right off your tongue. You don’t even know how to describe it: hot, pressure, but weightless. Your whole body jerks, but Homelander keeps you still, forces you to endure whatever the fuck it is he’s doing now.

“Wh-what the fuck is that?” Watching him, comprehension dawns; he’s blowing on your clit, lips pursed, forcing out a concentrated stream of warm, almost hot air that has your thighs quivering in his grasp. “Oh fuck,” you gasp, equal parts bewildered and overwhelmed. You try to close your knees, but once again, his hold is completely unrelenting, keeping them spread wide. Immediately that same ache is skyrocketing back up, spreading tightness low in your belly.

“Hold on,” you groan, gripping his hair tighter. You expect it to end before too long, for him to at least need to inhale, but beyond all logic and reason, he just keeps going. The heat of it is surreal, the weightless pressure of it constant. Your toes curl, heels digging into the bed while every muscle in your body starts to lock up.

Homelander’s gaze flickers up to meet yours, nothing pure wicked delight in his eyes. Just as suddenly, he descends upon you, tongue feeling hotter and wetter than ever as he dotes on your clit with it, focusing it with alarming precision. The abrupt change in sensation makes you thrash, stumbling over a stream of nonsense as you pull at his hair, that aching tightness now so prominent that you can hardly take in a breath.

“That’s enough, that’s–fuck, Homelander, it’s too much, it’s too much, s-stop, s–” your pleas erupt into a gasp because he’s focusing that stream of air right back on you again, the feel of it so surreal, so indescribable that your brain can hardly function around it. Your eyes roll back, you writhe, but he’s so much stronger than you’d ever really wrapped your mind around. He’s entirely unyielding in a way he’s never felt in your arms, against your body on the couch. He’s more inhuman than he’s ever been, and it’s driving you wild. 

Tears gather in your eyes. This  assault of sensation walks the knife’s edge of pain, but never quite falls over it. Your whole body is throbbing, and you feel like you’re going to fucking explode. He twists that knife by taking you again with his tongue, swirling and slick in contrast to the dry pressure of his breath.

“H-Homelander, Homelander, please, I’m–I’m–fuck!”

The world turns white, and suddenly you can’t breathe. You hear yourself make a strained noise you’ve never heard before, but it might as well not even be you. You’re somewhere outside of your own body, floating in a torrent of indescribable sensory input that is so alien to you, you don’t even feel real anymore. Homelander isn’t holding you still anymore, but you can still feel him slowly lapping at your throbbing clit, watching you through foggy eyes as he licks you through your first orgasm, no doubt tasting and smelling the endorphins that flood your body.

Every single taut muscle in your body snaps like the strings of a marionette, leaving you to collapse limply on the bed, panting through it as your soul gradually descends back down into your body. Blissfully, Homelander ceases his torment and joins you, laying sideways with his head propped up in his palm while his other hand rests on your hip, thumb rubbing soothing circles. 

“Oh my God,” you whisper eventually.

“Please, you can still call me Homelander,” he says, sounding just as smug as one would expect him to be after such an accomplishment. If you had any power whatsoever left in your lifeless arm, you’d smack him. However, he quickly makes up for it by drawing you gently into his arms, kissing your forehead. 

“I can’t believe you did that,” you say, more malleable than ever as he adjusts you both beneath the blankets. “I thought I was going to die.” It’s only a slight hyperbole.

Homelander laughs softly, beaming at you with pink cheeks and a sly, delighted little smile. “See? Nothing’s broken,” he murmurs at your ear, catching you off guard. That had been such an offhand remark, you didn’t expect to hear it come back around.

“What if I hadn’t? What if all that, and nothing happened?” You ask, adjusting slightly while he entangles his limbs with yours, bodies slotting together like jigsaw pieces. You’re both jagged in all the right ways, fitting nicely together.

He gives a small shrug, stroking his knuckles up and down your spine. “Still would’a been a hell of a ride. Not everything has to be finished to be good.”

Slowly, you smile. “Yeah. I guess you’re right.”

Loving Homelander isn’t always easy or good. There are times when he makes it hard, and there are times when you make it hard, but if there’s one thing you’ve learned in this lifetime, nothing worth doing is ever easy. Love may start as an incidental thing, a passion that ignites as readily as tinder, but the upkeep of it is more like pottery. It’s messy, and even once you get the shape of it right, you don’t always know how it will react to the heat necessary to give it solid form. It can be broken, it can be fixed, it can even be remade, but never is one the same as the last.

Still, even when it hurts, when it’s frustrating, when it doesn’t turn out the way you wanted it to, the euphoria of creating something so beautiful keeps you coming back to it. When the same love that burns you can also warm you against the cold, coat your throat like honey, and fill your night sky with stars to guide your way in darkness, it becomes impossible to let go of.

To love something is to heal it. Everything that is loved is beautiful, even things that are unsightly, unfinished, unappealing. Even things that are broken.

Finally, you think you understand why Stuart never finished his original painting.

He loved it precisely as it was.

[portraitofalinkonfyre]

DANCING WITH FIERCE DANCING WITH FIERCE DANCING WITH FIERCE DANCING WITH FIERCE DANCING WITH FIERCE DANCING WITH FIERCE

Ahem...

How bout a fic where we share, maybe teach Fierce how to dance?

I am living for these fics

I love this idea!! One dance scene coming up, and I'll throw in some /drama/ to sweeten the deal ;)

Smooth

Pairing: Fierce Deity x Reader

Warning(s): some possessive thoughts, but nothing crazy

Masterlist

It was a preposterous idea, in the Fierce Deity's opinion; far too poignant to be introduced at the breakfast table, much less to the likes of him.

"I've picked up the waltz," the Link called 'Warrior' preened, leaning forward to fix you with a gaze the deity couldn't help but loathe. Of course, you were your own person and free to do as you pleased, though that sentiment did nothing to stem the flow of... he dare say it was jealously, through his veins. "I'd be happy to show you, if you'd like."

But sweet, unassuming you only grinned at him from across the table. "I know that one too! Anyone heard of the square dance?"

"I have, but 'm no good," Twilight chimed in, fork piled high with the eggs you and Wild made.

"I can dance on any ship mast!" Wind proclaimed, looking pointedly at everyone before his gaze settled on you. "If we ever end up in my world I'll teach you!"

"I can't wait," there it was, the soft smile that never failed to frame your face when you were truly happy. Fierce hoped you never lost it. Picking at the last of your food, you turned to the deity beside you. "How about you, big guy? You can't tell me you haven't danced at least once."

The Fierce Deity felt a sort of melancholy at your words, mostly because he had not, in fact, danced at least once and partly because impressing you was typically the highlight of his day. "I," he could feel Time's working eye on him, as cerulean as the Termina sky and twice as calculating. "am not familiar with the dances of this world."

That seemed the safest response, and the deity was relieved he could think as quickly on his buttocks as he could on his feet. When understanding settled in your gaze, he knew he made the right choice. "Well, allow me to impart some moves on you in case someone asks for your hand on the floor."

Aside from the fact that he had heard none of those words in the same sentence together, and that he would likely never accept the hand of anyone but you, the Fierce Deity could only helplessly nod, no more ensnared than a fish in a net. At night, your sway over him would be so baffling that he could hardly close his eyes, too caught up in the great mysteries of the heart he didn't know he possessed. "I would like that."

And so it was decided. The conversation devolved to you detailing all the errands the day required, and there was no shortage of help when it came to your needs–you had given them a home, food, and good company, so how could Time and Twilight refuse tending to the petunias, or Wild and Sky the cooking? Hyrule looked as though he would sooner restart his hero's journey than gather ingredients for the stew you had planned for dinner, while Legend's expression indicated that he would rather fight the beast Volga a thousand times over than not assist with laundry, never mind the amount of soiled clothes eleven people undoubtedly generated a week. Four's eyes resembled a mismatched kaleidoscope (he had been quite disturbed when you let him use yours, but the Fierce Deity wasn't one to shy easily) when you asked if he wanted some scrap metal from the neighbor's garage sale, and Wind was downright ecstatic when you invited him to the grocery store. Warriors gaze practically held heart-eyes when you informed him that the sewing materials to fix his ripped scarf would be arriving in the afternoon, only souring when you delegated the last task to the Fierce Deity himself: dance lessons at 4.

It was a laughable thought that his only responsibility was to prepare for lessons on dance, but the Fierce Deity was not one to complain at the newfound freedom, as if you had never offered it before. The tasks you laid out were simply requests, and it was clear that they could back out at any time, not that any of them would, of course. The Fierce Deity knew your behavior would have never passed in his world, and it was one of the things he admired about you, a mere mortal who could convince them of anything. He saw it in Time's eyes, in Twilight's and Wind's and Wild's. Devoted was too soft a word to describe it, but there was no better one.

And as you began to gather plates, chirping happily about the great weather, he began to believe that maybe, just maybe, it was.

You found the Fierce Deity in the living room, sat beside Time and Warriors, their eyes practically glued to the episode of Family Feud playing on the TV. You found it funny how much they enjoyed the show, though you supposed it was a bid to learn more about your culture without having to ask you about every little thing. Wind had even begun to use slang, and while you were proud, his use of 'bro' was simply out of control at times, though nothing could top the time Twilight tried to use 'rad' in a sentence.

Leaning against the wall, you fake-coughed, tapping your watch when they turned to look at you. "Hey, Fierce, you ready to get some moves?"

