#and he wakes up; any memories of her gone; and shes just like. dead. there. in the tardis

[skyrigel]

Pairing: Mattheo Riddle x reader ( 1k )

Enemies with benefits, get's smutty later.

It's a misty memory, like swirl of silvery glow when you first saw Mattheo, he was nervous and perhaps that was the first and last time you saw him like that, his shy eyes, his nervous steps, his lips perched in a thin line. He was like any other eleven year old, but then something changed the very next moment.

‘ Slytherin ’ the hat roared, barely even brushing his hair and his lazy mouth curved in a smirk that was forever plastered on his face. His jaw hardened, eyes sharpened, brows arched, everything almost changed except the dark glint of that night and the smile that you had engraved forever in your memory.

People chose soulmates, picked lovers but that night, Mattheo Riddle decided one thing, he's going to hate you so much. You were unaware of his intentions until the next day you found a dead spider in your rucksack. If there were any doubt left, then it became crystal clear when he dropped mandrakes crushed roots in your cauldron, eyes locked with you and by the time you could react, the cauldron bursted into thousand orbs.

All grey became white and black when you spent a month worth in detention with sadist Professor Snape, who made you clean every cauldron with bare hand, made you stock all those sticky vile ingredients in glassy jars.

“ Having fun y/n ? ” Mattheo snarled, Draco on his shoulder and Pancy chewing a gum while she checked you out lazily.

You said nothing, you had no energy to, sweat trickled down your forehead, feeling your hands dirty and uniform ragged, you turned away, hurrying to your dorm.

You decided one thing that night, you were going to hate Mattheo Riddle so much.

_

The potency of Professor's words didn't quite leave you when you stumbled dreamily in the room of requirments, eyes red with insomnia and stomach lurching with only coffee contents you had the luxury of.

“ You look like shit.” Mattheo didn't look up form his textbook, her hands scripting away the ancient text like it was a David Bowie song.

“ Thankyou.” you said, sitting down and opening the potion essay you were due on, Snape was going to kill you.

“ wait—” you jerked you head at his direction, within seconds you shot a hex, flying at him.

He was quick too, like waiting to be noticed by you, ducking the hex away with a swish of his wand.

“ Good morning to you too.” he joked, you were in no mood for jokes. After what his friends and ofcourse him too, did to Hannah.

“ Fuck off. ” you shot another and another, feeling anger boil inside you. He's so selfish, he's so bratty, he's so blemished, he's so—

“ Stupe—”

“ Expelliarmus! ’’ you screamed, beating him and his wand aflew away, a small sound followed with your breath leveling.

It was victory, you had won at last, but then your eyes met with him, he was staring too hard, not blinking, as he was too still, like he was made up of marble.

The stillness broke when he took a step, you blinked and when you opened your eyes again, all the world dropped dead.

Your back hit the wall with thud, your bones crackling with ache, like swindling out of reality, his arms pinning your shoulder back, breath warm on your skin, tingling.

“ wha—”

“ Shhh.” and you were quiet, it was hard not to, his mouth was too close, he was so close and then he looked up, that glint still there, that smile too— before his lips crashed with yours, setting fireworks off.

You have kissed, you knew how it felt, but this wasn't just kiss, it was shearing, it was breaking, it was trembling and all that gone, it was burning, twisting and coiling like snake inside you, this kiss was the one you could fall asleep and wake up to, painful, sinful, sweet and spicy, it was everything at once.

But that's not excuse, you kissed him back, as hungrily as he kissed you, you were pathetic, he kissed you and you what ?! Just gave in !

“ you...you..” you fumbled between words, lip trembling and you dared not look him in the eyes.

“ No.” Mattheo said, he shaked his hand, groaning inside but then his thumb came up, pressing at the corner of your mouth.

And oh, you felt your insides tighten at the sensation, you hated him, you hated yourself.

“ No ? ” you words came shaky and dazed but you didn't care, was it just a dream ? Did you ever thought about kissing Mattheo ? Was it always there in your subconscious mind ? He bullied you all your life and—

All thoughts melted when his mouth connected with yours again, it was better than the last time, like his mouth knew yours all his life. While the first one was like there's no time, this is it, like storm, this was slow and sweet, like pouring rain, like there were lifetimes waiting for you and him.

And then you found yourself fighting his tongue, his hands were hesitant, resting at the either sides of your face, you had yours thrown up, pressed on the wall, knuckles scrapping against the wood.

And Mattheo was loud, who could have tell that for a boy who walked like feather, all graceful swagger and hard jaw. Merlin, he kissed so good. His body was sending heat waves, like a furnace, his warmth radiated inside your body and each sound that he made low in his chest was enough to release the tension building inside you.

He pulled away, breathing hard but that wasn't the hardest thing about him. You tore your gaze away from his trousers, tenting at his middle, his desire in proof.

“ I...” He sighed, covering his face, flushed and red and that would the second time you saw Mattheo like that.

“ Come here tommorow, same time.” he said, not bothering to look back at you, stumbling footsteps that echoed after him, shy eyes and swollen beaming lips, having a smear of your lip gloss.

Everything was grey, again.

[immagods]

Then there are the whispers of a clone frozen in stasis. A medic trying to save his brothers, only to wake up and realise he is the last, all his brothers are gone. They are just rumours. No one's sure if they are true or not, until one day.

One day where Kix sitting in a cantina in the outer rim, where he sees a group of people gathered around a holo. He pays no mind to it at first, that is, until he hears someone say a familiar name. A name he hasn't heard spoken out loud in a long time. A brothers name.

So he gets closer, and he sees what the group of people are looking at. It's the photo. The photo that Rex had hanging on the wall of his office, the one of him, Fives, Echo and Cody. The photo that Fives always said made him and Echo Rex's favourites. Kix remembers that holo, he remembers the battle when it was taken. Remembers it was just after Fives and Echo had gotten back from Arc training. Remembers that he was just behind the camera, waiting to chew Fives out; because 'even if you have ARC training now. It doesn't mean that you can go and do stupid risky shit all the time trying to impress the shinies.'

Kix is drawn from the memories of ghosts when he feels someone tap him on the arm. It's a young girl with big blue familiar looking eyes, and she says that she thinks it cool that he looks exactly like the brave soldiers she learnt about in school. She asks him if his grandfather was a clone, if he knew any clones, if he's heard any stories of the clones. Kix stares at the girl for a moment, thinking about another girl with curious blue eyes, before he answers her. He tells her that he is a clone, that he has so many stories that he can't even count them.

With wide eyes, the girl drags him closer to the holo and pointing at it asks him if he knows the clones in the photo.

And Kix, looking at the holo, thinks of the old mando'a that they used to say; Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum. 'I'm still alive, but you are dead. I remember you, so you are eternal.'

So he tells the girl.

