#Tangible. But still the same scare at the end of the day. AND he’s one of the coolest music themed villains ever so there’s that

[coconut530]

WHY DOES IT SAY MADE ON SATURDAY I WAS NOT NOTIFIED HUHHHHH

ALSO JUST DROPPED OUT OF NOWHERE *AND* IT’S THE PENULTIMATE EP OF S4 WHATTTTTTTTTTTAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

[beejunos]

UNKNOWN TO ME AND YOU | Alastor x reader | PART 2

Summary: After your altercation with Alastor in the hotel lobby, will you be able to mend your relationship?

This is PART 2. Part 1 can be found here.

This is the continuation of @lustylita's wonderful idea, which can be found here. I just had the pleasure of writing it. I hope you enjoy the end of our little story!

Tags: Alastor x gn.reader, some angst

The relationship between you and Alastor had taken a sharp turn for the worse. What used to be a strained but neutral relationship was now strained, uncomfortable, and awkward at best. You found yourself doing everything in your power to avoid him whenever possible.

Each time you and Alastor coincided in a room, a surge of panic would engulf you. The urgency to escape the impending unbearable awkwardness was so tangible it left a metallic taste in your mouth. You would hastily concoct an excuse, no matter how feeble, to flee the scene. The same sense of panic would grip you if he happened to enter a room you were already in.

As you made your hasty retreat, you made a point to never meet his gaze. You were acutely aware that if you did, you would be confronted with the pained expression on his face behind the mask he liked to present to the world, a sight that would be unbearable. Despite Alastor's adeptness at concealing his emotions, you could now sense his anguish from the shadow he cast.

It was something you never anticipated. You never thought you'd harbour any kind of affection towards the man. Yet, after the end of your relationship with Alastor's Shadow, it felt like going through a tumultuous breakup with him. The pain of it all left you feeling raw, vulnerable, and insecure as if a part of you had been stripped bare of dignity and reason. You were left feeling smaller than you really were, with a heavy weight on your shoulders that dragged you down. As if everything was your fault. 

But you had never known about Alastor's feelings for you. You didn't even know when his affection for you had begun and why he had buried them so deep within his heart that his shadow had to break free to soothe its ache. Only when his shadow broke free did you realise the extent of his emotions and how deep they ran.

The days felt like they had grown longer and lost all their colour without the presence of Alastor's shadow. Hollow and lifeless. Whilst you could argue all you wanted with yourself that it was the shadow that you wanted and not the man, the reality was that the shadow was the man. 

They were not separate. They were one.

To love one was to love the other. 

What ... love?!

Pain can be subjective, just like any emotion, but that does not diminish its impact on one's life. The heart will make itself known to the mind whether the mind wants to know or not, but sooner or later, the heart will make the mind yield to the pain, the longing, and the wanting just to get a moment of peace. 

And that's where you were right now, at the door where your heart had broken down, letting the reality of your emotions spill at your feet. A door it begged you to walk through, but you were scared. You were a coward. For Alastor saw you through his darkness, his shadow, and you saw him through his. 

To knock or not to knock. That is the question.  

It had been 23 days since your altercation with Alastor in the hotel lobby. When he had branded you with a kiss that still burned. Marking you with a curse that tore your heart out and poisoned your mind. Longing for the time when it had been just you and Alastor's shadow, but now all your memories of the shadows had been replaced with the man himself. Giving you a genuine smile that only your eyes were allowed to see. To be given the privilege, the trust, to see him. To see the man and not the sinner. To see the soul and not the demon.

Everyone longs for love, no matter what form love comes in, longing for companionship. Trust. Strong arms to fall into with hands that could hold us up when our legs can't bear the burden anymore. And you knew that Alastor could be the arms you wished to fall into, but did he still want to fall into yours?  

To knock or not to knock. That is the question.

The door to Alastors room felt like the doors to an impenetrable fortress. A domain that used to reek of him but now lured you with promises you longed for but feared as well. 

With your crossword puzzle in hand, you counted down from five to zero before lifting your shaking fist and knocking on the door softly. A part of you hoped that he wasn't there so you could run back down to the lobby and forget that you had ever had this stupid idea. The idea of mending your relationship. 

However, you were not so lucky, for Alastor soon opened the door. His smile twitched as his eyes fixed on you, and if you weren't imagining things, you thought you heard a soft chirping sound behind him.

"Yes?" Those were the first words he had uttered to you in 23 days. The only words you had allowed him to say to you in 23 days. 

Swalloing the stone in your throat, you let out in a rushed ramble:

"Canyouhelpmewithmycrossword?"

"I'm sorry?"  

"My crossword," you said, trying not to have a shaky voice, "can you help me with a clue? I can't figure it out."

You held out your newspaper with the crossword to him, pointing at the specific clue you had in mind. In reality, you had already figured it out 30 minutes ago, but Alastor didn't need to know that. He looked from you down to the newspaper, then back up at you again. His eyebrow raised. 

"Very well," was all he said as he looked down at the newspaper and the clue again, but by bending down, you now had his head right beside yours. You wondered if his big ears meant he could hear better and if he could hear your heart trying to beat out of your chest. Could he hear how it called out to him? How it had howled at your mind to let him back into your life again.

"The answer is Erato, the muse," answered Alastor and straightened up again.

"Oh, right. That makes sense," and that was when you remembered that Erato wasn't just any muse, but a muse whose name meant desire, and never had you desired for the smallest of touch from another before. Looking down at his lips, so red and soft, knowing what they had felt like on your cheek but maybe never getting the chance to touch them again was torture. 

"Was there anything else?"

Like a record scratch, you were hurled back into reality, looking back up at Alastor, who was studying you intensely. This is where your mind won over your heart, and you became a coward again. 

"No! Thank you for the help!" you practically screamed as you stiffly stormed down the hallway, away from the sinner who closed the door to his domain, and you wondered if it was painful to die. 

Work was slowly killing you, and it was not a pleasurable experience. Buried in paperwork, you had been staring at a document for the past half hour without really taking in the information. No matter how many times you would re-read the document, the words made less sense as you kept reading. Blurring together in one big mess that drained you of all your energy, the clock had not even struck 09:00 yet. 

Overwhelmed, you buried your face in your hands, your body leaning on the desk for support. You wondered how you were going to make it through the day if it continued at this excruciatingly slow pace. 

After a slight knocking, the door swung open, and someone entered your office. 

"Not now, Charlie," you said softly so as not to offend without looking up, "I told you I'm fine. I don't need you to check on me." 

However, no answer came, and when you looked up, you realised that it wasn't Charlie who had come knocking at your door again but Alastor, who was holding your favourite cup in his hand and a bag in the other.  

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't know it was you," you said and began to stand up, but you slowly dropped down when Alastor walked over to your desk and sat down your cup. The smell of coffee filled your office and the mere thought of having that sweet beverage filled you with delight. Beside the cup, Alastor put down the brown bag he had held, and you instantly recognised the logo of the bakery from across town that you loved so much. 

As you looked at the bag, you felt a sudden jolt of surprise that made your body shake. You raised your gaze to Alastor, who was standing in front of you, and then back to the bag. You couldn't help but feel a sense of warmth spreading through you as you thought about the blueberry muffin that was waiting inside. It was such a simple thing, but it made you feel wanted. What a wonder that such a small thing could make you feel so special and warm on the inside. 

That warmth was something you hadn't felt in a long time. Ever since Alastor's shadow stopped visiting your office, you had felt incredibly lonely. You missed the little conversations you used to have with him and the way he always seemed to know just what to do to make you feel better. You even found it hard to go to the bakery and get your muffin in the morning because it made you feel too alone for your liking.

But now, as you had the bag in front of you, you felt a glimmer of hope. Maybe things were finally starting to look up again. Maybe Alastor was back in your life for good, and you could once again look forward to those little moments of happiness that made your day a little brighter. 

"I... thank you, Alastor. I greatly appreciate it." Your heart skipped a beat when Alastor looked down at you and gave you a small, genuine smile. 

"You're welcome, my dear," he said softly as he turned to leave your office. His demeanour was calm and collected, yet you could sense a certain warmth and friendliness in his voice.

"Have you seen the roses yet?" the words rushed out of you before you could hold yourself back, too desperate for his company now that you had gotten it back. 

"Pardon?" asked Alastor without turning around to look at you fully. His hands were resting on his microphone cane. 

"The roses, in the garden. They've bloomed, almost all of them. They're... they're breathtaking. You should see them." Your knee started to nervously bounce under your desk as sweat began to gather in your palms. The man had managed to render you a nervous wreck so fast, his presence alone stirring up a whirlwind of emotions within you. 

"No, I haven't seen them yet. I'll make sure to walk around the garden on my break today. I can imagine that they are lovely." 

Thinking this was the end of the conversation, you turned back to your dreadfully dull documents.

"Would you care to join me?" asked Alastor, his soft yet hesitant voice making your heart skip a beat. It was as if the air around you had suddenly become charged with an unspoken tension, making you wonder if he was nervous as well.  

"In the garden?"

"Yes." 

"I... I would love to." 

"Wonderful. I'll come to get you around twelve if that works for you."

"Great! I look forward to it."

As he walked out, you couldn't help but sit back in your chair and take a deep breath. You felt a sense of relief and contentment, knowing that Alastor still seemed to want to try a new connection—something new and unexplored. You picked up your coffee and took a sip, letting the warmth of the liquid spread through your body. Alastor had managed to wake the butterflies within you again with a single act of kindness.  

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­Your and Alastor's relationship had improved immensely over the week. However, there was just this little problem that kept bugging you. Alastor had not touched you in any way, not even laid his hand on your shoulder or offered his arm when the both of you had walked through the rose garden. While this wasn't uncommon, you rarely saw him really touch anyone in the hotel except for the odd pat on the head, but his shadow had been so physically affectionate that you yearned for the intimacy of it all. 

While not overly affectionate, the shadow had not hesitated to hold your hand or rest on your shoulders. It wasn't that you wanted to carry Alastor on your back, but the simple act of holding hands seemed like a distant dream. 

You sank deeper into the sofa in the hotel lobby as you glanced at the deer demon sitting by the fireplace above your newspaper—your crossword puzzle long forgotten. Alastor was sitting cross-legged with a book in one hand and a glass of rye whisky in the other, silently humming to the song he played from the antique radio he had summoned, and for some reason, you thought that he had never looked more attractive.

Satan's sweaty balls, you used to party every weekend and only come home after you had tried every type of alcohol the club had to offer, and now you were in love with a sinner whose favourite pastime was listening to jazz while drinking whisky. Your younger self would have hated what you had become, but in the present, you felt a deep sense of contentment, wanting nothing more than to have a quiet evening with Alastor, where he would read out loud to you from his book in front of the fire with your head in his lap, listening to jazz.

Angel Dust shouted a loud good night and started to walk up the stairs to his room after another hour had passed. Charlie and Vaggie, who had been sitting by the dining table and doing a jigsaw puzzle, were the next ones who left the lobby. Charlie's good night was barely audible because of how much she was yawning. The last one to leave the lobby was Husk, who you knew stayed longer than he usually did just so he could keep an eye on you. You quickly shot him a meaningful glaze, trying to tell him that everything was fine, which he seemed to understand. 

"Night," grunted Husk as he started to walk up the stairs. 

"Good night, Husk!" you shouted back, grateful that you and Alastor had some more time alone. That is if you actually dared to do anything. 

The chance to change the mood was almost too good, too romantic for you to think clearly. There were so many possibilities as to what you could do. You could ask him about his day, but that felt too predictable. You could ask him about his book, but what if the book is boring and you can't make the conversation sexy? Would he even like that? He was flirty in a very subtle and charming way, but would he like it if you took a more direct approach? 

Without knowing it, you had spent all your time thinking of all the things you could do with Alastor now that you were alone with him that you completely lost track of time. It wasn't until he closed his book and stood up that you were pulled away from your thoughts back into the present. 

"Well, it is getting quite late. Sweet dreams, my dear." 

Panicking again like he so often made you do, you blurted out the first thing you could think of to make him stay. 

"Do you know the dance foxtrot?" You fucking idiot, of all the things you could have asked, why did you ask that?!

Alastor turned to you while raising a brow, and even if he looked at you with a curious gaze, you could not help but feel like the biggest fool in all of Hell. You used to be smooth when flirting and look at yourself now.

"I do. Why do you ask, my dear?" 

There was no backing down anymore, so you took a deep breath, cheeks and ears burning, and confessed;

"I've always wanted to try it! I've seen others dancing it, I even know the moves, but I've never had anyone to dance with." 

In the blink of an eye, the music on the radio changed from a soft and slow jazz song to one with a more precise and faster beat. Alastor bent down and left his book on his chair before he walked over to you. 

"May I have this dance?" he asked with a mischievous smile. 

Not caring anymore about dialling down your excitement, you gave him the biggest smile as you took his hand. Letting him pull you off the sofa. His hand was warm and soft, sending tingles up your arm as he gently stroked his thumb over your knuckles. 

As Alastor pulled you towards him, he quickly established that he would lead the dance. With your hand on his shoulder and his between your shoulder blades, he pushed you into the first step of the foxtrot. The rhythm of the music began to take over, and he started to spin you around the empty hotel lobby. You couldn't help but laugh, feeling the wind rushing against your skin as you twirled around and around. 

As he spun you, his red eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made your heart skip a beat. You felt like the only person in the world as you looked deep into each other's eyes, lost in the moment. It was a look you didn't see often, but sometimes, when it was only you and him, you could catch a glimpse of a softer look from Alastor. A look that made the butterflies in your stomach make loops in excitement. It was a look that made you feel cherished and admired, and it was a feeling unlike any other. 

The dance seemed to last forever, and you didn't want it to end. You felt free and alive, and you knew that this was a moment that you would never forget. 

When the song came to an end, a new song began directly after it. This one is slower than its predecessor, one that you couldn't necessarily dance the foxtrot to, for it was a song that called for a type of slow dancing. 

Without hesitation, Alastor pulled you closer towards him as his hand moved from between your shoulder blades down your back. Leaving a trail of fire under your skin as his hand pulled you closer to him after it stopped in the middle of your back. 

None of you said anything but continued slowly dancing to the music on the radio. His red eyes, heavy-lidded, looked deep into yours as he slowly dipped down and kissed your lips.

Happy 'burn a big ass bonfire so the witches who are flying to the devil's party fly into the bonfire instead' day, everyone! (If you can guess which country I'm from, from that, I'll be really impressed)

Taglist for the part 2: @littledolly2345 @slytherin4ever @wendds @beelz3bub @adamwarlockislife-blog

@ilikemyteawithmilk @cherry-cola-100 @xia21 @rae-pottah @xsoftdead18

@arrozyfrijoles23 @maulsgf

[scribbledghost]

I've gotten firmly sucked into the SIeep Token pit so I present you: Simon "Ghost" Riley who is a vessel for... something. He's not quite sure what - it's not as though he's ever been particularly religious. But he constantly gets the distinct feeling that he's not alone in his own body. That something else can control him whenever it deems fit. Something old.

He becomes his moniker - a ghost. Something that's not quite there but tangible all the same. At first, it's business as usual; he uses his new "gifts" to help the 141 complete their tasks, gliding into places he shouldn't be able to get to, phasing in and out of reality when he risks being spotted.

Then one day, when he's on leave, he spots you. And something shifts.

Whoever - whatever - is riding in his meatsuit with him all but drags him to you. Thankfully he still has enough presence of mind to phase out of existence before scaring the daylights out of you.