Despite the obvious differences in word choice between the two of you, Fierce nodded solemnly and followed you to the backyard. A large 'patio' extended nearly to the middle of the yard, and his boots clomped obnoxiously on the slate-colored stone. It had been one of the only articles you allowed him to wear everywhere, as the people of your world tended not to be fond of men in armor that carried swords bigger than they were, which led to several heated discussions from you about proper dress. The Fierce Deity tugged on the sleeves of his grey 'shirt', a gift from you when you realized he was a bit large to shop at regular stores.

"We should be good here," you stated, hands poised on your hips. "I still can't believe you've never danced at all."

"It is not uncommon," responded the Fierce Deity. "Song and dance are for people of mirth."

You raised an eyebrow. "You don't consider yourself a 'person of mirth'?"

"I am the god of war," for a moment, the bitterness in his gaze was almost palpable. "There is no happiness in battle."

"Not even victory?" You were curious of the Fierce Deity, of what the lens of divinity really entailed. Had it truly made him cold, or was it merely a front?

"Especially not victory," he intoned, and you were nearly consumed with the urge to hug him. You'd never denied the vast differences your lives held, but it still stung to hear him speak so... despondently.

"Well," you patted his shoulder in an attempt to lighten the mood. You had. "We haven't had a world war in, like, years, so don't worry your pretty little head about it!"

The Fierce Deity raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment on your choice of words, much to your relief. Clapping your hands together, you changed the subject. "You have a very waltz-y style, so we'll start with that."

You offered him your hands, which he took with no hesitation. Contrary to your assumption, his porcelain skin was warm to the touch, and just as smooth. You couldn't help but wonder if all deity's were like this, or if it was merely another thing that set him apart from the gods. Carefully, you brought your right arm up, encouraging his to follow suit, then placed the palm of his right hand on your side, sliding your left hand up to rest on the curve of his bicep. "You're going to want to hold your arm up like this–and keep your hand under my arm like so."

"Then you step back with your right foot," you said as you stepped forward with your right. "Aaand take another step so both feet are parallel."

It was a testate to the Fierce Deity's character that he followed your movements with nary a grunt. Stark eyes burned holes into your own. The Fierce Deity was a man of few words, so you supposed it was fate that you had more than enough to share. "Now you're going to take a step with your left," your shoes clicked on the stone as you stepped back carefully. "Then another so your feet are parallel, and now move them together."

The Fierce Deity did just that, brows set in concentration. His dedication was flattering in a soft way, as was the thought that a god thought you were important enough to dance with. You had no doubt that he wouldn't have agreed if he didn't want to, though you could still hardly comprehend his interest in you, a mere mortal. Surely there were more compelling souls he could associate with, or were you simply a distraction from the shock of living in a new world? You tried not to think too hard, shooting the deity a practiced grin. "And that's all there is to it!"

Instead of pulling away, Fierce began anew, until you were dancing in the middle of the patio like no one's business. If dancing with a deity wasn't on your bucket list before, it sure was now.

"You are a good teacher," were the Fierce Deity's first words in however long you'd been outside. He was close enough that you could feel the steady puffs of his breaths, and you doubted you would ever feel quite as protected as you were now. "I shall treasure this experience."

Well, if that wasn't the sweetest thing you had heard today. "I'm glad, you're doing great!"

Just when you thought it couldn't get any better, it did. "Are you familiar with more dances?"

"A few," you shrugged. "Square dancing, the waltz... and the tango, but don't quote me."

The question in his pupil-less eyes was clear: when did you have the time? Time was a fickle concept, and it didn't surprise you that the Fierce Deity wouldn't have any left for song and dance. Yet here you stood, locked in a creative embrace that he should have scorned. What about you could have intrigued the deity so, or at least enough for him to request dance lessons?

Not that you minded, you would never mind.

"Do you want to learn those too?"

The Fierce Deity's head jerked up and down, ruffling his unusually impeccable bangs. You had no idea what sorcery he employed to achieve such an effortless look, but you wanted in. "Has your hair always been this long?"

His grip on your waist tightened a fraction, gaze practically burning a hole into your skull. "Yes."

Hair held memories, so what mysteries did his carry? Stories within strands, just begging to be discovered. Most importantly, would he allow you to read them, or were you simply grossly overestimating your relationship?

"I had it cut," the deity spoke, effectively coloring you surprised. "once."

"Only once?"

"It was during my service," it was back--the tone he used when he was only humoring you. You swayed across the cobblestone, ears perked for his next words. "I did not like it."

You... you could tell. "You don't say..."

"Do you cut your hair?"

"I do," you had no idea why admitting that felt embarrassing. "Not often, but enough that it doesn't get split ends."

"Split... ends?" By the way he said it, you would have assumed it was a curse. That and the fact that he apparently was oblivious to haircare other than what you assumed to be sorcery.

"...You don't know what those are?" His blank expression said all, so you coughed and stood a bit straighter. "It's when your hair grows to long and the ends just... split. Getting regular hair cuts and using good products helps."

"I... see," just when you thought that was the end of it, the madness continued. "And these products you speak of?"

Was he... did he really want to learn about human haircare? You supposed your hands were tied on the matter, so you heaved a sigh. "It's an umbrella term; there's hair masks, shampoo and conditioner, oils, butters–"

"You apply butter to your hair?" came a new, incredulous voice. Warriors and Wild strode out from the patio door, the former's scarf looped around his nose and mouth in a manner that made you wonder if you should be nervous. You attempted to release Fierce, but he refused, hold only tightening. "Dude– what's up, Wars, Wild?"

"Where's the... Hylia, I can't remember the name for the life of me," Wars scratched his head and groaned. "The red cylinder–"

"You mean the fire extinguisher?" You asked incredulously, trying and failing to hide your mounting terror.

Warriors grinned and snapped his fingers. "That's it! So...?"

"It's under the sink," you deadpanned. "Please tell me the kitchen isn't on fire."

"Okay, we won't," said Wild, already jogging backwards. You sighed as they retreated back into the house, the acid scent of smoke fingering in through the cracked windows.

"God give me strength–"

"You may utter that once more," said the deity with an exhausted expression.

Other than his horrible euphemism for 'you can say that again', you completely agreed with that statement. "I'd love to stay, but I really don't have the money to get a new microwave," you said a tad sheepishly, weaseling from his slackened grip. "You've got the talent, and don't you forget it!"

It was only until you disappeared inside the house that the Fierce Deity released the sigh he had been holding... and the arm that had raised in a half-hearted attempt to draw you back. 'Pitiful' was the first word to come to his mind when he thought of you; he was a god, and yet he was practically helpless to the whims of a mortal. He wondered how the goddesses saw him now, tamer than a sparrow in a golden cage and more obedient than a hound on a leash. Perhaps it was wonder that drew him closer, emboldened by the terrifying presence of love in his barren heart. There were so many different types of love, and the Fierce Deity liked to think he felt at least one of them toward you. It would certainly explain the uncomfortable feeling in his chest when one of the others had your attention. But, rational as he was, the deity knew attempting to control you would be like trying to stem a raging river. Not that he wanted to, he simply desired your eyes on him, your hands in his own, warm and soft with gentle promises of comfort. He wondered if you would make good on your word, because, really, the concept of dance lessons was a preposterous idea–the Fierce Deity didn't dance at the whims of mortals–and he would be eternally grateful to the goddesses for granting him that pleasure.

This ask is insanely on time because I JUST learned how to square dance yesterday at college. Also this is an unofficial part of Knightmare in Toronto <3

[itsabouttimex2]

Y’know how reader is stuck as a monkey in the Yan monkiefam posts, what if reader somehow sneaks off the mountain and stumbles upon macaque. Macaque gets a specific vibe from the mysterious monkey, so he takes it as his own. Monkey reader is trying to communicate to macaque on how to transform back, but either due to lack of understanding or macaque not wanting reader to turn back, reader is still a monkey much to their dismay. Meanwhile Monkiefam is panicking and looking everywhere for reader. This could be seen as a part 3 to the Yan monkiefam posts with an added platonic Yan macaque.

How would you write this scenario? Sorry if it’s long, I started rambling a bit lol. I really like your writing and was hoping you would write something similar to this, I love platonic Yan and you stuff really caters to me. Thank you🩷🩷

Monkiefam: Part Three

Sable Savior

(Part Zero) (Part One) (Part Two) (Part Three)

(💜💜Post one-hundred, huh? Feels good to have gotten here! My ask box has been wiped, and is open again! Character x character requests are now allowed! 💜💜)

Monkeys don’t make for good pets. They’re cute, sure. They’re funny and interesting creatures that are worthy of study. But it’s impossible to raise them properly.

And it’s impossible to obtain one ethically.

Either the mothers are shot to death in the wild and the babies are ripped from their still bodies, or they’re kept in horrid conditions and forcibly bred again and again, having their babies torn from them after only a few days or weeks.

All for a cute pet that will be dumped in a few years. Monkeys don’t stay cute, after all. They grow out of the clothes you put them in, grow out of the training you put them through, grow from cute “living dolls” and into wild, fanged animals all their own.

Once they’ve shed their youthful looks and compliant behaviors, the fate of every ‘pet’ monkey is the same- death.

Whether shot or euthanized or dumped far from home and left to starve, monkeys kept in captivity almost always have unhappy endings.

You could be easily mistaken for one of those unfortunate creatures, stuck in a simian form and curled up near the roots of a looming tree.