He tells her how they were his brothers. He tells her how he was apart of the 501st. He tells her how they fought for freedom. He tells her how they were always finding ways to laugh during the war. He tells her how they adopted the jedi into their family. He tells her how no matter how bad things got the clones knew they would be okay as long as they had eachother. He tells her their names.

The more stories he tells the more people listen. And word spreads. The Clones are not all gone. There is one left. And he's telling the stories of the clones, the stories that, when there where millions of clone alive no one wanted to hear. But they want to hear them now, they want to know the clones now. They want to know the worriors that fought for freedom and laid down the foundations for everything after. They clones story may be a tragedy, but it will not be forgotten.

The Vode will be remembered.

[rogueddie]

Steve wakes up to a beeping noise- a heart monitor. He struggles to open his eyes, turning to squint around the hospital room. Something about it feels off, though he can’t tell what.

A woman stumbles in, almost spilling her coffee. She looks familiar.

“Hey,” Steve tries, only to end up coughing. His throat is painfully dry.

“Steve!” She exclaims. She hurries over, swapping the coffee for a plastic cup of water. She carefully holds it to his mouth for him to drink. “You have no idea how happy I am to see you awake! I know we can’t talk here but… fuck, man, you really had us scared for a minute. Promise me you won’t do anything like that again!”

“I promise?”

“Oh! Eddie finally woke up too! Just the other week. He keeps asking about you, I should go-”

Steve is only more confused. There’s only one Eddie he knows and that Eddie wouldn’t be caught dead worrying about someone like Steve. Not unless...

“Munson?”

“Duh. Oh! Nancy! I was supposed to- you’re ok, right? I’ll just be a minute!”

“Yeah, sure.”

She throws him a thumbs up, darting out the room, calling for Nancy.

His head throbs. He’s not sure what is going on, what happened… maybe that thing in the Byers house did get him after all? Maybe this is just a dream.

"Ah, Mr Harrington," a nurse greets with a warm smile. "It's good to see you awake. I'm just going to check your vitals and all of that stuff, then we'll need to go over some questions. Does that sound alright?"

"Questions?"

"You've been asleep for a few weeks. We need to make sure that everything up there is ok." She lightly raps her knuckles on the side of her head.

Despite how light she's trying to be, Steve feels a sinking in his stomach.

"Is that possible? What- what could be wrong?"

"Nothing too serious. You're speech is clear and legible, you're conscious and cognitive." She lifts the clipboard off the end of the hospital bed. "You remember your name?"

"Yeah," he says. After a moment, he realizes; "oh! Right, sorry. Steve Harrington."

"Date of birth?"

"April 29th, 1967."

"Do you know what todays date is?"

"Um... how long have I been out? You said a few weeks, right?"

"Almost three weeks, yes."

"Three weeks, so that would make today... December 4th?"

She doesn't respond for a moment. The way she keeps her eyes on the clipboard feels too calculated.

"The year?"

"Uh... 1983?"

She only pauses for a moment, before continuing to ask simple questions about current events, how he's feeling, where he feels any pain or discomfort.

He lies when she asks if he remembers what caused him to be hospitalized. He's not sure what the story Nancy and Byers will give. He can't imagine people... involved, would want the truth out. And he's not willing to risk whatever consequences will come with that.

"I'm going to talk with your doctor," she finally says. "I'll be one minute."

"Wait! What- am I ok?"

"Your doctor will explain everything, don't worry."

Amnesia, his doctor explains.

Three years of his life, gone. They try to reassure him, say that it's still early days and he could completely regain his memory, no problem.

But they don't know. Not really. It's all 'possibly's, and 'maybe's. No guarentee. There's still a chance that he may never remember.

The woman who ran in when he woke up, sat by his bedside and holding his hand in a death grip, doesn't look anymore reassured by their optimism than he is.

"We're... close?" He asks her.

"Yeah," she says, forcing a smile. "Platonic soulmates. It's, um... Robin, by the way. Robin Buckley."

"Do we have that... Mrs Click, you sit behind me, right?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I did." She looks stunned, almost dazed. "I didn't think you remembered, or even noticed me."

"How could I not? You're hilarious!"

"What? We never-"

"Oh, uh, you're muttering. Behind me. It wasn't exactly, um... quiet."

"Oh my god," she slaps a hand to her mouth, eyes wide. "You heard me talk about you!"

"Yeah, like I said; you're funny."

Luckily, someone else bursts into the room, interrupting whatever epiphany Robin is having.

"Steve!" He yells.

The guy looks like a kid, barely out of middle school. But he rushes to Steve, eyeing him up like he's Steves babysitter.

"Uh, hi?"

"Oh no," is the kids response. He turns to Robin. "How much does he remember?"

"He is right here, you know."

"I think some time in 83?" Robin replies, ignoring him.

"Before or after the whole... uh..." He glances at Steve with suspicion, then pointedly to the door.

"Jesus," Steve mutters, rubbing at the crease between his brows. "Did Nancy and Jonathan tell you, or what?"

"Tell us about... what?"

He rolls his eyes at them, pointing to the kid. "Whatever has short stack paranoid. The thing with the-" he flops one hand around, raised towards the ceiling, "the lights."

"Do you remember anything that happened after that?" The kid quickly asks. "At the hospital, and Will?"

"You mean the Byers kid? Isn't he, like... dead?"

"So you... don't remember me."

"Sorry?"

"It's fine," he lies.

Steve hates how sad the kid sounds. He glances between the two of them, both seemingly wallowing quietly about the situation.

"Which room is Munson in?" He asks, breaking the silence.

"What?" The kid frowns. "Eddie? Why?"

"Which room?"

"He's two doors down to the left," Robin answers. "Why- woah! Don't get up! You're still-"

"I'm fine," Steve gently pushes her away, ignoring both of them trying to plead for him to get back into bed.

Despite the bandages, bruises and sick look to him, Munson somehow looks better than Steve remembers him looking. The longer hair definitely suits him.

"Steve?" He frowns. He tries to sit up but, grimacing, he soon stops. "What the hell are you doing up? You're gonna freak Dustin out."

"Dustin? That the kid?" He asks, grunting as he sits on the edge of his bed.

"What do-" he pauses, expressions slowly twisting with the horror and realization. "Yeah. Yeah, man, Dustin is the kid."

"Right. So... um... we're friends now?"

Eddie winces. "We haven't exactly had time to talk about... that."

"What? It's been years!"

"It's not that simple."

"Are you saying that because it's true or because you don't-"

"Because it's true," Eddie rolls his eyes. "A lot has happened since then, Steve. You fell in love with Wheeler."

"What?" Steve can't hide his confusion. "Nancy?"

"Yes, Nancy. You made sure everyone fucking knew about that."

Steve snorts, having to grab at his side with a wince. He bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from laughing.