But the entity residing in his body has demands. And one demand is that he follow you home. Simon is a strong man, but even he's powerless against the eldritch thing in his bones.

Though, part of sharing a body with an ancient deity is also sharing its emotions (whenever it happens to have them, which is not often). Simon feels deep affection settle into his gut as he hides in the shadows of your home. A protective aura surrounds him as you sleep.

Why this Old God has chosen you, an average civilian human, to be so enamored with is beyond Simon. But he doesn't question it. He simply goes along with the being's desires - especially as time goes on and Simon begins to lose track of where the deity's wants end and his begin. The being's desire to protect you and care for you melds with his own.

You still can't see him. Not yet. He's very purposeful about that. There must be a right time, right place, right circumstance. But you can feel him. A light brush across your cheek, a sudden ease of your anxiety out of nowhere, a presence at your back as you sleep.

Simon will protect you. He will care for you. He will love you.

Whether it is because the creature using his body as a vessel commands it, or because of his own free will, he isn't sure. He supposes it doesn't matter.

[dancingtotuyo]

Scathed 9 (Javier Peña)

Rating: Mature

Warnings: anxiety, trauma, self worth, smoking, idiot(s) in love?, references to the drug war and colombia, Narcos season 3 spoilers

Notes: shoutout to my forever beta reader @janaispunk for looking this bad boy over!

Words: 2923

Series Master List | Author Master List

Journal Entry August 4, 1994  Dear Javi,

There are things I can’t bring myself to say. Even out on the back patio under the safety of the stars, I can’t tell you how scared I am that you won’t come back. It terrifies me. I did life without you for so long, but I’m not sure how to go back to life without you in it. We’re going to miss you alot. 

You won’t ever see this, but please come back. 

This time would be different. It ran on repeat in Javier’s head as he stared out the large windows that overlooked the buzzing city. New position, new apartment, new drug cartel. This time had to be different; he couldn’t get lost in it like last time. He took a deep breath, mentally preparing himself to start back at the DEA in the morning.

He unpacked his last suit case, having put it off since his arrival Friday night, the one that contained his few treasures in life. Framed photos from Chucho: the ranch, the two of them, an old family photo with his mom. A crayon drawing from Alejandra: both of them on horses. A bottle of whiskey from Jaime. A journal from Emily. 

“To write down all those thoughts racing through your mind. Even the ugly ones,” she had told him.

He set it on the end table next to the family photo with his mom. This time would be different. A silent oath. 

Alejandra’s drawing went on the fridge, the bottle of whisky on the counter, and the other pictures on the bookshelf. He looked around. It all felt scattered, empty, nothing like the apartment he’d made for himself last time. 

The familiar urge to go out, drink a couple of fingers of whiskey, and take a warm body home crept in. He fought against it. He shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. This time had to be different. He’s promised himself over and over again it would be. He promised his dad he would call and write. He told Emily the same… 

Could he be here and not let it consume him? Could he be soaked in it all and still talk to her? Be worthy of her friendship? Being here, he felt the sins of his past marring his hands, so real and tangible. The same hands Emily allowed to touch her, what a privilege that was. The same hands she felt safe in. 

Javier thought about all the things he used to do when these thoughts raced through his mind when he couldn’t handle the big emotions: bars, cigarettes, sex. Too many times to count. His fingers itched at his side to grab his leather jacket and go. 

He paced the length of his apartment running a hand through his messy hair. Then it caught his eye: something sticking out of the journal. He pulled it out. 

A crisp envelope with his name written neatly in the middle: Emily’s handwriting. He popped it open. Polaroid pictures. He shook his head thinking about the grief he gave her for carrying that thing everywhere, but a smile appeared on his lips. There was one of him standing in the riding rink as Ale trotted around him on Hurricane. Another taken on the patio just last week: he and the kids eagerly chowing down on popsicles before they could melt in the Texas sun. He could see the red ring around Mateo’s mouth and drip down his chin as the sun beat him. One on the small dock next to the boys and his dad, lines cast into the pond Chucho stocked on the ranch. Javier smiled. Miguelito caught the biggest bass that day. Chucho had been dumbfounded. 

He sucked in as he flipped to the last one. It was the picture Alejandra had taken at the park just after he told her he was returning to Colombia. She leaned into him, an ease rarely seen in her. He’d caught a whiff of her shampoo, followed her lead, and leaned in. His thumb rubbed over the picture. He’d put an arm over her shoulder, her hand on his knee it all looked so… peaceful, domestic even, like they were- He cut the thought off, letting the picture fall to his coffee table. 

For so many reasons, that was a bad idea. 

He padded his pockets, finding the Nicorette gum. He popped the last piece into his mouth. He should grab more on his way to work in the morning. 

The Polaroid stared back at him. He looked happy, wrinkles cutting deep around his eyes. He picked the photo back up. He had been happy that day. Happier than he could remember even as he grappled with his decision to return to Colombia. Black ink on the back grabbed his attention. Don’t forget about us, okay? Her handwriting again. Her words to him that day.

He smiled to himself. That was his friend. He wasn’t sure he’d had one of those for a long time. Sure, he and Steve got along, but Steve was back in Miami. They still talked about once a month, but the bond he felt toward this woman was different. He and Steve had been forced together. They had to trust each other. Their lives had depended on it. Javier’s life sure didn’t depend on trusting Emily, but he did. She didn’t judge him. There were still things he hadn’t told her, and vice versa, but he knew when he was ready, he could. 

Javier slipped the photo of them into his wallet. This time was different.

He grabbed the phone off the end table and called his dad. The conversation was brief. The last thing he wanted to do was run up anyone’s phone bill, but he could tell his dad was happy to hear from him. He’d rarely received communications from Javier when he was in Colombia the first time. 

His fingers hovered over the buttons as he contemplated the second call. He told her he’d call. She told him to call. He pushed past the anxiety, pressing the buttons succinctly. He had it memorized. He checked his watch. It was bath night in the Kuykendall house. He knew that, but usually, the kids were bathed and in bed by now. 

Javier smiled as he thought about the few times he’d stumbled into bath night. It was true chaos and an event, but every single person wore larger-than-life grins. It was one of the times Javier felt like he was a part of something bigger than himself, like he’d been brought into something sacred. 

“Hello?” Anna answered. He could clearly hear the laughter of children and adults in the background. 

“Hey, it’s Javier… I can call back if this is-“

“Not at all.” He felt Anna’s welcoming presence through the phone. “Emily just came out of the bathroom.”

“Bath night.” Javier chuckled. 

“Exactly,” Anna called for her stepdaughter. Javier couldn’t hear their exchange over the shouts coming from the living room. 

“Javier?”

An ache in his chest eased. “Hey, sounds like a madhouse there.”

Emily laughed and the sounds muted as if she’d shut them behind a door. “Dad seems to have extra energy to chase the kids down tonight. How is it to be back?”

“Strange.” Javier glanced out the window. The city flowed like it always did, people rushing from place to place. “I’ve got a nicer apartment this time.”

“Of course you do, Mr. DEA attaché.”

Javier chuckled. “That sounds too fancy for me.”

“You said the same thing when you bought those suits and I gave you that snazzy new haircut.”

Javier grinned, resting against the countertop. His eyes fluttered shut as he remembered the feeling of her fingers through his hair. His shirt stretched and pulled across his chest as he inhaled. “Still sounds too fancy for me.”

“You ready for your first day?”

“No.”

Her laugh crackled through the line. “Then why’d you go back.”

At that moment, Javier wondered the same thing. He’d much rather be back in Laredo chasing the kids around the living room. “I’m askin myself that same thing.”

“Then do it. Tell the DEA where to shove it and come home.”

He smiled, low chuckle pulling from his chest. “You and I both know I have unfinished business here.”

“Yeah…” Silence sat between them. He could still hear the kids in the background. Javier wracked his brain for the right things to say, but everything he wanted to say he couldn’t. “Finish it quick, okay?”

“That’s the plan.”

“And stay safe. I can’t lose one of my only friends.”

“Oh?” Javier said. He felt an easiness take over him. “What about Lorraine? I thought she was your friend.”

“I said one of, and you’re my best friend anyway.” He can hear her eyes roll. “I mean it though, we all miss you already.”

“Tell the kids I said hi, okay? I’ll call another night when there’s time to talk to them.”

“Will do.”

“Take care of yourself, okay?”

“I should be saying that to you.”

“Em.”

“I will. I promise,” she said. “You too, Javi.”

Journal Entry August 8, 1994 Dear Javi,

I bet you spend all day behind a desk and hate every moment of it. It makes me laugh each time I think about it. It assures me that you’re okay too. Fancier job means a safer job, right?

As his first day back came to a close, Javier felt like he’d been there for a year. When he found the sticky note with the name of a nearby bar on his desk presumably left by Neil, he told himself one drink wouldn’t hurt. This time would be different. The mantra felt almost meaningless already. Similar things had been echoed in his meetings all day. This wouldn’t be like Escobar. There would be law and order and protocol. Politics were more important than ever. The world was watching now. 

One drink and then home. That was what he told himself as he sat down at the bar, ignoring his coworkers at the corner table. Pulling off his suit coat, he motioned the bartender ordering a whiskey. He turned down Neil’s invite to join the group. The guy was too eager to kiss his ass for Javier’s liking, put him up on a pedestal for taking down Escobar as if he hadn’t been suspended at the time. 

He swallowed the whiskey as soon as the glass was set in front of him. Then, he ordered another. Javier wasn’t sure how long he sat there, but it was too long. He rubbed his thumb over the crease of his forehead trying to talk himself out of the opportunity for stress relief sitting in front of him. The group in the corner had dwindled to two. A blonde he hadn’t met and the brunette he met at the beginning. Neil had introduced her. Karen? Katherine? Katie?… Katie sounded right. 

His staring wasn’t subtle, wasn’t flirtatious like he’d used to do it. If anything, it was creepy, staring at her while thoughts raced through his head. The mantra shortened until it was only a couple words as he tried to talk himself out of it. Different. Be different. It echoed over and over in his head. 

The bar was practically empty by now. She looked up and smiled at him like he wasn’t being a creep. He didn’t return it, still deep within his own mind. 

“Pretty girl.” Javier’s head snapped around to find fucking Bill Stechner of the CIA at his side. He slid onto the stool beside him. “Displays some shaky judgment in men though.” He looked at Javier.

Javier glanced away from Bill, looking over his shoulder as if to convey his annoyance with his whole body before turning back to him. He forced the briefest tip of his lips, the closest thing to pleasantries he could summon for the man. 

As most conversations with the CIA agent do, Javier was left with a sour taste in his mouth, the innate craving for a cigarette, and his failures thrown in his face. Then, Stechner laid it all out for him, the way things would go whether Javier liked it or not. Cali’s surrender. The facade of justice for the Cali Cartel. He didn’t like it, any of it, and he wasn’t sure why he came back in the first place, or why they even needed him. The DEA didn’t. He was just a pawn in Stechner’s game. 

“Cali will serve some time,” Bill said. He doesn’t look at Javier, keeping his eyes pinned to the bartop. “Technically speaking.”

“And that’s enough for you?” 

The look that crossed Stechner’s face is something akin to a blend of annoyance and patronizing as he met Javier’s eyes. “If there were any justice in this world, Javier, you’d be in jail.”

It was only half a second before Javier averted his eyes, the shame of what he did flooding him. He wasn’t the hero everyone acted like he was. Stechner knew that. Javier kept quiet. 

“I know your guys are running an operation on Cali tonight.” Bill stood, putting enough cash on the bar to cover his and Javier’s tabs. “I can tell you this, it’ll come up double zeros.” More silence. “These guys don’t make mistakes. You try and go after the Cali bosses, all you’ll get is more bodies.” 

Stechner finished off his drink, patted Javier’s shoulder, and walked out without another word, leaving Javier with a bigger stress headache than he came in with. Try as he might, Javier couldn’t push it out of his head. He needed something, a distraction. He wouldn’t survive without one. 

Javier finished off the whiskey in front of him. He rubbed his forehead, searching for any relief. Different. It seemed quieter now, further away like his resolve was slipping. He needed to be anywhere that wasn’t here, shut off his brain.

He stared straight ahead, eyes glazing over, shining in the dim bar light as he pinched his top lip between his thumb and forefinger. Different. It felt useless, like he was bound to fail. A whisper of an oath. Maybe there was no different for him.  

It was almost instinctual, the way he glanced over, eyes meeting hers. She offered him a soft small now sitting alone at the table, cigarette held between her middle and pointer finger, like she had been waiting for him.  

“This is Peña. Leave a message.” BEEP.

“Hi Mr. Javi! It’s me, Ale. I miss you already. You should call me soon.” 

“Alejandra, who are you on the phone with?”

“Mr. Javi’s voicemail.”

“Ale, it’s expensive to call Colombia. Hand me the phone.”

“Oops.” She giggled.

A long sigh crackled over the line followed by a pause. “Hey Jav… I guess I’ve paid for the next couple of minutes, I might as well use it. I suppose you’re already working late since it’s after eight. Don’t let them work you too hard, okay? And you should still return my call.” More dead air. “It feels silly to miss you as much as I do. I feel like I haven’t talked to you in days… Oh! I got into that class I was waitlisted for. Anne is willing to work with my school schedule so I still get my hours in at work.”

“Mommy!” A voice calls out in the background as a crashing sound follows it. 

“Shit” The machine clicked off. 

Javier woke up tangled in his navy sheets with the same stress headache and a greater hankering for a cigarette than he’d had in months. Katie slept soundly on her side next to him, back facing him. Her brown hair spread out over the pillow. She hadn’t tried to cuddle, and thank god she understood what last night had been. 

Without a second though, he reached for her purse, careful not to wake the naked woman next to him as he eased into a sitting position. Relief flooded him when his fingers glided over the pack of cigarettes and lighter. 

There was no hesitation as he put the cigarette to his lips and flicked the lighter to life. The nicotine flooded his body for the first time in months. Finally, he found some relief. 

Journal Entry  August 13th, 1994 Dear Javi,

I’m sure it’s nothing. I’m sure you’re okay. Dad said there were no reports of anything happening. You’re just busy, with your first week back and all… 

Alejandra asks every morning if you called her back. Mateo asks too. I think he’s hoping for stories of chasing down bad guys. Even Miguelito asked about you. 

We all miss you so much. 

Javier played the voicemail over and over, but he couldn’t bring himself to call back. He hadn’t lasted a day into the job without reverting to old habits. He’d fooled himself into thinking things could be different, into thinking if he did this the right way, if he brought down Cali the right way, he could be worthy of her one day. 

The whiskey burned on its way down. 

Journal Entry August 15th, 1994 Javier, 

I swear if you went and got yourself killed on your first week back, I’ll never forgive you. I won’t even say any nice words at your funeral. Imagine that, your best friend holding back all the nice things about you. The world can just remember you to be the asshole you showed them.

Seriously though, signs of life would be appreciated.

…………………………………………………………………..

Taglist: @angelofsmalldeath-codeine @burntheedges @southernbe @fanyyoouu @greengirlwurld

@mysterious-moonstruck-musings @weho2kcmo

[cdyssey]

Wreck

Summary: When Melissa's nana dies, Barbara is there for her.

