#I’m just hit with divine inspiration like that

[spineless-lobster]

Cheese cheese cheese

Cheese is my friend

Cheese cheese cheese

I love cheese ‘til the end

Cheese cheese cheese

I love it every day

Cheese cheese cheese

Makes me say hooray!

[mokulule]

While I fail to focus after my night shift have a peek at another of my brain worms

Untitled, I am still waiting for that moment of divine inspiration. Ship: Dead on Main (Danny/Jason)  Fandom: DP x DC 

The only sounds in the Batcave were the bats chittering amongst themselves high above. Bruce rubbed his chin absently as he took in the information displayed on the large screens with narrowed eyes. Something wasn’t adding up. Somebody was lying.

No matter how many times he looked over the information, that was his conclusion. It nagged at him that he didn’t know what, if any, information he could use. He hated being so in the dark. 

A silent notification in the corner of his screen alerted him to a call from the Watchtower. He took it and Superman’s face appeared in a smaller rectangle on the center of the screen. Bruce kept outwardly placid but from behind the cowl nobody would see the way his gaze instantly zeroed in on the massive black eye Superman had acquired, and the general strain around his unhurt eye and mouth. He was worn out. 

“Phantom has been apprehended,” Superman said with a long sigh. It had clearly not been an easy fight. 

“I’ll be there,” Batman said and ended the call. Maybe they’d finally get some real answers. 

He stood and walked towards the zeta tube. Another call came in, this time on the comm in his cowl. 

“Hood,” he greeted.

“Hey, old man. I’m at the location. You were right it’s absolutely crawling with the white suits and their weaponry is not like anything I’ve seen before.”

Bruce felt like a hand squeezed his heart. Hood out of anyone knew his weapons, if he didn’t know them they weren’t on the market. He absolutely hated asking any of his kids to walk into an unknown situation. Unfortunately he didn’t have any other options. 

“Be careful, Hood.”

“Aww, is that worry I detect?”

“Just don’t take unnecessary risks,” Bruce cautioned.

“You wouldn’t have asked me if you didn’t think it was necessary, old man. Don’t worry, I’ll get you your intel.”

Bruce grunted. Jason was right. He wouldn’t have asked if he didn’t think it was important. Didn’t mean he had to like it, nor the fact that Red Hood’s criminal reputation made him perfect for breaking into a government building; even if Hood was seen the Justice League kept plausible deniability. 

Everyone knew Red Hood was a wild card. 

“Check in regularly with Oracle.”

He could practically feel the way Jason rolled his eyes at him.

“Not my first rodeo, B.”

With that the connection cut off. Bruce couldn’t help the bad feeling he had about everything. 

He really hated this stage of an investigation. 

Two months ago the US government contacted the Justice League about a problem. Several bases of a government agency named the GIW had been hit by a malicious creature they called Phantom. The attacks had been gaining in severity and frequency and their measures had so far failed to stop it. 

Since then, a member of the Justice League had arrived too late to five such attacks. They’d stood no chance against Phantom, who’d then disappeared, living up to the name.

To their eyes Phantom was outwardly a humanoid, possibly a meta or alien. The GIW called him a ghost from a different dimension.

They had been at a loss of how exactly to contain such a powerful foe, who not only could go toe to toe with their heavy hitters like Superman, but also disappear by means unknown. This time they’d been prepared. They’d had various team configurations ready to go depending on who was available. 

Something that seemed to have paid off, but Bruce did not like that Clark was injured. Because if Clark was injured…

A zeta tube ride later and he met Superman on the Watchtower. Something that hadn’t been apparent on the call was the sling Superman’s left arm was in. Another visible injury added to the swollen eye. 

“Is everyone alright?” He had to ask.

“Nobody’s permanently hurt.” Clark hurried to assure as they started walking towards the interrogation room, but there was a but. Bruce kept his stare steady until Clark tiredly elaborated: “But nobody got out the fight unscathed. John won’t be walking for a while. J’onn is suffering from psychic backlash. Diana has some broken ribs and scrapes and you can see my own wounds. Everyone is tired, it was a long fight.”

Batman’s lips thinned. At least there had been no casualties. 

Almost as if reading his mind. Superman added quietly. 

“We got there while the base was still standing. Phantom made eye contact with me for a moment, before he unleashed this… sonic attack…” His face turned pained, as he looked for words that came halting. “It was a scream, I can’t describe it, it felt- it felt like I was dying. None of us could get close.”

Superman looked away.

“When it was over the base was gone, eradicated, like the others. There was just a large crater. Who knows how many people were still in there.”

Bruce set a hand on his friend’s shoulder. It was never easy to deal with casualties. 

“The one good thing about it was that the scream seemed to drain quite a bit of energy from him.” Clark barked a laugh, short and hysterical. Bruce knew Clark would have rather faced Phantom at full power if it meant more people had lived. 

“And still it was all we could do to subdue him. We barely won.”

They barely won. Superman, Wonder Woman, Green Lantern and Martian Manhunter, and they barely won. The knowledge sat like a heavy ball in Bruce’s chest. 

Now, maybe they could get intel that wasn’t most reluctantly handed over by a government agency, that didn’t even want to reveal what their alphabet soup name was an abbreviation of. “We had to turn off the ‘Ghost Shield’ to get Phantom inside the base, so we at least know it works, even if for some reason it doesn’t protect the GIW bases,” Superman remarked.  

Bruce hnn’ed to show he’d heard. It was one more discrepancy among many.

Batman entered the observation room with Superman at his back. Wonder Woman was there and he quickly took in her unusually disheveled appearance, she looked tired and uncomfortable, shaken (but whole, safe). He nodded in greeting and she gave him a tight smile in return. He turned to the observation window and felt his breath stick in his throat.

Phantom was- 

The glitchy footage they’d managed to get on earlier encounters couldn’t have prepared him. Bruce felt his jaw clench. Phantom looked young. There was still a hint of baby fat stubbornly clinging to his cheeks. He was short and wiry like Tim but maybe a bit younger than Jason, technically an adult, but to Bruce he still looked painfully young. The overall glowing and the slowly seeping green wound at his hairline didn’t take away just how human he looked. 

Bruce looked at Phantom and saw a kid. Worse, supposedly a dead kid, a ghost, if the most basic of their intel was to be believed, which even that he wasn’t entirely sure of.

A weight was heavy on his shoulders. He had to remind himself that he had found evidence of Phantom throughout history and if a ghost was truly what he was, he was most likely a very old, very powerful spirit, for whom age didn’t matter. It would be a mistake to trust the youthful appearance. 

He was chained to the chair both by wide cuffs at his wrists and ankles so he could only move very little. The cuffs were the best they had when it came to meta power suppression cuffs with some added ghost specific sigils courtesy of Zatanna’s research. She would have liked Constantine to look them over too as that sort of thing was more his area of expertise, but he’d been off on one of his extra-dimensional missions since long before this started and they hadn’t been able to contact him. 

The cuffs kept Phantom here in any case and he didn’t look happy about it. His lips were a flat line and the thick black brows were drawn together over narrowed green eyes. His head was held high (stubbornness? Pride?), chin tilted in a way that showed off a bright green-purple line around his throat, which had it been red and on a human would have looked like rope burn-

Bruce looked to Diana and he suddenly understood part of her discomfort.

“He was about to use another sonic attack, I didn’t see any other way.” Her words were quiet, regretful, but she faced his gaze head on. Bruce nodded. She never would have used the lasso like that under normal circumstances. It was incredibly worrying how much it had taken to subdue him. 

For a moment the three of them just stood there in silence, watching Phantom watch the door.

It was finally time for answers. 

Bruce didn’t make any outward sign that he was about to move, but of course Clark caught on even before he’d moved, stepping aside letting Bruce take point. They went into the interrogation room, Diana staying back to observe and be ready with security measures, they didn’t know for sure would even work.

They entered the room and immediately sharp green eyes locked onto him. There was a quick glance towards Superman, but the eyes quickly focused back on Batman. There was a calculating sort of intelligence behind those eyes. 

That was one question immediately answered, but it was one he could have inferred. It was very hard to believe the claim that this “ghost” was non-sentient, when he specifically targeted the bases of a specific government agency and nothing else. Though of course they could have had something that attracted the ghost, but nobody could look at Phantom and think non sentient. 

Now the question was, why?

Bruce sat down in one of the chairs on the other side of the table from Phantom. Clark had a moment’s pause before he joined them. Bruce pulled out a tablet from underneath his cape and laid it carefully out on the table, turning it on. At this point most people in the room with the Batman would have started getting nervous, but evidently not Phantom. He was still just passively defiant, not to mention he hadn’t yet said a word.

“Phantom, is that your preferred manner of address?” Bruce decided to start out neutral. 

There was a glitter of amusement in green eyes and the barest uptick of his lips, but he remained silent. Bruce could do silence. 

The silence stretched between them until Clark broke it.

“Why do you destroy those bases?”

Phantom glanced to Clark and his earnest question, then back to Bruce, barely raising an eyebrow, like as if to say “really, this the best you can do?” Bruce resisted the urge to sigh. Clark was usually a better foil for him at interrogations, but then most people didn’t choose total silence.

Bruce decided to be frank with him.

“We are trying to understand your motivation. That’s all.” He studied Phantom’s face which had settled into a stony glare. “But first I’d just like to know if it’s alright to call you Phantom and what your pronouns are? We have been using he/him based on your appearance but you might have another preference?”

The glare softened a bit and for a moment Bruce actually thought he’d lured a response out of him, but Phantom just looked away. Incidentally drawing attention to the line at his throat. A sudden thought occurred to him.

“Are you so hurt, that you’re unable to speak?”

Phantom slowly looked back at him. He seemed to actually be contemplating giving some sort of answer.

That’s when his comm clicked on barely audible.

“The GIW has been in contact,” Diana informed him quietly over the comms. Phantom stiffened across from him, his gaze narrowing like a cat - so they could add enhanced hearing to his powers. “They are requesting we hand over Phantom.”

Bruce looked straight at Phantom as he spoke, “They have no jurisdiction in space. I presume you declined?”

“Of course.”

Phantom’s face turned unreadable for a moment. His gaze went from him, to Superman and the opaque glass that hid the observation room. Finally he huffed. 

“Phantom, he/him is fine.” His voice had an echoey quality to it. 

It seemed they were finally going somewhere. 

-

They were not going somewhere. 

Even hours later Phantom kept up his silence. They’d held several breaks. Phantom had been offered food and water but had declined nonverbally. 

They were going in circles, trying the same questions again and again. Prolonged silence didn’t help any either. 

If only J’onn was an option, but he was already suffering from psychic backlash from trying to go into Phantom’s mind during the fight. 

So far the only things Bruce could add to the certain facts were that Phantom was sentient, intelligent and didn’t like the GIW to the point that he would commit mass murder to take them down. 

And Bruce would just really like to know why? Because with the kinds of powers he’d shown off he could have easily killed the members of the Justice League sent to apprehend him. He seemed to have no qualms about killing, yet he’d stayed his hands?

Bruce had hoped that meant Phantom considered them at least somewhat neutral in this conflict. But apparently not neutral enough to talk to. 

Clark had tried and Diana had tried. Nothing helped. 

Bruce was considering his options, when the door opened. 

“B, I need to speak with you.” That was Tim, he looked pale. Something had happened. Bruce got up, Clark following. Bruce decidedly ignored the sudden curiosity from Phantom. They closed the door and walked down the hall. When Bruce felt they were far enough from Phantom he stopped.

“Red Robin, report.”

“We’ve lost contact with Hood.”

Bruce’s heart dropped cold into his stomach. No. It couldn’t be. 

“When?”

“Two hours ago is when he last checked in. He’s since missed several check-ins.” Tim’s hands tightened into fists at his sides. “Could be he’s just not in a position to respond, or they have scramblers in the base.”

It was likely, in fact very likely that was the case with how secretive the GIW were being, but two hours were a long time to miss check-ins. Clark’s hand landed on his shoulder which he only now realized how tense was, but no, now was not the time to relax or calm down. He shrugged Clark’s hand off and stalked back down the hall.

The GIW were mum about any details. There was only one person who could tell them what Jason was facing in that building.

He burst into the interrogation room and slammed his hands on the table. That got Phantom’s attention his eyes widening before narrowing and his lips splitting in a snarl that showed off fangs, but Bruce sneered right back.

“We lost contact with an agent sent to infiltrate a GIW-base, you will tell me what you know about them, or so help me I will make you wish you stayed in that dimension you came from.”

“Batman, please, maybe you should step out-“ Clark began good hand hovering shy of Bruce, but he was interrupted by the bark of laughter coming from Phantom.

And then he laughed and laughed and laughed. 

Bruce punched him. Clark pulled him back. 

Phantom slowly turned his head back to look at them, working his jaw. 

“There we have it after all. Your true colors: attacking a chained up captive.” He wiggled his fingers drawing attention to the wide thick cuffs dwarfing his wrists. His eyes held only cold judgment. “But don’t worry, Batman, your agent has nothing to fear from the GIW unless they are dead.”

Bruce couldn’t help the flinch and he felt Clark do the same. Something in the very air stilled then, making it hard to breathe. 

“You,” Phantom began standing up, right out of the restraints as if they weren’t there, “are going to explain to me what that reaction means…“ He carefully put his hands down on the table and leaned forward in a way that made it very apparent he was holding himself back. He glared holes into Bruce’s skull with blazing green eyes. “Unless you want your agent back in pieces.”

-

Psssst. this is actually the beginning of the fic where this is from (CW: relatively graphic aftermath of vivisection)

So basically Phantom is public enemy number one, or at least top of the US government and GIW's shit list XD Huh, "Wanted: Dead or Alive", might actually be a pretty fun title, what do you guys think?

[diggersapologist]

Let the Light In (Doctor Phosphorus X Reader)

I. I had some divine inspiration. Who up hurt/comforting they Alexander Sartorius????!??!!?!?!?

TW: Mention of death, blood, a knife, SPOILERS for Doctor Phosphorus's backstory

Written by: Mod Diggers

Word Count: 2191

The plaza of Belle Reve was bustling today- you had prisoners playing ping pong, others playing checkers, and of course, plenty of fighting. Today was not a day where you felt like you were capable of tolerating the bustle of your peers, it was one of those days that the outside world simply wasn’t an option for you, all too overwhelming to consider. It was the kind of day where nothing sounded more ideal than curling up on your bunk with a book nestled perfectly in your palm.The thin sheet of a blanket was draped over your lap, and your lips were in a soft pout as your finger trailed delicately over the page, entirely entranced. 

It wasn’t until you heard the awkward sound of someone clearing their throat that you were snapped out of the temporary spell of your book, your eyes shooting open and head whipping to the door of your cell to see Alexander. His skull peered into you from across the room, not any different in appearance than usual, but you could simply sense that something was wrong. The melancholy in the room was palpable and emanating from Alexander, just as potent as the glow coming from his irradiated form. “Hey,” is all Alexander would say, his tired sockets looking into you as you moved to set your book to the side, gently patting the cot next to you. “Hey…” you whisper softly, watching as his feet would drag against the floor, grunting as he flopped on the cot beside you and leaned against the wall, the back of his skull hitting against the concrete. 

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Your soft voice was a stark contrast to the deep emotion in the room, but Alexander softly shook his head. “Not yet.” He would answer curtly, staring blankly in front of him. The flames that would gently flicker across his body would softly crackle, providing a brief reprieve from total silence. You were silent in turn, waiting a few moments before speaking. “I’m here when you’re ready to talk, Alex,” you would reassure, your hand slowly slipping over the sheets to rest atop his own planted palm, your thumb gently stroking his translucent knuckles. At the intimate act and use of his name, Alexander would ball up the sheet in his fist, scorching it before letting it go and groaning. “Shit- Sorry- Sorry… I’ll give you mine.” He rubbed his face with his palm, looking at you with an- as per usual- unreadable expression. “No- No. Don’t worry about it- it’s fine! I-I’m sure they would replace it if I asked?” You could tell Alexander was squinting scrutinizingly at you, blushing as you turned your head and pouted softly. Alexander would sigh at your reaction, having sought you out for comfort in the first place and already afraid he would run you away. 

Alexander was full of so many thoughts, so many words, yet, he couldn’t find the energy to speak any of them. His gaze was full of longing, yearning, and it killed him that you couldn’t see it. Despite not being able to see it, you certainly still could, in a way. You saw and felt the pain in his eyes, the utter loneliness that was pooling in his glowing chest cavity, and it was just as painful for you. No one takes pleasure in seeing their lover in pain. 

It felt like time was slowed as you carefully reached to the side, moving to take Alexander in your arms. This was completely alien to the both of you- while you were both in an established relationship, you hadn’t had a discussion on intimacy, but if anyone seemed like they needed a hug right now, it was Alexander. Your arms enveloped him with just the right amount of pressure, still giving him an opportunity to pull away if desired. Alexander was as stiff as a board as his arms hovered to your sides, grateful his expression wasn’t visible. He was in utter shock at not only the gesture, but the physical sensation of it, something he hadn’t experienced in over fifteen years. If there were ever a time where his body truly felt like it was engulfed in flames, it was now. His jaw was hung open, his eyes as wide as dinner plates as he stared behind you. 

His hesitance worried you immensely, but you quickly realized- he hadn’t pulled away yet. Alexander was still for some time after the realization, but giving him time was the correct answer. A gasp would tear through your throat as Alexander desperately clutched you flush to his chest, one hand cradling the back of your head, fingers tangled and threaded through your hair, while the other clawed at the small of your back. Alexander’s face was buried in your hairline, and due to the close proximity, you could feel that he was making a contorted expression as his breathing grew heavy. 

The air was electrified, there was nothing but want, need, and desire in the cell at the moment, but not in a carnal sense. This was far more intimate than fornication could ever be. Alexander was baring his soul to you, all of the hurt, all of the loneliness, all of the doubt, the regret, everything that was weighing on him, he wanted you to see it. All he wanted was for someone to see him- no one had met the qualifications to be that someone- not until he had met you. 

Unbeknownst to you, today was one of those days for him, too. He had woken up that morning in a cold sweat from a nightmare- the same one as always. The cot was absolutely drenched, along with his jumpsuit. Alexander was panting hard, swallowing dryly as he slowly lifted himself up from his lying position, sitting up and hunching over, his head in his hands. After a few moments, his hands would lower from his head in a painfully slow manner, palms facing upwards in his lap as he couldn’t help but simply stare at them. The images would flicker in his head- he could still picture Parvin’s crimson blood pooling in the crevices of his cracked hands. The solid handle of the knife felt all too tangible in his palm at this moment- he could feel the sanded texture of the wood, the stinging cool of the stainless steel blade, the forceful grips on his wrists as they were strewn across the defiled corpse of his beloved wife- 

Alexander shook his head and nearly howled. He could feel every nerve in his body in a painstaking way, his senses more heightened than he ever thought possible. He spent his entire morning living in fear alone- but that was through no fault but his own. It was frequent that Alexander would miss breakfast- so no one brought it into question. It wasn’t until he had appeared in your room that anyone would know something was afoot. It took far more courage than Alexander would ever admit to step foot in your room, but he just couldn’t do it. He couldn’t handle being alone. He had spent fifteen years denying himself the comfort of another, mental and physical, and he wasn’t going to do it for fifteen more. 