"So you're still easy to rile up?" He asks, smirking.

"Wh- you-" Eddie gasps. He tries to sit up again, grunting when he flops back down. "You were trying to make me jealous?!"

He's looking at Steve with disbelief, but he's also smiling.

"Are we friends now?" Steve asks.

"Yeah, Stevie. We're friends."

"Just friends?"

"I don't... Steve, how bad is your amnesia?"

Steve quickly looks away, wincing. "Not... that bad? I remember that- the first time. This, um... monster shit. Falling out with Tommy. And the doctors are optimistic- they're pretty sure I'm going to remember."

"Alright... maybe it'd be better if we talk then, instead of rushing into it now."

"Jesus," Steve frowns. "I really have missed a lot. When did you get mature?"

"Hey-"

[from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras]

Do you have any specific idioms that you’ve come up with for Rohan?

Yes! I’ve got a huge mishmash of adages, idioms, little sayings and turns of phrase that I’ve made up over time for use among the Rohirrim. A bunch of them are in old posts, which I can’t locate because Tumblr’s search function is garbage, so here’s just a random helping from memory in all of the above categories:

“Crumbs will do when crumbs must do” (often shortened to just “crumbs will do”). Leftover from the famine of the Long Winter, it means “stop whining and make do with what’s available.”

“The proof is on the tongue.” This refers to the cultural tradition that the way to recognize whether a stranger is a friend or foe is to see if they can speak Rohirric, but it gained added nuance after the reign of Thengel, when he came back from Gondor speaking Sindarin and Westron all the time, which rubbed people back home the wrong way. Now it’s used as sort of a general expression about whether something or someone is genuinely of Rohan.

“Cirion didn’t win alone.” Based on Cirion coming to Eorl to ask for his assistance (which ultimately led to the Oath of Eorl and the founding of Rohan), it means “don’t be too proud to ask for help when you need it.”

“[Person] rides with their hands at their chest.” Proper riding posture has your hands at hip level, but amateurs often end up raising them higher to keep their balance (rather than making the correction in their seat as they should). Basically, this is one of the harshest insults you can fling at someone by insinuating that their horsemanship is bad.

“He’s going to hear Béma’s horn.” Referring to Oromë’s sounding of his great horn as he rode against the servants of Morgoth, it means that someone did something very stupid and now he’s going to face wrath for it.

“The glory of the grass is the glory of the field.” I stole a version of this from one of my favorite books, Matrix by Lauren Groff, but I think it’s perfect for a kingdom of plains and grasslands where collectivism is necessary for survival. One blade by itself is nothing, but a field has shape and substance and beauty. And if your field is not doing well, your personal glory as a single blade is still diminished even if your blade is thriving.

“[Person] has gone with Ácith.” Ácith is the Rohirric name for Béma’s wife. Flowers bloom in her wake, and so they believe that the appearance of simbelmynë on their graves means that she’s been there to escort the dead person on to their after life. So to “go with Ácith” means that someone has died.

I *also* really like thinking about unique words that would exist in Rohirric and not in other languages. I’m already on record as saying that I think they have DOZENS of words for “horse” that recognize different distinctions and nuances that no one else bothers with, but I’ve also speculated that they’ve got words like something that translates directly as “oath honor” and means the pride of having fulfilled your promises/commitments at great personal cost.

I totally LOVE this stuff and could sit around thinking about these all day every day, so if anyone else has examples that they want to throw out there, please do. I would LOVE to see them!

Check out part two here!

[xoxo-sarah]

The Fair

↝a/n: well this was heart wrenching. ☹️ Why did I decide to write this? I hurt my own feelings with this one, guys.

↝pairing:Daryl Dixon x reader

↝warning: angst, death, season 9 events, Alpha + whispers, the spikes, Daryl never getting his happy ending, it's a bit gruesome ngl, crying, fighting, torture, getting shot, stabbing, self-loathing (Daryl ☹️), more death, not proofread

|| Disclaimer: I do not own Daryl Dixon, or any character from The Walking Dead. I only own y/n and any characters I create with my own brain. ||

↝⎙ 6.24.24

Daryl Dixon masterlist

The early morning sun shone across the town of Alexandria, although not doing much for how the fall chill nipped at any skin showing.

Daryl glanced up from his spot on the porch, after hearing the door open. You stepped out, face scrunching when the smell of nicotine hit your nose. Daryl simply took in your appearance. Freshly showered, clean clothes, and wet hair knotted into a different style than usual. He took a final puff of the cigarette, before flicking it somewhere off the porch.

As you stepped forward, his hand motioned to your hair, "I tried a different braid. I think it's called a fishtail, I'm not sure though. Needed to practice so I could do something different for the fair." You shrugged, moving to take a seat beside him on the rickety porch steps. His hand raised, feeling the bumps of the braid.

He knew you were excited for the fair, wanting to get out of the walls of Alexandria, and not to do a supply run. You need this; time with friends who feel more like family every day.

Daryl dropped your hair, looking around at the other houses. They were quiet, due to everyone still being asleep. If Daryl hadn't stayed the night, you would probably still be in bed. But you woke up to Daryl, who hadn't slept a wink, due to his stress levels. The whole whisperer thing had him on edge, and it only got worse when Lydia came into the picture. Daryl had been just fine only caring for the people he kept close to him, people who he had known for years. But then came Lydia, who was just a kid. He had needed out; out of Hilltop where Lydia and Henry were. You were his safe space, somewhere he knew he could always go to.

Feeling weight being added to his shoulder, he turned, listening as you whispered into the crisp morning air, almost like talking normally would wake everyone, or disturb the peaceful space of the porch. "She's a good kid. She just doesn't know any better. Alpha, her own mother only taught her survival. It's not Lydia's fault, you know that. Give her time."

"Might not have time." He couldn't help but grumble. He knew you were right, Lydia is a kid. She only knows survival. To an extent, Daryl could relate to her. You lifted your head, looking over his face,

"Maybe, but I have a strong hunch that you have enough time to go wash the stench off of you." Your nose scrunched again, more animated than before.

Daryl rolled his eyes before standing. You watched him as he walked to the door, flipping you off before the door shut behind him. A heavy sigh exited your lips when you knew he was gone.

It had been a little over two days since you last saw Daryl. It's not like you were worried. He could hold his own. Atleast, he could before people who wore the dead's faces were among everyone.

That might have you on edge. Or it might be the fact that he had the thing that Alpha wanted, making him become an even bigger target.

Your fingers divided your hair, twisting it into the same braid from before. Your mind was elsewhere, hands moving without a second thought.

The house that you occupied in Alexandria was quiet. Too quiet. You had grown comfortable with the usual silence, since Daryl had left in search of Rick.