CW: Death Discussion; Heavy Grief

AO3 Link

Melissa smooths her to-do list across her kitchen island with trembling fingers. Having been folded and unfolded several times over, marked upon profusely, tossed into her purse, crammed into her back pocket, unceremoniously stuffed into her bra at least twice, and probably stained with some cheap Chardonnay that her kid cousin picked up from Dollar General, the tear-out from a yellow legal pad has certainly seen better days.

But, hey, that’s nothin’ special.

She guesses she looks like a shit piece of paper too, all crinkled and creased, smudged and barely fit for perusal anymore.

Someone load her ass in a garbage truck and cart her off to the dump because she’s a wreck: fucked up, overwhelmed, annihilated, undone.

She doesn’t even feel like a human anymore.

Her nana died just around two days ago now, passing from the world about as peacefully as one could dare to imagine for a woman who’d been sick for the last ten months of her life. It was quiet in the end, as simple and as easy as falling asleep after a long, hard day. And the doctor-on-call promised that the sedative he was giving her would ensure that it was painless, which was a relief perhaps only because everything else leading up to that day had been so goddamn painful: the sickness, the waiting, the wrenching, bone-heavy grief.

(It was entirely possible to grieve someone who was still alive—to look at their utterly wasted body and understand that what was left was just a tangible echo, a breathing ghost.)

Melissa held her bony hand during that last hour and told her that it was okay to go—she’d be fine—and it was the first and only lie she’d ever told that saint of a woman in the entirety of her life.

She didn’t exactly ask forgiveness for doing so either.

She thought that if God knew anything about mercy, He’d understand and grant her this one sin: comforting that comfortless woman.

Nana had been ready to go, of course—sure, yeah, absolutely—she had known that it was her time for far longer than any of her headstrong relatives had been willing to admit. But she was so scared too: scared of leaving all her loved ones without their resilient matriarch, scared of their eventual (and perhaps inevitable) in-fighting, scared of a fractious future that she wouldn’t be around to mend with a homemade ziti dish and warm, jam-filled pie. She made Melissa promise—over and over again, ad infinitum—that she’d keep the Schemmenti clan together long after she was gone.

“Family’s all that we’ve got, Melly,” she once said. In the same way that Joe was the only person to call her Lissa, Nana was the only one to ever know her as Melly. It was a bit childish, maybe, but Melissa didn't mind. She always felt like she was twelve again when she was in her grandmother's presence: gap-toothed, impertinent, a hellion in patched overalls. “You gotta swear to me, on your Papa’s grave, that you’ll always remember that—no matter how balorde some of your aunts and uncles can be.”

“Nana!”She’d belly laughed at the time, bracing her hands on the edge of Nana’s steel-basin sink. They’d been in the kitchen together, as they so often were, peeling russet potatoes for her famous gnocchi recipe. This was at the very beginning of those long ten months when they both thought she just was just having bad arthritis flare-ups, perhaps. Her doctor was supposed to call sometime in the next few days with the results from her most recent labs...

“Those are your kids. You can’t just call ‘em stupid.”

(Even if it was expressly true.)

“Yeah, I can! I pushed them outta me, every one of ‘em eight or nine pounds a pop! Apple doesn’t fall far from the bush is what I say!”

It was the kind of statement that only her grandmother could pull off, something that made her want to snort and cry at the exact same time. She was outrageously funny, that stout, little woman, but she never seemed to think much of herself, especially when it came to education. She had to drop out of high school to work and help her parents raise their endless passel of kids, and then, before she knew it, she was poppin’ out little redheaded Sicilian Catholics of her own—Melissa’s own ma included.

Nana was so proud of her for making it through college and becoming a teacher, telling her as much every opportunity that she got, and constantly bragging about her accomplishments to her canasta group. She’d known how hard it was for Melissa at times.

Reading had always been a little challenging for her.

Taking exams could be a goddamn nightmare.

“Would you quit flippin’ saying that?” Melissa had rebutted, both exasperated and fond all at once, attempting to discipline her smirk into a reproving frown. “You’re not dumb either, Nana. Alright? Capito?"

She was the smartest person Melissa knew, high school diploma or not, for education was far from the same as intelligence in her book. There were plenty of eggheads out there with degrees coming out of their asses who didn't know how to haggle for the best cuts of beef or stay clear of certain Philly streets at night or change a flat with a crying kid on one hip and three more bouncin' around in the car. Before she had ever decided to become an elementary school teacher, those sorts of things were her only measures of how clever a person really was, and her grandmother had been the golden standard of them all—competent in a world that could be so arbitrary, needlessly complicated, and cruel.

At this, her sweet nana suddenly smiled, her dark eyes warmed by the golden light leaning in from the window above the sink. It was a sad smile and a profound one—the kind that little, old ladies always gave in the movies before they up and died, kickstarting the next act. It was accompanied by a slow shake of the head. She had her green rollers in; they shivered in time with the movement.

“Good God, I love you, Melissa,” she had murmured softly, each syllable laden with a certain gravity, as though she already suspected something about her health that Melissa didn’t, as though she had an inkling of what awaited her in the coming days, weeks, and months upon godawful, medicine and machine-filled months. Maybe Melissa should have known then herself—by that rare usage of her Christian name, by the way her stubborn-as-hell grandmother didn’t argue back—that something was horribly wrong.

But she hadn't.

Just ten months and some spare change ago, it was impossible for her to fathom a world where her nana wasn't in it.

She just accepted that love, basked in it, took it for granted even, and now, a little less than a year later, as she pores over a checklist of all the shit she’s gotta do to bury that precious lady—(so much, too flipping much)—she racks her exhausted brain and wonders if she’d said it back that time.

I love you too, Nana. 

Of course, she’s said it about a gazillion times since then. Never left a conversation with the woman without doing so in case it was their last. But all the times she didn’t reciprocate those three words and every other missed or botched opportunity besides tangibly aches her chest, pounds upon it, like fists against an awful drum. Missed calls. Canceled lunch dates. Squandered chances to ask her about her storied life. The endless thank you she didn’t give that woman for practically raising her.

It’s irrational, of course, so goddamn stupid; she loved that woman endlessly and proved it in a thousand different ways.

But even still, what she wouldn’t give for one last tomorrow with her to tell her again and again.

Unbidden, unwanted, totally out-of-line and out-of-the-blue, tears threaten to spill over Melissa’s lashes and onto that yellow paper that’s already been to hell and back. She furiously swipes them away with the heel of her hand, doesn’t have the time to cry.

She’s still gotta call the Social Security Office and get Nana’s checks to stop comin’ through the mail. And after that, she has to take Joe’s suit to the dry cleaner ‘cuz her useless lump of a husband keeps forgetting. And when she gets back home—at who knows what time because she’s really gotta stop at the store and grab a few necessities—she desperately needs to go through Nana’s files again to see if she’s got that damn burial policy in there somewhere. Otherwise, they’re gonna have to pay for the service and the cremation out of pocket, even if she knows a guy who knows a guy who knows the funeral director, who can only get them an okay deal, which is fine.

It'll help, or at the very least, it won't hurt, but the crux of the sordid matter—the bottom line at the end of the shitty day—is that dying is so freakin' expensive.

“Fuck,” she groans, sliding her hand down until she’s palming her mouth. “Shit.”

No one ever talks about how the aftermath of death is just one cold bureaucracy after another: files, papers, tasks, and duties.

It’s unbearable.

Melissa alone has to bear it.

Her ma’s gone. Her remaining aunts and uncles are fragile. Her cousins aren’t any good with this kind of organizational crap. Her own goddamn sister’s been AWOL ever since the diagnosis, and the rest of her younger siblings haven’t done jack squat either.

It’s up to Melissa.

It always is.

That doesn't change just because someone she loved died.

The responsibilities simply take up the same air as the grief.

Just as she’s about to get started, though, reaching for her phone to start looking up numbers, her one saving grace walks in through the arched entranceway of the kitchen. Elegant as ever in a floral print blouse and black slacks, a plastic bag hanging off one arm, her comically huge purse on the other, is none other than—

“Barb,” she croaks, overwhelmed and overcome, weak-kneed with a relief that she just as immediately tries to hide. Vulnerability utterly terrifies her; it is one of the few house guests that she doesn’t know how to capably entertain.

“You don’t… y’know, you don’t have to come every day.”

But her best friend unfailingly has, bringing over various dishes and groceries, helping Melissa keep track of all the shit she needs to do, and oftentimes, just sitting next to her on her plastic-covered couch and holding her hand, palm-to-palm, their ten fingers intertwined. If Melissa has known any modicum of peace in this hellish last week, it’s only because Barbara Howard has deigned to carve out some for her, offering it to her like an alm. 

God bless her—she even showed up before her nana passed away, when family and friends were just congregating in Melissa’s house, filtering in and out of the guest bedroom where Nana’s hospital bed was to say their goodbyes. And when death finally lifted Nana away—arriving as gently as a mother carrying her child to bed—Barbara’s warm arms were the first around Melissa, holding her so tightly, her lone defenses against collapsing into a million goddamn pieces on the floor.

Barbara would never let that happen, though.

She had her.

She would cradle all her shrapnel; she would salvage her from abyssal ruins.

“And you,sweetheart, know better than to think that’ll stop me,” Barbara laughs kindly, setting her purse and plastic bag on the kitchen island. There’s a twinkle in her dark eyes, a lovely playfulness curving her plum-colored lips. “I do as I please.”

“Stubborn fool,” Melissa chuckles hoarsely, a sudden thickness in the column of her throat. She’s always on the verge of crying over nothing nowadays: spilled wine on the counter, a sad headline on the news, smelling something in the kitchen that reminds her of her grandmother, being joked with, having companionship, being loved.

She knows that she’s been caught, too, by the way her friend gingerly skims her fingertips against her forearm.

It’s the lightest touch imaginable.

It nearly shatters her where she stands.

“Yes,” Barbara hums in gentle agreement, “that’s why we get along like two peas in an unshelled pod.”

“Hah,” she tries to smile. Her entire mouth feels like concrete. “Some pod.”

“Extraordinary peas, though, if I do say so myself,” the older woman declares with an air of finality as she starts to busy herself, pulling out a white takeout container and some utensils from the plastic bag. Even before she sees the familiar logo of a happy chef wedged in-between some blocky lettering, Melissa knows the rich, homely smell of fried chicken.

And not just any fried chicken, but—

“Danny's Wok?” Her eyebrows lift at least three inches from their exhausted lids. “Jesus, Barb, that’s all the way across town. You didn’t have to—“

But Barbara cuts her off with a raised hand, a familiar teacher pose. “But I wanted to and so I did. Now park your fine derrière on a stool and tell me what you would like to drink, girlfriend.”

“I’ve got things to do,” she protests weakly, gesturing at the to-do list still laying pathetically on the counter. She doesn't know why she's being so obstinate. Maybe it's just instinct; her immediate reaction to people offering help has always been a deep, gut-felt shame: shame that she can't do something by herself; shame that she's so weak, and someone else is stronger; shame that she isn't enough. (One of her deepest fears is that she's never been enough) Or maybe it's because she just doesn't want to think about the way that Barbara saying she had a nice ass made the contents of her stomach do a loop de loop.

“I can eat later.”

It’s not a sentence she’s said very often in her lifetime, and Barbara peers at her skeptically, damn well knowing this.

“But when’s the last time you did have a bite, Melissa? You look pale.”

“I had a piece of toast this morning,” she grunts uncomfortably, more than aware that it’s not sufficient by either of their standards. That was hours ago. According to the digital clock on her oven, it’s nearly five o’clock now.

But all truth being told, she hasn’t been particularly hungry in a while, not since the hospice worker sat her down a few days before Nana died and said that it’d be soon.Food has lost a lot of its flavor. Nausea is constantly doing laps around her digestive tract. She doesn’t know how to care about eating when this grief is taking up so much real estate in her body and never paying any of the rent.

“Hardly enough,” Barbara scolds predictably, first pushing the styrofoam tray in her direction, now shuffling towards the stainless steel fridge, no nonsense and all productivity. It's how she shows her love. “You need to put something substantial in your stomach, sweetheart. You'll be of no use to your list if you keel over on top of it."

“Okay, Ma,” she huffs, but it doesn’t have any real bite to it because she obediently unlatches the box anyway. She knows that Barbara is right, as she usually—(sometimes annoyingly)—is. 

“Ma is correct,” the older woman hums, undeterred. “Someone needs to be responsible for you.”

It's hard not to feel chastised by such a statement, as though she's being patronized—a little kid in her own damn home; she attempts a weak smile anyway. It wobbles like a tricycle across the chapped line of her mouth.

“‘Cause I’m doing a shit job at it, yeah?”

Of course she is; she's a disaster with good hair.

“Absolutely not,” comes an exceedingly gentle reply, thrown over the other teacher's shoulder, landing as gently as a kiss. “It’s just that you seem to think it’s your God-given duty to be responsible for everyone else in this world except for yourself. Let me—no, wait, I insist upon—doing the same for you, Melissa."

A new lump surfaces to Melissa’s throat as she digests this unadulterated tenderness; it’s unfamiliar to her, even after so many years of receiving it from the angelic woman standing in her kitchen. She doesn’t know what to do with it. She holds it in her like a rain cloud, just waiting for it to pour.

“It’s scary that you have my number like this,” she finally says, and it’s the type of thing that she’s not supposed to mention aloud—she knows. She’s well aware. She’s spent an entire lifetime avoiding emotional honesty like it’s a summons for jury duty. But sometimes—if only sometimes, and usually only when a hell of a lot of booze is involved—she and Barbara can transcend their mutual understanding to never talk about the way they secretly look at each other when they think no one is watching and arrive at the undoctored truth of their shared experiences.

They know each other.

They love each other.

Far more intimately than should be allowed.

Barbara freezes where she stands, shoulders squared, hand gripping one of the fridge handles; she doesn’t turn around, possibly can't.

“Well... that’s what friends are for,” she returns in a stilted voice, picking her way around each individual phoneme like it's a landmine. It’s a warning tone even, begging Melissa not to press, and so Melissa doesn’t, swallowing painfully—just as submissive as a dog and far more devoted.

The sticky moment passes—it always does. Barbara retrieves a half-empty jug of sweet tea from the fridge, and Melissa slowly legs herself onto a stool next to the island. Her feet ache—her head, her chest, her entire goddamn body—but when Barbara joins her a few moments later, having poured them glasses of tea and grabbed napkins and condiments, both of them proceed as though nothing happened at all. Melissa picks at the chicken in an exercise of politeness, tearing off a little piece here or there and trying to chew it in slow, methodical bites.

It tastes like burnt rubber.

She attempts to wash it down with her drink, but the sickly sweetness of the tea just as quickly nauseates her.

Barbara can’t keep up the ruse of not paying attention to this sad ritual for very long.

“I can make you soup,” she offers pleadingly, already halfway off her own stool. "Potato? Broccoli-and-cheese? Vegetable?" Melissa places a hand on her leg to force her to sit down again.

“Nah, you’ve done enough,” she says firmly. “I... just don’t have it in me right now, Barb.”

And without flinching or glancing away, though every nerve in her body itches to bundle her present fragility away from view, she allows the other woman to search her face and confirm this unsavory truth. She bares every line and gaunt shadow; they surely adorn the curvature of her face like bruises.

“You can only do what you can do,” the older woman replies reluctantly, as though it’s the thing she knows she’s supposedto say and not necessarily what she actually believes. Melissa almost smiles at that assessment, smug in her assurance that it's the correct one. Barbara’s never been exceptionally good at hiding her feelings. People think that she is. Hell, even Barbara herself thinks she has others fooled.