A soft sob would break the air, the hand in your hair almost tugging with how close Alexander needed you at this moment. You wouldn’t dare move, your arms would only hug him tighter, your brow furrowing as you tried not to cry yourself at Alexander’s broken state- but this wasn’t about you. Alexander would try to ignore the sound of his singeing tears as he let go, sniffling quietly as he cried nearly silently against you, but you could feel that it was far more painful than any wailing cry could be. No words were exchanged, simply just an air of understanding and sympathy. To be honest, you had no idea what was wrong, but you didn’t have to know. You would be here for Alexander regardless. He would no longer ever be in a situation where a burden was his and his only to carry. His grip wouldn’t lessen, no matter how much time had passed. 

After what had to have been at least fifteen minutes of his iron grip on you, he would slowly lie the both of you down on the cot, gently kissing your forehead as he stared blankly forward. You would slowly pull your head back, your hand reaching up to hold Alexander’s cheekbone to tilt his head down for a proper look at him. Your eyes would reveal nothing but adoration and tenderness for Alexander, and no matter how hard he tried and prayed that he would find a sign otherwise, it would never come to fruition. He was honestly terrified that this was going to work out- that this wasn’t going to prove him right, prove that he was the monster that everyone else saw him as inside and out, including himself. He so desperately wanted you to hate him sometimes. 

“Stop looking at me. Don’t look at me like that.” You were bewildered for a moment at Alexander’s snippy voice breaking the silence, stammering softly. His tone stung, but after the push, there would always be the pull- in every sense of the phrase. His arms would tighten around you despite his words, his gaze boring holes into your own. “Did I do something wrong?” You would ask genuinely, continuing to look into his sockets with conviction. Alexander was silent for a few moments as he processed your question, a million ways to approach the answer- but even if he didn’t want you to care about him- he cared about you. He wanted to be honest. “No. No you didn’t. I don’t know what to do when you look at me like that. I don’t like it.” Alexander would spit out, trying to seem intimidating.

 You nodded softly, pursing your lips. “If you really don’t like it, I won’t do it.” “You really need to stop it-” “S-Stop what?” You were far more confused at this point, looking across his skull for any sign of the source. “Stop being so respectful! Stop being so nice to me all the time, stop treating me as an equal- I can’t do this! I can’t-” “Alex. Alex- Alexander!” You would try and snap him out of it, your thumb gently pressing into his cheekbone. “What.” He would speak in a bitter hiss, and you could feel his squinted gaze on you. “Let me love you. Let me at least try.” 

Alexander felt like the air had been knocked out of him, a swift verbal punch to his gut as he stared at you incredulously. “Would you like me to be honest with you?” Alexander would ask in a monotone and gruff voice, his face a mere inch from yours. You would nod softly in affirmation, swallowing dryly. “Please.” Alexander was silent as he looked over your face, your face he found all too soft in contrast to his angular skull, in fact, he thought everything about you contrasted him. You didn’t deserve to be seen around him. “When you look at me like that, I’m utterly terrified. I’m terrified of what I would do for you and what I would put you through because of it. You don’t know what I’m capable of. I will ruin your life.” He had no idea why he was behaving this way- he didn’t want this. Alexander had no intention of letting you go, but he knew one thing for certain. If you let go, he wouldn’t stop you. Not out of disinterest, but his presence in your life was doing you a disservice, he was sure of it. If you changed your mind, he knew he couldn’t blame you. 

“My life is my own to ruin- I won’t ever give anyone else that power, rest assured. If you’re not ready for a re-” “No! No- don’t- don’t SAY that. I’m ready. I’m more than ready- I was- I was BORN ready.” Alexander tried to unconvincingly reassure you, your furrowed brow causing his shoulders to fall as his hands would only grip onto you tighter. “I don’t want you to end up hating me. I don’t want you to realize that I’m a sociopathic shithead and bail-” “-I happen to be painfully aware that you’re a sociopathic shithead, but I like that about you.” “Why are you so insistent?” Alexander would ask in an unnerved voice, it shaking slightly as he spoke. “Because I know you need me to be.” You would whisper softly, moving to hug him tighter and burying your face in his neck, gently kissing it. Alexander could turn into ash with the heat he felt radiating around him at your tenderness, his fingertips digging roughly into your hair and shirt as he buried his face in your neck in turn. Today may not be the day Alexander tells you his woes, his past, his burdens- but today was the day he knew he could when the time was right.

[sporadicthingcollection]

Kiss, Marry, Kill: Part 2/2 (LA!Buggy the Clown x F!Reader)

Summary: In which Buggy saves your bacon and you continue to lie to yourself. Pairing: LA!Buggy the Clown x F!Reader Rating: Explicit. Word Count: ~2.3k (of 5.3k) Warnings: Canon-typical violence, sexual fantasies, needles.

A/N: I was going to wait a few days to post this, build some anticipation, but y'all thirsty and I am a woman of the people.

---

Does Buggy feel a twinge of regret as he hauls ass out of Arlong Park? Sure, but not out of any sense of honor or decency or whatever. He just wishes he could have seen your lovely face one last time.

And he must have racked up some good karma recently, because he does indeed see your lovely face. It's curled up in a snarl as a fishman bears down upon you, but it's hot in a warrior princess kind of way.

You throw a right hook that collides with the fishman’s jaw, but no dice. He belts you right in the mouth. It lays you flat, but you take it like a champ and pop right back up.

He hates the idea of such a pretty face being marred in such an unfair fight. So he lends a hand.

Detaching said hand, he sends it floating toward the scuffle. A hard pinch on the ass throws the fishman off guard with a yelp.

You see the opening and slam him across the face once, twice, a third time. He collapses to the side. You waste no time jumping atop him, straddling his chest as you wallop his face into hamburger.

Still kinda hot.

Satisfied that he’s unconscious, you climb to your feet, resting your hands on your hips as you catch your breath. You run a hand through your hair, mussing it in a most handsome way.

Buggy saunters up behind you. Not particularly quietly, but you’re so winded you must not notice. He hovers his chin right over your shoulder. “Boo.”

You screech. Loudly. And whirl around and throw a haymaker that he only just catches with his remaining hand.

“Aw, c’mon,” he grumbles. “That any way to treat your coffee soulmate?”

You blink at him. “When’d you— How— What?”

He recalls his other hand. It reattaches with a little flourish. “Saved your life, babe. You're welcome.”

You look around, then frown. You give his chest a weak shove and stumble away. “I gotta… gotta find Usopp…!”

“Up-bup-bup. Not so fast.” He snags you by the back of the shirt and pulls you back. You whine in protest. "You owe me, Miss Sawbones.”

You scowl at him. “I didn’t ask for help.”

“No, but you got it. Which means…” He taps the tip of your nose. “You.” Tap. “Owe.” Tap. “Me.”

“Fine. Whatever. Cash it in later when I’m not in a rush.” You try to run again, and again he snatches you. “What’s your problem?!”

“My problem is that, if everything comes up Buggy, I’m never going to see you shitheels again.” He leans in close enough for his nose to bump yours. “But I don't like having unfinished business.”

Your eyes are so hot that steam might as well be coming out of your ears. “Just tell me what you want and fuck off.”

Finally, just what he wanted to hear. But what to ask for? You most certainly don't have money. And the map's a wash — even if you could get it, all your little friends would beat him black and blue. No, this has to be something that will get under your skin. Pull your pigtails a little. Hurt your pride.

Like a ray of divine inspiration, it hits him. He can't help but grin as he steps towards you. You take a step back. He matches it. Another step. Another. He backs you right into a tree.

He brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, tracing his finger down your jaw to tip your chin up. He pulls out his best imitation of that damn cook. "Give us a kiss, love."

Your face screws up in disgust. You slap his hand and try to jump away, only for him to grab your arm. Swinging you back around, he pulls you flush against him, his free hand on your waist. He revels in your warmth. He missed his body so much.

He puckers his lips. “C'mon, just a little smooch. Won’t even use tongue.”

You yank your arm from his grip and stare up at him. Grabbing him by the collar, you jerk him downwards. He braces himself for a slap. Or maybe a punch. That seems more your style.

But then you yank him forwards and his lips collide with yours and every joint, every tendon, every inch of sinew in his body locks up. It's all he can do not to topple into a thousand parts and pieces.

He's in shock. He never freezes. Not in the middle of a performance, not in the middle of a fight, and certainly not in the process of sweet talking a kiss out of a pretty little thing.

And yet, here he barely stands. Probably because it’s none of those things — there's no one around, the fight's over, and you're not a pretty little thing. You're a very beautiful grown woman.

His heart flutters against his ribs like a starved hummingbird barred from a flower. He wants more. He wants everything. He wants you.

Oh, this isn't good. It's never good when he catches feelings. Especially not this quickly. Never ends well for him.

...but maybe this time...

You pull away with a pop, but your grip on his waistcoat stays strong. Your mouth remains open, and you waggle your lower jaw, running your lip along your bottom teeth. Your tongue darts out to lick your lips.

He wants to lick them too.

You let out a yip as he swings you down and dips you low, one hand on your neck and the other hooked under your leg. You gaze up at him with wide eyes, twinkling like mischievous little stars.

He dives in for the encore before he can lock up again. Somewhere, some idiot sets off fireworks.

Oh, what a kiss. It’s the kind of kiss they write songs about. The kind that breaks fairy tale curses and turns frogs into princes. The kind that lonely sailors dream of, wishing on shooting stars for someone to love. Someone to laugh with, argue with, cry with, share a treasure with, share a bunk with, share a crown with. Someone to be his and his alone.

And then he feels it. A little nudge against his lips. He pulls away in surprise. “So much for no tongue.”

Smears of red lipstick and flakes of white greasepaint coat your lips. You lick them anyways. “I never agreed to that.” You throw your arms around his neck and force your way inside his mouth.

Now it's the sort of kiss that haunts the dreams of all men. Fiery. Slick. Dexterous. You stroke his teeth and nip his lips and fill his mouth in due measure. He can barely keep up.

The images come unbidden. You, lying across his bed, eyeing him like a tigress eyes her meal. Him, ripping your shirt off to get at those delicious breasts. You, bouncing on his cock, moaning like a whore. Him, flipping you over to fuck you more efficiently. You, begging and whining as you hit your peak. Him, climaxing so hard he sees lightning. You, resting your head against his chest as you drift off to sleep. Him, pulling you closer and burying his face in your hair and whispering sweet little things that you won’t remember—

God damn, are all your kisses like this? Is this what you treat every man to? A lightning strike, a cool plunge, a searing brand, all in one? What kind of devil did you make a deal with to be so beguiling?

His head spins like a carousel as you pull away, from either shock or oxygen deprivation. Probably both.

Even more old paint covers your face. And you still don’t care. Your chest heaves and your gaze burns as you lick your chops. 

While his brain processes what just happened, his poor, stupid heart takes the wheel and shoots its shot. “Wanna come with?” he rasps.

The smolder in your eyes snuffs out and your brows scrunch. “Huh?”

“Ditch the punks. Join up with me. It'll be great."

You blink a few times, eyes darting around. “Why?”

Why? A kiss like that and you’re asking why? “Group of weirdos like us could always use haircuts.”

That marvelous sound leaves your lips. First that glorious snnnrrrk and then that clattery laughter. Your face lights up with glee, your pretty teeth on full display. “Sell me on it.”

That’s a good sign. “Your own cabin. An operating theater. More treasure than you can carry and the best barber chair it can buy.”

Your smile grows. You slip a finger below his chin as you gaze up through your eyelashes. “Sweeten the pot.”

Oh, that’s a dangerous look. His mouth starts writing checks his ego certainly won’t let him cash. “Your own act. Your name in lights. And you can kiss me like that whenever you want."

Those eyes turn downright smoky. You say in a low, low voice, "Just kiss you?"

He almost drops you. All the blood rushing to his cheeks stops dead in his arteries. Then it waterfalls all the way back down.

He jerks you upwards and presses his lips to your ear. “I’ll screw you to the wall every night and eat your cunt like a wild dog every morning. How’s that sound?”

A little hiccup of a gasp escapes you. “Sounds— Sounds good to me, Captain.”

He's ready to throw you over his shoulder like a sack of flour when something whistles through the air above him. He looks up. Pain explodes across his jaw, popping his head off and sending the rest of him sprawling.

It takes him a moment to shake the stars out of his eyes and get the blood back where it belongs. The sniper kid stands a few yards away, quaking in his boots as he loads up his slingshot. Next to him, you scramble to your feet, clutching your makeup-smeared hand.

"Nice timing," you say to Usopp. You pat his shoulder, leaving a streak of white.

“Don’t mention it.” He swallows. "What do we do about him?”

“Iunno. Either kill him or let him buzz off.” You grip your wrist. “Yeow, that hurt…”

Buggy recalls his head to his neck and gives it a good shake. How dare you? How dare you use him like that? Give him feelings only to play with them? What kind of heartless bitch are you?

He's got quite the eloquent insult prepared, but it vanishes as soon as his mouth catches up to his thoughts. “You...!”

He launches his fist at you, but the kid fires off a round from his slingshot. Buggy yelps as a dozen pinpoints of pain pierce his palm, and he recalls it back. There are, in fact, a dozen pins buried deep in his hand. Ow.

He looks up, but the kid is speeding away. You're close behind, but you do glance back. He swears he sees a glint of remorse in your dark eyes, but you're gone moments after.

Alone. Again. After getting his emotions kicked around like a naughty puppy.

Fuck this. Fuck Rubber Boy. Fuck the sniper kid.

And, most of all, fuck you.

—-

You're no good at art, but you're the only person around here with steady hands, a sterile needle, and a willingness to inflict pain. Thus, redoing Nami's tattoo falls to you.

"So how was it?" she asks.

You're so focused on tracing the design onto her arm that you almost don't respond. "Not too bad, if I do say so myself. Might have to adjust the angle."

"Not that. The other thing."

The tangerine connects to the tangerine leaf. The tangerine leaf connects to the pinwheel spoke. “Yes. Of course. The other thing.” 

“Heard you kissed the clown.”

The pinwheel spoke connects to the other spoke aaaand the pen slips from your fingers. Fortunately for you, it doesn’t screw up your careful tracing. “We’re gonna need a new sniper when I’m done keelhauling the old one.”

Nami laughs. It’s not bitter anymore, which you’re thankful for. Girl’s been through a lot. “C’mon, how was it?”

You scoff. “Sudden. Sloppy. Tasted like greasepaint and self-loathing.”

You leave out that you actually like all that. Surprise. Spit. Theatrics and desperation. What can you say? You’re a dumb bitch with a bad taste for pathetic men. You accepted this about yourself a long, long time ago.

If Nami picks up on your deception, she doesn’t let it show. “Thanks for taking one for the team, doc.”

Taking one for the team. Yeah. That’s what it was. A distraction. A diversion. You didn’t manipulate a madman’s feelings for you. He didn’t read you like a giant neon sign. Nor did you feel anything in that kiss. Not in any of them.

Certainly not the first time — that was impulse. Nor the second time — that one was thrust upon you. And the third time — brain was preoccupied with stalling for time so your cooch took over for a moment.

A moment that almost led to you abandoning your friends for a psycho, your conscience reminds you.

You shake the guilt off. “I’m not a doctor,” you mutter, “and let us never speak of this again.”

You swear she stares right into your soul. That she knows what you’ve done. But she nods. “Speak about what?”

It takes a few hours, a few curses, and a few tears, but the tattoo comes out great, if you do say so yourself.

And the entire time, you’re distracted by thoughts of a psycho with a very persuasive tongue.

---

Never had you on my mind

Now you're there all the time

Never knew what I missed until I I kissed ya

---

⬅⬅⬅ | To the "Curious Courtship" Masterpost | To the Mastahpost | Tip Jar | ➡➡➡

[whoblewboobear]

There have been a lot of negative posts about how this season turned out bc of the rat grinders exclusively and everyone is entitled to their opinions on the season. But in light of it, I’m gonna throw out some positives about this season 💖

Sophomore year will always hold a special place in my heart because of the Fabian arc but Junior year might be my favorite fantasy high season overall. I loved learning about Ankarna and Cassandra. I thought I’d be bummed out not seeing some of my fave npcs but the downtime mechanic and the stress tokens added sO much. The Porter & Jace reveal was incredible. KRISTEN’S CAMPAIGN ARC!!! Fabian and Mazey!? K2 and all the blimey shenanigans 👏 Everything with Wanda Childa and Ruben and fig’s complicated women podcast was sooooo funny. I genuinely laughed harder this season than I have with any other d20 season I’ve seen.

I feel like with this season they really hit their stride with pacing too. It felt a lot more fluid with how we rolled into combat most of the time. I loved that first party of the year and seeing Adaine become the party wizard. After ep 18 it makes me love the party with the Oisin missing his shots so much more bc he got in that nasty little one liner later. I adored that the rat grinders were essentially a red herring to keep the bad kids looking elsewhere to take the heat off Porter and Jace a bit.

We didn’t see much from all of them, and we didn’t see nearly enough about Lucy, but I really loved the Rat grinders as in school rivals for the bad kids. Ruben was hands down my favorite but goddamn did I also love how much of a girlfailure Kip was. I loved seeing her rage out and I hope we get to see her really go nuts in the finale too. I really really warmed up to Mary Ann last episode with her tugging on Jace’s shirt and saying she didn’t feel good and then seeing her rage when her strawberry got destroyed. She’s so fascinating to meeee. I loved everything with Buddy and Kristen. I wish they had more scenes together. And while I’m talking about the Dawns, that entrance from Bobby Dawn as the new cleric teacher made my skin crawl in the best way. I loved Kristen calling him frumpy and sad on her teacher evaluation too- and holy shit Fig meeting Ankarna for the first time? Ankarna being the inspiration Fig needed to make music again too?

The incredible art from Cait May this season was hands down one of my FAVORITE d20 artist collabs ever. Just overall improved designs for everyone that just make so much more sense for their characters and art for new characters that made me adore them even more. Also holy shit the Porter maxi is genuinely my favorite mini that’s ever been featured on the show. I’m typically not into how the minis look in general, they always look a lil goofy to me but goddamn when they hit, they fuckin HIT.

And speaking of Porter, I really got endeared to him this season. Yeah he turned out evil and always has been a dick to gorgug and is definitely a shit teacher, but before the reveal I loved his training with Fig and Zara. One thing about Fantasy high is that I just love a lot of the teachers. My two faves this season being Terpsichore and Henry! They’re both so dedicated to their students and are such a specific type of teacher that you’ve definitely met before in real life. Like all my favorite math teachers back in school were so much like Henry and that made me love him even more.

Of course my #1 favorite thing about the world of Spyre is the religion aspect and how Brennan and Ally both approach it. That scene with Ally connecting with Yolanda and Lucy to allow them some comfort in the afterlife was so beautiful. Kristen’s talks with Bucky throughout the season were very touching and hit very close to home as someone that grew up in a religious household and doesn’t connect with the divinity I was raised on. Just- wow wow wow. I also really love that despite the breakup, Tracker and Kristen still have really interesting convos about divinity even if they don’t agree.