Even after two full weeks, the transformation you had accidentally locked yourself into remained strong, showing no signs of faltering.

What at first seemed like a potential method of escape had quickly because the thickest chain in your shackle.

Not only was your newfound ‘family’ thrilled to have you as a cuddly little monkey, they seemed even more intent on coddling you.

MK especially adored having a ‘little sibling’ who couldn’t escape his grip. Day in and day out, every minute spent by your side, tending to your needs as a form of stress relief. Whether it was wrestling you into the bathtub or carving up fruit to spoon-feed you, the hero had quickly become a constant smothering presence. He was a fine caretaker, but you would much prefer that he used those skills on anyone else but yourself.

Just barely had he talked himself out of dressing you up, reasoning that you might find fabric uncomfortable over your fluffy white fur.

Not that he allowed you to remove the silk ribbons that his mentor had tied. Those were staying, and MK made sure of it. Every single time you had managed to squirm one free from your body, he just snatched it off the ground and tied it back on.

And, speaking of his mentor-

For all the doting you faced at the hands of MK, Sun Wukong was twice as bad.

Having been the caretaker for thousands of monkeys through the passing of centuries, it seemed that the Great Sage had a knack for pampering the furry darlings- and that translated quite easily to a human being who had accidentally trapped themselves in the form of a cub.

Already you had spent hours upon hours upon his lap, feeling Wukong’s deft fingers comb through your fur in search of debris to remove. Given that you weren’t allowed outside, he rarely found anything more than dust. Still, his intention was more to bond than it was to clean.

For him, the best part was when you'd get so bored that you'd start stroking his fur in turn, picking through it just to pass the time. Even though your heart wasn't really in the action, he was absolutely thrilled to have you acting like a real monkey in some small manner.

The Great Sage was so thrilled, in fact, that he'd barely allow you even a minute alone. And though some of this was justified by your inability to properly function in this new form, it went far beyond the realm of understandable when the king started taking you to bed with him- all under the guise of 'keeping you safe'. You'd rest all through the night tucked into his arms, listening to a powerful beating within the Monkey King’s muscular chest.

Against MK, you were lulled to sleep by a slow throb, finding some gentleness in the steady and low thrum.

Against Wukong, you were cascaded by the furious white-hot pounding of a heart blessed by power almost beyond comprehension.

You’d be lying if you said neither was at least a little comforting to hear as you drifted to a deep, dreamless sleep.

But here and now, there wasn’t an ounce of warmth to be found.

You had finally managed to slip from the clutches of your ‘family’, mustering just enough motor control to clamber up the couch and jump to a window left cracked, slipping under the peering pane and crawling to ‘freedom’.

On unfamiliar and furry legs you had fled, away from a gilded cage and into the beckoning wilderness. Maybe a part of you now longed for the forests, driving you to escape and run free. Perhaps some newfound simian instinct craved a life free from unchanging scenery and sturdy walls.

So away you went, chirping and chittering and calling out to the rising moon as the night grew darker and darker.

And as you raced into those darkening woods, throwing caution to the wind, you also drew further and further away from any semblance of safety.

It hadn’t taken you even twenty minutes to find trouble on the supposedly idyllic mountain.

And now you were here, stuck in a simian form and curled up near the roots of a looming tree.

Not alone, of course.

A troop of monkeys surrounds your quivering form, hissing and snarling at such a strange outsider. The count is easily fifteen to twenty, each one bearing sharp fangs and hunched down in aggressive stances.

You hunker away, pressed to the cold bark with eyes pointed downwards. You don’t dare move or make a sound.

It’s not enough to save you.

The largest member of the pack snarls for just a second, rearing back with his teeth bared. Before you can even flinch, the simian lurches towards you with a splitting howl, powerful jaws snagging the skin of your neck.

The scent of blood fills the air.

As it shrieks through a mouthful of your flesh, the monkey violently slings you back and forth. It beats at your face and neck, hammering your diminutive form with all the strength it can muster. When you dare to try and strike back it throws you to the ground, beating ruthlessly down on your stomach.

It hollers.

The rest of the pack jump into the fray, beating and biting and tearing at fur. Where one shoves, another pulls. Any spot left untouched by one is promptly assaulted by another. Not an inch of you is spared the violent assault, nor is mercy given in regards to your youthful form.

And right as darkness swells in the corners of your vision, the troop freezes.

A barbed lash of black strikes the alpha across the face, leaving a deep and stinging cut where it lands. He howls and shrieks and falls back, shooting off into the jungle and disappearing from sight. From only the trail of blood left in his wake, his troop follows, fearful but still loyal.

“Someone’s had a rough go of it,” says a voice that would be insufferably smug if it hadn’t just saved you from probable death.

Two cold hands wrap around your prone form, prying you from the ground.

The white of your fur has almost entirely disappeared behind a mixture of wet soil and stinking blood, filthy and pungent. The ribbon around your neck has been torn free and left on the ground, lying in tatters.

“You‘re still a little too young to be without your mother, fuzzball. She’s the one who’s supposed to teach you ‘the ways of the wild’, yeah? Where’d she get off to?”

Macaque cradles you close in one of his arms, lightly stroking the underside of your chin with a sharp nail. His touch is surprisingly gentle, far more than you’d expect for a demon. His voice takes a turn for the soft.

“Nah, that’s not it. If you’re this close to another pack without her, then she’s… not around anymore. You probably weren’t raised by her at all, actually.”

His thumb presses against your ragged silk ribbon, toying with the red fabric.

“Must’ve been dumped by some mortal who got sick of taking care of you, huh? Bastards.”

You chitter desperately for his help, hoping that this one might understand even a word you say. But he only gives you a pitying smile, untying the ribbon from your tail and letting it flutter slowly to the ground.

“You never even learned to speak, furball? They must’ve taken you young. Humans always do. Keep you for a few years and dress you up like babies, then throw you out once you’re not cute enough for them anymore.”

Your vocalizations grow more desperate and wild, becoming outright hysterical.

“I know, I know. Hungry, right? Never learned to forage for yourself, or pick for bugs. C’mon, let’s find something to eat- bet I can scrounge us up some peaches, at least. After all…”

Macaque pulls free his tattered scarf, then holds one end of it against your stomach. You can’t so much as chitter before he wraps you head to toe, swaddling your fluffy form tightly. It’s warm, at least, if a bit restrictive.

“Shouldn’t we outcasts stick together?”

And off he goes into the night, far from home and far from safety.

It’s not quite freedom, but you’ll take it.

[jujutsukatsuki]

Memories || B.K

|| in honor of someone sending in a hate mail about my writing and specifically part one of this work, which you don’t have to read to understand this. Here’s part two! This is dedicated to that hater! Listen to Memories by Conan Gray to get the full effect! ||

It had been six months since she saw him, since he broke her heart. Since he walked out the door like she meant nothing. She saw him on tv often, Pro Hero Dynamite, every week it was a report about how he saved the city or was accepting a new award for his heroics.

It wasn’t fair.

She stilled lived in the same apartment, mainly cause they had signed a two year lease so she couldn’t leave. She had finally managed to get herself to stop crying when she would look at the old pictures of the two of them.

She watches the rain out the window, a black cardigan pulled around her as she sees the sidewalks puddled with water. She takes a sip of her red wine as a soft knock breaks the gentle silence of the apartment. The cat she had gotten a month after he left her, gently meows and jumped up on the entry table next to the dark oak front door.

The walk to the door is quick from her cozy chair that overlooks the sidewalk. She looks through the peephole and sees red eyes peering through it at her. She jumps before she opens the door.

“Bakugou?” The use of his last name makes his skin crawl, he groans.

“I just.. can we talk? Y/n?” He looks at her, he can watch the gears in her brain turn as she looks at him. She can see how wet his hoodie is and she can’t help but open the door for him.

He slides in and goes to walk into the living room but stumbles over the cat.

“Who put a fuckin’ cat there?!” He grumbled before letting the cat sniff his hand.

She watches him cautiously, like she’s a wild animal and he’s prey.

Somehow they end up on the kitchen floor, Bakugou is wrapped in a blanket, his clothes put in the dryer. Y/n has her back against the cabinets as she watches him, her knees are pulled tight to her chest as if they were a shield guarding her heart from him.

“I miss you.” His voice is rough, she can see the remainder of the black make up he wore under his hero mask.

“I wish you’d stay in my memories.” She bites back, her tone is sharp, callous, calculated.

“I deserve that.” He agrees and runs his hands through the damp blonde streaks, the black cat named Starfire had curled up next to him.

‘Traitor’ Y/n thinks in her head as she eyes her companion.

“I hate what I did to you.. I was trying to pr-“

“So help me god if you say protect me.” Y/n snaps, her eyes watering from the confrontation.

“Y/n.. baby.. you don’t get it..” he tried to reason, his eyes search hers for any hope that he can explain.

“I get it. I got it when I came home to a half empty apartment and you sat me down and then walked out. I understood when you blocked my number. I understood when you had security kick me out of your agency when I wanted to talk to you.”

Bakugou closes his eyes, the alcohol has gotten to his head and he feels ill, or maybe it’s the guilt for his actions.

“You protected me all through out high school and college and I supported you when you were in hero school and starting out and you faced greater threats then whatever it was this time. You didn’t leave me then. So what was it Bakugou? What the fuck was it?!”

His last name on her tongue feels wrong, he wants to hear katsuki from her pretty lips.