But Melissa can see right through her, all those hundreds of things that she doesn’t say, that she entraps behind those tightly pursed lips for fear of being construed as ungodly. She thumbs through the Book of Barbara almost daily—with all the reverence that such a project deserves—and her diligence has rewarded her with all the beautiful fine print.

“Advice you gotta listen to yourself, hon,” she muses fondly, patting Barbara’s leg again before finally withdrawing her hand. “You’ve gone above and beyond for me these past few days. It’s not your fault I’ve got a sick stomach right now.”

“I know,” she admits in that same grudging tone, “but still, I’d do anything to make things better for you, Melissa, to relieve the burden on your shoulders even the tiniest bit.”

She gestures emphatically at the to-do list between them with one of her manicured friends.

“It’s far from fair that you’re in charge of all this when I know for a fact that you have other family members who are perfectly capable of helping to lighten the load. For instance”—she picks the paper up, scanning it briefly—”Joseph’s dry-cleaning! Why in God’s precious name isn’t your husband doing his own dry-cleaning?”

“He’s busy,” Melissa says in a clipped voice, less offended that Barbara is criticizing her husband than she is annoyed that her friend arrived at the same question that she did so easily. “At work. Fightin’ fires.”

Spending his paychecks on booze and scratchers and God only knows what else. Sometimes, he comes home smelling like strange perfume.

The kindergarten teacher emphatically shakes her head. “That doesn’t abscond him of his duty of being a responsible adult in a time of crisis.”

“Yeah, well—” She starts to defend him and then just as abruptly stops, suddenly cornered and violently choked.

Melissa doesn’t know what to fucking say to that, if there's anything to be said at all. If she argues, she’d just be lying to herself, to Barbara, and to almighty God—an unholy trinity of delusion and willing deceit. There’s just no excusing the inexcusable, no dressing it up in rouge and calling it pretty.

She’s alone.

Oh, God—her nana died and left her.

She's got a husband and he sleeps in the same bed as her, but somehow and nevertheless, she’s all alone.

Her eyes begin to water, her breathing quickly turning shallow, as everything inside of her falls apart and implodes.

Barbara quickly places the list down again and exchanges it for a tissue that she plucks from a nearby box, reaching up to wipe the tears away. Her cool palm skims the side of Melissa’s feverish face, and the contact is so tender that it’s almost too painful to bear. Melissa reaches up and curls her fingers around her friend’s wrist like it’s a lifeline, unable to form any words, her throat throttled with vile, her stomach sick with it. And the tears continue to well, no matter how many Barbara capably catches.

She heaves out one ugly sob and then another, covering her mouth with her free hand as though that would help with the inconvenience and the noise.

(She's spent most of her adulthood trying not to be inconvenient to make up for all her loudness and her noise.)

“Oh, Melissa—” Barbara exhales, her own dark eyes filling. She continues to stroke the side of her face, holding her cheek, cradling it, cradling her. “Oh, baby—it’s okay that you’re hurting. It’s okay to feel this pain.”

“I-it’s freakin’ not, though,” she moans, the sound muffled behind her hand, the unspeakable anguish leaking through anyway. Her nails curl into her lower lip. “I… I gotta keep it together, Barb! I can’t just—Jesus—I can’t just fall apart. I don’t, I can’t, fuck, I can’t—”

She can’t breathe. Surely, there’s a vice in her chest, squeezing her ribcage into mere molecules and skeletal dust. Surely, her lungs have burst, her veins, her bleeding heart, one massive supernova of flesh and gory tissue, and this moment's all she’s got left. Minutes. Seconds. Nanoseconds. She’s going to die right here and right now, while Nana is unburied, and her to-do list is still unfinished, and—

“You can, Melissa Schemmenti,” comes an authoritative voice from above, shaking but somehow utterly unshaken, ringing like a decree from the Lord God on High. And then Barbara’s warm arms are around her, filling the encroaching darkness with all the flowers on her shirt: sunflowers, poppies, lillies, and roses. Petals everywhere. A garden of beauty and impossible delight. “You cando this because I’m here, and I’m not going to let you go under. You hear me, sweetheart? That’s my promise to you, my solemn, unbreakable oath.”

It’s the loveliest combination of words Melissa has probably ever been told in her life; she cries all the harder, weeping her horror, half-vomiting it. Her mouth tastes like tea and salt.

“Breathe,”Barbara instructs her, pressing a gentle kiss against the crown of her head. One of her hands finds its way to the hollow of Melissa’s constricted throat; she splays her fingers against it, palm resting on her chest where the divot of her shirt exposes some of her skin. “You have to breathe, Melissa.”

But it's hard.

It's so fucking hard.

Every hitched breath still becomes a sob, and every sob reverberates through her beaten body like a shock wave. But Barbara is patient where she isn't, a sturdy monolith when all of her vertices have become undone. She begins to rub slow, methodical circles into Melissa's sternum, perhaps modeling a rhythm that she can pattern her breathing against. As the seconds limp past, every bit as injured as she is, she learns to inhale on one revolution and exhale on another, doing this until her heart rate begins to slow again, until the tightness in her chest recedes long enough for her to rationally confirm that she’s not, in fact, dying. 

She's living.

(And after someone dies, that's one of the bravest damn things that anyone can ever do.)

Even after her pulse somewhat returns to normal, she and Barbara remain tangled together for what feels like hours, even though it’s surely only a handful of minutes.

Melissa finally lowers her hand from her mouth and twists it somewhere in the paradise of Barbara’s blouse.

Barbara kisses her head again, a little lower this time, near the peak of her red hairline.

Neither of them makes any move to extricate themselves from each other. Melissa doesn’t have the strength, every ligament in her body wrung with incalculable exhaustion. (She’s not exactly sure what Barbara’s excuse is. As secure as she is in her companion's embrace, she currently can't bring herself to care.)

“... I shouldn’t be this weak,” she eventually rasps, and it’s a confession. She’s glad she can’t see her priest’s scandalized face. “I had plenty of time to prepare for this. I’ve known forever she was gonna go.”

“As though that means a hill of beans when you loved her so much,” Barbara murmurs, now running slender fingers through her hair, the motion soothing and rhythmic, reminding Melissa of all the times that Nana had done the same when she was a small child. She briefly closes her eyes, simultaneously endeared by the memories and made sick by them. “You can’t prepare your way through grief. Believe me, girl—I’ve been there, tried that, and it went about as well as can be expected, which is to say not even remotely well at all.”

Melissa chuckles at the convoluted explanation; they both do; they laugh so hard that it almost sounds like they’re crying. She finally pulls back, wanting to look her friend in the eye, but Barbara still grips her by the arms, refusing to let her go.

And they simply drink each other in, mesmerized, tears standing in their eyes, an interwoven statue unto their own: locked limbs, glassy eyes, and a hushed silence that descends upon them like snow.

Maybe they would have stayed like that forever had one of their phones not chimed: her own, laying face-up on the counter. She sees that it's a reminder letting her know that she can take another Prozac in an hour if she needs one. If Barbara sees it—(and with the angle of the phone being the way that it is, she absolutely does)—she's kind; she doesn't say anything; there isn't really anything that needs to be said.

“Shit." She tries to wipe her face on the sleeve of her shirt. It's not a successful endeavor. “I’m a wreck.”

“Maybe so," Barbara agrees, grabbing more tissues for them both. She mops Melissa's face up before delicately attending to her own. "But you won't be forever, you know. it's a transition, not a permanent way of being."

"Doesn't feel that way," she hears herself grouse. It's petulant, a little childish even in her low voice, but it's what she feels; it's her personal nightmare of a lived-in reality.

"I know." The older woman reaches up to thumb away a new tear that has formed at the corner of Melissa's left eye. "But grief rarely ever does."

It's not an especially comforting thought, but Barbara clearly knows her well enough to understand that comforting isn't exactly what she needs right now.

She needs the truth, however ugly it happens to be, however unkind, and the ugly truth is that grief is far from fucking pretty too; it is certainly not kind.

"I love you, Melissa Schemmenti," Barbara adds quietly—in the same hushed cadence that all of their unutterable truths seem to be encased in.

It's dirty, this confession, this boundless and eternal love.

It can't ever be spoken in a normal way and tone.

"You know that, don't you?"

The pad of her thumb is still pressed against Melissa's skin, and there is such little space between them, mere inches and other inconsequential measurements besides; temptation has never been a shorter bridge to indecorously cross and just as deliciously burn. This isn't simply a tender moment between bosom friends, she innately knows, and yet, by the virtue of who they are and their relationships with other people, it can't be anything more than that either, she implicitly understands. She's married. Barbara's married. God is watching. Society is judging. Neither of them will make a move that that they can't just as quickly take back.

"I love ya too, Barb," she replies anyway, leaning very slightly into the intimate touch, as though she could pretend for a moment that they don't have to play that awful game.

Just this one evening.

Just this singular time.

They inevitably will, of course—no doubt about that.

One of them will certainly pull away, and the other will instinctively follow, and together, they will tango themselves out of this senseless mess that they have made; they will offer each other plausible deniability as their highest and most sacred form of love. But for now and until that unwelcome moment, in this fractional sliver of a shared existence and eternity, Melissa dares to rest her tired cheek against Barbara's hand as though she's allowed, and Barbara doesn't flinch like she's been burned.

Silently, they construct a mutual fantasy where they can hold each other without hurting.

Or maybe more accurately still, where they can hurt together and not have been each other's sole and ruinous cause.

"Don't ever leave me," Melissa demands a little unfairly.

It's an unkeepable stipulation.

People leave all the time—by necessity, by choice, by coffin, or in Nana's case, urn.

But nonetheless and all the same—

"Wouldn't dream of it," Barbara promises softly, and Melissa chooses to believe her.

[linyphiidae]

🏚️ (from stephanie!)

🕸️ > send 🏚️ for our muses to meet in a creepy location as decided by this generator

It's a grove located out in the brushland. It's been there as long as anyone can remember. Local people make a point of staying far away from it. A scientist who went to visit it recently vanished for days, only to turn up hundreds of miles away severely traumatized...

Unlike Batman or Red Robin, Lonnie'd never fancied himself a detective above anything else. It was part of the job, and one he was good at, but he preferred the rush of action at the end of the investigation -- of his work paying off -- more than the work itself.

That was one thing that being Moneyspider distanced him from, somewhat. The web was his domain and he thrived there, with less error than he'd ever made in the tangible world. He spun, strung, and ensnared for sustenance in the satisfaction of himself and those he sought to help and in the satisfaction of taking down or exposing the big-wigs, politicians, and liars that preyed on them. He still ate his fill; it was action as vital and as devastating as any. It just didn't feel so direct anymore.

He missed the feeling of boots hitting pavement. Of swinging through skyscraper-littered skies on his grapnel evading an enemy, of the plastic smell of Semtex and the thrill of scaring the pants off of suits, their frightened faces in the reflection of her mask. So, after tirelessly piecing together the jigsaw puzzle that was this newest case, he went out. Into the dark of the brushlands, just himself with MAX on standby.

The treads of Lonnie's all-terrain chair's wheels made tracks in the dirt behind her, but she was too engrossed in following her current trail to notice. An enticing news story had been floated her way on her message board starring a dazed ecologist she'd contacted for questioning, whose intel led her to a secluded grove miles outside of Gotham. The poor man had been terrified to talk about it, but invaluable nonetheless. She'd researched the grove thoroughly, learning of it's status as something of an urban legend. She familiarized herself with the ins and outs of each species of plant, animal, and purported cryptid that frequented the area -- as much as she could gather, since every researcher or hiker who had dared set foot inside had ended up at inpatient or worse. She came prepared with nose-plugs, covered herself from head to toe, and was armed to the teeth with matches, portable flamethrowers, and anti-toxins. Necessary precautions, because all of this had Poison Ivy written all over it.

When Lonnie finally reached a clearing through the heavy foliage, he looked around through the ruby tint of infra-red night vision lenses. So far, so good, save for a few sitting birds. Flipping open the pouch strapped to her thigh, she drew out her newest invention; a specialty soil meter that would confirm or deny her suspicions. Wiping the silver spiked end free of smears, he leaned over to stick it into the ground, when suddenly --

Rustling leaves from where she'd come, decidedly human. Jolting upwards, Lonnie slipped her baton from the same pouch, pressing the button on its side to snap it into a staff. He tried with all of his might to silence his hard and heavy breathing through his mask, not trying to turn around lest he alert whoever -- or whatever -- had been following him.

He decided he'd let them speak first. After all, it could just be another poor sap, fumbling to his doom through the trees.

[throughalleternity]

Hello, what are your thoughts on he/him!Kara? Do you have headcanons?

Ooh this is fun, I haven't thought much about he/him Kara but am always happy to see more of that! I will say that I haven't explored Kara's character very much, and there's a ton from canon that I forget… but have some thoughts on he/him Kara under the cut (turned more prose-y than headcanon list-y, but that's just what I was feeling):

(Using he/him pronouns throughout for consistency, but Kara doesn't start using those for a while.)

It takes a long time for Kara to even consider changing his gender presentation because from the very beginning of him being on Earth, he's felt overwhelmed and uncomfortable and out of the know, and everyone tells him it's because he's an alien from another planet.

There are sparks of something - seeing pictures of people at punk concerts (Alex isn't allowed to go to them so it's mainly from websites), borrowing Kenny's jacket one evening stargazing, getting introduced to soccer and watching interviews of the players. But the part of Kara that wants gets squashed down by the part that's always been told to not draw attention—not to scare people. So for a bunch of years, Kara just figures that the hiding and the 'out of sorts' feeling is inevitable.

And then - Supergirl. Flying, lifting, helping people in a tangible way. For a little while, Kara thinks that this is where all the disconnect has been. What he's needed has been the chance to come out of hiding and use his powers like Kal to make a difference. And yeah, it comes with the costume, but that isn't even so bad. Probably shouldn't have agreed to the skirt (how is that practical?), but it's for the persona, right?

James says something one day, a playful "yes sir" tacked onto the end for fun. But it hits Kara like a ton of bricks (well, that would be more like a human being hit by a few bricks, so maybe several tons of bricks?). James thinks Kara took the joke badly so he backpedals while Kara gives some bad excuse "I just heard another snake stuck in a tree!" and flies off to pace on top of a building because he can't contain much he wants that for real.

(I want Kara to talk with some other people about this stuff while he's still figuring it out, the question is who… I think I'd be cool to bring in other DC characters for a change but I only know so many of them…) Let's say Kara somehow works together with Batwoman, and somehow knows she's Kate Kane. They're munching on some post-mission takeout and Kara finally just asks how Kate feels about Batwoman—the wig, the other identity—and it's pretty apparent that they don't have the same experience, but Kate's a good listener and she does get some of it. She also gets Kara in touch with Alysia Yeoh and Renee Montoya and it expands from there so that he finds people with similar experiences.

Also consider genderfluid!Lucy and the classic lines: "Just because I look a certain way on the outside, everyone assumes it matches the way I feel on the inside" and Kara: "Yeah, I get that." They became friends before the gender things, and now it's extra nice to have someone who gets that stuff.

Sometimes Kara lays awake at night wondering about what his parents would think. The worst case scenarios—remembering how Alura manipulated people for the sake of following the law, and he wonders how far she would go if she wanted to keep him from being himself.