I loved seeing different dynamics in the bad kids too, I love the huge sibling energy that Fabian and Adaine have and the bond that Kristen and Fig have. I love how interwoven all the bad kids feel as a group. I love the little quirks that they all have, and I loved all the fandom posts about them like the sharing clothes posts and the one about how everyone lets Riz crawl on them to get better vantage points. I love Riz’s wall of text breaking down to gorgug about how much he appreciates him. Him calling gorgug a sweetie almost made me cry. I of course love all the parent/child moments this season. I loved the bad kids finally healing Lydia and seeing how happy it made Ragh. I LOVE Aelwyn and all her cats 🤧 I loved seeing Baron again and I loved how the bad kids got to the funhouse version of mordred through riz’s briefcase. I love seeing Adaine and Sandralynn bond. I loved finding out that Sandralynn and Sklonda go out for drinks and are friends. I just 💖 and goddamn, Ayda’s message to Fig and how Zara helped to surprise Fig with it. I love how Bill and Pok are such proud dads of their boys and I hope they’re doing some bonding over drinks in the after life.

And I cannot end this post without saying that I loved how cinematic this season felt too. It had INCREDIBLE imagery that you could easily visualize. Everyone at the table was in their element this time around from a role playing and a strategic standpoint. Everyone had their moment to shine and something important to do this season that fed back into the main plot. So thank you to Brennan and the intrepid heroes for giving us another killer season. After the season ended I was planning to finish Starstruck and Neverafter but I might just rewatch Junior year all over again just to get it out of my system.

Feel free to add things you loved about Junior year!

[woniedarlin]

Curry Surprise: Yang Jungwon

pairing: husband! Jungwon x reader

synopsis: You set out to surprise Jungwon, your husband, with a homemade curry, but despite your efforts, the dish didn't meet your expectations.

warnings: kissing, patting your bum (?)

note: Sooo, remember when I said I wouldn't make another story? Well, funny thing... Inspiration hit me like a ton of bricks today, and I just had to share it with you all. Remind that I never cooked or liked curry 😭 I actually hate it but I’m doing this for wonie. This is just a short one. Here's to more adventures together. Happy reading, darlings! 📚✨

Jungwon, your husband, was currently at work, his mind undoubtedly occupied with the day's tasks as the evening slowly crept in. In the warmth of your kitchen, you prepared a pot of curry, the rich aroma of spices filling the air as you stirred the bubbling concoction. Although you felt a slight hint of uncertainty as you performed each step, being your first attempt at making curry, you are determined to make Jungwon’s favorite dish.

"Um...am I doing this right?" you said with uncertainty, the sizzle of the curry being cooked in the pot accompanying your question as you added a bit too much curry powder, the fragrant aroma intensifying with each stir.

"Doing what right?"

Jungwon's voice startled you out of your daze. He looked tired, but his presence alone filled the entire kitchen with warmth. The scent of the curry seemed to be even more delectable to him as he took a deep inhalation and smiled softly.

You flinched at his sudden appearance, your heart skipping a beat, before relief flooded over you. "My love! Don’t scare me like that."

"My apologies, I didn't mean to startle you." With his gaze still glued to the pot in front of you, he took another deep sniff of the cooking aroma before stepping up to you and wrapping his arms around your waist from behind. "That smells amazing," he uttered, his love for both you and the dish evident in his words as he buried his face against your neck.

"Wait at the table. I’ll just finish this in a few minutes," you said to him, your voice gentle as you continued to stir the pot.

"Of course, love," Jungwon whispered as he gently patted your bottom as you went to tend to the pot. His touch sent a surge of butterflies through you as he took a seat at the dinner table, admiring the way the dim light danced off of your features, leaving a faint glow of beauty.

Minutes later, you came out of the kitchen, carrying two plates with steaming curry and fluffy rice. With a warm smile, you set them down on the dinner table, the aroma filling the room as you invited him to indulge in the feast you had prepared with love. "Here you go, my love,"

Jungwon couldn't contain his excitement as he studied the dish before him. For such a simple-looking dish, the curry looked absolutely divine. He took a deep inhale through his nose as you set the plates down, and he couldn't help but smile at the way the rice had captured the curry's fragrance, leaving its own distinctively appetizing smell.

"You've outdone yourself again, baby," Jungwon exclaimed, taking a seat and grabbing a spoon to serve himself.

But as Jungwon takes a spoonful of the curry, his taste buds are met with an unexpected and unwelcome surprise—a burnt flavor that overpowers the dish, leaving a bitter aftertaste lingering on his palate.

Jungwon recoiled slightly at the bitter aftertaste, his expression shifting into one of slight disappointment. "Hmm, the curry is a little..."

He stopped himself short, knowing that it would be cruel to openly criticize the meal to your face. Instead, he took another bite, trying his best to hide the frown forming on his lips.

You noticed his expression and began to worry, a slight furrow forming on your brow as you awaited his response. "What is it?" you asked, your voice tinged with concern, hoping that everything was alright and that he would enjoy the meal you had prepared for him.

"Don't be alarmed, love," Jungwon reassured, trying his best to conceal his dismay. He took another spoonful of the dish, hoping the bitterness would pass with time, but sadly, it did not.

You sat down beside him and tried the curry yourself, your anticipation turning to disappointment as the taste failed to meet your expectations. "Oh..." you uttered softly, sadness creeping into your voice as you realized that despite your efforts, the dish hadn't turned out as you had hoped.

Seeing the disappointment on your face, Jungwon felt a twinge of guilt. He couldn't bear to see you sad, especially when it was his own fault. He reached out for your hand and squeezed lightly, hoping that the gesture could offer some comfort.

“I’m sorry,” you said softly, meeting his gaze with a mixture of regret and sincerity.

"Please don't apologize," Jungwon said, looking at you gently. The taste of the dish was admittedly a bit disappointing, but his thoughts weren't filled with disdain or frustration; they were filled with love for you. He brushed a gentle kiss against your cheek, squeezing your hand for a moment before letting it go to resume eating. He continued to take sips of the bitter curry, all the while feeling guilty for having to pretend that he was enjoying the dish.

"You don’t have to force yourself to eat it," you said, offering him a reassuring smile despite your underlying sadness. "I’ll just go upstairs and grab my phone so we can order food delivery," you added, mustering up as you excused yourself from the table and made your way upstairs.

"But...my love..." he frowned, watching your figure as you quickly walked upstairs to retrieve your phone. He paused for a moment. The silence of the dining room filled his heart with anguish, a deafening silence that almost seemed to mock his own incompetence. He continued to eat silently after you left, taking small bites as he stared down at his plate.

You were deciding what food to order in the food delivery app on your phone for a few minutes. Once you had made your selection, you went downstairs, intending to inform him of your decision and inquire if the food delivery was acceptable to him. However, as you reached the bottom of the stairs, you were surprised to see him rubbing his stomach, his plate now clean.

Seeing that you had returned was a small relief, but Jungwon's facial expression didn't waver, seeming to still be filled with guilt. He had finished eating the entire dish without complaining, forcing himself to endure the bitterness despite his distaste for the dish. He saw that you had your phone in hand and frowned, assuming that you had decided to order some food from outside.

"Hun...? did you finish the curry?" you called out, a hint of surprise in your voice as you noticed him rubbing his stomach, his plate now completely clean. You widened your eyes in disbelief at the unexpected sight.

"Yes, I did," Jungwon replied, looking at you with a soft smile as he rubbed his stomach from being full. "You did well, baby. Thank you for the meal," he added, his words filled with genuine appreciation and affection for your efforts.

“You didn’t have to,” you said softly as you stepped closer to him, feeling a tinge of embarrassment at the realization that he had managed to stomach the entirety of the dish for your sake.

"I wanted to. You put a lot of effort into it," Jungwon said, reaching out to lightly caress your cheek. The gentle gesture helped to soothe the guilt that had plagued his soul since he had started eating the meal. He wanted to relieve your embarrassment and let you know that his actions were driven solely by love, not by politeness or obligation.

‘’..thank you..’’ you said while looking at him lovingly. Your heart is feeling so warm.

"It's no problem, love." He smiled gently after noticing the loving look you were giving him. He felt the warm sensation return to his heart, slowly alleviating the remorse he had been feeling. He reached for your hand and laced your fingers in his own, giving it a gentle squeeze to offer comfort and reassurance.

"I love you," you said to him, your voice filled with sincerity and affection. Words cannot describe how much you love your husband from the bottom of your heart. You’ll do everything and anything for him.

"I love you too," Jungwon replied softly, feeling the familiar butterflies in his stomach as he gazed at you. He was utterly smitten by you. He gently pulled your hand down, guiding you closer before stealing a tender kiss against your lips, letting his touch linger for a while before pulling away.

“I’m lucky to have a husband like you,” you said, your voice filled with sincerity as you looked at him with eyes full of love.

Jungwon smiled after hearing your compliment, feeling a warm sense of pride well up in his heart. His face showed just how much he relished being praised by you, especially when said praise was in regard to his affection and tenderness towards you.

"And I am lucky to have an amazing wife like you," Jungwon replied, taking your other hand into his own.

  Oh Jungwon, the man you are…

[liltumgrum]

There are two major things that are ripping me up about Kaladin leaving to become a herald.

And I don’t mean how it was predicable.

The first is the general lack of knowledge of what happened to him. Szeth doesn’t even know. His parents will never know how they lost their son again. Orodin will never know why his big brother he just met disappeared. What’s left of bridge 4 will think their Captain finally was beaten. No one knows he’s not actually dead. His body died and was all that was left behind as a clue. It looks like he *failed* almost. Kaladin has had a way of inspiring people to believe in the impossible since he was in his mid to late teens. And now when everything in their world has fallen, this almost divine figure has a well. He was such a symbol to hope to so many people only for him to seemingly die without anyone even awake to witness.

This is less sad to his character and more so for the population of human free from Retribution

Second, and worst of all in my opinion, is the people he left beind.

In this I’m not actually talking about Bridge 4 or his family who he did get closure with in some way. Specifically I’m thinking of Szeth, Adolin, and Shallan. He was what? Szeth’s first actual friend? For like 8 days? And Szeth buried his corpse. Adolin and Shallan refused to say goodbye. They haven’t out grown him in the same way others had. They saw him as he was, vulnerable, when others didn’t.

I’m not saying that it’s impossible for them to have that drink together, but unless Kal figures out how to do freaky shit in the cognitive realm or someone yanks the heralds back to roshar before their ready, it seems really unlikely. Ishar said that time passes significantly faster on roshar than where they are. Kaladin said the heralds have time to heal. He just…. Doesn’t seem to be planning on coming back in time for Adolin or Shallan to still be alive. He won’t get to be the friend to Adolin that Adolin was to him. He won’t get to joke and commiserate with Shallan with no weird feelings between them. He doesn’t get to be proud of them for what they’ve done while they were separated. And they know nothing but that this time. This one final time. He didn’t come back.

That hurts me.

That isn’t to say however that I think it was out of character or easy for Kaladin to leave. One crucial thing about his character that has always been true is this: Kaladin cannot, and will not walk away from someone in front of him that needs help. That moment and that need takes president over all else. He just has decided he’s going to deal with the consequences of his choice. No matter how steep. Being there for the people that had literally no one else: szeth, the heralds, Syl and every single spren was worth the loss. He chose it and he’s going to see it through.

On a side note I can totally see why people thought the therapy talk was a little hit over the head and clunky. I would have like to see him fumble his words more. Which maybe says something about me bc he fumbled a lot. But honestly I’m just impressed at him for pushing himself to talk so much. I mean can you image the grunting guy in WoR talking half as much as he does in WaT?

I think the message was prioritized more for setting him up as a herald than it was meant to feel super natural. Which is unfortunate but I don’t personally care that much. -_(o_o)_-

[madelynraemunson]

CALL ME WHAT YOU WANT 𓆩♡𓆪

(strip club owner!eddie x fem!exotic dancer!hargrove!x reader)

𝐌𝐎𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐍 𝐀𝐔 18+ MDNI | BOOK #2 (S.H.)

Book #1 of the Hellfire Gentlemen's Club series (completed)

* loosely inspired by Sara Cate’s “Salacious Players Club” series

🔥 EXTRA CONTENT HERE 🔥

↳ chapters: 001, 002*, 003** , 004**, 005 , 006 , 007* , 008**, 009, 010, 011, 012* , 013**, 014** , 015, 016** , 017, 018, 019, 020*

* = somewhat smutty chapters , ** = smut chapters

Summary: 𝐘𝐎𝐔 ���𝐄𝐄𝐃 𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐘 𝐅𝐀𝐒𝐓. After getting kicked out by your brother, you have no other choice but to take off your big girl pants and add stripper to your resume. Desperate to pay the bills and support your little sister, are you willing to accept the risks that come with such a perilous profession? With the stage name ‘Shy Girl’, you take the leap of faith, weaponizing your divine femininity to steal the hearts of all the bachelors in Hawkins — including Eddie Munson’s, the owner of Hellfire Gentlemen’s Club.

warnings & disclaimers — slow burn, eventual smut (a lot of it), voyeurism, mutual pining, sexual tension, jealousy, drug/alcohol, profanities, sexual harassment, domestic violence

Welcome to Hellfire.

theme song: meet you in hell by jade lemac “Look me in my eyes. I know that you’re scared. You see yourself and you cry for help. Look me in my eyes. Tell me it’s not fair. If you taught me well, I’ll meet you in hell.”

Chapter 001: Wolves

The Hargroves are cursed. Generationally, that is. One night Billy takes it too far, costing him the only thing he had left... his sisters.

TW — abuse, domestic violence, blood, profanities, implications of infidelity, death

word count: 8.5k words

author's note: there are four different acts to this introductory chapter :) so much foundation to lay down and i spent forever on this to craft it perfectly for you guys. thank you for being as excited about this fanfic as I am releasing it. i hope you all enjoy! -madelyn

tags: @changemunson , @the-fairy-anon , @ali-r3n

_______________𓆩♡𓆪_______________

"Once I ran to you. Now I run from you."

♡

Duality of man. Mom was always a firm believer in that notion. In fact, she always used to say, "Inside of you, there are two wolves: a good one and a bad one. Depending on which mouth you feed, one will triumph the other.”

It became more evident when she died.

“YOU FUCKING SLUT. GRAB YOUR SHIT AND GO.”

Once identical in every aspect, the differences between you and your brother slowly began to unravel over time.

Being ‘good wolf’ was impossible while living under the same roof as Billy. So you settled for neutral wolf instead. Meanwhile, the big, bad wolf possessed him at age 15, when he realized hitting your father back would get him to back off.

It was 2010, post-homecoming game.

Dad nearly flung Billy into another dimension when he came home. The preferred alternative would have been attempting to reason with one another, but it just wasn’t something that was normalized in the Hargrove household. Communicating with words was a daunting task; but not nearly as daunting as accountability.

“I’M DONE WITH YOU, BILLY. GRAB YOUR SHIT AND GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY FUCKING HOUSE.”

“I’m a literal minor, you can’t do this, Dad!” Billy wailed. "PLEASE!"

Over a football game.

The Friday Night Lights were a staple of Vista Palms High School. That and all of its nacho-eating, pot-smoking, LMFAO-playing, neon-filled goodness.

"C’mon V-P, c’mon, let’s beat S-D!” For weeks Billy had been chanting that mantra. There was no clearer indication that it’s where he would be the night of the championship game. He didn’t communicate it, of course, but it was implied. But still, it didn’t cross Dad’s mind.

Any parent who thought their child was coming home on time — and sober — that night was a foolish one. Especially if their kid was a sophomore with senior status.

“You sure as hell don't act like one,” Dad spat. “Coming home, acting all grown." Little did Dad know Billy was there for community service. Billy was a good student. More than anything he wanted a full ride to a UC, mainly to get away from home. Either that or military. Maybe then, walking on eggshells and being accused of something he didn't do — like drinking and doing drugs — would be a seasonal occurence instead of daily. "ACTING LIKE YOU PAY THE BILLS. YOU DON'T. YOUR MOM AND I DO.”

Dad knew he hit a nerve. It was his signature move aside from alienating his victims to establish control. While the feeling of getting your wings clipped really did you in, reactive abuse was Billy's top trigger, especially when Mom was mentioned. After all, Billy was the one who found Her.

Through glassy eyes and gritted teeth, Billy closed up his fists before mustering up the courage to say, “I’m…not…calling Sue... the operative word.”

Dad snarled. “Like there’s anyone else physically here you’ve reserved that title for?”

Oh.

"This tainted love you've given-"

Billy took the bait, lunging forward to grab Dad. As if on cue, Dad winded up his arm, assuming his usual position. You managed to assert yourself between in hopes of stopping them. Suddenly the back of Dad's hand collided with your cheek, sprawling you onto the couch. Billy watched horrified while you fought to keep your eyes open, growing anxious when all you could hear was the room pulsating around you at the highest frequency you had ever heard in your 15 long years of life. Enough was enough.

One punch. Bridge of the nose. Game over. The control Dad had over you both had ceased.

Billy rushed to your aid while Dad took a few moments to gather himself. It was then his beat-in, throbbing eyes realized that the little boy he mercilessly pushed around was no longer there. His own little Frankenstein had taken his place.

"I gave you all a boy could give you"

"Oh my god, Sissy," Billy cried, crouching down to run a soothing hand through your hair. "Are you okay?"

"I'm okay," you sniff, wrapping a hand around his arm. "I'm fine, Billy. I promise."

"I'm not gonna let that son of a bitch hurt you ever again," he vowed. "I'm gonna fuck him up and anyone else who tries."

"I love you, Brother."

"I love you, Sissy." The magnitude of power that surged through Billy melted into every neuron in his body, the warmth of its adrenaline imitating a tender — long overdue — embrace. He became fully enveloped in what was like an electric current, its tide higher than any wave he's ever surfed. It became more exhilarating than cruising down the I-5 in his Camaro at 130 MPH, and more intoxicating than any keg of beer he's ever swigged at a Wanna-be Project X Party.

It was the rush Billy had been searching for his whole life.

Every high Billy ever pursued before that rapidly declined in value. He would trade in anything for the static that had encoded itself into him. He felt untouchable, a luxury your father couldn’t afford his wife and children.

"YOU PUT YOUR HANDS ON HER AGAIN, YOU'RE DEAD DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"

From that day forward, feeling respected was a freedom Billy was not willing to sacrifice, ever.

"Take my tears and that's not nearly all-"

But now Billy is the abuser, something you never imagined happening given his innately soft personality.

"Oh, tainted love. Don't touch me! Please.”

Slapping. Biting. Choking each other out. Pulling each other’s hair. Calling each other names. Spitting. Throwing things. Who would’ve thought the Hargrove twins were capable of the same horrors as their parents?

Yesterday was the straw that broke the camel's back.

Billy’s voice, like nails on a chalkboard, clawed at your brain in agonizing intervals.

“That’s all Max is. A pathetic little liar.”