“I.. I got scared. I wanted to marry you but I got scared. I wasn’t ready.” He whispers and moves closer to Y/n, he moves to lay on the ground, his head in her lap.

“Please Y/n… I’m sorry… please understand.”

She can feel the tears fall on the bare skin of her thigh, she thinks about the last few months that they were together in her head. The way he had gotten a call about a nine thousand dollar transaction on his card, the way he always would stand in the closet and be staring at something but hide it away when Y/n would come around. His mom texting and asking when they could go get their nails done even when they had never done that before.

Y/n looks down at the sobbing drunk man and sighs, she rubs the bridge of her nose and squeezes her eyes shut. The sound of the dryer going off rips her from all thought.

“I’ll be right back.” She gently maneuvers out from under him and goes to get his laundry. When she returns with the clothes, he’s still on the floor petting Starfire and whispering to himself.

“Your mom is so beautiful, I wish I never fucked things up.. I miss her every day. I know I ruined her but I could fix it.. make it up.. god..”

Y/n clears her throat and Bakugou sits up quickly startling Starfire who scampers off.

“You can sleep in the guest room. You’re in no condition to drive or walk.“

Bakugou stands up, keeping the blanket tight around him.

“Okay,” he agrees and walks to where the guest room was, he loved this apartment, remembered the day the two moved in like it was yesterday. He opens the door and it looks different. Y/n’s things are in here.

“Wrong door.” Y/n says as she crosses her arms over her chest.

Bakugou turns and opens their old bedroom. The guest room furniture was now in here.

“Why?” He asks and looks at her.

“Couldn’t stand to be in there.” She looks away.

He doesn’t say anything else as he goes into the room.

“Oh. Here.” She grabs his clothes from the kitchen counter and hands them to him.

“Thanks Y/n.” He smiles, his head feels gross, he needs to lay down.

“Yeah. Well good night.”

She walks into her bedroom and closes the door, she puts her back against it and slides down it, hands running through her hair.

Y/n lets herself cry, she sniffles as she wipes her tears on the black cardigan. It’s not fair she tells herself that right as she’s fully put back together he comes in here and fucks it all up, it’s not fair that he can ruin her own self image of herself and run back to her like it meant nothing.

She takes her sweater off and puts on a big t shirt and crawls into bed. Within a few minutes there’s a knock at the door and Bakugou peeks his head in.

“Y/n?” He says “I love you.” He finishes.

Her eyes flick to him and she jumps out of bed, the door flying open to see his full body

“No. No. No. No.” she picks up a pillow and starts to hit him with it, all the rage she had built up exploding out.

“You don’t get to say that! You don’t get to come here and ruin my life over again like you did already! You don’t get to make me believe that we could be something again when you already proved that I was nothing! You made me feel like I was nothing! Don’t you understand that you’re holding yourself back from finding someone you actually love?! I was barely surviving after you left! It’s not fair!” She screams at him, tears rolling down her cheeks like the storm that rages outside.

Her face is red and warm and her body feels like she’s laying on hot coals. Bakugou gently grabs her and pulls her into a hug, she can faintly smell the cologne he always used, the one she still kept in her bathroom. She can smell the beer on him as well. She breaks down in his arms, she can barely hold herself up as he strokes her back and holds her.

“Shhh, I got you. It’s okay.” He whispers and pulls her to the bed, he lays down with her on his chest. He keeps a tight hold.

“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry.” He whispers over and over.

They fall asleep like that. When the sun comes up and shines in their eyes, they lay in the aftermath of the storm. Bakugou wakes up first like he always did. Y/n isn’t far behind when she feels gentle kisses on her forehead.

“Morning sleeping beauty.” He whispers

“Hi.” She muttered and closes her eyes once again.

Maybe they didn’t have to be what they were before, maybe they could be something better.

Bakugou gently sits up and holds her.

“I am sorry Y/n.. and I do miss you. Just please.. one shot..”

Y/n takes a deep inhale of the cologne that sticks to his body. She slowly nods.

“Okay.. one shot, that’s all you get.”

“That’s all I need. I won’t fuck up again. I promise.”

[creative-type]

The Romanticism of One Piece

I’m always amazed by how Oda has managed to stay thematically consistent for more than two decades while writing a thousand plus chapter epic about silly pirates having fun chasing their dreams. One Piece, at its core, is about the dawn of a romantic adventure, and its been that way since volume one, chapter one.

But romance is one of those terms whose meaning as shifted over the years and is drastically misunderstood. So what is literary romance, and how does One Piece fit within its framework?

Well buckle up, folks. This is gonna be a long one.

Romanticism as a movement started in the late 18th century, and is described by Isaiah Berlin as the “the greatest single shift in the consciousness of the West”. The modern ideas of childhood, imagination,  and sentimentality were born here. It’s a rejection of society’s constraints in favor of impossible yearning for impossible goals. Romantics were restless and passionate, and embraced the magnitude of their feeling over the scientific rigors of the Age of Reason.

Sound familiar?

Romanticism gets its name from the old medieval ballads (themselves written in the Romantic languages) that became popular with the growing movement. The 19th century was a period of incredible change. Industrialization, urbanization, and the development of the middle class were all new. Revolution, both industrial and political, was changing the course of the world forever. The Romantics worshiped heroes of the past (in fact, the term hero worship was coined during this time) and sought a return to nature. William Wordsworth famously lobbied against the building of railways in his beloved Lake District, and much of the art of the time, whether it be painting or poetry, focused heavily on man’s relation with nature

In addition to rebelling against traditional political structures, the Romantics also broke away from the traditional religious teaching, many believing that man found enlightenment not through theology or the bible, but by study and attunement with nature. One of proto-Romantic writer Jean-Jaques Rousseau’s most influential works Emile, or On Education was banned in parts of Europe and even publicly burned due to its ideas on natural religion.

All of this leads to the Romantic pursuit of the sublime. While Enlightenment thinkers would often attempt to remove themselves emotionally from what they were experiencing in order to understand said experience through objective, immutable fact, the Romantics sought emotion, awe, and reverence that transcended rational thought. They celebrated and marveled at the wonders of creation, allowing themselves to be consumed by emotion and experience. These were not stoic people, and its here where One Piece truly begins to shine as a work of Romantic art

The world of One Piece, particularly once the story gets to the Grand Line, is chalk full of impossible wonder and whimsy. Each island visited along the journey is a feast for the eyes, and Oda’s art does each distinct and incredible location every justice. Luffy has no desire to see the boring or everyday, and he has no qualm in expressing his excitement everywhere he goes. Oda has made the conscious decision never to let the reader look into Luffy’s thoughts via thought bubbles, but the audience is still able to connect with him because they are always aware of what he he is feeling. Every smile takes up half his face, every sadness drawn as a sniveling wreck. Logical ideas are routinely rejected in favor of desired experiences, and Luffy himself rejects the opportunity to hear the answer to the series’s biggest questions because to him, the journey is more important.

It’s important that Luffy’s mindset isn’t all that common, even a world as wild and wacky as One Piece. As the Jaya arc proves, Roger’s execution initially inspired a generation of pirates to go out and follow their dreams, but in the twenty years since his death that ideaolgy has crumbled under the weight of a new wave of dreamless pragmaticism, the same way the Romantic movement gave way to the Realists who followed. 

Luffy’s Romantic spirit stands out, even amongst the Straw Hat Pirates. Many of the Straw Hat’s character arcs involve Luffy helping to remove the blocks that prevent them from living out their Romantic ideals. As the series progresses, the crew inches towards embodying that freedom of spirit that Luffy exemplifies. What that looks like for each crewmate is different (Romanticism is highly individualistic, after all) but they’re given the opportunity to live out that ideal because of their association with Luffy.

This theme of freedom of expression and pursuit of dreams follows the Straw Hats wherever they go on both the micro and macro level. The Romantic pursuit of self-determination bleeds over nearly every arc with Luffy at its epicenter, until it comes to a crescendo during the Wano arc, when the true nature of Luffy’s fruit comes to light for the first time.

Luffy is the beating heart of One Piece’s Romanticism. He specifically imbues many of the Romantic ideals of childhood, such as innocence, joy, and being unprejudiced by a corrupting society. He’s uncomplicated yet passionate, without a care in the world for what anyone else thinks about him, and because of that disregard for authority he comes off as equal parts wise and naive.

In Emile, Rousseau lays out his idea of childhood education, which doesn’t include a classroom so much as the child’s interaction with the world, emphasizing the senses and building on the child’s own observations and inferences. The Romantic child was instinctual and in tune with nature, and a character like Luffy growing up on the fringes of society while spending most of his time romping around in the woods would not be out of place (see Mary Robinson’s The Savage of Aveyron, based on the real story of a feral boy that had been found in France).

What makes Luffy different is that he never loses that simplicity of character even as he interacts with an increasingly complex world. Yes, he matures both as a person and a captain, bearing the weight of terrible loss and difficult decisions, but he does it still while maintaining that curious mix of selfish desire to do whatever he wants and selfless sacrifice towards the people he cares about. Luffy doesn’t want to be a hero, but remains uncorrupted by the malevolent social hierarchies that rule One Piece’s world.