Deciding if/when to tell the world about his pronouns as Supergirl is hard. It's daunting just to correct people, let alone to explain that he's not a man and that pronouns �� gender. Then there's the extra pressure of being such a high profile person—and an alien—he knows that if he comes out publicly, it'll be the first time a lot of people hear of a woman with he/him pronouns, and there's a lot of responsibility with that. Plus it just… it reminds him of how lonely it can all be. He gets a lot of help talking with those friend he made through Kate, and the Superfam comes in too for support because they have his back ofc.

While flying out of Midvale, he spots a kid sitting hunched over on a roof. There are lots of reasons why they might be there (Kara used to stargaze from the roof, after all), but every time he sees someone like that, he checks. The kid hastily rubs at their eyes, "'m fine", and then "you wouldn't understand." "Try me," Kara says, because he's been through more things that most people know. The kid starts off vague. Then they finally mention how they want to cut their hair but they're worried about what other people will think, and Kara sees his in. By the end of it, they're both surprised by how much they shared. And Kara flies back home thinking that if Supergirl can be an example for just one more person, it'll be worth it.

And it absolutely is. There are negative reactions afterwards of course, but he stays away from that as much as he can. He keeps an eye on that kid, and when they cross paths again (both sporting new haircuts), the kid shows Kara all the excited reactions from their butch support group/group chat. He's stunned for a moment, taking in the outpouring of support for him and the emotional responses from people who never thought they'd see someone like them. But he gathers himself because he wants to take a picture—a selfie with the kid, which they send, and together the two of them laugh as the chat erupts.

[jay88de]

Classism

I'll rumble here, let the words out so I can go about my day.

I'm fascinated by classism, which is a recent development, more heavily since five years ago. Certain things in my life forced me to notice it and look at it especially the times when I did not want to admit they existed. But they do and boy, is it serious.

How one lives, what one knows, who one knows, how one makes associations, how one uses language, and who one becomes friends with. When I was younger, my dad always wanted me to go to the best schools in our town or city. He'd say that was where I was to meet tangible friends, friends with a family name worth knowing, who I could call on in the future. I cannot say I made those friends in my primary secondary and high school, whom I can call on today, but I can say I got a good education, which made a lot of difference. I know it did from how I speak, and how I synthesise information; when I had difficulties as a kid, my parents got me tutors until they found the one who made all the difference, they could afford it.

Even in the same household, my brothers didn't get as much as I did. Different financial circumstances, different situations and this shows. It shows in how we think about our lives and the decisions we've made. I didn't grow up poor and I have never been poor.

I have had money issues but not poor, not destitute. I've never had to do just anything for money. For a long time, I didn't realise what a privilege this is.

I think about classism because, the older I get the greater the divide has gotten. In the small town I grew up in, most people weren't exactly middle class, but they lived comfortably. There was a social cohesion in the town that enabled people to have something to live on, no matter what they earned. I rarely saw people beg on the streets, except cripples at the main market gates. Fine, maybe my dad had more money than some of my friends but it wasn't obvious because some of those friends had everything else I had. The only difference was the size of our house or the car in the yard. This was one of the only giveaway. There were richer children in school who went on holidays in America and Europe, still, though we all wished that for ourselves, it came and went as a passing thought. No stink to it. At the end of the day, we were all fine.

Until Nigeria. Being in Nigeria was my first encounter with what it meant to not have. Not having a certain income meant, the possibility of skipping meals, not having light, no running water and literally living in a house that was falling apart. This was my experience at my uncle's house. It was a real nightmare for me. I struggled so much, not so much about not having but about how I was expected to undress my personality to fit in. I had extra money to buy bread for the family and would be scared to do it because of how it would make them feel. My little town stories were such a stretch for my cousins, that I resolved to a lot of silence until I could leave. To add, I gained so much weight because of how inconsistent meals were and how they were mainly starch. So I learned to grow a large appetite to eat whenever I saw food. The house was barely cleaned, not because there was so little time, but because it simply wasn't a priority and so much time was spent on things that shouldn't matter. Religiosity was a big part of their routine. I was there three months and I recall never wanting to experience that in my life again. To them, my father was rich. No, he isn't, maybe at some point in his life but, yes, rich is relative.

Throughout university, I learned that looking a certain way and sounding a certain way got you more favours, this is a lesson I'm keeping. My mother taught me how to eat healthy and present myself more appropriately, I quickly learned how beauty is a useful tool and then I realised I have light-skinned privileges. And this is where it starts getting tricky because wherever there is a privilege, someone or some group has to pay a price for it.

Being in London, makes me realise that we have created a society that cannot continue sustaining itself and we now have two extremes continuing a long class war. I can't say I have sat with the extremely wealthy, no, not at the pounds level but I have sat with the upper middle class, they too are on a race to the next level. I have been with men who are wealthy, not sure about pounds, I'd say dollars. Every class has its characteristics. There are prevailing mindsets, traits and discontents. There is suffering on every level and the further on the spectrum you go, the suffering gets worse on different dimensions. It becomes like a cancer, ravaging a human's body. You could look at them and think, "Why not do this, or try that."

No, they cannot. Their minds are stuck and unless they can have a hardware update, they will continue doing what they have been doing. In the end, classism serves no one. However, saying that solves nothing, we've all benefited and lost out from the class we were born into, the ones we now identify as. No two classes experience life in the same way and get this, as long as classism exists, competition will permeate the rule book of what a successful life looks like.

I maintain the happiest community I lived in was the one I grew up in where being poor wasn't glaring because not having money didn't entail bargaining with your human dignity. This community barely exist, classism, corruption and unfair resource allocation has stolen most of it.

This is really what classism is about, recourse allocation, access, the ability to choose, dignity of human life. Some people have more than they will ever need and the majority are scrapping for crumbs, in the end, we are all left disfigured by this useless fight.

I keep thinking about what I want to do with my life. I'll tell you; last and for the greater beginning of this year, I learned one thing, giving out money is not charity, it is essential. You do not do it because you are a good person, you do it to save yourself from damnation; from the slur of not having enough and needing to get more. Giving out is like the pill you need to take to stay healthy and normal. Honestly, charity connotes policing and more often than not, that's what happens, someone gives you something and then wants to see what you do with it. Or waits to see how you rejoice over it. As if...

Give it and not bother with it, whatever happens afterwards is out of your control and here's another interesting thing, people are not stupid, they usually already know what they want to do with money. Even if they fuck it up the first three or how many number of times, they will learn.

This is another mind fuck, classism and manners or financial lessons or how to say things or how to look, such bullshit all of it. Now, I can go back to studying at this rather expensive school... smh.

[multiuserbody]

How do you show the internal externally? I always thought it was words. Actions. Gestures. Left with doubt in every open space. Counting "How are you?"s as if to demonstrate. Trying my best to communicate. But in any given way it looked like it was so one sided. I didn't know, I felt so alone. So I would push him away. And he would comply. I told him he would find someone better. And that he should. Because I had already given up. Everything I could think of to bridge the gap didn't seem to work. Trying to push past my own issues to reach out. But so much was never said out loud. I said it all at the start. And it was going so well. Then the first break hit, Based on things that were hidden from me, And told to me from someone I had trusted. What a fool I was. Things after that were never the same. I don't know if it was something he ever forgave. But we were distant. Tangible change. I needed too much. And he had said it was okay. But everything pointed now that it was not. I would sit and wait. Day after day. He didn't come. I sat waiting. I stopped asking. I gave up. I said we should break up, I was cruel and unkind. And he left. And I cried. And I chased after him and tried to apologize. But we ended up more distant. And I couldn't mend the rift. So I thought this is it. He would find someone better. We used to spend so much time together. But after that it felt so tainted. And when we did finally speak it turned sexual. That whole week after I tried to break up with him. And for so long I thought he didn't love me. I was so scared. I would do anything. But everything I had done didn't seem to be enough. I tried so much. And then he spent some time with us. And I didn't know how to react because it had been so long. I was so happy. I still hadn't seen him in so long. We were talking more and I started to think we would be okay. That we would work everything out. I knew things were hard for him. I didn't know how to help. So I figured because things started to seem good again, that I would give him space. After all it was everything else that I tried that seemed to cause too much issues. So space I would give. I would wait. I would respond. I would ask how he was but I wouldn't pry. Why would I? If he want's me to know he would tell me right? But then he died. I'm left remembering all the times. Games we played. Things I held onto because it was him. Staring into each others eyes And that feeling that engulfed us. The gentleness he had with me. He cared deeply in a way that was hard to explain. And I was greedy. I didn't see so much of it until it was too late. Blind as ever. I thought we were going to get married. I said to him after 5 years of knowing each other I would visit. We almost made it. I told him everything. Shared everything with him. I thought we would get to share our worlds. He kept so much to himself. He would often surprise me with comments he would make. He told me it was okay to be selfish, but I don't know if it really was in the end. I hurt him deeply. Both of our issues causes issues for each other. But he said he could never hate me. I'm sure there is so much more. But I already don't remember enough. And I'm afraid that I'm going to forget even more. And I'm afraid that forgetting is the only way I will make it through. But I never want to forget. But I don't know what else to do.

[wolviecat]

Blink and you will miss it - Wolviecat - Stranger Things (TV 2016) [Archive of Our Own]

Day 16 of the Febuwhump, prompt: Semi-conscious

In the end, dying didn't hurt that much. Well, it did hurt, more than anything in his life - both having his insides ripped open by the demobats, and having to listen to Dustin's desperate sobbing as he begged him to stay - but still, he somehow expected more. Maybe he was just a bigger masochist than he knew.

And then there was the fact that he survived, as far as he could tell. For a second, he hoped that the party had somehow dragged him back into the Right Side Up and into the hospital, but the world around was a little too cold and grimy even for whatever low-budget shithole his uninsured ass would land. But it was also a little too tangible for any after-life he could end up in, and missing the Valkyries and meadhalls of the one he was secretly hoping for. 

No, he was still in the same Upside Down, wearing the same ripped, bloodstained t-shirt over his ripped, bloodstained stomach. He tried to sit up and everything still inside him shifted and there was that pain he was waiting for. Back on the ground, biting his tongue because screaming didn't feel like the wisest course of action, he managed to peel off his shirt, tear it into strips and bandage himself as well as he could. It wasn't good at slightest, but at least it made him feel better. At least he didn't have to look at his guts.

He dragged himself back to his trailer, but the gate was already closed, their improvised rope lying tangled up on the ground. For a second, something hot and bitter flooded his mind They left you here, they cried and then they turned and forgot about you before he could stamp it down. They didn't, they couldn't know he's still alive, hell, even he had still troubless believing it. 

Too tired to continue, he curled up on the dusty mattress on the ground and closed his eyes.

His mouth tasted like iron and dust. He spat, and the half-chewed something that hit the floor was stripped gray and green, rotten. He gagged, but nothing came up. His body was somehow holding on whatever food he managed to find, no matter how rancid it was. He rubbed his temples. There was a hazy hole between the moment he went to sleep - passed out - in the trailer and when he found himself in this decaying copy of the Hawkins store. He has no way of telling how much time has passed. The Upside Down looked the same, day or night. The blood on his improvised bandage looked dry, brown and black, but the wound underneath felt the same when he touched it carefully. Not that he knew how long it would take for something as big to heal.

It wasn't the first time something like that had happened to him. Every single of his high school teachers had caught him staring into space, physically awake and present, but mentally somewhere far away. Maybe if he managed through an hour of education without zoning out, he thought, none of this would ever happen. He would already be away from Hawkins, someone else would have taken over the Hellfire club…

Someone else would have been facing the demobats, or maybe it would be just Dustin.

He shuddered. Apparently trying to escape his fate always meant throwing someone else under the bus.

He blinked.

Another moment skipped past without him noticing, and the can he was eating from was empty. He should be scared, but any adrenaline he had was already burned, leaving behind only a dull buzzing nothing. 

Maybe dying from food poisoning is still better than starving to death.

Walking was monotonous and tiring and he was almost glad to skip the most of it, waking only for the random encounters in the fucked up game session his life has become. Demodogs and demobats and brand new monsters he'd never seen before, all clearly hellbend to hunt him down. He learned which ones he's strong enough to beat - it got easier as he found the right places to hit, and stopped getting sick at the sight of their brains spilling out, black blood splattering his face - and which ones to avoid.    

The demogorgon still scared him. 

He was hiding behind a car, palms pressed over his mouth to stay silent while that spindly creature stalked around. He remembered the kids telling him that El - their never seen, superpowered friend - was able to kill it with just her mind. But he was just a guy armed with a rusted piece of iron. It was safer to stay hidden, to curl up so small it would miss him. It was a coward's way out, but he'd already had enough heroism to last him for the rest of his life.

It worked once. Twice. Time and time again, leaving him shaken and sweaty and gasping for breath. Until it didn't. Until the Demogorgon was snarling into his face, and there was nothing else to do but to close his eyes

That thing was dead. Blood was running down his face, and the monster was lying broken in front of him. Its below you, the little voice in his head said, it deserved to die for challenging the great K

He fell down to his side, unable to stay upright, and cried, because there is something stronger than the Demogorgon, and he couldn't remember it.

He stopped waiting for his wounds to heal. 

He stopped asking why his hair got lanky and greasy, but never grew, why his beard stayed a stubble.

He stopped looking at himself in the mirrors, unsure what he would see.

There were lines along his back itching so much that he'd actually scraped his skin away.

The gaps in his memories became longer. Even the moments he was aware felt like going through the motions without any conscious thought behind it. It felt like someone else was pulling the strings.

He stopped eating. He never got sick from the old cans, but he didn't feel like trying anymore.

The voice in his head grew lounder, shouting over his thoughts they have forget you they have betrayed you they will not come back.

Someone was with him in the Upside down. He could feel them - not the blank, simple minds of the creatures born here, but something different. Human, mostly. He went to greet them.

It took them a minute to recognise him, another one to believe. But their childish faith was louder than any reason, and they wanted him back so much.

Kas smiled.

In the back of his mind, Eddie was just a little voice screaming.

[ricardo-irving]

Ricardo was sick with panic. This very nightmare that haunted him and warned of his approach several nights ago was here before him in the rotting, festering flesh. Escape was now long behind him as he had been cornered like a rat in a cage. His heart was pounding so fast he was sure it would burst out of his ribcage and as the priest rose his clawed hand, he felt a twitch and a squirm of the parasite deep within him. The mere act was enough to cause him to double over as the plaga writhed, as terrified as its host, and this caused pain to shoot through the mutations it had left the Brooklynite with after the Kijuju Incident. Something squirmed under the fabric of his jacket before ceasing.

His eyes widened as a mixture of saliva and blood dribbled down his chin into his beard and, for that moment, he didn't care about the contents of the briefcase he had been guarding so as he dropped it on the pavement. The only important thing worth preserving was his life! "I-I don't-wh-whaddaya--?!" Was all he could spit out, the look of a pure animal fear present in his softly glowing red eyes. It was akin to the earliest human ancestor coming upon something that had been around for millions of years before it and would be around for millions of years after. Whereas this plagued priest was the cosmos, Ricardo was just an insignificant speck and he recognized it. And it scared him to his very core.

The Brooklynite continued to back up, now the only thing behind him was the concrete wall of the parking garage and in front of him the very mouthpiece for all of Las Plagas. "Submit." The thought came suddenly in his head. "Submit to him." Even through the loud chimes the command came as clear as day. "Submit."