The house you once shared turned into yours, with Daryl only visiting. He never stayed for long. Maybe it was the memories, or something that you had no knowledge of. Either way, you weren't going to push him.

Men like Daryl, once they're pushed too far, they leave. It's like their fight or flight goes off. You weren't one to push.

When Daryl and the little gorup found Lydia, Daryl had to escape for the night, going straight to the familiar house. He had told you everything about the Whisperers and Lydia, how They had killed Jesus. Although her group had killed someone who you could rely on, you pitied Lydia. The moment between you two was short-lived when morning came. After he had taken a shower, he was on his way back. Your time together wasn't much, but it was something. Given the circumstances, it was enough for both of you.

A knock at your door had your trailing thoughts stop, along with your hands. You were quick to tie the braid up, before moving to the door. Daryl stood, shoulders sunk in, along with the bags under his eyes, blood coating his hands. Your eyes met, relief, from seeing him mixed with the concern from seeing the dried blood, ran through your back.

Daryl stood against the kitchen sink, scrubbing his hands together, watching as the water turned red before flowing down the drain. "Henry's hurt." Was the first thing he had uttered since you opened the door, letting him in.

You perked up from where you were perched against the counter, having been watching his movements. "How bad?" He shook his head, letting you know it wasn't life or death, without saying a word.

"Here was closer to get him stitched up. Lydia's with us."

Your eyes traveled over his face, looking for any sign of how he felt about that, and maybe even a hint of how much shit you were all in.

"She's a kid." He sighed, turning the water off as he used your same words from before.

You nodded, hoping he knew that he didn't have to explain himself to you. You trusted him and his instinct.

Now night time, you walked with Daryl and his little group as they got ready to leave. Aaron insisted on walking with you, staying with Daryl as you were in step with Henry and Lydia.

You tried to ask questions that were easy for her to answer, questions that didn't revolve around how she had grown up. Questions that made her feel human, not just a piece in the game of survival.

As your conversation drew to an end, you listened in to Aaron and Daryl, " 'Member way back when I told you, you'd make a great father?" Your eyes traveled to the gravel under you. "You got to skip the exploding diapers part, but I was right."

Henry and Lydia tried to contain their own little conversations, hiding their smiles and blushing from the other. Just two teenagers acting as normal as two teenagers could in the broken world.

Daryl grumbled, "A lot has changed." You felt eyes boring into your back but didn't look. You smiled as you felt Dog rub against your legs, begging for attention. Would you and Daryl be able to be happy in a world like this?

"I stand before you today at the start of a new tomorrow. A tomorrow made possible by the sacrifices of many over the years." After a long ride to the kingdom, you stood amongst the crowd, watching as Ezekiel stood on the balcony, giving one of his infamous speeches.

"Among them, a man whose mission was to build community and strengthen the bonds between us. A man who had to destroy the very thing that connected us in order to save us. It took far too long to fulfill the promise of what Rick Grimes and his son, Carl, envisioned, the same promise Paul Rovia, better known to most as "Jesus", believed in when he brought us all together those many years ago. We always will be. We fought our way back to each other. We have grown. The crossing over the river may be gone, but we have rebuilt a bridge, nonetheless. Today is proof we can unite, not against a common enemy, but for the common good. So eat, drink, and be merry...'cause we got a lotta lost time to make up for."

Jerry stepped forward, a hug grin on his face, "Let the First Annual Inter-Community Reunification Fair begin!"

"Jerry!"

Jerry swung around, looking up at the King.

"We changed that."

"For reals? F. A. I. R. Fair?"

Ezekiel sighed, leaning over the railing to stare down, "It's too many-nevermind. Let the Fair of New Beginnings begin!"

Applause broke out through the crowd, doves being released into the air.

Tara, who stood beside you, nudged your shoulder, directing your attention to the gate of the Kingdom. The gates opened, revealing Michonne- who was set on not coming to the fair- with Judith, Daryl, Connie, Henry, and Lydia in tow.

Your feet moved before you even thought about it, and you were in front of Daryl before you knew it. He opened his arms, welcoming the warmth of your arms around him.

Sure, you had seen him not that long ago, but being apart from him became even scarier over the week. Daryl swayed from side to side, before you pulled away slightly.

Carol came over when you two had fully broken apart, bringing her best friend into her arms.

You smiled, watching the two. After she teased him, she watched as you moved back under his arm, laughing when your lips collided with his cheek, watching Daryl grow shy, his ears turning a pink hue.

"C'mon, I heard there's a fair or something happening." You winked at Ezekiel, as he joined in on watching the two of you, throwing his arm around Carol.

It only took about 15 minutes before the fun was cut short.

"You just got here." you sighed, utterly frustrated. You couldn't have one day that was slightly normal. Somebody always had to be a threat. It just happens to be Alpha's group.

"Hilltop's in danger."

"I know,” You huffed, kicking the asphalt under your feet, stopping when Daryl halted, reaching down to pet Dog's head. "I just think you deserve to have fun too. Or at least let me go with you."

He instantly shook his head, standing at his full height. His eyes slightly squinted as he looked at you, "'T's too dangerous, you know that."

"Exactly. You need more people and you know i'm a good shot." You cracked a smile, trying to ease the tension. Daryl looked away, hiding his slight amusement. "At Least be safe." Your voice was serious, almost threatening. Unwinding your arms, letting them fall to your sides, as he finally looked back. "I mean it, Dixon." He puffed air out, before bringing you into a side hug. You two stood by the gate, not caring as people walked past, trying to get ready to leave with Daryl.

The hug was warm- comforting, too bad you don't get the luxury often. "You too." His gruff voice was muffled in your hair, followed by a dry kiss on your forehead. "Can you take care of Dog for me?" He pulled back, already knowing your answer.

You only got a single nod in before Carol walked over, an apologetic smile on her face about the whole thing; having to interrupt to hint that it was time to go and having to cut your time together short.

Saddiq grunted as Michonne rushed over to his pitiful body. His tired eyes reluctantly raised to look at the people following behind her. As he saw Daryl, the pain felt fresh, like all the wounds were pulled open and dirt was shoved into them. He shook his head, trying to get the picture of your last moment out of his head. Your screams of agony rang in his head. What you made him promise rang even louder. He could only cough when the makeshift gag was ripped from his mouth, waiting as Michonne cut his hands free. "What happened?" Michonne asked.

Saddiq could only point, words dying on his tongue. "I-I..."He stumbled with his feet as much as his words. Michonne held most of his body weight as he tried leading them to the hill.

Michonne's face dropped in horror, as they walked closer, close enough to realize exactly what was in front of them, close enough to identify the heads on the spikes.

All it took was for the wind to pick up, causing the braid to sway in the wind, for Daryl to feel the world stop on its axis. He could only watch as your mouth moved, biting and nipping at the air like a feral animal.