But for all the ways One Piece is a Romantic story, the philosophy of the series departs in several key places. The Romantics of the late 18th and 19th centuries were reacting to the anxieties brought around by the Industrial Revolution and the subsequent urbanization that came along with it, while One Piece belongs squarely to the post-modern era of the 21st. While both glorify a long-gone past, what that past looks like is very different. One Piece fully embraces technology and progress, as best seen during the conflict between Noland and Calgura in the Skypia flashback. While industrialization is sometimes portrayed negatively (see Wano) it’s just as likely to be seen in a positive light (Water 7), and the mysterious civilization of the Void Century was more technologically advanced than the present day manga, not less.

What’s more important than modernization and technological advance is the ways people use said technology. The beautifully rendered locations along the Straw Hat’s journey are just as likely to be vast stretches of wilderness as bustling metropolises, and that search of wonder and the sublime is equally likely to be found in both.

More importantly, I think, is that the Romantics of old were solitary creatures, brooding and isolated from the people around them. There was a preoccupation of creating art devoid of outside influence. The sublime was a deeply personal experience that by its very nature could not be shared with others. Melancholy, loss, solitude, and death were preoccupations of the Romantic mind, the price of visionary genius being social isolation.

One of the most famous Romantic heroes of the 19th century was Thomas Chatterton, a young genius of a poet who, in the midst of poverty and depression killed himself at the age of 17. He was immortalized in paintings and poems, and his influence can be felt to this day by the persistence of the trope of the suffering artist that he, and countless others, helped codify.

One Piece is the story of a boy who rejects the confines of society in search of his own freedom, but he does not do so alone. Luffy is driven as much by the desire to be with his friends as he is by his desire to find the One Piece. The series agrees that risking death is an acceptable part of chasing ones dream, but rejects the notion that it should be sought out or celebrated. It’s better to live an undignified life in the hope of a better tomorrow than to give into an easy death.

And that’s the fascinating part about how philosophies evolve over time, because as much as One Piece borrows from the Romantic era of the 18 and 19th centuries, it isn’t a Romantic story, just as how no amount of research and copying of style could ever turn a historical novel written today into a product of the era its trying to emulate. Oda has taken an old idea and made it into something new, using that idea as the guide for the entire series. Like sun, guiding to the dawn of a new era.

A Romance dawn, if you will. 

[eleonoraalbright]

An Ill-Timed Confession Part 2

Pairing: Peter Pan x fem!reader (kinda)

Summary: Peter Pan is loose in Storybrooke with revengeful schemes. Fortunately for you, the heroes and villains have a plan to stop him.

A/N: Thank you for the kind comments left on An Ill-Timed Confession Part 1! They really motivated me to write a second part.

Careful not to trip over any headstones, you paced the forest’s floor in a restless manner. A few yards away Mr. Gold stretched out a hand, attempting to undo the magical wards Regina had placed around her vault. Bell was behind him offering silent encouragement for his swift success.

Tinkerbell, Baelfire, and Captain Hook stood off to one side; their faces betraying various degrees of distrust and doubt. Mary Margret, David, and Emma were in a separate group, talking in hushed voices. They seemed to be having an argument.

That left you and Henry alone. You stole a glance towards the boy who was still trapped in Pan’s body. For the hundredth time that day, you cursed yourself and your big mouth. Speech is silver, but silence is golden.

Oh, how you wished you had remembered that saying when accidentally telling Pan that he was hot. Why did you have this knack for getting yourself into these almost laughable scenarios? At least, it would have been laughable if you weren’t the person in it. Right now, the set of circumstances was terrifying.

At any moment, Pan could command his shadow to rip your own shadow from you, or worse abduct you. And what would happen then? You would be at his mercy until the others managed to switch Henry and Pan to their rightful bodies. If they ever did.

You knew from Henry’s storybook and real-life experiences that good somehow always did triumph in the end, but that didn’t mean there weren’t any casualties. What if this was the one time you didn’t make it to see the light of day?

Henry noticed you staring at him and raised an eyebrow in question, which sent another ripple of unease down your spine. Gods above and below, he was attractive when he did that.

In truth he was attractive all the time, but that cute little eyebrow quirk made your heart do a flip. You had to remind yourself that he wasn’t Pan, he was Henry who was your dearest and closest friend for many years and someone you didn’t feel for in that way.

And even if he was Peter Pan, he would want to inflict such torment on everyone here in the graveyard that they would beg for death’s sweet release to escape him.

Peter Pan should not be the type of person who turned your insides into mush, your legs to jelly, made your heart beat faster and faster until it would burst from your chest leaving a bloody and gaping wound behind, and grant the death you craved for so you would not have to face the consequences of admitting to Pan himself that he was blessed genetically!

“Can you stop looking at me like that?” Henry’s words broke you out of your wild and frenzied thoughts. He shifted his weight to his other foot, avoiding your gaze and went on, “Like you want to kiss or stab me. Or both. It’s pretty weird.”

Hoping against all hope that you weren’t blushing, you let out a big sigh and dragged a hand down your face. You had to get these turbulent feelings under control for Henry’s sake. Being stuck in his great-grandfather’s body with his friend ogling him must have been a nightmare.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I just have a lot of thoughts running through my mind and–” Your voice dropped to a whisper. “I don’t think we’ll win this time.”

He was startled at your blunt statement. “What? Of course we will. We have to. All we have to do is get me in my body and Pan in his body. Then we’ll imprison him and we’ll win.”

You snorted at your friend’s naiveté. You were sure that Mr. Gold had something more in mind than imprisonment for his father. The Pied Piper clearly couldn’t be stopped by simple incarceration; he had thousands of tricks up his sleeve to free himself.

Pan needed to die. As tasteless as killing was, what other option was there? You tried to cast away your misgivings about the possibility of overcoming Pan. You had to believe that victory and survival would be on your side, which was easier said than done.

“I’m afraid that Pan will put us all through the nine circles of hell. And I-I can’t go through that again.” Tears blurred your vision and your knees wobbled so bad that Henry had to help you stand up right as unbidden memories leaped into your mind about your hellish existence in a life lived long ago.

“It’ll be okay. My mom will save us. She’s the savior, it's kinda her thing.” Henry knew about your past. He read the story in his book, but that didn’t mean he would fully understand the terrors you had endured or why everything seemed so hopeless. You heard a sudden whoosh and saw the vault’s door creak open.

“Shall we?” Mr. Gold marched into the gloomy interior.

Emma, Mary Margret, David, Tinkerbell, Baelfire, Bell, and Captain Hook followed him. Emma ordered, “Wait here until we know the coast is clear.”

Normally you wouldn’t obey and would rush head first into danger, but a moment was needed to calm your addled mind. Besides, if Pan was in there, you weren’t too eager to see him. You took hold of your senses and forced air up your nose and out your mouth. This wasn’t the time to have a breakdown.

You needed to be composed for Henry's sake, even with his newly acquired height, he looked up to you for how to react to the ongoing madness in Storybrooke. Well, he used to, maybe that changed in the last twenty-four hours with you acting like a twitterpated school girl.

You heard Emma yell, “We’re clear down here!”

You and Henry raced downstairs to see the group clustered around Regina. The mayor was disoriented and brushing invisible flecks of dust off her pants. She was in the middle of saying, “–missed all the signs. I just wanted to believe he still needed me to be his mother.”

Without missing a beat, the boy next to you soothed her fear. “I still do.”

Regina gasped, “Henry?” She tilted her head in bewilderment and narrowed her eyes, not convinced he was her son.

He walked over and threw his arms around her. It was a touching scene to witness. Too bad you didn’t have a camera; it would be hilarious to have a picture of the former Evil Queen sharing an embrace with the Pied Piper.

Meanwhile, David asked a very pertinent question. “So what exactly did Pan come down here to get?” Mr. Gold raised his hand over an empty box before jerking it back, a frown fixed on his features. “What?”

A hint of exasperation leaked into the older man’s voice as he said, “Please tell me you didn’t keep it down here.”

Regina appeared to be almost contrite and she shrugged her shoulders. “Where else would I keep it?”

For a moment you thought Mr. Gold would strangle Regina with her own scarf or beat her with his cane. To what thing were they referring? You broke the heavy silence. “What is it? What did Pan take?”

Henry's grandfather answered, “He took the curse that brought everyone from the Enchanted Forest to Storybrooke.”

You sat down next to Henry with an arm thrown around his shoulders. He was nervous, fiddling in his seat. You couldn’t blame him; this was a high stakes situation.

When Mr. Gold used the black fairy’s wand to place him back in his proper body, Henry would have to find his family and give Regina the scroll so she could destroy it before the curse transformed Storybrooke into the New Neverland and made everyone in town Pan’s slaves.

Worried for his well-being, Emma asked her son, “You doing okay, kid?”

“Yeah, I’m just ready to be me again.”

“Not much longer now, Henry. Not much longer.” Mr. Gold flipped through his spell book. “Once we have the wand, all will be as it should.”

“And then you can help your mom save the day,” you added with a smile. It was your turn to provide reassurance whether or not you actually had confidence in this plan. No, no, that wasn’t right. You had to have hope that this would work out.

You would imitate Mary Margret and fully accept that a happy ending was in the future. “And when this blows over, we can have another party at Granny’s. Hopefully with more cake than last time because the sisters really plowed through them.”

Henry liked your suggestion. “That’d be nice. And maybe I don't have to have a bedtime either?”

Regina vetoed the idea. “Absolutely not, young man. You need your sleep, especially after all of this.”

The sound of footsteps stopped a discussion of the correct amount of sleep for a boy Henry’s age. David walked into the room with the rest of the gang behind him. “She’s back. The Blue Fairy. She gave us the wand.”