“She will do anything for any bit of attention…even whore herself out to all the men in Del Mar.”

“You can get out. And stay out. Since you wanna act so grown all the damn time.”

He became the very thing — or person rather — he sought to destroy. The very person who indirectly, but explicably killed your mother.

And deep down you feared that if you and your stepsister Max don’t get out of that house, you’d both suffer that same fate.

“It's fucking JULY and 90 degrees out!” your sister retaliated. “What do you want me to wear to the beach? Fucking sweats?"

Max was out with friends the night prior. They hosted a birthday bonfire for her at the beach. She broke curfew and got a ride home from a friend. A guy friend. Billy wasn’t having it.

Max always got the short end of the stick. She was an easy target for Billy’s antics. Being the literal carbon copy of the woman he hates the most didn’t make it any better, and neither did taking the bait whenever Billy dealt it to “keep the peace”. Max believes being and acting helpless would get Billy to back down. It was far from the truth. In reality, she was feeding him his supply.

And what a volatile supply it is.

Mom also had another saying: "Anger is just grief with nowhere to go".

So you watched Billy and Max go back and forth with their pickleball tournament-o-insults, shouting at one another to their lungs’ capacity, their dead, black pupils strangling each other mentally while they gathered the physical strength to do so as well. You kept an arm halfway up and torso slightly turned in case you needed to butt in.

“I do this because I love you, Maxine,” Billy insisted. “So just SHUT UP and stop being a little cunt. Okay?”

“You stop being a presumptuous asshole first,” Max fired back. “We’re fighting again — why? Because someone with a penis drove me home? And we broke curfew by 10 minutes? I don’t control traffi-”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he dismissed her. “Just say you wanted some dick and call it a night.”

Classic slut-shaming, as if Billy’s Instagram following wasn’t all models, strippers, and OnlyFans girls.

Before you could even process what was happening, the blurbs of their argument skidded to a halt when Max finally broke. Billy watched in subtle amusement as she screamed, her fist meeting the wall repeatedly out of frustration.

Reactive abuse is Billy’s favorite abuse tactic.

“Someone who’s not guilty wouldn’t react like this,” Billy quipped in a sing-song voice, eyeing the new hole in the dry wall that Max had created.

There was no sense in backtracking if Billy already got what he wanted. Max just needed the last word. Before any of you could process it, an acrylic storage box soared through the air, hitting Billy right in the groin. He roared in agony while Max attempted to collect herself off to the side. She still saw red.

That’s when the knife came out.

One slice to the brow and it was over. To ensure the last word was his to keep, Billy ended up chucking a knife at your sister.

“OHMYGOD!” Max shrieked repeatedly, entering the ‘freeze’ stage of her shock. “OHMYGOD, OHMYGOD, I’M BLEEDING! I’M BLEEDING, THERE’S BLOOD!”

It was then you realized, the little boy you vowed to protect and refused to leave behind was long gone. Dad’s essence had taken his place now.

“You just don’t know when to FUCKING STOP, do you?” you exclaimed, putting pressure on Max’s eyebrow with a washcloth as she wailed. Suddenly it was Dad you were talking to. They had the same apathetic, dead look in their eyes. “I don’t care who said or did what, throwing a fucking KNIFE?”

“Me?” Billy tutted. “You wanna call me crazy, who did that?” He was referring to the hole in the wall. “And who was the one to throw shit first? EXACTLY. EXACTLY.”

While Billy was technically correct, he would never admit to what he did to provoke you two.

“So you can both get out if you’d like. Be my fucking guests.”

You and Max exchanged one look. The look. It was time. You both were ready and now had the green light. Now was the chance to bolt without immediate consequences.

So you and your sister spent several minutes rummaging through your pre-packed belongings while Billy continued to shit-talk aimlessly around the rental you shared. The place soon reeked of cheap bud and gas station gin. Trash bags were soon filled with your favorite clothes and you shoved them into as many of your childhood suitcases as possible. Struggling to see past your tear-coated eyes, you reached for your books, the ones you've hollowed out 300 pages deep to pocket all the tips from your waitressing job, and shoved the loose bills into your crossbody. You’d sort through them later. Lastly, you popped the cap off the bottom of your salt lamp. There was a pre-paid Visa you bought several months beforehand waiting for you. With trembling hands, you grasped it and whispered a gratitude to the Universe before tucking it neatly into the back pocket of your Levi’s.

When it was all said and done and everything was loaded into your car, you focus on the hole in the dry wall one last time.

Never again.

Billy was complacent throughout the entirety of the event. You glared at him while he continued to soothe himself with drugs and alcohol, refusing to own up to the irreversible damage he caused your little family.

“SIS,” Max boomed from outside. “LET’S GO!”

A part of you used to pity Billy, but now his destructive behavior took away any ounce of guilt you felt for leaving him.

You never fought back until you had no other choice. Similarly, and tragically, Billy shared that very sentiment.

Who the villain is in the narrative relied solely on whose lens you are looking through.

It took you by surprise all the time. How could identical twins, who grew up in the same environment, end up so different from one another?

“I love you, though you hurt me so. Now I’m gonna pack my things and go." - Tainted Love by Soft Cell

There are two wolves inside of everyone.

——————————𓇼——————--------

"Are the pieces of you in the pieces of me? I'm just so scared you're who I'll be. When I erupt just like you do, they look at me like I look at you" - DNA by Lia Marie Johnson

The heart-wrenching ballad by Lia Marie Johnson dissolves as you crank the dial to the left. Music is always depressing when Max has the aux chord.

"Did you hear what I said?" you question her.

Max abruptly sits up and reorients herself, attempting to shrug off the trance “DNA” had put her in for a few minutes.

"No, sorry. What'd you say again?"

"Do you need a bathroom break?"

"I'll go at the airport.”

"Okay, but if you change your mind and decide to take a leak one last time, I'll be happy to oblige.”

Swami’s is also an exit away and you’re just fixing for a hot meal before takeoff. But you don’t directly say that. Besides, Max loses her appetite when she’s upset and may only have room for shitty airplane food.

“I’ll just eat on the plane.”

Stale pretzels and flat soda it is.

Despite the decrease in appetite, Max is holding up well. As well as anyone-who-was-nearly-stabbed-by-her-brother-and-is-now-moving-states-away-from-everything-she’s-ever-known-with-her-sister could be.

It wasn’t your first choice to leave California. In fact, you did everything you could to avoid it. But nonetheless, anyone with a conscious and only $4,000 to their name would make the wise decision to move away to somewhere more affordable.

Enter your online friend, Robin.

Working ungodly hours six days a week to pay the bills took up so much of your time that you had no friends in San Diego — albeit high school friends who would have never guessed how you and Billy turned out. Those friends had happy families anyway. They couldn’t hold space for you. Your online friend Robin, who you met on an art forum, however knew your family dynamic and was there for everything. But she lived in Indiana with her partner and was never able to offer you any physical comfort.

You entertained Robin’s idea of moving to where she lives, a small town in Indiana called Hawkins just 20 minutes southeast of the city. Living under the radar to get your ducks in a row seemed like such a perfect plan, but you didn’t want to do so at the expense of Max losing her only support system she had outside of you.

Moving would’ve also meant pulling her out of school, which wouldn’t be possible because Billy was her legal guardian. Now that she’s graduated high school, and today is her 18th birthday, the game has changed completely.

“Donovan texted me happy birthday,” Max reports, finally disclosing a fragment of her inner conscience. “Thought it was sweet.”

You can’t help but smile. "You thought he wouldn’t?”

She refrains from rolling her eyes and shifts them towards the rocky beach cliffs outside her window.

“You know,” you add. “I really think you two could make long distance work. I’ve never seen so much chemistry between two people before.”

Max scoffs. "Yeah right. Long distance with a guy going to Santa Barbara for college?” She fiddles with the strings of the knit poncho resting atop her lap. “I'd be breaking my own heart."

You bite your lip to stop the waterworks. Max doesn’t deserve any of this. She deserves to enjoy bonfires with her skater friends, surf all the tubular waves, and go on all the nature hikes without worrying about her stepbrother’s codependent-fits-of-rage waiting for her when she comes home. She deserves to eat fried funnel cake at the county fair and share a kiss with the boy of her dreams atop a Ferris wheel on the 4th of July. She deserves a San Diego summer, not a summer spent in hiding from her abuser in the middle of buttfuck nowhere.

Max decides to change the subject.

“So what’s Robin like? Your online friend.”

“She’s very sweet,” you breathe. “Been, uh, telling her about Billy for a long time now. Her arms have been open since day one.”

“And her girlfriend?”

“Vicky’s the best,” you insist. “A match made in heaven for sure. It’s like they’re the same person, just different font.”

You get a giggle out of Max. Her laughter during such a turbulent time is like music to your ears. The non-depressing kind.

“I’m really sorry I couldn’t get you a gift this year.”

She side eyes you.

“What are you talking about? You quite literally gave me the best gift of all.”

“Did I? What did I give you?”

“You gave me safety.”

And with that, you give yourself a mental pat on the back, confident you made the right choice despite how foreign everything currently felt. The conversation dies down while you and Max ride on, driving further and further away from the Park and Ride you spent the night at, off Coast Highway, and onto the I-5 one last time.

Boarding the plane is a swift process. Your plane is a two-seater, so Max gets the window and you get the aisle. After receiving your snacks and drinks, you decide to play white noise and dissociate for the next five hours. It’s safe to do so, anyways. Liminal spaces were not something you took for granted.

Meanwhile, Max looks out the window, watching as the world she has come to know her whole life shrinks right before her eyes, before disappearing underneath a quilt of soft white cumulus clouds.

“This is 18.”

Goodbye, San Diego.

—————— ✈︎ ———————

Hello, Hawkins.

“Please, make yourself at home,” Robin incites, trudging through the miscellaneous projects that sit at her feet. “As if we weren’t DIY freaks enough, the pandemic really just amplified that.”

The pandemic was a hard time for everyone. You lost your fine dining gig and abruptly switched to UberEats to adjust to the flow of takeout. Billy couldn’t go to the gym, his happy place, and it took a toll on him mentally. Max broke quarantine multiple times to see Donovan, which didn’t sit well with your brother. He of course lashed out on her and also proclaimed that people like her were the reason why America hadn’t opened up yet.

“And I get no time at the gym!” Billy screamed. “So now I have to do this—”

You learned that a decent lamp costed $70 that night.

That wasn’t your first rodeo though. You and Billy grew up replacing furniture all the time. You two would gather up your money and spend it on replacing whatever needed replacing for Mom’s birthday. She always wanted to make your house feel like a home. Feel lived in. You and Billy thought you were heroes doing it, but it dawns on you now that you two were just babies.

“Oh!” Vicky interrupts. “Before we forget…”

You and Max watch her as she scrambles around, looking for something that she seemed ecstatic about.

“Happy birthday, Max!”

“No way, Kate Bush!” Max exclaims as she accepts the gift, an original Kate Bush vinyl record of her album Hounds of Love.

"Wow," you beam, rubbing your sister’s back. “Way to fuel her 80's hyperfixation, huh?"

“We found this at the thrift store,” Vicky boasted. “Knew we had to get it for ya.”

“It’s the real deal too," Robin adds. "Look, printed 1985.”

“It’s perfect,” Max gushes. “Can’t wait to play it on my Crosley.”

She thanks them both and hugs them before running back to the living room to get the rest of your belongings. You listen as she hums some of Kate Bush’s discography along the way.

You then observe Max as she unpacks her things one by one, slightly peppered with remnants of the California sand and the snobby fee it took to ship it all here via cargo. She then proceeds to sit on the new bed to check the springing quality, testing its bounce factor and comparing it to that of her old bed.

You let out a bittersweet sigh.

Suddenly you're eight years old, doing the same thing at the local motel Mom managed to snag a couple nights from when Dad trashed the house.

You turn to look in the mirror atop your new dresser.

Suddenly, you're Mom. Quite literally. You both have the same wavy blonde hair, scattered freckles across your nose that Billy used to call “stardust”, and the same tsunami blue eyes. It makes it no wonder why you and Dad never got along. You are Mom’s spitting image — and Billy is Dad’s.

Funny how life turns out.

You graze the crows feet at the outer corner of your eyes, realizing now how many years have silently passed you by, and then take note of the stress-defined scars in the form of eye baggage from all the sleepless nights that came as a souvenir.

You’ve put up with so much. For so long. The trauma is starting to manifest itself physically.

Robin snaps you back into present day. "So I was thinking we go to Applebee's for dinner, walk around Old Town, get you guys settled and unpacked when we return, Jenga at night, and then-"

She stops when she sees the horrified expression on your face.

“Hey…” the pitch in her comforting, raspy voice heightens. “What’s the matter?”

Your voice breaks. “It’s…” you manage. “It’s been a lot.”

Robin pats your back. “I know. I’m so sorry.”

Without looking, Robin snags a few tissues from a box laying around and gives them to you. You blot the tears away, careful not to mess up the makeup you had on with the intention to make you look less…dead.

“Sue didn’t even call and wish her happy birthday. Her own mother.”

“I’m so sorry,” Robin repeats.

“Every day I watch Max store her trauma in the box... and just shove it into the corner where it gathers dust,” you continue. “If she doesn't unpack it..."

You didn’t even want to think of the collateral damage you and your brother caused her. A part of you wants to think Maxine has remained untouched from that side of you, but the dry blood on her outer brow was a reminder that it was far too late to shelter her from that.

"You see yourself in her."

"And my mom in myself,” you admit. “Now more than ever.”

You rub your eyes.

“I’m rambling, I know. It’s just… SO aggravating. Max deserves better.”

“She’s handling it really well.”

“We don’t know that. I know Max. She’s a pro at hiding her feelings.”

“She’s being strong for you, like you are for her. It’s very endearing, whether you both admit it to each other or not.”

She rubs your arm.

“For as long as Vicky and I are here, you and Maxine have a soft place to land. We are here for you. Y’all are safe.”

You two glance over at Max, who is now unpacking your Zen Basics Himalayan salt lamp. She sets it on top your new bedside table, a reupholstered one whose old wood was painted over by an earthy olive green, the old hardware replaced by eccentric shaped, neutral-toned knobs. Her Crosley sits on your floor, now playing a track off Kate Bush's vinyl while she stares out the window. Your new view for the foreseeable future.

Can't you see where memories are kept bright?

Tripping on the water like a laughing girl

Time in her eyes is spawning past life

One with the ocean and the woman unfurled

Holding all the love that waits for you here

Catch us now for I am your future

A kiss on the wind and we'll make the land.

Dinnertime comes fast, but you blame it on the time zone difference. You call shotgun and ride with Robin in the passenger seat, catching up with your best friend while Vicky and Max watch YouTube shorts in the backseat.

Robin gives you a backstory of everything you pass on the way to Applebees, from the schools to churches to family-owned gas stations. She and Vicky seem to know everyone by a first-name basis, naming random people off and knowing exactly who that is every so often. You try to stay engaged, but the only thing on your mind is where you’re going to apply for a job.

Robin drives into a plaza next.

"This used to be a mall, but now it's completely empty," Robin continues pointing to an empty building with remnants of a star symbol etched on it. "E-commerce really turned this strip into a ghost town."

"So basically, if I wanted a job, it would have to be any of these food places, an office of sorts, or an off-brand Blockbuster store?"

"Family Video is closing too," Vicky chimes in. "It's sad. But I guess Hawkins needs yet another overpriced coffee shop."

"You could always work at the gentlemen's club," Max jokes, pointing off to the side.

You turn to where she’s pointing and take note of the matte black rectangular building by the Sizzler’s. It didn’t seem out of place, but the silhouette of an exotic dancer with devil horns gave the sinister establishment away. You couldn’t read the name of the club, but a part of you tries to.

Robin slightly turns and nods in that direction. "Oh yeah. I heard the girls there make bank in tips."

“I made bank in La Jolla doing fine dining,” you point out. “Maybe I can do the same thing here. But at a similar establishment.”

“Fanciest restaurant you’ll get here is Benny’s,” Vicky says. “You’re gonna have to go to the city for fine dining. I don’t think the commute is worth.”

“Guess stripper is your best option,” Max nudges you.

You shoot a glare her way. “Very funny.”

"I know, I was joking," she scoffs. "Billy would kill you anyways."

Billy would literally go insane if you dared to work at a strip club. The slut-shaming would never end. Not that he never slut-shamed you anyway. There was always something for him to be misogynistic and hypocritical about.

Then it hits you. Billy isn't here. And you really need the money since in this day and age, $4,000 meant nothing. You peer over at the gentlemen's club one last time as it shrinks out of view the further Robin drives.

HELLFIRE.

-----------𓆩♡𓆪------------

Dungeons & Dragons.

Of course one of the very few strip clubs in Hawkins has to be the dorkiest.

But you understand the vision. Beyond the cobblestone entrance, the veil between real life and fantasy thins.

As you near the club with nothing but a purse and car keys in hand, you notice that there’s already security by the door. You’re surprised to see a leaner guy, tall and slender with soft blonde hair and a soft grin to match. He catches sight of you and greets you with a nod.

“Good afternoon,” he says. “How are you today?”

“I’m good,” you nod. You reach for your wallet and give him your ID. Typical screening process. “Yourself?”

“Not too shabby,” he replies.

He examines your ID card. You notice his surprise when his eyes slightly widen before retracting shortly after. You guess that he was wondering why you are here out of all places. You peer over at his name tag while he concludes his screening. Henry.

Upon verification of your identity, the friendly security guard returns your card to you.

“Let me give you a wrist band.”

He motions for you to hold an arm out. You extend your right arm to him and watch as he gracefully pulls a paper wristband out of his pocket, clasping it into place with the side that read “21+” facing upwards.

You take the time to admire the gentleness of this man. The softness of his face. His dreamy gaze.

“Any weapons on you?”

“Uh…” you stammer. “Just pepper spray?”

A laugh escapes from his nostrils. “That’s fine, my dear.”

“I hope I don’t have to use it.”

“Don’t worry, darling. Under my watch, you won’t.”

Henry gently strokes your hand before motioning you inside.

“Enjoy the show.”

“Thanks,” you smile politely.

It’s a slow afternoon, but granted no one goes to a strip club at 2 PM. The Hellfire Gentlemen’s Club was comprehensively laced with playful innuendos. The accent wall by the entrance showcases an array of chains and handcuffs. Kukris, nun-chucks, and flails all of different variants and sizes are displayed on the walls, the point of balance being a vintage pulp print of a metal puppeteer. On the print, "OBEY YOUR MASTER" is written in edgy bubble letters.

Kinky.

And there’s a bonus of this themed club: the ladies are dressed in cloaks. You watch as beautiful women from all walks of life strut around the joint, leaving the clients with only their imagination to guess what’s underneath the tantalizing, medieval velvet.

There are LED signs that lit up corners of the space, indicating what they were for. KAS’ KORNER: GRAB A BITE, DRAGON'S BREATH: HOOKAH LOUNGE, and POTIONS — the bar.

You catch a glimpse of the private show rooms, or at least what you think are the private show rooms.