Something that would haunt him forever, the hunger for human flesh taking over the one person he couldn't live without. As you began to let out a growl, he had to turn his head, looking anywhere. He couldn't take the sight, feeling his stomach churn.

You were just in his arms, smiling at him, joking around, wanting to spend the time at the fair with him.

His eyes caught a head of blond hair, his body moving before he could think twice. "No! No!" His hands attached themselves to Carol's shoulders, frantically trying to conceal the gruesome picture before them that would surely give him nightmares, if he was even able to sleep. "Just look at me." His voice broke, but continued to repeat himself.

He watched as her lips pursed, before they began trembling, feeling his own emotions breaking through the comfort-others-before-yourself facade.

His body slowly collapsed with hers, his hold on her not faltering. If he held her tight enough, he might be able to feel the warmth you always radiated in his arms.

Maybe it was selfish to try to find comfort of his own while he was comforting her, but he couldn't help himself. Who was going to comfort him? You?

Daryl wasn't one to cry much, but he felt his eyes begin to burn. Before either of them knew it, their tears mixed together on Daryl's clothes as his grip tightened even more.

"I was there. I was taken with the others. And I saw...I was supposed to die with them. I was ready to." Saddiq stood on the podium, looking out at the crowd of mixed communities, all of which had lost someone dear to them. "Then, Alpha whispered in my ear, "Tell them." Something hit me and everything went black. ANd when I woke up, I was alone." The image of you, tears and blood dried on your face as you laid lifeless. "What happened was evil."

Daryl stood in the very back of the crowd, arms crossed. His own thoughts ran wild, so many 'what if's. What if he had stayed? What if he had let you go with him? What if, what if, what if... Daryl tuned out the rest of the speech, only zoning back in when he felt a shaky hand on his shoulder.

"Y/n..." Saddiq did everything in his power to not let his voice shake, but it was useless. He forced himself to keep eye contact, feeling like he at least owed that, even if his eyes were glossy and his nerves were shot. Daryl had to know. He had to know Saddiq was honest and kept his word for you. "She fought. Hard." The shaky man shook his head.

-flashback-

Siddiq looked around, at the old barn, at the people who stood around wearing the dead’s faces, at his friends and family kneeled down, gagged and tied up.

You stared at the people standing, a fire behind your eyes, that Saddiq had never seen before. He couldn’t recall you even blinking.

As Saddiq watched for you to blink at least once, your eyes shifted from the person you were staring down, to behind them.

It was only a split second before the person you had been staring at was hit in the back of the head.

Ozzy, Alek, and DJ yelled as they swung at each and every masked person. You weren’t sure who untied you, but you didn't have time to see. You were on your feet, punching the closest whisperer to you, picking up the knife that had fallen out of their hands.

Everything turned into a massacre.

You stabbed and swung and stabbed some more. Hearing a yell, you swung around on your feet, grabbing the person holding Enid down, before you grabbed by the back of their shirt, your hands moving fast and with force as the knife punctured the chest repeatedly.

Blinded by rage, you moved on adrenaline.

Large hands grabbed your shoulders, yanking you off of the dead body. You could only watch as a new group of Whispers amerged, and charged at what was left of your group.

Alpha stood in front of you, inspecting you. She moved her hand to your hair, her grin making your blood boil. “Beautiful hair. Shame I have to keep it on your head.” The image of her flashed in your head. The blonde hair, of which you now knew wasn’t real, or wasn’t her actual hair. The thought of her cutting it off of someone made you sick.

She tsked, turning when she saw one of her own push someone into the dirt, their knife raised to strike.

“Stop.” All eyes, including your own, were watching the scene play out. Alpha’s eyes scanned the small barn, bodies littering the ground. “They’re the last two.”

The hands tightened on your arms, but you weren't about to show weakness, not over a few bruises being made. One hand moved to hold you still, as another brought a blade to your neck.

Your nostrils flared, watching as Alpha dragged Saddiq right in front of you, although it didn’t take much force with how his body ached, before she held a knife to his throat too.

“What do you think; should we let them decide on who should die?” Alpha’s words were directed to the man behind you.

Your eyes caught sight of Tara, who laid limp on the ground, blood dripping from her mouth. Clenching your jaw, you looked past Saddiq, straight into Alpha’s soul, or lack thereof, anyway. “Now," Alpha pointed at you, “You’re Daryl’s. I Watched you this morning.” You felt the grip on you tighten even more at the mention of Daryl’s name. “You’re loved by everyone- is he?”

She shifted her crazed eyes to the back of Saddiq’s head. When she didn’t get an answer, she put pressure on the knife, drawing blood.

“Fine!” you croaked, “Fine, kill me. Please, he-he’s important. More than me. Please.”

You turned your attention to the man holding you, “Daryl, he said he beat your ass. Told me all about it. You want to hurt him back, right?” You knew you were playing a dangerous game, but you just hoped they would take it out on you, not Daryl or Saddiq.

Beta growled, his breath becoming erratic, as he looked at Alpha for any signal. He could make one quick move and break your neck, but you knew Alpha wanted you to suffer. She wouldn’t let him have all the fun.

It had to be you. Saddiq had a baby on the way. Rosita had told you, and made you promise to keep it on the down low.

There was a long moment of silence, only the angry hot breath fanning over your head, before you were thrown to the ground, hands tied behind your back again. Alpha made everyone leave, dragging Beta out as he shook in anger, ready to pounce.

When the two were out of earshot, you stared Saddiq down. He began shaking his head, “You can’t-”

“Yes. Yes, I can, Saddiq. Rosita needs you.” The baby needs you, especially in this world. “You have to tell Daryl that none of this was his fault. I know him, he’s going to blame himself and pull away.”

You licked your lips, feeling the dryness and small cracks in the skin. Maybe it was selfish to ask that of him, but it was the only thing you could think of in the moment. You didn’t want your last moments to be thinking of how Daryl will pull away, like he always did when he lost someone. He wouldn’t have you to help him out of it. “Tell him I wouldn't blame him for anything that happened tonight. Please, Saddiq. Please promise me. Just…make sure he’s not so hard on himself. Please-”

A gunshot rang out, followed by your screams. You fell onto your side, blood oozing from the wound on your shoulder. Saddiq’s head swung to where the bullet had come from, Alpha walking back in, handing the gun to Beta as he followed her. Whatever conversation they had had outside left Alpha fuming.

Another scream ripped through your throat when Alpha brought her foot up, putting weight on your open wound. “Why are you so willing to die for him?” She seethed.

“‘Cause that’s what you do for family, but you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?” Angry tears welled in your eyes as you stared up at her from the weird angle.

Your next words were directed to Saddiq, as if you knew what was going to happen next. “ Tell Daryl I love him.”