You exclaimed, “That’s great! Do we need anything else?”

“Only one more item.” Mr. Gold crossed to a cupboard and retrieved a black cuff and explained, when Snow inquired, that it would render anyone with magic utterly powerless.

Regina snapped at Hook, “I haven’t forgotten about all that, by the way.”

“May I see your wrist, Henry?” Ignoring her comment, he placed the cuff on his grandson. “I want to make sure that when my dear old dad awakes, that he’s weakened. This will block his powers. Now I enact the spell, you fall into a deep sleep and when you awake, you’re back in your own body.”

Regina told him, “And then you hang on to that scroll and you come find us as fast as you can.”

Henry contemplated their words then scoffed, “When I gave my heart to Pan, I thought I was being a hero… I'm sorry.”

You patted him on the back. David was about to speak, but you spoke first. “It was stupid thing to do, but it’s not like anyone here hasn’t done anything that stupid too.” You didn’t pay attention to the glares a few select people sent your way, and instead focused on Henry’s laugh.

Mr. Gold said it was time and you stood up as Henry laid back on the divan, apprehensive of what was to come soon. Everyone retreated a couple of steps back and watched the process. Mr. Gold tapped the wand on his forehead and, after a blinding flash of light, Pan’s body started violently convulsing.

“What’s happening?” Emma shared a concerned look with Baelfire.

“Henry’s spirit is leaving Pan’s body.”

You hoped Pan wasn’t anywhere near concrete. If Henry’s body dropped to the ground and hit his head, he was going to wake up with a bad ache. He stopped shaking and remained still.  “It worked!”

You were delighted the spell had been fortunate, however, some part of you was a tad sad. You wouldn’t be able to squish his cheeks again. You could try, but Pan would most likely chop your hands off for such an affront. No matter, there were more important things to do.

“Let’s go find our son.” Emma darted out of the shop with everyone except Mr. Gold and Pan accompanying her. “Where would he be?”

You proposed, “Let’s get Ruby or Granny! They’ll be able to track his smell!” Emma agreed with you and went to the diner to enlist Granny’s keen nose for the job. The elderly woman sniffed the air and it didn’t take long for her to pick up his scent. You ran down the street toward the clock tower and were overjoyed when you saw Henry—in his own body—run out of the library doors.

“It’s me! It’s me! It worked!” Both of his mothers enveloped him in a big hug. “Mom, Mom. I just saw you guys. You guys just saw me.”

 “But we didn’t see you.” Regina cupped his chin.

“And trust me that makes a real difference!” You wrapped your arms around him and squeezed him tight, glad that Henry returned to his rightful body.

“Oh, he’s got it,” Emma said as her son gave her the scroll. She passed it to Regina. “It’s up to you now.”

The mayor hadn’t held the scroll for even five seconds when a bright flash of purple light illuminated from it and she passed out cold. “Regina! Regina!” You, Henry, Emma and Baelfire crouched next to her.

Dammit, with Regina unconscious, who could undo Pan’s curse? There couldn’t be that much time left. Emma continued to call Regina’s name and shake her. Gasping, Regina opened her eyes. “What happened? Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine. I just… I saw what needed to be done.”

“Mom, are you gonna be okay?”

You had a gut feeling that she wasn’t. As you suspected, she side-stepped his concern. “The important thing is you will be.”

The scroll vanished from Regina’s grasp. “No, he won’t.”

Your stomach dropped when you heard the dreaded voice. Your head whipped backwards to see Pan walking towards the group. Everyone backed up several paces. You shouted, “Watch out! He has the–”

You were cut short as an eerie red glow alighted over your and everybody else's bodies. It was as if molasses had coated your entire person, slowing down your movements until it hardened. The enchantment froze every single one of your limbs; it was difficult even to breathe.

Beaming from ear-to-ear, Pan finished your sentence. “Curse.  How observant that I do. Look at you all. A captive audience.” He took his time inspecting each and everyone of you. His gaze lingered on you last. “I could play with you like a pack of dolls, couldn’t I? You’d like that, wouldn't you?”

He pointed an accusing finger in your direction. He came closer and whispered, “I have a special treat for you for that wonderful but woefully timed statement you confessed to me. It was delightful to know the peculiar effect I have on you.”

You were grateful that your features were frozen to hide the terror swirling and building up inside you. Had you the ability to move, the road would have been sprayed with your vomit. Relief overtook you when Mr. Gold hobbled up to his father and gripped his shoulder. Rumplestiltskin could save everyone right? He growled, “Stay away from them.”

Pan performed the same freezing spell on his son. “Tsk, tsk, tsk, you haven't learned your lesson, have you Rumple? You should’ve stayed where you were, cowering, but I suppose you wanted a front row seat when my little curse descends upon your woved ones. Glutton for punishment, aren’t you? Don’t worry. They’ll be more of that. For all of you.” Pan disappeared without a trace and you were released from his spell.

You collapsed to the ground in a heap. Your fingernails dug into the cracked pavement. Everything was numb. Around you the others were talking in frantic voices, trying to figure out a way to thwart Pan’s plan, to find a miracle to save the day.

Someone was crying out that the curse was here. In the distance, getting closer and closer, you saw the green smoke that signified the town’s demise. You failed. 

Nothing could be done about that. You would forget your memories, forget your family and friends, forget who you were and become Pan’s plaything.

The thick smoke obscured your surroundings and filled your lungs. Your brain was getting foggy; it was too exhausting to think. You should sleep. One final thought echoed through your mind—Peter Pan won.

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Unsated Needs.

Pairing: Yandere!Miguel x Reader (Spider-verse).

Commissioned by the very lovely @kiakaiba.

Word Count: 3.1k.

TW: AFAB!Reader, Venom!Reader, Sub!Miguel, Rough Sex, Biting/Blood, Everything's Consensual But Reader's So Pissed About It, Tentacle Sex, Threesome (?), Semi-Public Sex, Implied Stalking, and Obsessive Behavior.

[Based On This Drabble]

Miguel found you in a narrow alleyway, gore dripping from your teeth and tar writhing against your skin.

From a distance, he thought you might’ve been injured. Braced against a rusting chain-link fence that could barely hold your weight, bulking arms crossed over your torso, swallowed entirely by your symbiote – he could already picture a bloody gash in your side, a lead pipe embedded in flesh and organ, a cluster of eye-searing colors and patterns slowly eating away at some vital part of you. He could feel his pulse beating against his ears, his throat tightening with a familiar anxiety no amount of anger and exhaustion could seem to drown out, but of course, his panic was wasted on you. With another step, a closer look, he could see that the blood dripping from your teeth wasn’t your own, that you were holding your stomach, not your chest.

He realized, as he stepped into your line of sight, as you shot to face him with a violent snarl, that you weren’t hurt. You weren’t injured.

You were hungry.

No, starving. He’d seen symbiotes waiting to be sent back to their original dimensions exhibit similar behavior: a slight shake in your shoulder, a certain rattle in your chest, a wildness in the pupilless eyes of the mask you rarely wore, outside of your sporadic fights. It was in your voice, too, in the hollowness your hostility couldn’t seem to fill. “What do you want?” you spat, and it occurred to him that he couldn’t remember the last time you raised your voice around him. It wasn’t your style. You were the silent, skulking type. This was pure defensiveness, the rabid thrashing of a cornered. This was desperation. “Take a step closer, and I swear I’ll—”

“Bite me.”

Your shoulders jutted upward, claws sprouting from your curled fingers. Your symbiote’s thrashing slowed, the black tar of its faux skin clinging that much closer to your own, and when you failed to respond, he repeated himself, fighting not to let his voice shake. “What are you waiting for? Take a bite out of me.”

A scarlet tongue slipped past your jagged teeth, lapping over the lips of your mask. It took everything he had not to picture that tongue wrapped around his cock, or better yet, your mouth closed around his lower body as it fucked him open. “Little heroes don’t usually ask to be eaten.”

“I said you can have a bite. Taking anything more, and I’ll be forced to treat you like a threat.” You didn’t move, but he could feel your eyes boring into him, the weight of your attention pressing into his chest, making it difficult to breathe. If only to distract himself, he went on. “Heroes help people, and you look like you’re about to—”

Whatever remaining patience you had thinned and snapped before he could finish. There was a low growl, a flash of pure darkness, and then, familiar tendrils were tangled around his wrists, his ankles, his neck and dragged him upward, until his feet no longer touched the ground. His own claws lashed out reflexively, but he stopped himself from attacking your symbiote, from so much as taking a breath before you surged forward and buried your teeth in his side, tearing through the nano-fabric in the blink of an eye and biting down.

He’d seen you eat, before – caught you hunched over corpses mutilated beyond the hope of identification, seen you strip flesh from bone in a matter of seconds. This was different. This wasn’t just gluttony, it was wrath, anger rolling off of you in waves as you tore away, rending flesh from muscle and swallowing it down. His suit reacted immediately – isolating the injured area with a plaster-like bandage and injecting a thousand microscopic numbing agents around the perimeter of the wound, but still, he could feel the burn spreading outward, filling his veins and distorting his vision. He could feel his mouth falling open, a deep groan catching his throat before he could vocalize his agony. He could feel his cock, throbbing underneath the taut fabric of his suit, already aching for your attention.