The LED sign to those rooms read, "I PUT A SPELL ON YOU AND NOW YOU'RE MINE."

The general seating area for the main event reads VECNA’S LAIR.

The Dungeon Master of this joint thought of every possible detail he could and ironed it into perfection.

Surely, someone who truly plays would adore every aspect of all the details, but it was evident that everyone came here for the same reason:

Girls, girls, girls.

You walk over to the bar to see two men conversing behind it.

One looked to be in his late 20s, with scruffy chestnut brown hair, some tired eyes, peach fuzz, and a patterned shirt decorated in a kaleidoscope of colors — a shirt meticulously calculated by quite possibly a girlfriend.

The other looked like he had another year left before being allowed to be behind that counter... of course judging by the “Hawkins High School class of 2021” on his insulated water bottle in his hand, a cracked iPhone in the other, and Beats with a small basketball sticker on it.

When you appear in their periphery, the conversation between the two gradually comes to a stop.

“Whoa,” the younger man hums. “New face. Welcome.”

“Hi. What do you recommend?”

“In terms of what?” the younger man questions slyly. There’s a timidness to the young man’s spirit, making his flirtatious demeanor somewhat dorky. The age appropriate bartender nudges him.

“Drinks, hotshot,” you refrain from chuckling. “Drinks.”

“Depends what you’re into,” the younger man replies, the slyness continuing. “If you’re into light liquors, Jonathan can make you a mean Cîroc with pineapple juice. But if you’re more into the dark stuff…”

He gestures up and down on himself.

“Then look no further.”

“That was very painful to listen to,” the older one who you assume is Jonathan cringes. “Can you get anymore corny?”

“Ta-ha!” the younger one tsks. “He said could I get any more corny. Can you get any more bitchless?”

“I have a girlfriend, Lucas.”

“Emphasis on the singular sense.”

“Nance is all I need.”

"Nancy is all you can pull," Lucas chuckles. "With that goofy ass shirt, man. Stop playing with me."

So you weren’t the only one who thought the shirt was absolutely ridiculous. It had "Bad Bitch Repellant" written all over it.

Jonathan whacks Lucas with the cloth that was sitting atop his shoulder. You request a double Tito’s straight on the rocks from Jonathan to which he automatically starts to make. Lucas continues to interrogate you.

“As you heard, my name is Lucas. Lucas Sinclair.” He extends his hands to you. “But my favorite ladies call me 'Dark Chocolate'. You can call me, 'The Man of Your Dreams' though.”

You take the youngster’s hand in yours and shake it. His heavy locker room cologne makes your nose swell, an uneven mix of what you believe is Axe and — is that Dior?

You tell Lucas your name then hit him with a, “But you can call me ‘When You’re Thirty’.”

Lucas laughs at your joke, beaming up at you as he does so. Then he nods to communicate a gracious fair enough. The flirting, you could sense, was in good nature, playful.

“It was worth a shot,” he shrugs. “Do you have a younger sister by any chance?”

“Oh in your dreams, mister.”

Jonathan chuckles and rubs Lucas’s back.

"That’s enough man, can you go buss that table over there?"

Lucas gives a thumbs up before putting his Beats on and walking away. You divert your attention back to Jonathan who is now done with making your drink.

“Alright… I got a Tito’s double shot — straight — on the rocks,” Jonathan announces as he slides your vice on over. He studies you as you take the drink and request to keep the tab open. “I’m inclined to ask. Are you okay?”

When you’re not around Billy, you wear your heart on your sleeve. It wouldn’t hurt to trauma dump on a stranger. Especially one who asked.

“Pretty far from okay,” you answer before chugging it. “Can’t you tell? It’s 2PM and I’m consoling…” You slosh the drink around in your hand. “…my man Tito.”

“I see that.”

“It’s been a long day,” you continue. “It’s my second day in Hawkins so I thought I’d scope this place out. Dilly dally for a bit.”

“Second day?” Jonathan questions. “As in…ever?”

“Yeah, just moved here.”

The bartender looks around as if he’s missed something. “But…why?”

It’s a fair reaction. If the welcome sign is correct, Hawkins only has a population of 1,314 people. 1,316 now including you and Maxine.

“My friend lives here and convinced me to make the move,” is what you explain, though it only seems to make Jonathan more confused. “Couldn’t take the heat Cali was dishing out. Hawkins seemed like the perfect place to slow down.”

“Oh man,” Jonathan mutters. “California to here, what a change.”

“You lived here long?”

“Lived here my whole life,” he answers as a matter of factly.

“What made you get a job at Hellfire?”

Jonathan didn’t have to think. “I love booze.”

You laugh together, raising your half-empty class to clink his invisible one.

“I hate 9-5s,” Jonathan draws on. “Working from home ‘bout damn near drove me insane, don’t know how my mom does it with such ease. My boss here smokes me out on occasion and my friends make me nachos.” He smiles. “Can’t think of anything better.”

“There we go.”

"I’ve also just been looking out for women my whole life," he adds. "Bout time I get some financial compensation for it, no?"

“Amen to that,” You chug the last of your drink. “Thanks for your service.”

"Pleasure is mine. Anything else I can do for ya?"

You think. "Hm, probably not you, but maybe the hiring manager can do something for me."

"You're looking to work here?" he clarifies as you nod. "Oh sweet, you're going to wanna talk to Eddie. He's the owner."

"And a dweeb," says a significantly younger looking fellow as he slides into the conversation.

“Here we go.”

In front of you now is a gentleman around Lucas’s age with wild curly brown hair. You watch as he helps himself to a club soda, dunking three large wedges of lemon into his cup as well.

The guy offers you a playful, pearly white grin. “Eddie may own a nice club with some smokin' hot babes, but he's got no game whatsoever."

“Hey Dustin.”

“Sup, man.”

“You think so?" you challenge him.

"I know so,” the boy who you now know as Dustin insists. “Can't talk up a chick to save his life."

"Yeah," Jonathan says, half-jokingly. "He's the bitchless one."

Dustin glances between you both, slightly puzzled.

You shake your head. "No way."

"I wouldn't say he's that bad," Dustin says. "I actually think he's seeing someone casually. But in general, dude's got zero rizz."

"Projecting are we?" Jonathan nudges him.

“HELL. NO.” Dustin booms. You attempt to refrain from laughing. “My game is what got me the baddest gal at science camp. Eddie? Clumsy as hell, stutters on his words, he's got the anxiety level of someone who drinks cold brew on an empty stomach… Now that I say it out loud, I think he does drink cold brew on an empty stomach. Some chicks dig it though, which is good for him.”

Curly was fun to observe. Once he’s done talking down on the club owner, Dustin politely walks over and shakes your hand, bowing to you like you’re a princess of sorts. You later find it that like Lucas, Dustin works as a bus boy and server, and his girlfriend makes sure that he remains in Kas’ Korner at all times. Dustin has about two years left before legally being permitted behind the POTIONS bar, but that doesn’t stop him from using it as his own storage shed.

You watch as he grabs some deodorant and hair pomade from an old shoe box under the counter.

“Anyways, later,” Dustin holds up a peace sign, starting towards the door. “I'm not on today, I'm just hitting the gym with Steve."

“Later, man!” Jonathan calls after him.

“Deuces. Say hello to Dark Chocolate for me.”

Before he could get any further, the loud swinging of a door closeby causes him to halt in place.

“ALRIGHT!” a loud, gruff voice booms from that direction. “Which one of you shitheads forgot to take inventory on the 10th?!”

You can’t help but turn your body towards the ruckus. And to your own pleasant surprise, you don’t regret it. Emerging from the door comes the possible shift lead, a tall and broad man with medium length wavy brown hair, chocolate-colored, youthful doe eyes that contradicted the deep lines on his face, bleach white Chuck Taylor’s, ripped black jeans, and a Hellfire Club baseball tee with the logo smack-dab in the middle.

The man looked to be in his mid to late 20s, with an assertiveness in his stride. His lips, a perfectly formed bow with a smirk-like undertone. The cool rings that rest upon his fingers look icy as they sway at his side, shining in contrast to his dark clothing.

The man is too tunnel-visioned to see where he was going. But that doesn’t stop Dustin from looking absolutely mortified.

“The 10th and the 11th,” the man clarifies. “So for all we know, we might need new kegs and ground chili, which is one more thing I have to d-”

Finally he looks up, with you being the first thing he sees. Proximity taking him aback, he snaps out of his stress-induced trance and softens up at the sight of you. You meet his eyes, big and beautiful with long wispy lashes and you can’t help but mimic the flutter in your heart in the form of a smile.

“Whoa.” He says, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Whoa, indeed.

“Sorry about that.”

“It’s Eddie’s first day back, he tends to get a little in the zone,” Dustin explains.

Eddie.

Does that mean…

“Are you the hiring manager?”

You didn’t know who you were expecting, but it certainly wasn’t the man in front of you. He must be proud of himself, having such a successful business so early in the game.

Eddie gathers himself quickly.

“Dungeon Master, hiring manager, manager, owner, sanitations, re-stocker,” Mr. Jack-of-all-trades confirms. “I do it all.” He grimaces at Dustin. "Since you know, some people don't wanna work."

"You said I can have off!" Dustin exclaims defensively. "I worked for you before the weekend already and I wasn’t even on the 10th and 11th, fuck outta here."

All it takes is a scowl his way from the boss and Dustin is radio silent. The look on Eddie's face definitely said "Watch your tone". Eyes are all on you once more soon after.

Eddie’s gaze softens when he looks at you.

“Were you…looking to apply?”

“Yeah,” you reply sheepishly. “As a dancer. I’d like to perform here.”

“You don’t sound too confident.”

“Some guys like shy girls,” you shrug.

He laughs, a dark honey kind of laugh that just oozed from the back of his throat. “That they do.” His voice deepens drastically. Eddie studies you. “Any dancing experience?”

“Dancing, yes.”

“Stripping experience?”

“None.”

“Hm,” Eddie says. “What do you have experience in?”

“I danced for a bit…I have good core strength,” you explain vaguely. “And I’ve worked in the restaurant industry so I’d say customer service is my superpower.”

Eddie soaks in the information.

“I know how to talk to people,” you continue. “I know the right things to say. Favorite pass time is upselling drinks. And dessert…”

You wait for Eddie to take the low hanging fruit. He doesn’t.

"Any experience with the pole?”

Your cheeks grow hot. You decide to lie.

"No.”

“Kinda essential for this profession, sweetheart.”

"I know," you respond humbly. "I wouldn’t doubt it for a second..." you scan the room. “So uh, do I need a permit to perform here?”

“Nah, Hawkins is a lawless wasteland pretty much,” he sighs placing his hands on his hips. “And my club does things a little different anyways. The ladies also don’t pay to perform, we pay them to.”

Shit. Strippers pay to perform at venues?

“The dining experience is what brings the base revenue in,” Lucas explains, returning from wherever he had been. “The ladies are a luxury.”

“And should be treated as such,” Jonathan chimes in.

“I take it you don’t work at any other clubs?” Eddie questions judging by your wide eyes attempting to take in every bit of information that has been dumped on you. The man sees right through your mask.

“No, but I-”

“I personally like to give everyone a chance,” Eddie says. “So don’t worry babe, you’re good. Even though you don’t have any experience, your energy tells me that you have potential. Wanna show us what you can do?”

Your heart sinks. The handsome club owner called you babe. And you’re also being asked to perform with the little experience you have — in front of girls who had tons of experience.

“Here? Now?”

Eddie nods.

You weren’t prepared to dance today. But with your sister and the mountain of debt on your mind, you are willing to do anything. So you walk over to Jonathan and tell him what song you feel most comfortable performing to and stretch as he takes the time to find it. When all is said and done, you make your way to the icy pillar made of chrome steel that was calling for your attention.

You exhale deeply.

Back to the old stomping grounds. The last time you worked with a pole you were wearing Heeley’s and light up sneakers. Of course in place of the horny spectators there were playground supervisors, and the only “bars” there were monkey bars. Oh, and you were 8, not 28.

The slut-shaming still existed, though. One time a boy told you that you were acting like a ‘hoe’ for trying to do a trick upside down. To Billy’s retaliation though. Before you knew it, the same boy was being shoved down and dragged across the wood chips, acquiring a series of splinters along the way. Admin phoned home. You and Billy got spanked. But, of course, Billy had no regrets. While you both cooled off together, you remember him grazing your hand, telling you he’d beat that kid up “a gajillion times over”.

He kept that promise. Except as you two grew older, it was you he was doing it to. A gajillion times over.

You laugh at the bittersweet nostalgia.

“Whenever you’re ready, babe,” Eddie says.

You give Jonathan a thumbs up to play your song selection. Soon, Hellfire Gentlemen’s Club is filled with the catchy, seductive tune that is Layla by Eric Clapton.

You start with a small stroll around the pole. Then a dramatic dip to flaunt your bouncy golden locks. Soon, the women of Hellfire gather around with the men following soon after to watch you work your magic in Vecna’s crowded Lair.

If muscle memory is in your favor, they are in for a good show.

What will you do when you get lonely

No one waiting by your side?

You've been running, hiding much too long

You know it's just your foolish pride

Eddie claims a seat at a throne directly in front of the pole. He studies your technique, your movements, your facial expressions. You aren’t sure if reality is projecting onto you or if you’re dizzy from all the spinning, but you almost see a slight smile spread across the club owner’s face. It prompts you to keep going.

Layla, got me on my knees

Layla, begging, darling, please Layla

Darling, won't you ease my worried mind?

It’s a lot harder, your techniques and tricks. Most likely since you weigh more than 50 pounds now and had to exert more energy to keep yourself balanced an aligned. But nonetheless, you persist.

Tried to give you consolation

Your old man had let you down

Like a fool, I fell in love with you

You turned my whole world upside down

You buck your hips upward from you back arch to go into an upside down position. It earns you some hooting and cheering from the crowd.

“You better work, mamas!” a dancer cheers.

“I KNOW THAT’S RIGHT!”

“YOU GO GIRL!”

“YAAAS!”

Layla, got me on my knees

Layla, I'm begging, darling, please Layla

Darling, won't you ease my worried mind?

Eddie watches intently, leaning backwards with his hands clasped forward. You feel his eyes burn through you, from the top of your head down to your toes. You feel as if he’s mentally scoring you like you’re at a competition, but the sisterhood that cheers you on makes you feel slightly less intimidated.

“SHE’S SO GOOD!” comes a high-pitched voice in the crowd. “I FREAKING LOVE HER!”

You turn to look at your own personal cheerleader, a bright-eyed cute little redhead with pigtails with an outfit that looks like an ode to Britney Spears’ “Hit Me Baby One More Time”. She has cherry hair ties that hold her two pigtails at the bottom.

You watch her clap and jump up and down, cheering you on with a beam in her eyes that made you feel like your souls have been friends for decades.

Motivated to attempt more risqué moves, you jump into the splits before kicking your legs around to end on your knees.

Clapping and whistling erupts from the lair. Once it dies down, Eddie stands up, offering you a delighted series of slow claps as he makes his way towards you.

"That was really good, Shy Girl. I like how you finished your set."

“Aw, thanks Eddie.”

He walks around you.

"Go like this?" Eddie does a stretching motion, lifting his hand up.

You imitate him and reach up.

"Okay, and... turn like this? Then pop your ass out a bit more."

The word rolled off the club owner's tongue like it was nothing. It was done in a way that was professional, a hint of respect in his tone with no sort of ulterior motive.

You swallow hard, attempting to internally tame the goosebumps on rising upon your skin. He’s just giving feedback, he’s just giving feedback. This is a professional line of work.

You do as he says as he circles around you, fingers grazing on the cool floor of the stage just inches away from your thighs. He taps them in thought.

"For a beginner you’re pretty damn good,” he says.

“Yeah?” you look up at him and smile.

“Yeah,” his voice deepens. “You’re a natural. All that shyness just went away.”

Well, it’s about to return, you think to yourself.

“Are you sure you haven’t done this before?”

“Not in this specific setting.”

There’s a slight shift in his eyes as his imagination wanders. The dimples at the side of his mouth concave slightly.

“I gotcha.”

Eddie clears his throat. “So uh, when can you start?”

Today is Wednesday. You have tomorrow, Friday, and the weekend to settle you and Max in and make any last minute stops. Then the appointment with the other loan officer and DMV appointment on Monday. Tuesday afternoons are dry — everywhere so that left the earliest you can start as

"Next Tuesday? In the evening?"

A soft snort escapes from the club owner’s nose.

"Driest night of the week," he comments, looking around his club.

He turns back to you.

"But a good time for orientation. Works for me, Shy Girl. Can I call you that?”

You smirk. “So I got the job?”

He nods.

“Then you can call me what you want,” you smile shaking his hand. “In this case I’m Shy Girl Hargrove.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he smiles. He knows you’re flirting. Eddie accepts your hand and shakes it firmly.

“Eddie. Pleased to formally meet you. And welcome to Hellfire.”

You two exchange contact information for professional purposes before he leaves. You study Eddie as he sees himself out, planting a firm, teasing smack on Lucas’s stomach on his way and whispering something to Jonathan as well.

Your cheerleader from the crowd excitedly makes her way over.

“I know a dancer slash gymnast when I see one,” she chirps. “I’m Chrissy. Stage name is Cherry.”

You two shake hands and exchange further compliments with one another. Your heart swells when you realize you’re slowly starting to find community.

“It’s so nice to meet you.”

Others come and say hello, but you’ve tuned out all the faces because all you can think about is Eddie. His demeanor. The way he carries himself. His presence alone was something so intoxicating that it lingered around the place in his absence.

Your heart flutters.

“Oh, Hargrove!” Jonathan says. “Before you go I just wanted you to know that you don’t have to worry about the drink.”

“Oh?” you respond. “No?”

“Eddie says it’s on the house.”

You smile and Jonathan returns the favor, making sure you see him when he voids your entire tab. As you wave bye to all your spectators, you release a grateful sigh. You felt very humbled about this new, yet unexpected beginning.

The happiness soon wears off when the events that just unfolded dawn on you. Suddenly, the flutter in your heart moves to your stomach, settling in a way that feels eerie. The unknown is pestering you again. Wrong, but oh so right and necessary.

You take in the area around you. You have a place to call home. You’re a stripper now. Your boss just bought your drink. You’re going to have money coming in. Oh, and YOU’RE A STRIPPER NOW.

Then it dawns on you. You need to go shopping.

[iwanttoswimintheswanepoel]

Candice’s Advice

(heavily inspired by @entice333 ‘s “adriana’s advice” on youtube and a thread made by @YVESOTICA on X. i also watched as many candice interviews as i could to collect some parts of this so enjoy :p)

beauty

-“i sometimes go a little bit overboard in the morning with my perfume”

-“everything is in the eyes”

-[what makes you feel the sexiest?] “being on the beach in the sun and in the water. i feel sexiest when i’m tanned and free”

-“a great tan will always make you feel better”

-“a bombshell is all about a voluptuous woman, not being afraid to put on an extra bit of makeup. a nice eye, a red lip. just embracing being a woman and being more powerful”

-“i feel sexy and glamorous if my skin feels great, like moisturized. go for a great facial.”