He started trembling uncontrollably as the priest rose the golden scepter, the small dagger on the end of it glinting dangerously. Ricardo swallowed hard. He still didn't believe he was the same as the religious nutjobs. One thing he did believe in, though, was self-preservation. Kowtowing put a sour taste in the businessman's mouth, but he was out of options. As Saddler drew closer with the dangerous weapon, Ricardo dropped to his knees, and then his hands. He spat a mixture of blood, bile, and saliva onto the floor. Ricardo was many things, a coward among them.

"Alright. Alright," he mumbled, "Ya got your 'lost brothah'"--the contempt he had for saying that was tangible--"so don't kill me."

He was quickly seeing his window of escape closing as the horde descended upon him, but the businessman was so desperate, that he attempted once more to try to get the car started. To his chagrin, it wasn't working, but he persisted until he heard the near deafening sound of the winged abomination land on the roof of the car. Ricardo's heart was hammering inside his chest as he then shielded himself from flying glass as the second monstrosity shattered the window. He had started drooling once more in his panic as he tried starting the car as the third Novistador literally squashed his attempt to escape in the vehicle as it destroyed the engine.

Ricardo yelped and crawled into the backseat, grabbing the briefcase with the samples in it as he opened the back driver's side door and fell out backwards as he scrambled on his hands and rear as he took in just what exactly had destroyed the car. They looked like the Reapers that had infested the TRICELL facilities, albeit not quite as large. Frantic eyes darted from bug to bug before taking in the robed zealots.

Hearing the lord of the plagued tell him that there was no escaping them still hadn't entirely clicked as the Brooklynite pulled himself up off his feet as he stumbled in a maddened attempt to get away. There was only one problem; the parking garage was built that there was a dead end on the floor beneath the one Ricardo and his pursuers were at. It required drivers to drive back around and exit out on the floor where he was currently blocked, but he did not know that. The only thing that he had going through his mind was to escape. He wasn't going to get caught by them.

The Brooklynite ran down the path to the floor below, grasping the briefcase close to his chest as he ran as fast as his feet could carry him. There was one or two cars parked here, but all he was searching out was an exit, but he came to a sliding stop when he realized there was no exit.

"FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!"

Pure, unbridled terror showed on his face as he turned around, realizing that the priest was right; there was no escape. But bargaining. Could that work?

"Ya-ya don't want me," Ricardo stammered, walking slowly backwards. "Why don't cha just go aftah someone else for your...congregation, eh? I'm a-I'm a nobody! I can betcha there's a church out there achin' ta branch out. Youse two coul-could join togethah an'-an' boom! At least thoity new membahs!"

[dany-is-my-queen]

Your Heartbeat is a Wonderful Sound

Rhaenyra Targaryen x Fem! Reader

Sorry for any grammar mistake! I love this princess so much. We really do need more content of her

“If you must wed Laenor Valeryon or Jason Lannister, or wish to share your bed with your uncle or that knight of yours. Know that it’s alright, Rhaenyra. I understand.” You finished saying, with ache in your soul. Of course you knew she couldn’t be utterly yours forever. No matter how bad you wanted it. She was the heir to the Iron Throne. She was the princess, a Targaryen. Who were you to set her apart from her destiny anyway?

“You know damn well, lady Baratheon, that you are the only one I crave. The only want I’d take in marriage. The only one I want to be intimate with. My only heart’s desire. Tell me please, how can I prove it to you so all those doubts are erased from your mind?” Rhaenyra entreated. That wasn’t really the question in the table for the Princess’s love was something that was always so present for you. Was cleaner than day itself, more tangible than anything you’ve ever experimented. Still, it lingered. More so because now, King Viserys was urging her to get betrothed to someone worthy of her. All by the Hand’s “advice”, and also cause he wished to see her daughter whole. Little did he know she has already found someone she cared madly about. You, the youngest child of Lord Borros Baratheon. “Y/N.” She tried to gain your attention. You were lost in thought. Really wasting the little time you had together. “Y/N. Please, say something, my love.”

And her term of endearment did it. You melted under her lucid gaze. Staring upon her bright, gentle eyes. The look on them so soft… filled with nothing but adoration, and yet concern for the lack of words from your end.

“I love you, Rhaenyra.” Was all you muttered under your breath. Was all you could express as of now. Truth be told, nothing scared you more than the mere fact of losing her for good to another. For her to finally give the next step with someone other than you. You did fathom the entire situation here. Both your places, your duties. However, you weren’t ready to let her go. Not now, not ever. You meant to play the strong role in front of her. But she was your Queen since the day you made her acquaintance, she was your world.

“And I love you. I’m not leaving you behind, Y/N.” She made an emphasis on your name, she always got it right. “Believe me on this one, will you? I can’t exist without you anymore. There’s no power in the planet that can separate me from you. No magic that can outlast my feelings for you. When we are up in the clouds… together, we become one of the same. When we have our private encounters, I’m reborn over and over again. You are perfect with all the weight of the word, my darling girl. You are the Realm’s delight, not me. I’m the lucky one. If I could, I would ask your hand in marriage to Lord Borros and take you to the Throne Room at once, pledge myself to you and say my vows out loud so the Gods, all the people in King’s Landing and beyond would hear me declare my unfaltering love. I would get atop Syrax and fly to Essos, to the very North too so that everyone would know. This.” The young silver-head took your hand and placed it over her chest, right upon her heart. “This, beats for you alone. This, belongs to you. The love it holds for you is eternal, Y/N. It will never die, will never fade away. You will always live here, inside me. That’s why I’m never afraid of losing you.”

The tears you were trying so hard to keep were bursting dramatically off you. Rolling down your cheeks as Rhaenyra added nothing else and just wrapped you in her warm embrace. You would stay there for as long as you could. Lost in time, lost in her arms, in the unwavering confession she had made. Hoping you would indeed, believer her. For everything that came out of her mouth was legit, genuine. And you hoping, one of these days you two could take her she-dragon and elope together.

[likeahorribledream]

Missing Piece

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five |

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader / Beefy!Bucky x Reader

Word Count: 3.9k

Warnings: Fluff, maybe a tiny bit of angst, anxiety, anxiety attack (detailled-ish), touch starved Bucky, no beta reader.

Notes at the end.

You and Bucky learned to communicate better with each other. If there was something that you weren’t sure about or he wasn’t sure about, you asked questions or just told each other how you felt.

The misunderstanding you’d had scared the both of you. Living in an awkward situation was much better than not talking to each other, and you made sure it would never happen again.

It did bring you closer.

You were pretty much inseparable now. Though neither you or Bucky were really comfortable being as open and vulnerable when other people were around, you still found ways to comfort and ground yourselves.

You sat close but never too close, you were never really touching unless one of you felt anxious, you never hugged each other when other people were around; you had talked about it and you both agreed it was what made you the most comfortable.

Steve understood Bucky but the others didn’t. You knew that they would take every opportunity to make a joke, that would end up making one, or both, of you uncomfortable and you didn’t want to risk him closing himself up.

You learned to communicate with each other without having to actually use words. You would look at each other and you’d know almost instantly what the other felt or thought, if you needed help or if you were doing ok.

Sometimes you’d walk by and get a little closer than you normally would just so you could quickly grab his hand and squeeze it to show him you were there. He’d do the same thing with you. Though as an ex-assassin, he was a lot more subtle than you were.

You slept in each other’s room every night. Alternating between his and yours. You wanted to complain to Tony that Bucky’s mattress was a lot more comfortable than yours but that would mean you’d have to admit you were sleeping in his bed; and as far as you knew, no one had noticed and you wanted to keep it this way.

It wasn’t that hard to hide from everyone, it’s not like they went out of their way to stop by either Bucky’s room or yours.

There wasn’t a single night where you’d slept alone, you were now completely codependent when it came to your sleep schedules.

Not that either of you complained, you were more than fine with it. Bucky was your best friend and spending time with him was anything but painful.

There was one small detail you hadn’t thought of.

Bucky wasn’t ‘’officially’’ a part of the Avengers, technically he was still wanted by some authorities but Fury had given him a safe haven considering everything. Bucky might not have been an Avenger but you were. That meant you had a job to do and a duty to fulfill.

Your life has been the same over and over again every day for the past month.

You woke up next to/under Bucky in his or your bed, you’d fight with him so he’d let you get up, once you were able to move, you’d get dressed and go eat breakfast with everybody else, there was training, mission reports, dinner and then back to his or your bed with Bucky.

You had been training with Natasha when Tony walked in, announcing an emergency meeting and that everybody had to meet upstairs.

That wasn’t good.

For weeks there had been talk that there were some scientists in Rostov-On-Don in Russia, working on some kind of bio weapon. Fury had been on their trail for several months, finally now it looks like he had finally found something tangible. His sources said that the scientists were probably part of Hydra and that the bio weapon was believed to be a super soldier serum. If Hydra had found a way to recreate the serum, the world was in danger.

‘’With the informations we’ve received, we need to send a team there to do our own assessment of the threat.’’ Tony explained.

‘’Cap and Nat, you need to bring back anything you’ll be able to find; even if it doesn’t look like much.’’ Tony turned and looked at you.

‘’You’re also going sweetheart, direct orders from Fury.’’ He added.

That wasn’t good. If Fury wanted you there, it meant bad news. You had one purpose and one purpose only. Fury alone knew what it was, aside from you, but when you were necessary for a mission it meant he’s expecting the worst.

‘’How long are we leaving for?’’ Natasha asked.

‘’Depending on how it goes, 4 to 5 days. Maybe more, maybe less.’’ Tony answered, reading the notes Fury had given him.

‘’When are we leaving?’’ You asked, hoping he wasn’t about to say now.

‘’Two weeks from today.’’

You nodded and stopped listening after that. It was bad news on top of bad news. You hadn’t been on a mission in a long time and now you were about to leave for days.

For days.

That means you won’t be able to sleep in the compound for almost a week.

Almost a week’s worth of nights that you won’t have Bucky with you.

Shit, you thought.

Once the meeting was done, you grabbed the files Tony needed you to read to prep before leaving and headed straight to your room.

How the hell were you going to tell Bucky?

You entered your room, relieved to see he wasn’t waiting for you and decided to take a shower before going to see him.

After your shower you dried your hair just enough that it wasn’t dripping on everything, you put on your favorite pair of skinny jeans and one of your numerous band tees, you grabbed your phone and slid it in your front pocket and left your room to go to Bucky’s.

You knocked gently and waited for him to let you in. You heard some shuffling around and finally the door opened, your best friend now standing in front of you. He waved you inside and closed the door behind you, going back to sit on his bed where he had been sitting before you knocked. You followed and sat with your back against the headboard on ‘’your’’ side of the bed.

‘’That was a long training you had with Nat.’’

You shook your head slightly and chewed nervously on your bottom lip, only letting it go to speak.

‘’No, it was actually cut short. We had an emergency meeting.’’

He frowned, yet curious to know what was happening. Emergency meetings meant that someone, somewhere was doing evil things. Very evil things if the Avengers were needed.

‘’They found what they believe to be Hydra scientists somewhere in Russia… They need a small team over there in two weeks.’’

You avoided looking at him, instead focusing on your hands that played with the hem of your shirt.

‘’Who’s going?’’ He asked hesitantly, though he had an idea from the way you were acting.

‘’Nat… Steve…’’ You trailed off.

‘’And?’’ He encouraged you to finish.

‘’Me.’’ You sighed.

He turned to sit facing you.

‘’Don’t you want to go?’’

‘’I mean it’s my job, I don’t mind going…’’ You shrugged.

‘’Then why do you look like someone just took your puppy from you?’’ His eyebrows raised in confusion.

‘’We’ll be gone for 4 to 5 days… Maybe more, depending on how it goes.’’

‘’That’s not that long, it’s not even a full we- oh.’’ Understanding why you looked so sad.

‘’Yeah.’’

Neither of you spoke for several minutes.

Bucky was going to be completely alone for possibly an entire week, Steve would be gone and you would be too. Just the idea of not having Steve, but mostly you, around made his heart beat faster with sheer panic. You weren’t taking the news very well either.

You kept avoiding looking at him and he hated that. Not because he found it annoying, it was his one way of always knowing how you were feeling. You knew that, hence why you didn’t want to look at him.

He crawled on the bed, on his hands and knees, until he was right in front of you. He leaned closer to you, burying his face in your neck, propping both of his hands on either side of your hips to keep himself from falling onto you and kissed the skin of your neck over and over again until he felt you relax.

He leaned back, just enough to be able to look at you. You were looking at him, it brought a smile to his face. You were still chewing on your bottom lip nervously.

Putting most of his weight on his left hand and raising his right one to cup your cheek, he stroked it tenderly with his thumb a few times then swiped it against your bottom lip, pulling gently on it with the pad of his thumb until you finally let go of it.

It was slightly swollen from the not so gentle assault of your teeth. Bucky moved his hand to hold your chin and brushed his thumb again on your bottom lip, as if he was trying to make it feel better.

Thankfully, he was too busy focusing on what he was doing to notice that you were barely breathing, overwhelmed by the feeling of having him so close and touching you the way he did. It wasn’t the first time he did either of those but this time felt different.

‘’You need to stop doing this, before you hurt yourself for real.’’ He looked up to your eyes.

‘’I know, I know.’’ If it weren’t for his thumb, you’d probably start biting down on it.

He kissed your forehead and moved to sit next to you; letting go of your chin.

‘’It’ll be ok.’’ He took your hand and squeezed it gently.

The week after the announcement went by like usual, sticking to your new found routine. It all came to a stop early this morning.

When you woke up, Bucky was already gone. The bed was cold. It was weird that he was gone but it was also weird that you hadn’t woken up when he did. You moved to get out of bed and felt that there were pillows where Bucky was supposed to be. Probably why you hadn’t woken up.

You went to breakfast, he wasn’t there. You went to the gym, he wasn’t there. You went to the room you usually went to read, he wasn’t there.

While you were looking for him, you ran into Steve.

‘’Hey toots.’’ He grinned at you, pulling you into a hug.

‘’Hey Stevie.’’ You smiled.

‘’Are you excited to go on a mission with me?’’ He smirked. ‘’Just so you know, there’s only one correct answer to this question.’’

You laughed and rolled your eyes.

‘’Of course I’m excited. It’s been a while since we spent some time together.’’ You looked down, knowing it was your fault.

You were so wrapped up in your ‘’Bucky bubble’’ that you had neglected your time with Steve and you felt horrible.

He shook his head.

‘’It’s fine. I’m happy to see that you and Bucky get along so well. I don’t really have time to just hang out and he needs someone to be with him. He’s been through a lot and he deserves to have someone looking out for him. I’m glad it’s you.’’ He smiled, trying to reassure you.

‘’Still… I feel awful. I’m sorry Stevie.’’ You hugged him again, as tightly as you could; making him laugh.

He stroked your back with his hands.

‘’You’re forgiven.’’ He kissed the top of your head before letting go. ‘’By the way, where’s Buck? He’s usually not far behind you.’’

You shrugged, biting your bottom lip then letting it go quickly. You really did need to stop doing that.

‘’I don’t know. I can’t find him anywhere.’’

‘’Have you tried his room?’’ His brows furrowed, it wasn’t like Bucky to hide from you.

‘’That’s where I’m headed.’’

‘’Say hi to him for me.’’ He smiled at you one last time and made his way back to where he had been heading when you had bumped into him.

You exited the elevator on your floor and walked towards his room, a path you knew all too well by now. You raised your hand and knocked.

‘’Jamie?’’ You waited.

Nothing.

You knocked again.

Nothing.

Something felt off.

Usually, if Bucky didn’t answer the door you just walked away but your gut was telling you to open the door.