But, you were preoccupied. Your mouth fell to his thigh, tearing away another strip of flesh and tissue. The wound was smaller than the first, but deeper, the points of your curved teeth piercing his skin and sending pangs of pure electricity to the pit of his stomach. This time, there was little he could do to stop himself from reacting, from clenching his eyes shut and letting out a noise – cracked, guttural, as pained as it was wanting. It was humiliating, how easily you could make him abandon his dignity. It was pathetic, the things he was willing to do just to be close to you.

You lingered there, lapping at his blood until you’d drunken your fill before pulling away. With more than a little satisfaction, he noted that it was his blood staining your teeth, dripping down your lips and coating the slick skin of your symbiote as you snapped your fingers, as your mask recoiled and your symbiote sunk below your neck. You could never seem to hide your face, not from him, not for very long. He couldn’t say he was much better. If his society wasn’t at-risk, he would’ve given up his identity for the chance to hear his name roll off your tongue. “You’re so full of shit.” It was your voice, now – just your voice, the reverberation of your symbiote’s tenor no long playing beside your own. “You’ve been following me around for months, and you still think I’d believe you’re just trying to be a good little spider? How many hours have you spent begging us to fuck you when you could’ve been playing hero? How many people have you let me eat because you wanted to get your dick wet?”

Dozens. Hundreds. Thousands. He tried to justify it, sometimes, to do his research on the handful of bodies you left in more or less one piece and tell himself that all of your victims must’ve been abusive husbands or rich bastards or cops, but he would’ve served you a new corpse every night if it meant you’d keep holding him like this, your symbiote around his neck and your warm breath fanning over his open wounds, if it meant you’d keep touching him – your fingertips skirting over the edge of his injury before coming to rest just below his hip. “Drop the suit.”

He didn’t hesitate. Your scowl deepened as his suit glitched and dissolved, leaving only the upper half of his mask in-tact, but your symbiote didn’t seem to share your animosity. Its touch was teasing, its mannerisms playful – the tendrils around his ankles rising and forcing his knees to bend, another pair binding his thighs to his calves and spreading his legs as far apart as his advanced flexibility would allow. There was a pitchy chirping noise – the sound meaningless to him but, apparently, comprehensible enough to you.

Your frown quirked but, with another round of probing from your symbiote, you reached out and wrapped your fist around his aching cock, your grip too tight not to be taken as a sign of aggression. You didn’t move, didn’t shift, but he bucked into your hand reflexively, gritting his teeth to keep himself from moaning and fueling his own degradation. Even that effort was quickly proved futile – gone the moment you drove the heel of your palm into the base of his cock and a truly broken whimper was ripped out of something weak and vulnerable in his chest. He was already leaking onto your hand, pearls of white pre-cum following the curve of your knuckles and staining the cement at your feet. You watched it drip with disgust before your eyes flickered up to meet his.

You opened your mouth, but whatever insult you planned to throw his way was immediately drowned out by a trembling moan, the fragile sound drawn out of him by the feeling of another tendril against his body, snaking down the curve of his spine. This one was flatter than the rest – wide and tongue-like, slick against his skin. Not against his will but rather his better judgement, he arched into it, his eyes remaining fixed on yours as the newest tendril groped at his ass, taking its exploration slowly. Your grip tightened, your thumb swiping over the swollen tip too quickly not to sting. “Take a deep breath, Spider-Boy.”  

He tried to ask what you meant, but the tendril’s tapered point pushed into him as soon as his lips parted. He’d rolled this scenario over in his mind a thousand times, pumped his cock as he fucked himself to the point of tears on one of the silicone monstrosities Lyla liked to order behind his back when his wandering mind started to affect his multi-dimension work, but he never could’ve imagined how cold it would be inside of him, the involuntary shudder that’d run from his feet to his shoulders as your symbiote pushed farther into his ass, filling him in a single thrust. A distinct, spiraled ridge ran down the length of the tendril, adding an alien sensation that only did more to damage his tenuous composure. Its pace, too, threatened to tear him apart; back-breaking fast and unpredictably sporadic, thrusting into him with enough force to leave his hands curling around whatever part of your symbiote that he could reach. He wasn’t sure he would’ve been able to hold himself upright without the restraints around his wrists and ankles, didn’t know if he would’ve been able to survive without the oppressive weight of your repulsion – your narrow glare there to keep him grounded while your symbiote did its best to break him open.

“I—” He wasn’t sure why he bothered. He wasn’t sure why he tried when his voice caught on every other word, when he could hardly get enough air into his lung to stay conscious. “I— Fuck, is it supposed to—”

“Don’t think about it.” You cut him off before he could struggle though the rest, letting go of his cock and shoving two fingers past his lips. He gagged, but you didn’t pull back, forcing him to adjust to the digits lodged halfway down his throat. “This is already more than you deserve. Just be thankful Reaper thinks you’re cute when you’re pathetic.”

Cute.

Cute.

You called him cute.

He let out an airy moan, clenching his eyes shut and throwing his hips back, encouraging your symbiote to thrust that much deeper, to be that much rougher with him. His meager efforts were rewarded with another pair of tendrils – the writhing tissue massaging his pecs and toying with his nipples, hardened from exposure and sensitive from neglect. The tendril inside of him slowed, but whatever friction might’ve been lost was immediately replaced by a new trail of smooth ridges and defined veins, a bulbed knot at the base, a blunt head that seemed to grind against every spot that made him twitch, every spot that made him gasp and thrash and want more.

The newest wave of his desperation seemed to spark something in you – interest, maybe, or jealousy, it was hard to tell. Either way, when you pulled your fingers out of his mouth, he leaned forward to try and chase your touch, letting out a low whine when you retreated farther than he could reach, wiping your hand on your thigh. You didn’t keep your distance for long, though. Wordlessly, you allowed your symbiote to lift you off of the ground and up to Miguel’s height, keeping you suspended while you wrapped your legs around his waist. Your suit didn’t pull back, didn’t melt away, only pressing flush to your skin, only making it that much easier for you to slot yourself against him. Your symbiote held him taut as you straddled him, taking agonizing seconds to take his pulsing cock in your hand and, just as slowly, to align the leaking head with your cunt. You started to move your hips, but paused, looking toward him. “Do you know what the worst part is?” Without the strength to speak, he just shook his head. You didn’t press for more. “We would’ve gotten rid of you months ago, if I thought Reaper could stomach it.” You spared him the ghost of a smile. “She says you taste like something that’s already started to rot.”

Aided by your symbiote, you lowered yourself onto him, the tendril in his ass thrusting into him at the same time and forcing his cock that much deeper into you, giving him that much less time to brace himself before he was fully enveloped by your cunt.

He made it all of half a second before coming undone inside of you.

The hours he’d spent fucking his fist to grainy security camera footage and his own deranged fantasies couldn’t begin to compare. You were so hot around him, and wet, and the sound of your breathy laugh as he felt his own cum flood into the gaps between your convulsing walls and his cock had him seeing stars. “Fuck,” you muttered, your tone equal parts shock and amusement. “You’re so fucking needy. Just how long have you been waiting for this?”

If it’d been difficult to talk before, it was near-impossible now. You were working in-tandem with your symbiote; your hips slamming against his in time with its tendril’s thrashing, making sure he was always either being fucked full or milked dry. His climax clearly didn’t matter to either of you. If anything, his hyper-sensitivity only seemed to spur you on, make you more determined to draw choked whimpers and gasping moans out of some deep, long-buried part of him. “Months,” he managed, eventually, spitting the words out through his own ragged panting. “Years – as long as I’ve known about you.”

You hummed, and Miguel drank it in like praise. “Did you want me and Reaper, or just her? Be honest. I promise I’ll try my best not to be jealous.”

Just you. It’d always just been you. Your symbiote was like a parasite, latching onto his thoughts of you and your lips and the feeling of your skin against his and perverting them, tinting them with talons and teeth and a cock the size of his forearm. He wanted you, but he’d take anything you had to give him. “You, I just wanted— Christ, I’d give anything for you to—"

The tendrils on his chest flattened over his nipples and squeezed, forming a wet suction that had him seeing white in a matter of seconds. He threw his head forward, but you didn’t let him escape you for very long – taking him by the chin, burrowing what remained of your claws into his jaw. He could feel skin break underneath your touch, his blood start to trickle down his neck, but didn’t dare pull away, melting into your touch without hesitation. “That’s very rude. She’s doing so much for you, and yet, you  still have the nerve to be so ungrateful.” Your grin was blatant, now, dripping with smug condescension. He’d give anything to see that grin again, to be at its mercy every day. He’d give anything to kiss you. “This is why no one likes you, Spider-boy. You have a pretty face, but you ruin it for yourself every time you open your mouth.”

Pretty. Pretty. Pretty. He couldn’t think about anything else, couldn’t seem to stop himself from lurching forward, wrenching out of your hold. His mouth crashed into yours, the connection all bruised lips and gnashing teeth, only sustained by your shock and his own desperation. The taste of his blood was still heavy on your lips, but he didn’t care, letting out a throaty moan as he sunk against you. He wanted to be close to you. He wanted to be inseparable from you. He wanted to be a part of you. He wanted to—

You jerked back, your fist colliding with his cheek a moment later. It wasn’t a slap, playful and open-handed, or a love-tap, but a punch, meant to get him away for you and make him want to stay away. Pain ricocheted through his skull, his ears ringing and his senses suddenly fogged. It didn’t matter, though. The euphoria of knowing there’d be a mark the next day, of knowing he’d be able to carry a part of you for weeks, was enough to send him over the edge, to leave him humping your cunt and pumping his cum into you for the second time in a matter of minutes. He could’ve stayed like that forever, for as long as you’d have him. Your symbiote could’ve swallowed him whole, and he would’ve died happy.