-“i do like to take time and do a look its kind of like a ritual. doing your makeup i think its a moment for yourself as a woman to just tune into you and make yourself feel good”.

-“the bushier the better [eyebrows]”

-“the trick to get the messy mascara bits is dipping the q tip in concealer.”

-“[contour]i went in on the eye, i go into the hairline as well and into the jaw.i would be nothing without contour.”

-“i like the hula benefit it gives you a great tan”

-“i like to put a lot [bronzer] on my forehead because thats where the sun would hit the most. i didn’t go to Greece but thats not a problem because i can fake it.”

-“on a day when i don’t have any time this [lip tint] is the only thing i would put on”

-“instead of doing a liner you can kind of paint it onto your lips to look a little more pouty”

-“i’ve always felt freckles look really youthful and like you’ve been in the sun”

-“if you want to look a little more awake you use a cream pencil on the inside of your eye here it just opens up your eyes and you put a shimmer in the corners. it just kinda pops”

-“i’m drawn to the classic bombshell women who are unapologetically themselves. women who really played on femininity and grace. thats our superpower”.

-“for me i like very floral scents and soft scents nothing to strong”

-“if you want to look a little more awake you use a cream pencil on the inside of your eye here. and you put a shimmer in the corner it just pops”

lifestyle

-like candice swanepoel i understand the beauty and importance of mother nature.

-i am a spiritual being that aligns my chakras and my needs to obtain my greatest desires

-i’m always described as a kind, positive and lovely girl by everyone around me

-i’m that one bitch that collects crystals except they actually do solve all of my problems

-like candice swanepoel i love being an extremely intuitively feminine woman. i love to surround myself with like minded beautiful women

-“i’m very kind of a spiritual person, a lot of the time i listen to my heart”

-“my summer fantasy is to just be on a beach somewhere , relaxing. drinking a nice coconut water and being active on the beach”

fitness

-i eat antioxidant rich foods like candice swanepoel’s “beauty smoothie” which contains coconut oil, banana, protein and antioxidant rich fruit like berries

-little workouts are better than nothing

-i truly feel best when i’ve taken the time out of my day to sweat out my bodies impurities at the gym

-i love squats, yoga, ballet, boxing & pilates more than i love to bed rot

-i always pack resistance bands & ankle weights in my bag lol i can’t rest if i haven’t done a set of squats

-my legs have to look long and toned and my butt has to look as round as a cherry because what if rhianna looks???

-i’ve found a balance of wellness that i’ve grown to love in my daily life. a constant dedication to myself and my absolutely divine body

-i choose to travel and stay in hotels that will accommodate my gym and wellness needs.

-david goggins hope core? nah bruh i just need a cute alo set for motivation

-i love to eat dairy products. its almost like i grew up on a dairy farm

-i’ve truly found active activities i enjoy that make me feel my best

-“if i only had five minutes to workout i’d do squats”

-i love avocado, bananas, blueberries, strawberries and make lots of smoothies at home

-“if you want to stay away from sweet stuff, frozen grapes”

-“i’ve been focused on boxing. doing a lot of weight stuff to build some thighs and a good butt. and a lot of (resistance) bands”

-“i’ve been working out for years my body is like a machine it just has a lot of muscle memory and i get muscle quickly”

-“try to run on the beach if you can, i have certain weights to take with me to the hotel. whatever works”

-“i think its really important to have beautiful strong legs and a nice full butt”

lingerie

-“lingerie is the perfect way to show someone you love them”

-“who doesn’t want an extra push up?”

-according to candice swanepoel the key to feeling sexy is lingerie and fragrance

-“whats important is what you wear underneath. a little something sexy”

-“i have great motivation i’m in lingerie all day”

-“buy yourself some sexy lingerie just to say i’m a woman. i’m feminine”

-“i have a crazy collection of lingerie”

-“always having the feeling of great lingerie under what you’re wearing. that gives you a sense of i’m a sexy woman you know?”

[+]

- i always have silly names on my personal products “do me baby? nice!”

- “the ultimate candice swanepoel beauty secret is literally coconut oil” -YVESOTICA on X

-i use coconut oil to remove my makeup and have luminous glowing skin like candice swanepoel’s

-i understand the power of an at home exfoliator like one using coconut oil, coffee & sugar. and one using sugar & coconut oil for my plush lips.

-i owe my glowy skin to using coconut oil for that luscious dewy sheen

-i owe my silky locks of voluminous hair to my coconut oil hair mask

-rose water keeps my skin silky smooth and my aura bright

-everyone can automatically associate my desired fragrance note to me. i’ve made it specifically my own and entirely one of a kind.

-i wouldn’t be caught dead without sun protection in my bag

-i roll out of bed with perfect beach waves because like candice swanepoel i’m just that girl

-i always have the perfect beach ready sun kissed tan like a swimsuit model

-my fragrance is an extension of my personality as is my style

-i travel with a hydrating mask because i won’t be caught dead with dry flakey skin

-i radiate the same beauty and appeal as candice swanepoel

-i’ve acquired my desired humidifier to keep my skin hydrated at night

-i have feline like eyes like candice swanepoel

-i take care of my body through acts of self care and devotion like candice swanepoel

-i have the same sex appeal as candice swanepoel

[the0maski]

Late for the Update people Update!: Moving Forward part 2

Old wolfie revealed!!! Give Wild credits he doing his best to explain! I would love to see old wolfie and Twilight meet, and I am scared that once there will travel to Wild’s time, that old wolfie has already left…

Those are really good questions, but Wild doesn’t know the end of Twilight’s life just that he was the inspiration for the divine beasts and a spirit!

On the other side Twilight does know what the future outcome of his mentor will be, setting Twilight and Wild experiences with spirit guide animals in a similar position, but also so different.

From what I understand from this panel, Wild knew the wolf from before he died, right? He didn’t want to meet him after coming back to live, so soon. Meaning old wolfie had already tried to help Wild before the calamity started.

I’m unsure about the grave part. Is Wild talking about his grave, the shrine of resurrection, or about Twilight’s grave thinking the wolf was an unrest full soul?

Shout out to Sky for 1: keep doing his task of finding the portal.

2: believing in Fi’s treasure-seeking ability.

(Skyward Sword reference, that one useless ability: Dowsing)

Love how all of them clown at Wild, best part there can because their have transformed at some point in the games!

(Four: can turn Minish size with a Minish portal. (Minish Cap) Split into Four versions of himself with the Four Swords. (Four Swords and Four Swords Adventures)

Hyrule: Fairy thanks to a spell. (The Legend of Zelda 2 The Adventure of Link)

Legend: Bunny form when he enters the Dark World. (In LU lore twilight magic can cause the same effect) (A Link to the Past)

Octorok with a Ring (Oracle of Ages and Season)

Moblin with a Ring (Oracle of Ages and Season)

Like Like with a Ring (Oracle of Age and Season)

Subrosian with a Ring (Oracle of Ages and Season)

Mermaid with a suit (Oracle of Ages)

Wall painting with a bracelet (A Link between Worlds)

Extra: In Oracle of Ages, when in the Ancient Tomb if Link gets hit by a blue Stalfo he turns into a Baby)

Love Time in this panels so much. He wasn’t even listening to the conversation, just heard his alias and said nope.

He really was the youngest of his kokiri siblings, spacing out and living in his own head. I die for young sibling Time as a headcanon.

Young man, you have no right to make this face! You impersonated a dead Goron hero! And having transformation items himself Wild had rather asked another person…

(Sadly the Mask of Truth doesn’t work with Epona in Majora’s Mask…would had make this more funny…)

More at part 3

[hippolotamus]

Guess what!! It's Nutcracker season!! The NYCB is currently busily rehearsing for their shows! What are our boys up to?

🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰

It definitely is! They have been quite busy with shows, and so grateful to have this opportunity together. (Just like I'm so grateful for co-authoring this AU with you) However, they are Exhausted™️ and need a breather. So, for the purposes of this ask, we’re taking a trip down memory lane if that’s OK 🫶

Typically the studio is filled with noise. With chatter, gossip, the gentle tap of pointe shoes. Not now though. It’s still; a sacred space.  It’s been over a decade since Eddie last attended anything akin to mass or confession, but now feels as close to a religious experience as he’ll ever be again. A place to be reverent, and inspired by divine energy. A sanctuary to unburden himself.  Inky black sky has given way to the blues and grays that creep in before dawn. The dreamy transition between sleep and wakefulness that waits for the rest of the world. But not for Eddie. Currents of excitement sweep over his skin, rippling through the fine hairs like dandelion wisps on a breeze.  He forces himself to be patient through his stretches and warmups. Extra practice doesn’t do him any good if he doesn’t do this properly.  Finally, when he’s loose and limber, he steps to the center of the floor. His eyes fall closed as he inhales, straightening his body. The opening notes to the third act begin in his mind as clearly as if Chimney had hit ‘play’ on the sound system. He counts the bars until it’s his time to come in. And then his body moves.  In a series of spins and leaps, he crosses the floor as if he’s weightless. As though nothing can touch him. Like he’s disentangling himself from all the anxieties that try to trap him from one performance to the next. The memories that have followed him from childhood. He won’t allow them to follow him here.  Not his five year old self being frowned at for attempting to imitate his sister’s movements. Or him at six, anxiously fidgeting in place as his parents told Miss Tara they didn’t think a boy’s place – their boy’s place – was in a ballet studio. Him as a teenager nearly reaching a breaking point, enduring the slurs and ridiculous cat calls. The constant feeling of alone, alone, alone. By the time he lands, he isn’t any of those versions anymore. He’s Edmundo Diaz, man who graduated top of his class at Juilliard. Eddie Diaz, corps de ballet at NYCB.  “Should’ve figured someone as eager as you would be here early.”  “What-” In the mirror he meets a familiar set of playful blue eyes, pale but intense.  Tommy saunters in, drops his bag near Eddie’s, and leans back against the barre. “I couldn’t help but notice the alignment was off in your landing. I can help with that.”  Eddie frowns, so sure he was holding himself correctly. He returns to his previous stance, studying his reflection. “I don’t see what I’m doing wrong.”  “Don’t move.” Tommy appears at Eddie’s side, making minor adjustments to his rear leg and both arms.  “There.” He circles around to inspect Eddie from the front. “Perfect.”  Their eyes meet again and something flickers across Tommy’s features. Something deeper than simple approval. Something that feels like– “Mornin’, boys!” Chim’s voice slices through the moment, pushing them apart. Oblivious, he cracks his gum while staring at his phone screen. “Thanks,” Eddie says. Tommy glances at Chim, then back again for another assessing gaze that might leave him breathless in another situation. “Of course.”

[rainroses45]

Yes or No?

જ⁀➴ description: Sam has a vision of you…maybe this was a sign of your divination Winchesters x Witch sister

જ⁀➴a/n: this is heavily inspired from Agatha all along because IM OBSESSED also the fact that one of my divination gifts is the pendulum and my besties is tarots (Not edited)

જ⁀➴song inspo: Sea, swallow me

જ⁀➴warnings: Mentions of bad mental health, death, and witch craft (does that count?)

“Hey Dean do you know where I Ieft my aspirin?” A voiced called out from the next room.

Quietness - and soon a sound of rumbling echoed through the crack of the door.

“Do I have Sam’s aspirin?” You asked quietly to the crystal swaying before you.

Yes.

“It’s fine Sammy I’ll buy you some more on the way,” Dean said before the turning of a nob was heard. “Sweetheart do you need anything from the - hey why do you have your witch chain thing out?”

“Trying to see lottery numbers” “Really?!” “No.”

Dean let out a low chuckle. “Well you’re in a good mood.” He sits next to you on the bed. His legs off to the side. You wrapped your arms around your legs pulling them closer to your chest.

“What’s wrong?” He asked. Even with his tough demeanor and disgust for emotions, he could never let you just bottle up everything. He was your older brother after all.

“Nothing,” you sighed placing your chin to rest on your knee. “I’m just really sleepy.”

Dean saw the bags under your eyes and lazy focus of your mind, he knew something much more than just insomnia was wrong, but he decided not to push it - at least not right now.

“Okay well why don’t you take a nap while Sam and I go investigate the place,” Dean tapped on crystal hanging from the chain. “And when you wake up find me those lottery numbers.”

You laughed a little. “You know damn well that’s not how it works.”

“I know,” he said before closing the front door and whispering under his breath, “I just wanted to make you laugh.”

“No, no, no!” You threw the deck of cards off the bed.

“Why is it not working?” You looked down at the spread confused. “I must be missing something.”

Looking through each and every spread spread and it seemed like nothing changed. You were going to try another method when the phone rang.

The number behind the caller was practically tattooed in your mind. “Yes, Dean.”

“Are you okay?” He sounded scared, almost afraid, you were so confused by his tone so when you didn’t respond as fast as he liked, he asked louder, “Are you okay Y/n!”

“Yes, yes I am okay why are you asking me this, I thought we already established I needed a nap.” You tried to cover the rustling noise from picking up the cards. “Why are you calling me during my nap time?”

Dean sighed loudly.

“Forgot you need more beauty sleep than the rest of us.” You snorted. “Speak for yourself mr. i need more melatonin.”

“I’ll have you know- OW STOP HITTING ME SAM!” You giggled as your heard the car swerve a bit from sam’s blows to Deans arm. “…okay jokes aside, did you put the charm bags in the corners and cast runes around the bedroom?”

“Yes, why?” You held the phone close to your ear with your shoulder shuffling the now picked up deck.

“Are all the doors locked and windows closed and covered?” He asked - no he demanded to know.

“Yea Dean, why?” You turned to make sure the windows were covered and the door was triple locked. “You are scaring me.”

“Sam had one of his weird vision things.”

“About?”

Silence.

“It was about you,”

Silence.

“ And…”

“And what Dean?”

“And you were falling.”

The phone dropped from your shoulder on to the floor. The faint panicky hellos echoed through the speaker but were met with no answer. Suddenly everything made sense.

Quickly you grabbed the candles from the night stand and placed them on the floor. You moved away the previous spread and quickly began to shuffle the cards.

Everything you ever learned. Everything you were ever taught led you down to this road. You were reading for the wrong person and it took you this long to figure it out. “Okay, okay” you shuffled the deck, “pull yourself together y/n, it’s just a stupid prophecy, Sam is not always right.” Quickly but carefully you began to pick the cards from the deck.

“Ten of Pentacles,” you placed the first card next to the red candle. “My family brings me abundance.”

“Three of swords,” you placed the second one next to the white candle. “I have survived the pain.”

“The tower, I needed to change to be free.” Suddenly the sound of banging on the door interrupted you.

“Y/n! Open the door!” Your eldest brother yelled. He knew something was wrong. He knew he should have stayed with you, pushed you further into telling him what’s wrong - but it was too late.

“I must continue.” You whispered focusing on the energy around you. Wisps of gold appeared from the lines of the pentagram drawn on the floor. Cracks in the floor began to shift like tectonic plates but the cards stood still under the movement.

The Moon card followed up and soon the world with it. The walls began to rumble after each card was placed. There was only one card missing. A single card to link the thread of life back on track.

“To save you from this future I must place mine in the past.” Your fingers shook reaching for the last one.

“OPEN THE DOOR!” Sam yelled out, you could hear them trying to pick the lock but they knew they couldn’t reach you in time.

With that in mind, you had nothing to hold you back from picking the last card.

Shadowy figures rose from the floor, growing out their hands and slandering the floor with blood of convicted felons. They could not cross the barrier without the last piece. You were in control. You were the power.

“I am know who I am,” you yelled out to the monsters. The light of the candles began to grow towards the ceilings. “I know my place in this world!”

“Do you?” The dreadful voice called out. Its claws twisted onto the walls lifting them up as their elbows dislocated from their arms.

With the finale card in hand, you placed it down causing a bright white light began to illuminate the room blinding the brothers as they finally broke the door open.

The two older bothers quickly barged in, but were pulled back outside by an invisible force. The room had gone upside down like an hourglass, slowly tipping all the figures towards the high spikes of the ceiling, penetrating their chest with spikes.

“Y/N!” Dean screamed out as he watched his sister grip on to the nightstand. You were dressed in all white and were tangling above the now floor as the room flipped over. The shadowy figures felled to the bottom and let the grasp of death take them. Their screams filled the rooms as they shunned their spiked teeth at you.

“Hold on sweetheart, we will figure out how to get you out!” Sam yelled. You only nodded back, loosing the feeling of your voice.

Both Sam and Dean watched from outside the door trying to find some thing, anything to get you across the room safely.

“Sam when you said you saw her falling, you failed to mention the whole room turning into wonderland!” Dean grunted. He looked around him, praying for some rustic pipe to fall from the sky or something. Thankfully his eyes caught the sight of a rain guter pipe, and he pulled it down using it to smash the window into pieces. “I mean come on man! You couldn’t have at least told me to come prepared!”

“My bad next time I‘ll make sure to tell you even the carpet color-“

“Ummm guys..” you called out seeing the floor sink deeper and deeper into a bottomless pit, the spikes no longer so near. “I don’t think i’m going to make it.”

“Don’t be crazy of course you are,” Dean said climbing up to the window sealing. Sam stood by the open door watching as his brother tried balancing on the thin seal.

“Be careful.” He said stretching out his hand while holding on to the door hinges. “I can’t catch you and y/n at the same time.”

“I can’t keep my grip,” you grunted as you tried to hold on tighter. Your knuckles were turning white and your palms were sweaty.

“You better dig your nails into the wood before falling,” Dean pulled himself up. “Okay do you think you could jump into my arms without falling?” He asked.

“I don’t know Dean I’ve never done this before.” You sassed back, terrified of falling and never reaching an end.

“Okay wrong choice of words,” Dean rolled his eyes, really not in the mood for your comebacks, “but unfortunately I’m not shakespeare so can you do it or not?”

“No!” You yelled before slipping down a bit from the wooden leg of the table.

“SHIT!” Sam yelled trying to reach out to grab you.

“Okay new plan,” Dean pulled himself up on the ledge of the interior seal. “I’ll reach over and pull you in.”

“Are you crazy?!” You screamed. “Do you have a death wish?!”

“I could say the same thing too you missy.”

“Dean you aren’t thinking straight.” Sam argued back. He was on the verge of loosing his sister but he couldn’t loose his brother as well. “Maybe we just-“

“Don’t you finish that sentence Sam.” Dean cut him off. “I’m not just going to let our baby sister die.”

Sam was going to defend his stance when you cut him off. “You have too.”

“Don’t be ridiculous Y/n.”

“Dean it was written in the prophet, I- we have no choice.” Tears ran down your eyes as you realized that there was nothing left, there was no other option then the kiss of death.

“What prophet are you talking about?” Sam asked.

“It was in my readings, it was in my dreams, it was in my every future.”

“And you didn’t think to share this till now?!” Dean angrily screamed, still trying to swing towards you but failing every time to reach.

“I was afraid you would think i’m a freak,” you confessed as a sob caught in your throat.

“Sam is having fucken hallucinations and turning into a long island medium and you think you’re the freak!”

“Offended!” “NOT KNOW SAMUEL!”