It all happened so quick. Alpha leaned down, her other hand holding a knife as it dragged across the soft skin of your neck. Your hands fought to move to the blood flowing out of your neck, but were bound behind you. Your mouth moved like a fish out of water, until blood coated the inside of your mouth, painting your teeth red.

Saddiq watched the life drain from your eyes, his brain blank. He felt numb. Alpha walked back over to him, leaning down to whisper in his ear. Before he knew it, everything went black.

“-She wanted you to know that she loved you. I could tell she did. I’m sorry it's not her standing in front of you.” Daryl didn’t reply, much like how he hadn’t uttered a word since Saddiq began talking about you, about your last moment. He walked away, leaving a teary-eyed Saddiq.

The wind was chilly as Daryl and Lydia walked up the hill to where Daryl felt the word stop. The spikes still stood, a reminder that that was Alpha’s territory now.

Darl looked away from Lydia as she kneeled in front of the spike, where Henry’s head had been. He let her have a moment.

“She’s just a kid.” Your voice rang out in his head, a reminder that she was a kid, dealing with the loss of someone who she cared for and who cared for her. Sounds familiar.

His eyes caught sight of the familiar spike, glaring at it with all the hatred in his heart. Blood had soaked in and dried to the wood. Your blood.

He hated the world even more. He hated Alpha, Beta, the fucking whisperers, and the wanted to hate you for being so selfless, but he couldnt get himself to. Most of all, he hated himself for going against your last wish. The guilt would eat him from the inside out and he would let it.

He felt like he deserved it.

•2021-2024 by xoxo-sarah on Tumblr•

•My work is not to be translated, copied, modified, and/or reposted on any other site without my permission. [I don't give permission!]

People who wanted to be tagged: @vaniniweenie @sassysebastian20

[katyawriteswhump]

(You’re just) too good to be true 

For @astrangersummer week 3 prompts, flowers and/or hugs. Thanks to bananas and yesdanger on discord for the extra prompts to get me going. I have tried to get as many in as possible. 

Summary: Steve wakes up in hospital after everything is over and can’t quite believe how well everything has turned out…

Rating: T. WC: 1460   CW: None. Other tags: Steddie, platonic stobin, angst, sickfic, hurt/comfort, temporary amnesia, fix-it fic, everybody lives.

…

Steve flutters his eyes open and spies Robin sitting by his bed. Mascara streams down her face, and her hair’s a literal disaster zone.

“Steve! You’re awake!” She grabs his hand. “You’re gonna be okay. The doctor should be here any minute.”

Doctor!?! Where the heck am I?

His throat proves too dry for words. Robin garbles way too fast for him to understand and she’s wringing his fingers ever tighter.

If she’s touching me, I guess it can't be rabies.

His memory triggered, the shitshow slams back. First, the bats, the bites. Then everything that happened after, until they journeyed again into the Upside Down to try to kill Vecna.

Oh hold on, scratch that. 

To fail to kill Vecna.

Staring blankly through Robin, he fixates on the terrible parts. Eddie lying bloodied and dead in Dustin’s arms. Dustin sobbing his eyes out. Max was pretty much lost too, and Vecna was alive, gone to ground, and…

What happened next? Why am I in a hospital bed? Jesus, I was fine! 

There’s one of those IV thingies in his arm. He shivers though can’t tell if he’s cold or hot. The doctor arrives, jostles him, talks at him, shines lights in his eyes. He’s not in pain, but his brain is all woolly, and he’s confused and weak and lost.

He needs a hug more than ever in his life. Robin peeps at him over the doctor’s shoulder, bouncing like a spooked bunny-rabbit, then she’s gone.

It’s all too much.

He quits, sinking back into the darkness.

…

When Steve next pries an eyelid open, he spies Eddie breezing into the hospital room. Eddie joins Robin, who has moved to the window to pick at her nail polish.

Eddie is gone, which means… Oh, no, no, no, no, no! I’m dead too? Or dreaming?

His throat is achy and tight. He closes his eyes again, hot tears welling. More memories trickle back.

“Make him pay,” Eddie had said.

He recalls that last, lingering look between them. The one that slammed him like a freight train, because... Wtf? For some strange reason, that moment doesn’t feel like the end of a story anymore.

It feels like a beginning. Which is just dumb. 

Eddie is no more.

He peeps again, watching a dude who is very definitely Eddie pouring bottled water into a vase of flowers on the windowsill. Robin seizes the bottle from him: “What are you doing, shit-bird? Those are silk—his mom brought them. They don’t need water.”

“Riiiight.” Eddie pulls a silly face, which Steve finds freakish levels of adorable. Suddenly, he wants to crush Eddie to him, tell him that he’s insanely happy he’s here, even if this is some crazy dreamworld, and…

… he wants to shove his tongue into Eddie’s mouth and kiss him stupid.

Huh?

Steve licks dry lips. Most bewildering of all, he somehow knows how awesome kissing Eddie is. As if they’ve done it before.

More than once.

Eddie sneezes dramatically. “If those flowers are fake, I’m allergic to WASP chintz. Which checks out, I guess.”

Robin laughs, though it’s sad and nervy. He catches a glimpse of Eddie’s bambi eyes, and they’re anxious, haunted, too. Then Lucas and Max walk in.

MAX? She’s in a coma!

Steve’s head throbs miserably from trying to make sense of this mad place. 

He quits and drifts back to the darkness.

…

When he next peeps, Robin and Eleven are sitting by his bed, sharing a packet of cool ranch doritos. 

Which makes less sense than ANY OF IT.

Robin’s gotten real picky lately about sharing food. At least, with anybody but him. He’s vaguely pissed, because these two hardly know each other. The way they’re huddled on the same chair, like close buddies, suggests otherwise.

Yeah, he’s vaguely pissed. And kinda jealous. He sort of hates himself for being needy... but he really wants that hug. 

Then another memory flashes back. Some alien desert landscape, with Eleven blasting Vecna with everything she’s got. Eddie sprinting toward him—tailed by what looks like a medium-to-large demogorgon with at least a dozen extra flailing limbs—and Robin yelling, “Steve! El’s got this—help Eddie!”

He finally forces his eyes wide enough for them to see he’s watching. “R-Robin?” he croaks.

“Steve!” She leaps to her feet, nearly knocking El and the chair flying. “You’re really, actually awake this time? Please say yes.”

There’s noise and confusion. The doctor arrives again, checks Steve’s vitals, then bitches that there’s too many kids in the room: “It should be family only,” she says.

“We’re his family,” argues Robin. “His parents only come during official visiting hours.”

Robin is allowed to remain. She helps him sip water, and then he says, “Look, I think was dreaming earlier, or off my head on meds, because I saw you with Eddie, and I know that’s impossible, because…” He swallows hard, mumbles the hateful words: “He's gone, right?”

“Oh my God, you don’t remember?”

“Jesus, Robin! Remember what?”