You opened it slowly, not too wide. Just enough to be able to look inside. It was completely dark and you couldn’t see anything. He wasn't there either. Where the hell was he?

You moved to step out and close the door but something caught your attention, making you stop.

You narrowed your eyes, trying to see more clearly.

You walked in and shut the door quickly, not making any noise. You took off your shoes and walked until you were standing next to the side of his bed. You kneeled on the floor and tilted your head, staring into those blue eyes you loved so much. You laid your hands flat on your thighs.

‘’Hey.’’ You whispered.

He just stared at you.

‘’I’ve been looking everywhere for you.’’ You kept whispering.

You looked him over. The cover was pulled all the way up, ending just under his chin. He had so many pillows around his head, you could barely see him. Except for his eyes. Something was off in his eyes, the glimmer that usually makes them sparkle was gone.

‘’What’s wrong?’’ You kept your voice low, trying not to startle him.

He kept looking at you, not saying a word. You felt your heart drop in your stomach. He looked so sad. You lifted your hand and cupped his cheek gently. You stroked his skin with your thumb as softly as you could. It’s something he liked to do to you when you were worried or anxious, clearly it was something he found soothing.

‘’What can I do?’’ You asked, unsure of what he needed.

This was the first time since you met him that you had to take care of him like this. Usually, it’s the other way around. You were always so impressed by the fact that he always seemed to be in a, somewhat, good mood. You knew him well enough to know when he was lying about how he was and it happened really rarely.

This whole situation was new to you and you didn’t know what to do. You just knew that you absolutely hated to see him this way and you’d do pretty much anything to switch places with him.

Bucky had started to feel a bit off last night. He didn’t know what it was but he just brushed it off, sometimes he’d get in a bit of a bad mood but it usually always went away on its own. Especially when you were around to take his mind off of it. Except this time he woke up in the middle of the night, his heart beating so fast and so hard in his chest, he thought the whole compound could hear it. He had let go of you, being really careful to not wake you up and he sat up in your bed. That’s when he noticed that he had been sweating. Beads of sweat rolled down his temple, his cheek and then fell on his shirt. He tried to calm himself down but nothing worked.

15 minutes went by and he had contemplated waking you up but then he looked down at you and you looked so peaceful and comfortable, he’d much rather deal with it on his own than disturb you.

He got out of bed as slowly as he could, trying not to make the mattress move too much, which was a lot harder than it looked when you were a mountain of pure muscles.

He grabbed the pillows you had tossed aside before going to bed and gently tucked them behind your back; hoping it would keep you from noticing he was gone.

Using the skills he had perfected over the past 70 years of being one of the most deadly assassins in the world, he moved around you and he exited your room without making a sound and rushed to his.

Bucky spent most of the night awake, pacing around his room while his mind was racing with a million thoughts. He was having an anxiety attack. He was more than familiar with them, having your memories zapped out of your brain tended to do that to someone but then again he never had to actually deal with them. When they started, his handlers would just wipe his mind and if he was too out of control, they’d put him under cryo.

He was exhausted, yet his mind didn’t want to let him sleep. He decided to get in bed anyway, he curled up under his cover and waited, and waited and waited but nothing was working.

He wanted you. He needed you to be with him right now but there was this little voice in his head that was telling him that you probably hated him, that you were taking care of him out of pity and that he was a pain in the ass, that a full grown man should be able to handle an anxiety attack by himself. He knew it was all a lie but rationality had just been thrown out the window.

He had been so relieved when he heard you at his door but when he tried to call out to you, to get you to come in; the little voice made him shut up.

Looking at you now, he felt bad for ever doubting that his best girl wouldn’t show up for him or that she wouldn’t worry about him.

His silence only made you worry more.

‘’Are you hurt?’’

He shook his head, barely moving. You were feeling powerless and you were mad at yourself for not being able to help Bucky when he needed you the most.

Suddenly, you felt his hand cover yours, the one that was still on his cheek and he moved it to his chest, right on top of his heart. Your eyes widened when you felt his heart beat against your hand. You could also feel that he wasn’t breathing normally. Then, it all clicked. The laying in the dark, not being able to explain what’s wrong, the increased heartbeat and difficulty breathing.

‘’You’re having an anxiety attack.’’ You whispered, more to yourself but you saw him nodding.

You felt a little relief, being no stranger to those as you were having them yourself quite frequently. At least now you felt like you could be useful and you’d be able to help him.

‘’Ok, ok.’’ Your mind was racing, going through everything you knew to do to help calm him down. ‘’Can you sit?’’

You slowly stood up, letting go of him to take away all the pillows that were around his upper body. You lifted the cover and helped him sit up, making him sit at the edge with his feet on the ground. You looked around and grabbed the hair tie that was on his nightstand. With both hands, you ran your fingers through his hair a few times; pushing it all back and tying his hair as best as you could. He was still sweating and you needed to get his body temperature down.

‘’You’re gonna take a quick shower okay? We’ll get you into some dry clothes and I’ll get you clean sheets.’’

He started to panic, not wanting you to leave him alone. He grabbed your wrist, a little bit harder than he normally would but given the situation, you barely noticed.

‘’I’m going to be here the whole time ok? I’m not leaving the room. If there’s anything I’ll be there in two seconds ok? But you need to change, it’ll help make you feel better. I promise.’’

You were the one person Bucky trusted, more than anyone else, even more than Steve (don’t tell him), and if you thought that a shower would help then he would do just that.

You kissed his forehead twice then went to his dresser to get him clean clothes. You grabbed a pair of sweats, a t-shirt and a pair of boxers, leaving it all in the bathroom for him; you also started his shower for him so the water would be at the perfect temperature.

You walked back into the room and smiled reassuringly.

‘’Go. I’ll be right here.’’

Bucky got up and finally felt how tense he had been, his whole body felt sore. He walked to the bathroom, only stopping once to kiss your cheek and disappeared behind the door as he closed it.

You hurried and took everything off his bed, throwing it next to the door so you’d think of bringing it down with you when it would be time to do laundry. You went into his closet, where you knew he always kept an extra set of clean sheets, and made his bed. You took a bottle of water from the mini fridge that Tony all made you keep in your rooms, putting it on the nightstand. You sat down on the bed, waiting for Bucky to come out.

You smiled at Bucky when he finally came out,you handed him the bottle of water and watched him drink most of it before lifting the blankets for him and covering him with them once he was under them. He was about to completely lay down but his hair was still wet, so he decided to tie them up again before resting his head on his pillow.

He tried laying on his back but he was too uncomfortable, he went back to lying on his side; the same position you had found him in.

‘’Do you want me to put the pillows back around you? Were they helping?’’

He shook his head and started blushing furiously.

‘’No…’’ His voice was raspy. ‘’I was just-’’ He sighed, embarrassed by what he was about to say. ‘’I was hoping they’d feel like you were the one holding me, hoping it would make me feel better.’

Your heart almost burst at how adorable he was being. Your cheeks were suddenly very hot.

‘’Well, I’m here now. Just tell me what you need.’’

‘’I don’t know what I need.’’ It almost came out as a whine, he was exhausted and annoyed. He just wanted for his body to calm down and let him rest. ‘’You. I just need you.’’

You quickly moved under the covers and hugged him from behind, your whole body resting against his back. You wrapped your arm around his middle and squeezed him gently.

‘’Does that help?’’

He nodded. You smiled and got closer, if it was even possible. He put his arm on top of yours and your hand, intertwining your fingers together. He lifted both your hands and brought them to his chest, right above his heart and held them there.

You rested your forehead between his shoulder blades, closing your eyes.

You stayed like this for about an hour, only moving when you pressed kisses on his back every now and then.

You were thinking that Bucky had fallen asleep, not being able to check if he really did. You were surprised to hear him talk.

‘’Baby?’’

You tightened your hold on both his body and hand instinctively, your body being on ‘’must protect Bucky’’ mode.

‘’Jamie?’’ You said to let him know you were all ears.

‘’I don’t want you to go.’’ He whispered, his voice breaking at the end of his sentence.

Your heart shattered in thousands of little pieces.

As always, I hope you liked the new part. Let me know what you think and if you'd like there to be a part 5 (I hope that you do because I have enough ideas for a few more parts). Thank you all so much for the love you've given the 3 other parts of this story. Your likes, comments and reblogs make me smile every single time!! + I add to repost the chapter because it wouldn't show up in the tags and it was bugging me. Sorry if you've seen it already.

Taglist: @mcu-thoughts | @n3ssm0nique | @ohmyendlessdays (it won't let me tag you) | @scentedprofessorcolormoney |@fangirllife98 If you want to be added to the taglist let me know!

[kaorisun]

hello! hope you're having a lovely day :) could I ask for a one shot with quest and an enby reader who is severely touch deprived? to the point that when he initiates affection they just freeze and don't know what to do. and quest is just concerned that he might be scaring them due to his background and just slowly stops trying to start physical touch with them. please make it as angsty as you would like, have a nice day :)

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 BLOOMIC. poison in your mind (quest x reader)

tags ; heavy angst, invasive thoughts, touch starved reader, gender neural reader

summary ; (y/n) is incredibly touch deprived— unable to process or bear the affection of another. It feels like far too much for them to handle, yet they’re unable to express that. Quest spirals into his own thoughts— afraid that his partner has become afraid of him due to his past. Slowly, the two drift apart.

author’s note ; ouch— this is an amazing request, anon! Thank you for the request and I hope you’re having a lovely day as well! Quest angst really hits different and this concept hurts my heart in the best way possible. I hope you enjoy! :)

It was supposed to be a happy, fun-filled week. It was supposed to be the moment that their love was solidified— time for both of them to take a break from work, to enjoy each other’s presence. It was anything but that. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Wasn’t supposed to end like this.

It was a few weeks after (y/n) had joined the Blooming Panic server. In that time frame, Quest had fallen hard for them— quickly growing protective over the other, more so after the societyboy situation. The two had begun dating and soon enough, the censors lifted.

Quest was excited— he’d scheduled himself a vacation week just for this. For the first time in a long time, he allowed himself a break to enjoy the week with his partner. He counted down the days, hours— the minutes until they arrived. (y/n) expressed similar excitement— stating that they couldn’t wait to see him in person and to finally make it all feel tangible and more real than it felt before. Upon their arrival, things went smoothly. They had a fun conversation in the car on the way to Quest’s apartment— lighthearted jokes and laughs exchanged between them.

Quest looked at (y/n) with nothing but adoration. Being in person with them now… them being by his side and not behind a screen— it was a dream come true. He loved them even more than he had previously, if that was even possible. Every laugh, smile and word spoken— it all made his heart swell with joy. They were his. They loved him despite everything that happened— able to look beyond his past and recognize him as a truly changed man who wanted nothing but the absolute best for others, even if that meant the sacrifice of his own happiness. A flaw that only expressed his deep fear of hurting others. (y/n) knew that and made sure that he was taken care of. They checked in on him, reminded him to rest properly just as he had done for so many others.

They loved him and he felt the exact same towards them. He never noticed anything being particularly off with them— didn’t see any signs that anything could be wrong.

But everything spiraled downwards. Starting from when the pair arrived back at his apartment.

Quest opened the door for them and they walked in with a smile, looking around as they admired the decor. Minimal, but still authentically Quest. He couldn’t help but melt a bit at the look on their face, soon grabbing their bag from their hands.

“Make yourself comfortable, angel. I’ll put this in the bedroom. Then I’ll make you something to drink. Then we’ll figure out dinner.” He said softly. (y/n) responded with a grateful nod, feeling tired from the journey there. They watched him walk off before settling on the couch with a relieved sigh.

Quest walked back into the main space after a few minutes, glancing over at his lover who was sitting back, their eyes shut as they relaxed for a moment. He couldn’t believe that they were actually there— they were with him in his apartment after so many weeks spent behind a screen. He walked over, wrapping his arms around them from behind and resting his head on their shoulder.

“You know, if you want we can just stay in tonight. Order takeout and just enjoy each other’s company instead.” He suggested in a warm tone, a small smile on his face. However, instead of the loving response he expected, he got nothing.

(y/n) tensed underneath his touch, becoming completely still, their eyes widened. The touch was something completely foreign to them— something they’d never experienced before. Although they craved it— wanted so badly to be physically affectionate— it was something they’d been deprived of for so long that they had no idea how to handle it. They were sensitive to it and their thoughts ran rampant. Too much, too much— too much! Say something— explain it to him— say anything! Despite their efforts, they remained silent, unable to express their thoughts, feeling it on the tip of their tongue but unable to claw their way out.

Quest’s eyes widened at their discomfort— quickly pulling away. He walked around the couch to face them directly. Scanning their expression, he noticed something— something he mistook as fear, and his heart dropped. The shakiness, tension, wide eyes— it had to be fear, right? (y/n), however, shut their eyes tightly. Had their anxiety scared him off? Had he gotten the wrong idea? They cursed themself in their head. Of course this would happen. Of course they’d be unable to state the one thing they wanted to explain when they met Quest in person.

“I-I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you— or startle you. I didn’t think you’d— I’m sorry, (y/n).” He said softly and (y/n) shook their head and averted their gaze away.

“It’s fine. There’s no need to apologize— let’s just stay in and watch a movie and order food. I don’t… want to talk about this.” (y/n) explained apologetically. They couldn’t get the words out and they didn’t want to frustrate themself with trying to explain something without the words to properly express it. Quest’s expression fell. He’d be more careful next time— make sure to initiate affection when they expected it. Maybe that’s why they’d been so startled. It couldn’t be because of… that… right? They weren’t like that. They weren’t fearful when they found out.

Quest nodded in understanding, pushing the topic out of his mind for the time being and putting forth a gentle smile.

“Here, pick a movie. I’ll order us food. Craving anything in particular?” He asked and (y/n) hummed softly before shaking their head, soon turning on the tv and scrolling through movie selections. The rest of the night went by quickly— the two enjoying the presence of the other, the incident long forgotten.

That was the end of that— and for a while, things were okay, however, it didn’t last long. These things have a tendency to rear their ugly heads at the worst possible time.

It was the middle of the week, the two were eating dinner together in the apartment and Quest had idly reached over and grabbed (y/n)’s hand from across the table— and thus returned the anxiety, the stillness and the silence— and for Quest, many ugly feelings of fear bubbled within him and he quickly pulled his hand back away from theirs with a soft apology.

He kept trying, figuring that his partner just needed to get used to his presence— but he was met with the same intense reaction each time.

(y/n) wanted so desperately to tell him how they felt— every time Quest tried to give affection, they wanted so badly to reciprocate, but their body was completely unaware of how affection felt— how the touch of another felt— that they always grew anxious. Both had the most poisonous thoughts in their heads— but both couldn’t say a thing.

Quest wondered after his many failed attempts if it was his background. Was his lover scared that he’d hurt them? He never even dreamed of it— but was that why? He always tried to initiate affection, but the other always clammed up— tears pricking their eyes— and with time, Quest’s attempts became less and less frequent as he drew into himself.

He wondered what his lover thought of him. What did they see? A monster? A criminal? A violent person who hadn’t changed a bit from his past? Each thought was worse than the last— and each one he kept to himself.

(y/n) wondered similar things. Did Quest find their predicament pitiful? Did he see them as a broken, dysfunctional person who couldn’t even respond to the touch of another? Did he view them as someone who was weak? Someone he didn’t want to involve himself with? They noticed him slowly stop initiating affection— and they wondered if he somehow felt unloved, annoyed— or upset with them. Did Quest feel like they couldn’t trust him? That their silence wasn’t a matter of circumstance, but of choice? (y/n) had no idea, but they were physically unable to get the words out— feeling strained in their throat whenever they tried.