“Sam has an escape! Sam can kill the monster who tainted him! I can’t! I am the monster!” You exclaimed. “I am the creator of the unknown balance!”

“What the hell are you talking about-“ Before your oldest brother could finish his question, your grip on the table weakened and you began to fall.

“NOOO!” Sam dove down to reach you, Dean followed diving down from the window to grab you, but like magic you fell into the shadowy pit and disappeared.

The boys assumed they would meet the same fate but were hit with the cold hard floor.

“What the fuck happened?!” Dean yelled as he got up from the floor.

The room was back to normal. The floor was on the ground and intact. There were no spikes and shadowy figures in sight. The furniture was all neatly in place and the floor next to the bed laid the reading you had place. The only differences was that the candles were put out, but besides that all cards laid neatly place face up except one.

Sam knew a bit about your craft, you tried to teach him a bit, but he never could do a correct reading. One thing he did know for sure was that the one in the middle was a representation of the truth, of who you are within.

Slowly, he walked towards the one card that was faced down.

“Sam what are you doing?” Dean curiously watched as his younger brother kneeled down and reached towards the card.

Flipping it over, the brothers saw a beautiful lady dressed in white. Her golden aura blazed against the shadowy figures around her. And as both their eyes reached the bottom of the card, there in gold calligraphy it stated -

the high priestess.

[themiserablechick]

Die your daughter

God…please forgive me

Inspired by @starfxkr lamb!reader and @swiftiekisses “Divine Figures.”

Uses some real Bible verses and a line from one gospel song.

Slight implication of sex in like one line

I’m not sure if cross service is something many churches do but I went to one and I felt it in my bones

I also don’t know if everyone wears black in Good Friday

Um if this sucks… pretend it doesn’t!!!

✟ ✟ ✟ ✟ ✟ ✟ ✟ ✟ ✟ ✟ ✟ ✟ ✟ ✟ ✟ ✟ ✟ ✟ ✟ ✟ ✟ ✟

You stood and stared at a picture of Jesus that lived on the walls of Tannyhill waiting for Rafe in your black sheath dress, you were mourning.

You wanted him to say something to reach out and touch you. You tilted your head up and closed your eyes waiting for a sign when you felt a hand on the small of your back you jumped out of your skin.

“Jesus, it’s just me.” Rafe half smiled

“Hey! You hit his arm. “Don’t say the lords name in vain.” He rolled his eyes but you still scolded him

“Why aren’t you wearing black”

Rafes eyebrows scrunched “why are you?”

You turned to the picture again “because Jesus died today we’re mourning,change.”

It was Good Friday- cross services. One of the most important days in your family. Today your father would go up on a stage, relay the story of Jesus and build a cross, live in front of all of figure 8. He’s done this every year for as long as you could remember. It made you feel sick this year knowing the man your father was knowing why you were even in Tannyhill, knowing why you were with Rafe in the first place.

The men you love, full of sin

Repent

Repent

Rafe came next to you now in a black dress shirt and laid a hand on the small of your back again “we’re late, let’s go”

Your father gave the service and you sat behind him in the choir, he chopped the wood of the cross at a nauseating pace.It made you flinch, made your mind wander to unholy acts you had committed with Rafe.

Repent.

Admittedly you had zoned out for half the service but what you did pick up on was your father talking about the sacrificial lamb you only truly payed attention because he looked in your eyes.

“God himself will provide the lamb for the burnt sacrifice, my son.”

His voice booming to the more than a hundred people in the audience but he only spoke to you.He compared the lamb’s sacrifice to Jesus’ how he was crucified for our sin , so we could be pure.

He wasn’t talking to you, no it was far beyond that. He was talking about you. You were the sacrificial lamb, you were Christ. Sacrificed to the Cameron’s to pay for your families sins.

“A gift from God” your father would call you.He often compared you the story of Abraham. A miracle baby delivered from God,but you were not Abraham, you were the sacrifice. You would die on the mountain top.

You looked to Rafe in the crowd, uninterested like he always seemed in church. He didn’t understand like you, how important this all was how could he, you knew Jesus more intimately than most he consumed your waking thoughts.

Repent

Repent

Sometimes you swore you heard God.

“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things were made through Him, and without Him nothing was made that was made.” Your head snapped up as you heard your father repeat the verse. You wondered what your own father could possibly know about God, how he could fathom “the word”

Once your father finished his service the cross was built and erected before you as you were called to sing about “the never ending overwhelming reckless love of God”

As you sang with the cross in front of you and you understood now, although you weren’t hanging from the cross this was your crucification, this was the end of your life as the preachers daughter you would become something new. You wore black on Good Friday because you were mourning but on Sunday, you will wear white and be born new.

[bonesandthebees]

Selfishly, the thing I hate the most (besides what Wilbur actually did to Shubble and others) is the loss of a good chunk of the fanfiction/fanfiction authors in this community. Like, do you know how hard it is to find platonic content? It’s almost all exclusively romance! And don’t get me wrong, romance is fine everyone once in a while. But it’s literally just everywhere’s you look. This was the one place I could come to find platonic found family content, and now so many of the authors have just discontinued their works. The discord servers I’m a part of to follow authors for updates are opening up for romance/NSFW content. And I know, I know this was going to happen eventually. People had slowly been loosing interest in the dsmp anyways and it was bound to happen. But this just sped that process up. I just hate it. It’s sad to say, but this online space is the only safe space I had left and now it feels like it’s disappearing. I scrambled at the beginning of the announcement to download as many of my favorite fics as I possibly could before they got deleted. And it’s valid as hell that people don’t want to be associated with this fandom or Wilbur anymore. But like damn. Damn. Im so angry about this. Is it that hard not to be just a terrible fucking human being? I’ve already had abusers steal so many good things from me in the past, and now it just feels like it’s happening all over again. It’s just frustrating. Anyways, selfish rant over I guess. Feel free to just ignore this if it’s too much or whatever. For what it’s worth, thank you for what you did write for this fandom. “The stars and their children”, and “through a glass divine” are especially favorites of mine. I remember being so excited every time I saw new updates for them. Thank you for the good memories.

yeah believe me this was one of the things that hit me really hard. as a writer I've found so much inspiration from c!wilbur as a character for so many years now, and I've loved reading crimeboys fics for so long. the dsmp fanfiction community left such a lasting impact on the fandom as a whole and I'm so honored that I was able to make my mark on it while it was around. but yeah, while I myself had been shifting towards wanting to write romance again, I genuinely had grown to love writing found family so much and it really sucks that we're likely never going to see a fandom so heavily built around found family like that again

overall, yeah, the fandom was already dying. I've been aware of that for a long time and knew it was inevitable. but it feels cruel to watching the dying community crawling along on the ground get shot point blank in the head like this

I also get feeling selfish for feeling this way. I do too. but we're allowed to be upset, and I truly mourn all the wonderful stories that have been deleted because of this. I fully believe it's within the authors rights to do what they want with the story, it just sucks that they were so hurt by this that they felt they had to completely erase something they put so much love and effort into

I'm so glad I was able to provide good memories here, and like I said, I'm honored I was able to leave a mark on things. I won't delete my fics as I've said, so at least anyone who wants to reread them will be able to go back and revisit those memories

[toldbytendo]

𝐴𝑛 𝐼𝑛𝑐𝑒𝑙 𝑇𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑑 𝑇𝑜 𝑆𝑙𝑢𝑡 𝑆𝘩𝑎𝑚𝑒 𝑀𝑒…🤣

***DISCLAIMER: mentions of religion, sexuality, a lil preachy and 'testimony'-ish, *forgive me guys* lmao. ***

Before I even get into it, let me be ABSOLUTELY clear—I have NEVER and will NEVER believe that a woman’s sexuality makes her more or less worthy of God’s love. I don't measure or believe in ‘body count’. A woman's choices, or the way she expresses herself as a sexual being are completely her own. I fully support a woman’s rights to own her body, her pleasure, her autonomy, her experiences—even religious women. (I mean…they *we* gotta nut too right? 👀🫣 Being a woman of faith doesn’t mean you have to suppress your desires or feel guilt for them.

It doesn’t mean your body is dirty or shameful.

This is just about ME! ‼️

The lover girl in me has always felt a deep disconnect when intimacy isn’t built on an emotional connection. It’s not about society’s judgment, not about how I’ll be perceived—it’s just who I am. I feel more pleasure, more safety, more fulfillment when I’m not just sharing my body, but my mind, my emotions, my trust. When intimacy is rooted in something deeper than just attraction. As I’m writing this, I can totally acknowledge that those belief systems that I hold close are absolutely motivated and formulated by society and what they tell us about how we should want to navigate sexual experiences but it truly does align with my spirit—regrettably. That’s where the 'guilt' I speak of comes from—from feeling like I was betraying my own values, not simply from outside judgment or fear of being slut shamed.

And that’s why the conversation that inspired, more accurately *triggered* this slightly incoherent post hit so hard.

A so called "Man of God" yep. I'll wait...tried to slut shame me into oblivion today and...we're gonna talk about it.

He sat there, self-righteous and arrogant, telling me I ‘needed to change my ways.’ Asking me how many men I’d been with. Telling me what was *too much* (anything over 5 apparently 🙄😑 okay virgin mary). And when I told him how judgmental, dehumanising and degrading that was, when I told him exactly how he made me feel—he doubled down. "I didn’t mean to offend you, I’m just trying to help."

Help with what, exactly?

Because I already know my struggles. I already know the parts of me I’m trying to heal, the parts I feel a sense of shame about, the patterns I’m trying to break. I’ve spent so much time trying to unlearn the idea that my worth is tied to how desirable or untouched I am. I think a lot of women do, it’s hard not in a society that consistently slut-shames and punishes us for presenting ourselves as sexual beings in spite of being sexualised all the time?

It was like watching the Madonna-Whore complex come to life in real time. Watching how, in some men at least, a woman’s spirituality, her character, her worth will always be reduced to how much or how little she has been desired by men and acted according to her own autonomy. Freud was definitely onto something when he concocted that dichotomy. That's all imma say.

And don’t get it twisted—this wasn’t some divine moment of correction or guidance. This was misogynistic, patriarchal arrogance disguised as spirituality and faith, and I reject it.

I haven’t been radicalised.

I still fully believe that incels exist.

God knows they do.

I haven’t suddenly started believing that men like this don’t walk around with unchecked egos, weaponising God to justify their fragile masculinity and need to control women. I haven’t lost sight of the fact that

MEN. WILL. ALWAYS MEN.

What I did do, though, was choose to use this experience to get closer to God—when my instinct, my initial reaction, was to assume that maybe God was speaking His shame into me through this clown 🤡.

And I just refuse to believe that God would come to me through shame.

I don’t know what to call this feeling, but I know it wasn’t Him. I don’t know if this was a test, a lesson, or just a random moment of life reminding me how people (incels) move, but I know that the God I’m choosing to know, the God I accept in my heart, would never come to me in this manner.

So no, I don’t believe this was some divine intervention, some sign of God’s disappointment in me. I don’t believe He sent someone to make me feel ‘disgusting’, to pull me back into the same shame I’ve been trying to heal from. I don’t believe this was His voice.

Because the God I am getting to know? The God I am slowly learning to run to?

He is love.

He is grace.

He is kindness.

This wasn’t that. This wasn’t Him.

I don’t know what it was. I just know that it tried to drag me backwards. I know that it made me want to sit in guilt I have no business feeling to spiral, to run to bad habits, to look for comfort in places that have never really given me peace.

And for a second, I almost did. I almost let this moment convince me that I wasn’t worthy of God’s love. I almost let it make me feel too dirty, too far gone, too undeserving.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I did something I’ve never done before— I took a breath, and I ran to God instead (and blocked, if you learn nothing else about me from this, know that my trigger fingers will ALWAYS block). 🚫

I don’t know what this moment was supposed to teach me, but maybe it’s this:

That the past will always try to come back.

That POINTLESS shame will always try to find a way in.

That some people will always think they have the right to determine my worth. I think the fuck not.

But I get to choose. I get to decide who I listen to. I get to fight for the version of me that I am trying to become, whether she's a sexual being who owns her body and autonomy completely or someone much more sexually reserved, that's my choice and mine alone. ❤️

And today, I chose to fight the bullshit. I choose to break the cycle. I choose to believe that my Father—my girl dad—does not play about me. 🙏🏾

So no, I will not let this conversation define me. I will not let misogynistic losers win. I will not let silly guilt formed by patriarchy and the weight of my past pull me away from the future I am building and the woman I want to be.

Because I know who I am. And more importantly, I know whose I am.

Also, let’s not forget—I’m a hot girl who gets men and I refuse to let some lanky incel—Mr. Gets No Bitches, Looks Like He Snuck Onto Earth—CLOWN slut-shame me under the guise of faith and Godliness. 😂🤭🤭

Anyway, if you made it this far, thanks for reading. I don’t usually post about this kind of stuff, but I think I needed to write this out—for me, just to get the feelings out.

And for anyone else who might be going through something similar—you’re not alone. This journey of faith, spirituality or even just *growth* is hard, confusing, and full of setbacks. But moments like this?

They strengthen your conviction.

I’m not here to preach, I’m not here to tell anyone what to do or 'spread the word' (notice the lack of scripture?) If my transparency confronts you, challenges you, or even just reminds you of your worth, then I hope it helps in some way. Even if it doesn’t lead you to God, because it’s literally not by force, this is for those who DO believe.

And if you do? Just know this—God does not measure your worth the way men do (as if they even have the right). And, He never will. ❤️

[evanhereonearth]

I hurt my own feelings with this fic. VEILGUARD SPOILERS!

This is the prologue of Veilguard from the POV of my Inquisitor, Ilaana Lavellan, who has spent the time since Trespasser working tirelessly to change the world. Her work with the Dalish and Rivaini seers and the Avvar augurs inspired the Veil Jumpers’ formation. She is a Dreamer and she is so endlessly tired.

Now betrayed by one of her dearest friends when it mattered the most.

I stare at the letters side by side. One from a beloved friend. One from my most trusted agent, which I have just decrypted. And one…

One I have had for a week and have been expecting. If not today, soon. It’s time. And I’m already too late to make a difference.

Varric’s letter fills me with cold. Cold like the Elfsblood River in Emprise du Lion spiked with red lyrium, its rage hot against the frigid ice that has settled over my skin.

He is too smart to think I will buy it, too canny to believe I don’t have my own methods of tracking Solas—yet still, here it is, another spun tale from the man who once told me I should have lied to the Right Hand of the Divine herself when I woke in Haven with a hole in the sky and a hole in my head and a hole in my hand that could heal all three.

I read it again, my body past reacting outwardly but my ribs screaming to hold back the fury in my heart.

Inquisitor,

Greetings from miserable, rainy Minrathous! (Don't tell Dorian I called it that.) The rotten weather here is making me nostalgic for Skyhold. The mountains were freezing, but at least the air didn't smell like wet garbage.

We'll have to get in another game of Wicked Grace soon.

Harding picked up the trail again. I'd tell you not to worry, but I know how useless that is. Instead, I'll just say: I've got a great team on this. Neve could stare down the Maker, and wait until you meet Rook. They're a natural: Smart, resourceful, completely unpredictable. You'd like them, as long as you don't try to beat them at cards. Chuckles'll never know what hit him.

I'll write again once we have something solid for you. Drinks at the Hanged Man are on me when this is over. Take care of yourself.

Varric

Then I read Charter’s. Charter is Leliana’s agent and also mine, one of the few who has come face to face with Solas since the events of the Qunari Dragon’s Breath plot. I trust Leliana implicitly—she’s earned that from me, my truest friend aside from Dorian and my most steadfast partner in all my intricate work for the past decade, by my side by choice as I walk my own din’an shiral—and until five minutes ago when I got Charter’s, I also trusted Varric Tethras.

Charter’s words are brief, using only my code name and seven others she pulsed through the sending crystal only minutes ago.

Lathi,

Our Lady of Victory. Looking glass. Haste.

I’m already too late. Haste means immediately. Even if I have an eluvian directly into the centre of Minrathous, I cannot run fast enough to beat Varric to Our Lady of Victory. Morrigan cannot fly fast enough.

Varric told me not to come to Minrathous yet.

And I know, without any doubt, that he sent his message barely an hour ago; Irelin must have been holding on to it until he told her to send it.

I am frozen like that horrid river, my own Elvhen blood a block of ice in every vein. How many times have I tried to explain to Varric the stakes here? How many hours have I spent begging him to listen to anything beyond his own narrative?

Something cracks within me, and my body begins to vibrate like a hummingbird’s wings as I force myself to reread the final letter.

Vhenan, I do not know if you will see these words. My ritual is ready and will soon be set in motion. Perhaps when you read this the world will be as it once was, and you will see why all I did was necessary. I cannot ask your forgiveness, but I hope you come to understand. That night in Crestwood, when I shared the truth about your vallaslin…you do not know how close I came to breaking. I could have shared the truth, or even put my plans aside and simply stayed with you as Solas…as I wanted.

I regret the pain I caused you.

What I feel for you will never change.

This, I have read a thousand times in the days since I found it in the Crossroads. I knew he sensed me close to his Lighthouse, knew he felt as I always do when we enter each other’s orbits.

It is the closest thing to an invitation he will ever send me; Solas once pushed me from his own din’an shiral out of fear I would come to regret loving him, that his steps would poison our love and the safety we built in each other’s hearts. He knew, when he sent this letter, that he had been wrong then about my motivations—or at least that my motivations have had the time to reveal to him my truth. He remembers how I said, “Let me help you, Solas.” And he is no fool. He knows every threat to his course, every passing breeze, and he knows every deliberate step I have taken on the journey I chose for myself these last ten years. He knows it’s not for him alone; he knows my mind is my own. He also knows I am free to choose and have chosen.

And now in my own foolish trust of an old friend, I will be too late to help him after all this time. Because Varric knows if I show up at Solas’s ritual, the Void take me, it will not be to stop my love at all costs.

I take a single steadying breath. Too late or not, I have to try. He will feel me coming to him. Perhaps that will be enough.

I summon a trio of wisps as I turn and sprint for my eluvian, whispering, begging, imbuing them with all the love in my heart and praying it is enough to stall whatever Varric has set in motion with this betrayal.

***

Varric’s letter and Charter’s, I drop into the warded message box I share with Leliana and Morrigan. Morrigan is deep in Arlathan Forest with Strife and Irelin, and Leliana—Divine Victoria—is leading the entire Chantry of Southern Thedas. They will both know soon enough.

Slipping through the mirror buzzes against the surface of my skin, enveloping me in the magic of the Fade, of the in-between place that is the Crossroads. We do not have Solas’s Vi’Revas, and our small section of the eluvian network is ours at his sufferance, unacknowledged for the sake of our plausible deniability—something we are all well aware of. The wisps I summoned are already gone, whirring through the Fade to find my love with as much haste as they can muster.

Time moves differently here. My feet pound over its ancient paths, rainbows glimmering and shimmering in the raw magic that surrounds me, but I still cannot move fast enough. With a thought, I slip into wolf form; I may not truly be faster this way, but I feel faster.