“We won, Steve. Everyone lived. We even got Crissy back. Vecna’s the only one who’s history. If you hadn’t got hurt, it would’ve been the perfect revenge.”

This time, he manages to take more of her story in. He gets lost in the part where Robin and Dustin figure out time travel—some crazy shit about the proximity of alternate dimensions causing rumples in the space-time continuum. The rest of her tale unleashes a slew of badass memories that squish all the terrible ones into the dirt. Instead of Eddie being dead, he recalls…

“You and Eddie totally slayed this nasty-ass demo-squid-monster,” says Robin. “It got pretty intense, and when you survived, you had, like, an EPIC hug. Aaaand might’ve kissed. Then, later, you threw yourself at Eddie to save him from flying debris, then you rolled into a crater, and he wound up on top, and…”

Steve suddenly recalls that moment vividly. Eddie straddled his hips, and his own hands landed not entirely accidentally on Eddie’s butt. Once they’d gathered their breaths, Eddie leaned forward, swiped hair from his face, and whispered:

“About what you said to Wheeler. If you still want to win her back, that’s fine, I’ll back off, but… just so you know, six kids is cool with me, Stevie. Not like we need to adopt. When you’re around, they simply rock up.”

“So, yeah,” Robin says, ripping Steve from these mind-blowing revelations, “it took us half a dozen attempts to get things right. In the final boss-fight, it was just you, me, Eleven and Eddie. We were lost in the Upside Down for weeks, before we exploded Vecna into a billion disgusting pieces. Because you're you, you were closest, got caught in the blast. You lost a lot of blood, but all important appendages are still present and correct, including, um… any important appendages you were particularly worried about. Not that I’m saying you were, but… Ugh!” She facepalms. “This so isn’t where I meant to go with that.”

He faintly smirks. “You dug that hole, not me, Buckley.”

“No need to gloat. You’re gonna be fine. Everyone is going to be just fine.”

It’s still too much to take in. One question bugs him the most: “Eddie and me, erm… How far did we..?”

“I didn’t stand there and count the bases, Dingus! He’ll be back in five. Ask him. But, you know, there was talk of picking out rings, getting matching tats and—”

“You’re kidding?”

“A bit. Seriously, by the third week, you two seemed chill. Happy. I really hope you remember it all soon.”

He takes a beat. Warmth pools in his chest, because everything Robin says sure as heck feels true. He gives her hand a little pulse, and their fingers intertwine.

“Robin,” he says. “At the risk of sounding downbeat, it’s all a bit too perfect. I’m kinda worried I’m dead.”

“Oh! You’re really, really not. I’m all sticky and gross 'cos I was here all night, but… would a hug help?”

He nods, levers himself up a little, suppressing a wince at the effort. He wraps the arm unencumbered by the IV around her, and she awkwardly cuddles him. He rests his cheek on her bony shoulder, and breathes deeply, while she rubs juddering circles in his back.

She’s sweaty and clumsy and real.

“You’re not dead, I promise,” she whispers. “If you were, I’d be so mad with you, after all that effort to fix things. Besides, you still got hurt, and we were all out of time travel opportunities. Long story. Anyhow, it's been hell, till the doctors said you’d be okay, and even then… We’ve been so scared.”

Her trembling shakes through him. He tries not to sniffle, but he can't seem to help it. Everyone survived. Eddie’s alive. Eddie and he are…

His heart gives a crazy squeeze that says everything he needs to know.

“As soon as you’re out of here,” whispers Robin, “this summer is gonna be the best ever.”

(also part of my steve whump fic series on AO3)

[antiyourwokehomophobia2]

Severance is eldritch horror. Dylan meets his son, and, in the blink of an eye, he's back to his outie self and is incapable of coming back at will. Can you imagine that? All you've know your entire life is work. All you know about yourself is what your job is. Then, suddenly, you're aware that you're a father. Your son comes into a closet---your closet, with clothes you've never worn but belong to you. You bought them. You're seeing your style and preferences for the first time. Your son is so happy to see you that he wraps you in a hug. You don't know what his name is. You don't know that you have more children. You don't remember any of them being born. You only know that this boy is your son because he calls you "daddy". And then you're gone. He's gone. You wake up in your office with absolutely no way of going back.

Helly wants to leave. She learns that she's the daughter and heiress to the man/company who is keeping her trapped. Her chance of escaping rests entirely on her outies willingness to let her go. This is never going to happen. Her power rests in the hands of a woman who is her but also not her. She is enslaved to herself. All she has to do is go outside and say "I don't want this anymore" and she will be free! The moment she steps outside, she loses every desire to do that. The person she is when she's outside does not want to do that. She watches a video of herself where she tells herself "you are not [a person]". The person she was when she sat down to record it and the person she was when she watched it are somehow entirely different and entirely the same. She tries to hang herself in order to hurt the version of herself who made that video. I'd like to take a second to talk about the eldritch horror of being an outie, too. Imagine being outie Helly. Imagine walking into work and bring perfectly okay. The next thing you know, you've hung yourself and are actively suffocating. You have no way of saving yourself. Your innie self made sure of that. You are in the process of dying and you don't remember why.

Burt retires from his job. Burt, who has just started to fall in love, is ripped away from the man he loves because of... Well, himself. His outie has decided to retire, and Burt has no choice but to follow him. He is him. Except he's not. Except he is. Except he's not because the man who has decided to retire is married. In Burt's retirement video, his outie states that he's aware that someone is making his innie very happy. He knows that it's another man. That's incredibly scary? Imagine having no memory of the last eight hours but being able to feel the effects that they have on you? Imagine going into work in whatever mood, and then leaving in an elated one and having no concrete idea as to why. Imagine being faithfully married and knowing that there's a part of your day where you don't know that you're married. You have absolutely zero control over whether you cheat on your husband. You do cheat on your husband! You are not aware of his existence while you're living as your innie. You have no clue how devastated you've left the man you're cheating on your husband with. You have no clue why he's banging on your door in the middle of the night. You don't know him. Even without your memories, you can feel how happy he makes you. Your husband is holding you while he bangs on the door.

Mark saves Helly from suicide. He's forced to leave work. If Burt is anything to go by then Mark, the outie, is suddenly extremely distressed and crying while having no idea as to why. He walked into work okay and left with tears on his cheeks. Suddenly, innie mark is at a party. He sees people who he knows but has never met before. He has no idea the woman standing in front of him is his sister. He sees a photo of a woman that all the people in the outside world believe to be dead. He works with this woman. She's alive! He has the power to change the lives of the people outside. He's gone in the flick of a switch. Outie mark doesn't remember shouting "she's alive". He doesn't know why everyone is staring at him funny. He doesn't know that his wife is not dead. He doesn't know that the person he's trying so hard to forget is his co-worker.