Soon enough, even conversation ceased between them. The discomfort and tension was too great— either party unable to utter a word. Quest was fearful that soon enough, even a word out of his mouth would be enough to make his partner flinch. (y/n) was afraid that another attempt to tell the truth would lead to them breaking down completely in frustration. As the hours passed, the emotional distance manifested into something physical— with Quest unable to even sit near them without feeling afraid that he’d startle his lover. (y/n) wanted so desperately to reach out when he physically distanced himself— but their body was frozen in place.

Now, (y/n) was sat silently on the couch with Quest seated in the kitchen. The echoes of the earlier, happy memories of the week were still ever present, and both reminisced on it. Quest and (y/n) both missed the earlier lighthearted nature of their interactions— the jokes, laughter and brightness.

When had things become so fucked up?

They were seated in the same room as each other, yet, despite that?

It was the most alone that either one of them had ever felt. The last word spoken between them was by Quest— a soft, rhetorical question that (y/n) wasn’t even supposed to hear.

“When did you become so afraid of me?”

That question still rang loudly in (y/n)’s head, haunting every corner of their memories. They still had a few more days of this unbearable silence to deal with. They distantly heard Quest stand up and walk into the bedroom, shutting the door.

Only then did (y/n) allow themself to break down— the tears finally fell. They covered their mouth, silencing their sobs as the guilt overwhelmed them. They were hurting Quest— they made him feel unloved— made him feel like it was his fault when it was anything but— all because their anxiety regarding touch wouldn’t let them utter a single word. It had a strong hold over them— and they felt as if they couldn’t do a thing about it.

They pulled back, staring at their hands before wrapping their arms tightly around themselves, their body shaking with the weight of their sobs as one thought rang loudly throughout their mind.

“What is wrong with me?”

And all Quest could do was listen from his room as his lover— his angel tried so desperately to stifle their sobs. He sat, his back against the door as he tried recounting the events of the previous days— trying so hard to figure out— Had it been doomed from the beginning? Did he do something to set them off? Had they both been in over their heads—

When did everything go wrong?

[rocorambles]

Beginning of Forever

Pairing: Iwaizumi x Reader x Oikawa

Genre/Warnings: Yandere, NSFW, Greek Mythology AU, Poseidon!Iwaizumi, Zeus!Oikawa, Kidnapping, Non-Con/Rape, Non-Con Drugging, Attempted Suicide

Summary: You learn the consequences of rejecting a god.

It only makes sense that when the two gods meet, they meet on Earth, the middle ground between the sky and the sea. A neutral space where they can throw off the responsibilities and weight of being Zeus and Poseidon. A free for all zone where they can pretend to be as human as they possibly can, donning the names Oikawa and Iwaizumi as they challenge each other, seeing who can seduce more mortals, indulging in carnal pleasure.

The competition is always stiff between the two of them, equally overwhelming crowds naturally flocking towards the two men. They never can decide on a clear winner in the writhing, moaning mess of naked bodies sprawled across their hotel room. Counting is the last thing on their minds as they toy with mortals, bringing them to delirious levels of pleasure unlike anything they’ve felt before. The details don’t seem important as they stick their cocks in the countless warm holes aching for them. And as they finally sit back and relax, watching as a few insatiable lustful humans go at it with each other while the others slump in exhausted post-coital bliss around them, Iwaizumi and Oikawa smirk at each other.

Another successful conquest. Just more proof of where humans are on the totem pole compared to gods like them. Mere playthings for them to have fun with.

So imagine their shock and annoyance when they meet you on their latest venture to the mortal world and you don’t spare either of them even a second glance, eyes brushing past their figures blankly before you turn to a bartender and order a drink, back turned to them as you walk away.

Maybe you just don’t appreciate the already swarming crowd forming around them. Maybe you think that they wouldn’t spare you a glance when they already have so many people vying for their attention.

They take pity on you, going out of their way to make the first move, approaching you, gracing you with their full attention.

So imagine the fury in chocolate brown eyes, the hardened edge in green eyes, when you brusquely wave them away from you as if they’re nothing but annoying bugs flitting around you.

The. Fucking. Audacity.

Neither god has ever been completely graceful about being denied, rejected, or told no, even if it came from another deity. So to come from a worthless mortal, a speck of dust in their lengthy existence? Unacceptable.

The gods always get their way.

You learn that the hard way when your surroundings suddenly change, the background noises of music, voices, and glasses fading to nothing, the dark ambiance replaced by pristine white and blues, shimmering seashells and pearls, and the crowd around you gone, leaving only two familiar faces left staring back at you.

Your first guess is drugs and you curse yourself, fear building inside of you as you try and think back on when someone could have possibly slipped something in one of your drinks. Anxiety has you scrambling away from the two men who just impassively continue observing you, green eyes curious, brown eyes amused. And even as you turn around and race away from them as fast as your shaky legs can take you, you can feel those burning eyes on you, waiting, watching.

You almost sob in relief when you see a doorway ahead of you, praying that despite the hallucinatory imagery swirling around you that this is real, that you’ve found your escape. And you prepare your lungs, ready to scream for help the second you step outside. But as you open your mouth the same time the door flings open wide, water crashes around you, overflowing all your open orifices, soaking you, drowning you, until you feel nothing except the accelerating drum of your frenzied heart.

All you can think as your vision goes dark is that this feels all too vivid, all too real.

Dazzling white blinds you as your eyelids flutter open and you wonder if this is heaven, if you’ve passed on. If only you knew how wrong and right you are. Not that the knowledge will do you much good, as Oikawa is eager to show you. Iwaizumi snorts at how Zeus radiates with dark glee, handsome face twisting in something cruel as he revels in your almost tangible fear that permeates in the air when he reveals exactly who they are and the consequences of your disrespect. He’ll never fully understand his fellow god’s obsession with these silly mental and emotional games, but he can be patient and let Oikawa have his fun before they both indulge in you.

After all, meat is always so succulent after being tenderized and marinated.

Oikawa’s always loved the surge of power he feels at being the reason a sweet little thing’s heart races, pupils blown wide in fear, sparkling watery gems forming in eye ducts. And all this just from revealing his name. Zeus. It’s not the joyous worship he’s used to from the old world, but there’s a certain reverence in the way his title incites recognition in you, the way he sees an unbeliever like you finally forced to faith.

He’s not as much of a fan of the way you still shy from him, hands futilely trying to keep him at arms length from you as he insistently approaches you. But he understands. You’re scared. You don’t know how to worship and love him yet. You’re still a new believer.

So it’s up to him to guide you.

You’re not the first terrified and reluctant follower he’s met and Iwaizumi watches in appreciation as Oikawa uses a blend of force and sway to have you bend to his ways. It’s always fascinating to see how pleasure and fear intertwine and mingle in humans and Iwaizumi can feel his arousal grow as you can’t stop the litany of moans forced from your mouth, can’t stop the sticky river beginning to trickle from between your legs despite the way you cry and beg to be released.

Humans really are such simple creatures so vulnerable to their base desires. Even cornered and hopeless, you writhe and wantonly groan as Oikawa’s mouth and hands thoroughly touch every part of you, back arching and eyes rolling back when his cock easily slips inside your drenched cunt. You don’t want to feel good. You shouldn’t feel good. Yet you can feel a familiar coil tightening inside of you with every slide of his shaft against your walls and when he forces you to gaze into those hungry eyes and orders you to cum, you obey.

You’re so malleable, so well-behaved, by the time Iwaizumi finally has his way with you. It’s hard to believe you’re the same arrogant woman who dared to turn them away when you easily let him spread your legs, not even bothering to hide how lost in pleasure and desire you are, clenching around his cock and begging for more, more, more. And Iwaizumi almost feels a pang of regret, wishing you had a bit more fight and resistance left in you, not as into the mindless sex doll appeal Oikawa enjoys.

But he’s not disappointed when the haze of sex fades and the fire returns to your eyes, fueled even more by disgust at yourself and them for the night of decadence. And he laughs when you lash out at them, vicious scathing words dripping like venom from your lips, claws sharpened and ready to strike. It’s his turn to break you apart and he relishes in the way your nails painfully attempt to pierce his skin, the way your eyes glow in their rage.

He’s not Oikawa and you learn that the hard way. He knows what this is. He’s not arrogant enough to believe you truly want this, that you’ll ever want this. But he doesn’t care. If anything it only excites him more, the way you ferociously fight him. And he grunts in pleasure as he pins you from behind, forcing your head into the ground as he thrusts into your raised and exposed ass, marking and claiming you inside and out, treating you like nothing more than a prized animal.

It’s disarming and overwhelming how different and similar the two are, your mental barriers unable to keep up and adapt to their various approaches. You try to resist, try to look for ways to escape your luxurious prison deep under the ocean surface. But you find your resolve crumbling, find yourself craving Oikawa’s filthy demeaning words, find yourself waiting expectantly for Iwaizumi’s more physical proof of ownership. And when you look in the mirror one day and see yourself covered in bite marks and blooming spreads of purple, black, blue, and red, you sob, unable to recognize the woman staring back at you.

Your resistance has been laughable as of late and Iwaizumi sighs as Oikawa gloats, taking bets on how many more days it’ll take before you completely break and accept your place, before you grovel on your knees and beg to please them and praise them. How much longer until you become a true believer?

But it’s Iwaizumi’s turn to excitedly smile when he senses you attempting to leave his domain once again, in desperate pursuit of a watery end. And he chuckles at the irritated tsk from the god beside him as he leisurely takes his time to forcefully rescue you from the liquid flooding your lungs.

“You have some work to do on your seduction skills, brother, if she'd rather die than be with us for a second longer.”

Darkness has never felt so welcoming and you bask in the feeling of your consciousness fading to black, finding peace even as your lungs ache and burn from lack of oxygen. But you thrash as much as you can while submerged when a pair of strong hands grab you, wailing in denial as air rushes through your heaving body.

“Oh, darling. You didn’t think you could escape us that easily did you?”

A handsome face crowned by wavy brown locks sweetly smiles at you and dismay numbs your body, making your limbs heavy, your mind blank. And you just dumbly stare back as Iwaizumi moves behind you, lifting a golden goblet to your lip, submissively sipping whatever he offers you, thinking it’s just water to help clear your mouth of the salty ocean still clinging to your senses. But what you aren’t expecting is the unnatural warmth that floods you, has you gasping and contorting, only Iwaizumi’s reassuring hold and Oikawa’s voice grounding you throughout the chaos.

“Ambrosia…”

You can hardly believe your own word as you voice it outloud. A nectar meant only for the gods. A substance created for longevity and immortality.

Oikawa coos as hot tears run down your face when realization sinks in, when the promise of a lifetime and more, of forever, settles in the pit of your stomach.

“Oh sweetheart, don’t cry. We knew this would be a difficult change for you, so we added something else to the ambrosia to help ease you into things. Can you feel it?”

And you do feel it, whimpering and moaning as the aphrodisiac they had mixed with the fragrant beverage streams through you, nipples hardening, pussy aching and dripping, staining the ground underneath you that you find yourself helplessly grinding against for delicious friction and relief.

You shake your head side to side as both gods surround you, but as the hard toned planes of their chests press against you, any resistance disappears and you greedily rub your tingling buds against Oikawa’s bare skin, hands clinging onto broad shoulders, back arching as you shake your ass against Iwaizumi’s hardening cock.

Oikawa’s cruel laughter fills the air, but you don’t have it in you to feel a shred of humiliation, not when everything feels so good, so addicting, and you plead for more even as he mocks you, his fingers meanly twisting and pinching your nipples, sneering at how well you’re responding, how you were made to be used for all of eternity. And how can you even argue against him as you’re forced over the edge again and again, cumming with seemingly every simple touch, body jolting in pleasure with even just a brush of his fingertips?

Is this what it means to be fucked silly? To succumb to lust? You don’t know how much longer you can survive, how much longer you’ll be yourself when they’re through with you, if they’re ever through with you. And you sob in fear? Overstimulation? Overwhelming desire? You don’t know.

You don’t know anything except for the way two cocks stretch you more than you’ve ever thought possible. You don’t know anything except for the joy of having your two holes stimulated, stuffing you full of sticky warm spurts. You don’t know anything except the intoxicating smell of musk, sweat, and sex as your face is shoved between strong thighs, your nose and mouth forced to clean the mess you’ve made of their shafts and balls, only for your lewd messy appearance to cause their dicks to rise in interest and start the entire process all over again.

When your head finally begins to clear, rational thoughts and shame flooding through you, it’s too late. And despite the desperate words of denial you manage to use the last of your will to utter, even you can hear the tremble in your voice, even you can’t deny the way your hips continue to bounce up and down of their own will on the two cocks still buried balls deep inside of you.

You sob as Oikawa tenderly kisses you, nuzzling his forehead against yours in a grotesque version of a lover’s touch, croaking out “no, no, no” as the goblet is held to your mouth once more, Iwaizumi’s hand warningly wrapping around your throat when you take a second too long to part your lips.

“Drink up, darling. It’s the beginning of forever.”

[dreamingsnowflake2013]

Thyme goes to his date dressed like a Japanese yakuza from the 2000s! People make a lot of fun of his fashion style, but let’s face it, this is the exact sort of a look which Harry Styles normally wears and people gush about how cool and inclusive he’s being. Personally, I think Thyme strangely rocks this oddball fashion style which suits him exactly because he is such a huge oddball and, as such, those clothes perfectly express his personality and completes his character.

Moreover, Gorya is the same, with her washed-out T-shirts and jeans and oversized shirts which she either inherited from her mom or bought in dollar stores or a second-hand shops. It might seem she isn’t exactly serving looks either but it suits her because, in her own way, she is a maverick just like Thyme but on the other end of the social spectrum. They are two oddballs making an odd couple but they somehow fit in all the right ways. 

And so is their date - odd, unconventional, genuine, funny and messy, making it tangible and real. Despite everything Thyme did to her in the past, Gorya has smiled more during that one day she is spending with him than she had during her whole time with Ren. 

She teases him, mischievously dares him to go on the ferris wheel, clearly aware he is scared shitless of heights. And Thyme? Thyme is like any normal boy, that is, as much as someone like him can ever be normal. 

He clearly learnt his lesson and doesn’t take Gorya on any snobbish and expensive date, trying so hard not to make her think that he wants to buy her but he still acts as a gentleman and pays for everything, not allowing her to treat him, even going as far as to worry she might catch a cold and gives her the towel he got from her. 

They walk around like any ordinary couple (if dragging each other around and making your ‘boyfriend’ vomit can be described ordinary, that is), bicker nonstop, drag each other around, eat street food and drinks and Thyme (who eats only chef-made dishes and drinks only Earl Grey keeps stealing it from Gorya). Honestly, Thyme would drink anything, even poison, if Gorya gave it to him. 

That last restaurant Gorya rejects isn’t particularly fancy either. And they even ride the ferris wheel to watch the sunset, the epitome of a romantic date, but it’s a dare and ends up with Thyme throwing that street food all over the decorative hedge and Gorya patting his back soothingly and lowkey apologizing. 

So perhaps they are not so normal after all, more like endearing adorable and messy. Just like that first date of theirs - an endearing mess which feels incredibly right and, strangely, ends up being a success.