You didn’t share the sentiment. You didn’t even wait for the aftershocks to fade before clicking your tongue. Your symbiote recoiled, peeling itself off of him, keeping you suspended while Miguel collapsed onto the cement, the rough pavement scraping at his exposed skin. You, on the other hand, were lowered slowly onto your feet, your suit regaining its usual mass as you came to stand above him. “Next time you want to get laid,” you started, wiping off your mouth with the back of your hand. “Stick to your hand. Or else Reaper might find a way to choke down more than a bite.”

He heard your footsteps, the rattling of some rusted fire-escape, and then you were gone, off to lurk in the shadows and stalk your next meal. With a deep breath, a groan of exertion, he rolled onto his back, basking in the cloud of bliss still hanging over him. Eventually, when he was ready, he spoke into the empty air. “Lyla.”

There was a flash of yellow, a near-blinding light. She appeared to his side, hands covering her eyes. “Is it over?” Her fingers split apart. “Can I please put your suit back on?”

“Yeah, sure, whatever.” He groaned as he sat up, every muscle in his body drenched in agony. Nano-fabric crept down from his neck, covering his bruised skin and leaking cock, engulfing him entirely. He mourned not being able to see the marks you’d left on him, but it was a necessary separation and, more importantly, a temporary separation. There wouldn’t be anything able to keep him away from you, soon enough. “Cancel everything on my schedule. Jessica’s in-charge until I get back.”

“What should I tell her you’re doing, boss man?”

He flicked his wrist, a holographic screen flickering into existence at his fingertips. A grid-coded map of Nueva York splayed itself out in front of him. A couple seconds later, a blinking dot appeared only a few blocks away from his current position, moving quickly. You were in a rush, tonight.

A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. He’d have to take care of the other eleven tracking chips, the ones planted in the spots you hadn’t taken a bite out of, later on. It could wait. Everything could wait until he’d gotten his fill of you – that was, if he ever could.

“Tell her I’m getting fucked.”

[gatorbites-imagines]

Would it be too wild of me to ask for plastic man because my autism chose the silliest guy to be my favorite 💔💔

I dont think this is too insane but I'm literally desperate for any content I'm going to explode I don't even care if it's just headcanons sfw or not or anything I will implode into confetti

this would obviously be with male reader but I don't mind if it's ftm because I am trans so uhmm do whatever

Patrick “Eel” O’Brian

Sfw alphabet

Plastic man has a special place in my heart too, so I get it. have an alphabet.

A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)

It depends on who you are, but assuming that you are his romantic partner, then I could see him being very affectionate. Both physically and emotionally. Since he doesn’t age or has the ability to die, Patrick would hold onto you and love you as much as he could, since there will be a day where he is gonna lose you. Shows his affection mainly through physical affection, its not unusual for some part of him to be coiled around you whenever you guys are together.

B = Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)

Patrick would be a great best friend, he’s ready to square up with anybody who crosses you, always batting for your team as long as you aren’t extremely in the wrong. He has moments where he would be quite insightful as well, if that’s what you needed. The friendship probably starts because you are a hero, villain, etc, too. Or because you were in the wrong place at the wrong time.

C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)

Pat loves to cuddle, he wraps himself around you like a blanket most nights. He will keep human shape if that’s what you prefer though, he just loves to be completely wrapped around you and just squeeze you close.

D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)

I could imagine part of Pat wants to settle down and just live a normal life, but its hard when you have the powers he has. he would be willing to give it a try though, if that’s what you wanted too. I’m not sure I can imagine him as the greatest cook out there, but I also don’t see him as someone who’s against doing chores and manual labor.

E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)

It depends on why you guys break up. If it was something like to keep you safe, then he might come up with some cover or excuse. But if it was for some more painful reason like cheating or something along those lines, then he would be a lot more blunt and just tell his partner to their face that its over and why its over.

F = Fiance(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)

Like settling down, I can imagine part of Pat really wants to get married. Hes loyal to a fault when it comes to the one he sees as his one and only, and it all depends on his partner how fast he wants to get married. I could see him as the kind to have dated for a short while and think “yup, I’m gonna marry them”, but he doesn’t want to rush you.

G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)

I think Pat would forget his own strength sometimes, resulting in too crushing hugs or you getting thrown around from he’s excited, but he always apologizes whenever it happens. Hes also gone through quite a lot in his life, so he would have a lot of insight in emotions, but I could imagine its hard for him to talk about at times.

H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)

Yes I think Pat doesn’t just like hugs. He loves hugs and he would hug his partner any chance he gets. Just being close to you is a blessing for him, especially if it’s after that time he was “dead” and putting himself back together for thousands of years.

I = I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)

It depends. Some might see Patrick as somebody who would drop the L-word immediately after you guys start dating, but hes also been through quite a lot and has lived a long life with a lot of experiences, so this is an area where I could imagine he takes his time since it’s a very serious word for him.

J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)

I don’t think he gets jealous super easily, since hes sure in his relationship with you. That doesn’t mean he never gets jealous, just that he doesn’t get jealous by small or everyday things. He still get jealous if somebody else flirts with you, which ends up with him hooking an arm around you and butting in in some way.

K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)

Like hugging, Patrick would love to kiss. He kisses you all over, littering you in pecks all over your face, neck, hands, etc. but when it comes to kissing you on the lips, Pat would take his time to really put his love in it. he loves to kiss you pretty much anywhere, but he does prefer on the lips. Which is also why he likes being kissed on the lips the most. He comically melts every time you do, since he has the ability to do so.

L = Little ones (How are they around children?)

In the comics, Plastic Man has a kid or kids, but it all depends on you if you guys have any. I do imagine he’s great with kids though, taking his time with them and letting them feel safe and heard, especially since he grew up with an abusive father. He wouldn’t want kids to feel unsafe around him.

M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)

Pat is one of those people I can imagine wakes up refreshed and bright eyed, or is it goggled in his case? Hes always more refreshed than you, but he likes to just lay and admire you for a while. Being stereotypically romantic, Pat would probably also bring you breakfast in bed if you guys have time for that. Likes to wake you up with kisses before your alarm goes off.

N = Night (How are nights spent with them?)

When he’s really tired, Pat will just start outright melting or deflating and collapsing on the floor or on top of you, sighing and complaining about how tired he is. Ends up with you dragging his deflated body to bed where you guys can cuddle, which is one of his favorite times of the day. Because of his powers, I don’t think Patrick needs much sleep, but he wants you to get a healthy amount of sleep.

O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)

He comes across as a very easygoing and bright guy, but I think it would actually take quite a while for Patrick to open up about himself and his past, like his childhood or how he used to be a criminal, unless you somehow already knew that, like if you were a hero too. Things would get told little by little over time as he starts to feel safer and deeper connected, most stuff you learn being from comments or things he does without thinking too much about it.

P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)

When it comes to you and everyday things, I think Patrick would have quite a lot of patience. Why get angry about not being on the same page about dinner, or who needs to do which chore, especially when you can live and have lived as long as Patrick. He would get frustrated and angered if you put yourself in danger though.

Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)

He shocks you by remembering quite a lot about you, remembering small details you have mentioned maybe once or twice. He tries to remember important days too, but he never feels bad if you don’t remember it in return.

R = Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)

When you agreed to be his partner, or if you guys are married, when you said yes to marry him. Other than that, his favorite moments are the small everyday domestic things, like going shopping together, cooking together, or just sitting and watching a movie.

S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)

Being a superhero, there is a level of protectiveness in Patrick, especially with the kinds of baddies he fights and the kind of rivalry he has going on. He doesn’t joke about your safety, and would also make sure you teach you how to defend yourself, or get you in contact with other heroes that could keep you safe if he couldn’t.

T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)

Goes comically over the top, its honestly charming how much he cares. Like the type to set up a whole thing on the beach with balloons, roses, candlelight and the works. If you don’t like huge shows though, Pat would do something more lowkey but just as meaningful.

U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)

I could see a bad habit of his being not telling his partner when he goes on missions, or dangerous missions. I don’t think he does it on purpose most times, it just slips his mind since its such a normal part of his life. He always makes sure to apologize and make up for it though, and he does try his best to remember.

V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)

Pat would act like he doesn’t care too much about his appearance. But I think after a while of dating you, he might start doubting himself, seeing as he has one outfit and one color scheme. Hes pretty good at hiding it, but you’ll figure it out at some point where you reassure him that it doesn’t bother you.

W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)

He would. Those times he’s gone longer periods without his partner always left him feeling hollowed out and like something important was missing. This is also why he does his best to live life to the fullest with you, since he knows there is gonna be a day where its just gonna be him. He doesn’t want to think about it, but he lays awake at night sometimes thinking about it.

X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)

A cat person. He doesn’t hate dogs, he just likes cats more. He always jokes that they’re long and loose like he is, and that like cats, he’s a liquid too.

Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)

If you were a judgmental person, and didn’t believe that people could change if they truly wanted too. With his background and experiences, I couldn’t see Patrick dating somebody who looked down on others, especially if that other person was in a bad spot.

Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habits of theirs?)

Clingy sleeper, like you don’t need a blanket because he just turns into the blanket and wraps around you like a burrito. Better get used to not being able to move too much at night, it’s like a sleeping bag, or like a bat with its wings wrapped around it.