The mental boost gives me strength. It is not far to the Minrathous eluvian, but what lies on the other side is the true terror in my soul. Dorian’s manor is across the city from Our Lady of Victory. Even with all the magic in Thedas, I cannot simply appear where I want to appear.

When I reach the eluvian, I launch myself through, transforming myself back into the shape of Ilaana Lavellan that the world knows as the Inquisitor.

And what I hear makes me almost trip and sprawl out onto my face.

“Citizens of Minrathous!” The voice booms through the air from the Archon’s Palace.

I don’t hear the rest of the message, because Dorian throws open the door to the warded eluvian room, pinged by the wards that recognise my mana.

“It’s started,” he says. “Ilaana—”

“Varric lied,” I tell him shortly. “Did you know?”

I’ve never heard the razor-sharp edge to my voice that slices through the air between me and my dearest friend. He gapes at me, piecing together what I’m saying as horror twists his expression before he can answer.

“Dorian, did you know?”

My voice cracks the second time, and he flinches at my anguish.

“No, Lathi. I trust you above all else in this Maker-forsaken world. Into the Fade and Beyond.”

The weary smile he gives me is enough; Dorian cannot lie to my face.

That last bit is a joke, one I didn’t know I needed in this moment. Humans call it the Fade, elves call it the Beyond, and right now, the veil between our world and the spirit world, regardless of what anyone calls it, is about to vanish. My love is trying to heal the wound he inflicted upon this world to save it so long ago. The immense trust Dorian has in me, to believe the veil falling is survivable?

I can return that trust. I will return that trust.

“I need to get to Our Lady of Victory,” I tell him, forcing the mask back on—if I am going to survive tonight, that mask will be my lifeline.

I am too late already. But I have to try. I am too late already. But for Solas, for all of us and everyone we love on both sides of the veil, I have to try.

***

It is the quiet that tells me I’m too late.

Dorian and I burst through the eluvian into the wilds of Arlathan to find it over—but the Veil still stands. In the shellshocked broken statues, in the stink of blight that stings at my nostrils in a whiff on the wind, we are late enough that the scene has grown quiet.

Not silent. The storm of magic that fills the air with the familiar feel of the Fade—Solas’s mana, so known to me, permeating every pore—remains an echo.

An argument with Varric from last month springs back into my mind.

“Varric, the veil is already failing. It will fall whether you want it or not, and only Solas knows how to do this in a way that will not release the entire reason he created it in the first place.” My temples bloomed with the headache I was nursing at the time, circular arguments that could find no purchase on the smooth, blunted surface of Varric’s stubbornness. “It’s the Blight. The blighted Evanuris, whoever of them remains. If we find him, we cannot risk their escape.”

“We don’t know that,” Varric insisted for the hundredth time. “He’s trying to drown the world in demons—we can’t just let him because you believe his propaganda.”

“I believe the decade of my own studies! Everything I have found independently on both sides of the veil confirms it, that the Evanuris created or unleashed the Blight and weaponised it. And that the veil kept them from using it to destroy the entire world. Every living being in Thedas owes Solas their very existence.”

“And he’s taking the veil down and will let the blight out again—”

“He will do no such thing! It would defeat the purpose of everything he has done so far, and you are not listening to me. You have decided, wrongly, that you understand this better than I do, better than he does, better than the Veil Jumpers and the seers, better than Morrigan, who holds the memories of Mythal herself.”

“Look, Ilaana, I know you and Chuckles were in love, but he lied to you all that time. You’re too close to this to be objective. He’s the literal god of lies.”

“Or none of the rest of you bothered to truly know him. If you had, you might have been forced to accept that he is right. You see only the version of him you wish to see; I at least can differentiate between the man and the mask he wears.”

That was it, I realise, as Dorian and I warily pick our way towards the ritual site.

That was the moment Varric decided he would keep me from this. He has always believed me to be delusional. He has always been unable to accept that he is wrong. Wrong about Cole’s personhood, wrong about Bianca. I can see him projecting that upon me; he trusted Bianca, a woman who married someone else instead of him, a woman who leaked red lyrium into the world to Corypheus, a woman who deluded him, kept him begging for scraps for years. A woman more delighted by her own cleverness than any willingness to take responsibility for her actions. He thinks my relationship with Solas is the same.

It is not and never was.

In the past decade, much of the Inquisition has fallen away. Bull hasn’t much stayed in touch since he and Dorian ended things; Tevinter became too large for Bull to deal with. He returned to the Chargers, and as far as I know is somewhere in Antiva fighting the Antaam.

Some, I know still only to keep an eye on. Like Thom and Vivienne and Sera. Others are friends I keep close but not too close, like Cass and Josie and Cullen. Varric and Lace, I have trusted until now, if not to the degree I trust Dorian and Leliana and Merrill and Morrigan, enough to trust they would listen to me and my hard-won expertise.

Folly. The folly of my too-tender heart that gave me my nickname. Da’lath’in. Lathi.

Beside me, Dorian makes a small noise. I’m so caught up in my rampaging thoughts that I stop only when he throws out an arm across my chest

“What in the blazes is that?”

I smell the Blight before my eyes process the lumpen mass I’m seeing. My first thought is that it is a womb torn out and left pulsing on the ground, its umbilical cord winding away to attach to…something worse.

My second thought is that this impression is all too correct.

I incinerate it with a thought, Dorian’s barrier protecting us from any spray of the explosion, and fire races along the umbilical cord to the larger mass, lighting it up with a gurgling pulse that makes every pore on my body raise itself into gooseflesh.

“The veil remains, but the blight got out,” I say, my voice hollow, numb.

“Lathi, if you don’t want to see this—”

“I have to.”

It comes out almost as a gasp. I take three slow breaths, trying to build myself a cocoon of calm even as something deep within my spirit begins to shriek.

Dorian burns through the barrier, and I cast about for any threats that could remain. The blight here—this is unlike any blight I have encountered. My skin crawls like it’s trying to escape from my body.

Thom alerted me some time ago to a report from Wardens who seem to have encountered an ancient elven lab beneath a mountain that birthed horrors unlike any they’d encountered. Darkspawn twisted enough to make the usual hurlocks and genlocks and shrieks look downright friendly.

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from screaming.

What has Varric done?

We see no actual darkspawn as we wind through the path, but that does nothing to settle my spirit. The entire place is hushed with creeping wrongness, echoes of magic like a tempest barely calmed. Or cut off abruptly.

I see footprints in the dirt. Dorian is no tracker, but I am still Dalish. Two dwarves—that’ll be Varric and Harding. One set is a boot and a hard imprint of something not a foot. Neve Gallus, most likely. She is known for having lost part of a leg much like I have lost part of an arm, though in entirely different circumstances.

One set that must be Rook’s. Grier Aldwir, a Veil Jumper who I encountered long ago in Rivain before the Veil Jumpers even existed. Not long after Dragon’s Breath, when I first ventured out to the those I thought might meet me with open minds.

Varric seems to have somehow thought I wouldn’t find out about the people he intended to take to disrupt my love’s ritual, but I admit surprise at Rook’s identity.

I would have thought Grier would have more sense.

Not that my first impression of them was anything more than passing; Grier was starstruck to be in the presence of the Inquisitor, and I noted the way they asked stupid questions that others seemed to expect of them as much as I noted the sharp intelligence behind those blue-green eyes. I recognised something of myself in that; it has often behooved me to allow others to make assumptions about my own capacity. Better people underestimate you, especially as an elf in Thedas.

The thoughts are as much distraction as anything. That shrieking part of my soul has not ceased its panicked noise.

Dorian and I pick our ways forwards still, combing the path for evidence. Some residue of demons, more blight, though the blight seems to be leading away from here, almost like tracks in and of itself. It veers off into Arlathan Forest, which is something I am likely to hear about sooner rather than later. I will get word to Irelin and Strife after we discover what happened here at this ritual.

I don’t let myself wonder about Solas. I cannot.

If I do, I will break.

We come to an old ruin, and even from where I stand, I can see the evidence of cataclysm. I have been here once before when tracking Solas, so I know that the enormous statues of the ancient Evanuris were standing not long ago.

Now only a few still stand upright; the rest have toppled like bookshelves in a library when one is pushed to fall upon the others in a cascade of destruction.

My skin grows cold even as my analytical mind puts together pieces of what must have happened.

“Surely even dwarves could not be so foolish as to drop a statue on a ritual of that magnitude of volatility,” Dorian says, his own mind making the same connection as mine. “One does not need magical acuity to understand that such a thing would—”

I waggle my prosthetic hand at him. “Have unintended consequences?”

“My dear, you are far more gracious than I.”

I am, of course, referring to my own inadvertent interruption of a ritual of a tenth this size: Corypheus sacrificing Divine Justinia to tear open the Fade. The moment I tripped and landed in the role of Herald of Andraste, later Inquisitor. The moment I fell into the Fade in the flesh and tumbled back out of it a miracle. The moment my fate became irrevocably bound to Solas’s.

“They had two mages with them, as well,” I murmur. “Dock Town’s Neve Gallus and a Veil Jumper called Grier Aldwir. Rook, as Varric calls them. Either one of them ought to have known better.”

“Neve certainly should have,” Dorian murmurs. “I don’t know her well, but enough to know she doesn’t take chances. That said, she has not had the benefit of knowing someone who lives and breathes the Fade, let alone two someones. Three if we count Cole.”

“Even so,” I say shakily. My ability to compartmentalise is cracking along its fault lines.

“Even so,” Dorian agrees.

I can feel spirits pressing against the veil, drawn to me as always. Especially when there has been enormous magic brought to bear, and there has been more enormous magic brought to bear here than any time in history since the day Solas made the veil itself.

“Dorian.”

He pulls his gaze from the toppled statues to look at me, his own demeanour showing he’s as aware of the activity in the Fade as much as I am.

“Don’t worry,” he says, a sardonic smile quirking his lips without reaching his eyes as he quotes a line he once said to me when we were torn out of time in a red lyrium nightmare of Redcliffe. “I’ll protect you.”

He knows I need to see.

We both know I may not be able to bear it.

***

A decade of practice has made slipping across the veil into the Fade as simple as lighting a candle with my magic.

It feels like home here, and that thought wrenches a yearning sob from me at my decade-long hope crushed.

“Imagine a world where the Fade is not somewhere you go, but a state of nature, like the wind. Where spirits are as common as trees or grass.”

Solas’s words to me, a lifetime ago in Haven.

My first wild glimmer of possibility.

The spirits around me reflect my sorrow, my fear, but they know me. They know me or know of me, and they do not turn into demons when my emotions are stormy; instead, they pull close around me. Compassion and Valour and Courage and Determination.

“Show me,” I whisper to my friends.

The world of now falls away.

I feel the germination of Solas’s ritual, feel his magic grow, spreading in undulating waves from where he stands atop a ritual platform raised on a flight of stone-hewn stairs.

The sight of him wrenches at my heart. Oh, I have had glimpses of him over the years; we are ghosts of the wolves I carved for him in Skyhold so long ago, always circling each other, never without each other’s scents. I have seen him echoed in memories in the Fade, regrets and tears, his and my own both, seen him in truth, from afar, gazing upon me and allowing for scattered moments of longing we both knew must be brief. Whether as a wolf or a man, I know him always, as he knows me. He has never hidden from me, nor I from him.

But seeing him in this memory, only a bare hour or two ago, is different.

His name means both Pride and One Who Stands Tall, and in this moment, it is only the latter the spirits see. Thus it is only the latter I see. The spirits are here, and they are ready, because he has prepared them for this. Pride blooms in me—pride that my love has not an army, but a tribe thousands strong of spirits ready to help—spirit self seeing self—ready to heal the wound he inflicted on the world, ready to help the bone knit back together after it has been re-broken and reset.

They know the risks. They know what lies beyond the door.

Corruption and death.

For all of us.

Still, they are here, and they are ready.

The scope of Solas’s power staggers me as it grows. It eclipses the ritual site, so much raw magic it is as if the veil already does not exist. This—this is what remained of a fragment of Mythal?

My own power is not negligible; my connection to the Fade has grown to the point that I am virtually untouchable to anyone who tries to harm me.

But this?

No wonder the Evanuris convinced the ancient Elvhen that they were gods.

I can also feel that it reaches the limits of his strength.

He has been counted among them, but he has never been their peer.

Yet he bested them anyway.

Magic, raw and awe-inspiring, pours out of the Fade, permeating the earth, the ritual site, the air, everything for miles around. It is a beacon of pure power to anything with an awareness, anything with a connection to the Fade and, I suspect, even to anything without.

I’m so caught up in the torrent of energies that I almost miss Varric’s approach.

Not all spirits have the fortitude to resist change in the face of such enormous magical shifts; some few, so desperate to reunite with the physical world the veil sundered them from, tear their way through the tattered veil, the violence of it twisting them into demons on the way. Like with the rifts I spent years closing with the Anchor. Like the Breach.

Varric and his team fight their way through. Neve is an adept ice mage, her mana elegant and efficient. Rook is electric, using the newly emerged orb-and-dagger fighting style rather than a staff like I prefer, and their attacks seem fitting to what Varric said in his letter about the eponymous chess piece: thinking in straight lines.

The observation fills me with dread.

I don’t want to see this. I do not want to witness.

I have no choice.

I owe him this, because Varric fooled me, and I was too late to stop it. If I allow myself to freeze in inaction with my own regrets now, I will never leave this place.

Even as I think it, I hear Varric’s voice.

“All right,” he says to Rook. “I’ll take it from here.”

“Are you sure?” Neve asks after blasting away a demon who ventured too close.

“Positive. You three just keep the demons off me while I talk to him.”

“Varric,” a breathless Lace Harding cuts in, “Solas isn’t going to stop just because an old friend asks nicely.”

“Solas needs someone to sell him another option, to justify him changing his mind.” Varric sounds so sure of himself, and the sheer weight of knowledge that he left me behind on purpose threatens to capsize me.

I miss what Rook says in the flash of fury that nearly blinds me, but Grier must be encouraging Varric, because Varric’s answer adds fuel to my fire.

“Thanks, Rook. Whatever else he is, he’s my friend. And if he won’t listen to me, he’ll hear from Bianca.”

No. No, no, no, no, no-no-no.

I cannot think of a worse way to approach Solas at this moment, but I cannot stop it from happening.

It has already happened. Already brought this night to ruin.

“Hey, Chuckles! Hope I’m not interrupting!”

Visions in the Fade shift perspective, and I’m suddenly between Varric and Solas, looking up at my love when he turns to face the fool of a dwarf. I have not seen Solas this close since Dragon’s Breath, and all the air leaves my lungs as his face shifts through a hundred micro expressions from one heartbeat to the next.

Weariness. Genuine surprise. A glance behind Varric—looking for me and not seeing me—turning to anger as my instincts scream that my love, my vhen’an’ara, has correctly deduced in that moment that Varric is why I am not with him.

And finally, rage, quickly pushed down.

My ears ring as their fragmented conversation continues, as Varric barrels ahead with Bianca levelled at Solas’s heart.

At my heart. My heart. My heart.

Vhenan.

Bianca shatters as Solas destroys the unique crossbow with a thought, leaving Varric untouched. Solas lifts his ritual dagger once more to the ritual.

“People are always dying, Varric,” Solas says in answer to something I did not hear, the weight of an eternity on every word, “it is what they do.”

The spirits around me wrap me in what comfort they can, soothing Compassion and stalwart Courage tethering me to my own existence so I don’t shatter like that fucking crossbow.

Worse is coming. If Varric is here, he didn’t bring down the statues.

Even as I think it, I hear Rook’s voice.

“We need a better plan.”

Then Harding: “Do you want me to take the shot?”

I cannot allow myself to feel this additional betrayal. No part of me cares that they genuinely think they are the good guys here; they are wrong, so deeply wrong and will never know it.

“Won’t work,” Neve is saying. “He’s too powerful.”

“What if we disrupt the ritual?” Rook says, pointing…at the statues.

I cannot listen to them, to this asinine stupidity, this mockery of heroism. “Please,” I beg the spirits. “Don’t make me hear them.”

I already know what they are going to do; I only don’t know how it ends.

One more message, says a spirit of Valour. Be brave.

Solas’s voice. “We shared a journey years ago. Do you think I would do this if there were some other, better option? You came a long way and made a valiant effort, but this story does not end with my downfall.”

Some part of me unclenches. A wave of gratitude encompasses Valour; the spirit would not have echoed those words except to bolster me.

Banal nadas, whispers Possibility in my ear. Banal nadas.

Nothing is inevitable. The lesson Possibility came to teach me so long ago.

I see the first statue begin to fall.

It cracks through the air, breaking stone shattering, stone that has stood for millennia. The statue crashes into the next one, then the next.

I don’t have to hear Solas to know he is screaming, “No. No, no!”

He catches the closest statue with pure will, hefting it backwards from where it is about to crash down upon him. Resolute, implacable. He raises his dagger once more—and Varric throws himself at Solas.

I watch them tussle, Varric with his mere few decades of experience against the Dread Wolf, who has commanded armies and outwitted would-be gods for ages untold.

It is only ever going to end one way, and Varric has reached the final boundary of Solas’s forbearance and patience.

The dagger plunges into Varric’s chest, above the heart but a mortal wound nonetheless.

My body is shaking, shuddering with the sight of it, but my emotions are too numb, too jumbled; this isn’t over. This isn’t the end.

Then I see it.

Behind Solas.

A tear in the veil, like that rift into the Fade at Adamant, and like that rift, horror waits on the other side.

One form I immediately recognise from his iconography, and if I didn’t recognise that, I would know the sheer force of his presence.

Elgar’nan, first of the Evanuris.

His power is a force that cannot be contained or reckoned with; the weight of it has density, the enormity of his will threaded with something I only just tasted.

Blight.

Beside him is…a monster. My first thought is that perhaps it is Andruil, whose Void-touched armour drove her insane. This gangly, long-limbed creature dangling tentacles—but no.

No.

This is Ghilan’nain.

Mother of the fucking halla, my Dalish arse. Mother of monsters. Mother of nightmares.

A cataclysmic concussion rends the air. Dimly, I am aware of Rook soaring into a pillar with the sheer force of it.

I cannot see Solas. I cannot see Solas. I cannot see Solas.

Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain are out.

The blighted gods are out.

Varric, what have you done?

I don’t realise I’m screaming myself hoarse until hands shake my shoulders. Human hands. Dorian’s hands.

He pulls me back to the present, out of the Fade. I taste blood where I have chewed through the inner flesh of my cheek.

Through the Fade, the spirits push one more message through to me. It is a message for me, from them. To tell me my love lives. I feel with it a sense of terror beyond anything I have imagined. Beyond the lair of the Nightmare at Adamant, beyond the mind-breaking horrors of seeing a blighted Solas tossed dead on the floor in a future that never came to pass, beyond the pitiful ploy for godhood that was Corypheus, beyond anything I’ve faced since.

The message comes from within the prison he built to contain the blighted gods.

It comes with the force of my love’s voice resonant with terrible calm in every word—words meant not for me, but for someone else.

For Rook.

“You have no idea what you have done.”