Irving. Poor Irving. The man he loves is taken away from him. They will never see each other again. Even if they do, they will not know each other. The man he loves gets to live the rest of his life without the knowledge that he ever even met Irving. Irving has to walk into work every day and mourn the loss of a man who will never come back. This man is not dead. He's just not himself. Except he is. Except he's not. Except he kinda is dead. Without work, your innie is effectively dead. Your innie and outie are two completely different people. Irving used to follow all the rules. Who knew that the heart of a rebel is born from the broken pieces of a good man's? Irving gets a chance to find the man he loves. He finds him embracing another man. This does not deter him. He throws his weight at the door and starts banging on it.

[starmocha]

never the same [Rafayel/MC ★ 2216 words ★ Masterlist ★ Series Index ★ AO3] She will be his magnum opus. A/N: Uhh…this can be interpreted as sharing the same timeline as “the day bleeds into nightfall” or it’s in its own individual timeline. Not sure if it explains my mental state, but I wrote this while playing Kitty Cards at 2am.

He had that dream again.

Or rather, it was that nightmare that continued to play on loop every time he closed his eyes.

As the sun glared into his face, Rafayel blinked his grogginess away, his mind still lingering in a haze as the last remnants of his dream slipped away. His eyes adjusted to the room, and he remembered. As he sat up, groaning at the back pain, he realized he had fallen asleep on the wooden floor in the living room again.

He had lost count of how many times that had happened in the last four months. He cradled his head in his hand, groaning as he heard Thomas’ voice ringing in his ears over and over again:

Rafayel…I’m sorry…She is…

Rafayel groaned aloud, burying his face into his hands, wishing he was still asleep, just trapped in a horrendous dream waiting to wake up. He heaved and sobbed, just wishing he could bury the memory of that horrible day, but no matter how strongly he willed it, Thomas’ voice cut through, pained and saddened, but nowhere near the level of grief that consumed Rafayel:

She is…

“…dead.” He stared soullessly at his destroyed studio, canvases were smashed, incinerated, or shredded mercilessly with his blade during his rage. Paintbrushes were snapped like toothpicks while paint splattered everywhere like a crime scene.

Rafayel no longer found joy in his studio. He had not held a brush or pencil in four months except to destroy them in his grief and anger. There was no longer any inspiration or passion for his paintings just like how he no longer found any reason to wake up.

When she had left, she had taken all of the colors out of his palette.

The world had turned to gray, and he found himself stuck in a stagnant, his days repeating the same as he mindlessly scrolled through his phone, looking at the messages he had sent over the months to someone who would never be able to respond to him again. He looked at the last conversation he had sent, just a month earlier:

do you know what the most heartbreaking thing in the world is

withered flowers beached fish

and me when i cant see you

Rafayel sighed and leaned against the window, his eyes drifting to the sparkling sea outside. The water seemed so inviting, like she was inviting him back into her embrace, urging him to let her lull him to sleep and forget this unrelenting pain.

He turned his gaze back down to his phone in his hand, his eyes drifting to the next conversation, dated two months ago:

its been a week and still cant paint anything

i think my inspiration left with something

His breath grew ragged as he scrolled up.

no motivation to paint these days

should i shut myself in

He scrolled up to three months earlier, recalling when he was finally starting to allow the notion that she was gone to enter his mind. He gripped his phone tightly as his hand trembled.

dun even remember what day it is today

the sea outside looks blue but also gray

a gray sea sounds pretty cool? maybe the entire world was gray from the start

He scrolled up to the first text conversation he had sent four months earlier, just three days after Thomas had revealed the devastating news to the painter and subsequently after his own vandalism of his studio.

thomas asked me why i didnt clean up my studio yesterday

nobodys coming over so why would i

When she had left, she had forsaken him again.

He knew she never did it willingly, never intending to hurt him, but the pain was all the same. For once, Rafayel found himself actually walking to his bedroom and laying down on the plush mattress to stare at the domed ceiling overhead. It was still dusk, but within just a few minutes, nightfall would take over, and the stars would come out to shine and illuminate the sky.

He raised his phone, covering his view of the glass dome. His eyes focused in on the last text message she had sent him shortly before her final mission:

Gonna send you messages in drift bottles LOL

The reception is going to be really bad in the mountains. I promise I’m not ignoring you, so don’t freak out again. We’ll go eat seafood when I’m back home! Or do you want sushi again? Make a decision before I come home!

“Neither,” he mumbled to the quiet room, his eyes already drifting back to the first word of the message as he reread it again and again and again, until the sound of waves finally lulled him to sleep under the starry sky.

When she had left, he wished to return to the ocean, becoming the seafoam and forget the cutting pain of mortal life.

The dream was always that same scene of Thomas breaking the news to Rafayel, but each time he had had the dream, the words started getting more muffled, like they were underwater.

This time was no different as Rafayel closed his eyes, wishing to drown out the words and forget the pained look on his agent’s face. When he opened his eyes again, he realized he was underwater. His face relaxed, feeling the familiar cool water embraced him. The brief moment of serenity did not last long, though, as his sight caught a glimpse of a figure slowly sinking into the dark depths of the ocean.

His chest ached with a searing hot pain, his heart responding to her as she drifted further and further away from him. His body went into auto-mode, unaware of the instinctual changes as fin replaced the human legs he had previously. He swam with the swift speed of a black marlin, but no matter how close he should be getting to her, she was always cruelly pulled further out of his reach.

His voice called out to her, his throat raw with pain and desperation as he screamed and reached out, silently begging for their fingers to just touch.

“Come back…” His fin thrashed in the water, propelling him deeper into the cold darkness. He extended his arm, reaching desperately for her limp hand. “Come back…back…to me…”

As the darkness enveloped her, Rafayel woke up screaming and shaking, his chest tightening with pain as the dream replayed over and over in his mind. He buried his face into his hand, screaming and cursing for anyone to hear him.

“Why…why…wh…”

Just how many lifetimes was he supposed to endure, only for her to slip through his fingers like sand time and time again?

Rafayel mindlessly browsed a shopping website on his phone, just adding products after products to his cart without thinking about the actual necessity of the items or the prices. He also ordered art supplies again: new canvases, paint, and tools, but as he finalized the payment, he felt the same emptiness, the lack of desire to create.

His orders arrived the next day, sitting outside the studio for hours until Thomas stopped by and helped hauled the packages inside.

Along with his presence, Thomas had also brought along a bag of takeout food.

“It’s just fried chicken,” his agent commented, laying the greasy fast food out on the kitchen counter. “But it’s better than not eating.” The brunet looked at the painter with shades of disappointment and worries. “When was the last time you have eaten, Rafayel?”

Rafayel leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, and shrugged. “Dunno. Wednesday?”

“It’s Friday today,” Thomas bit out immediately, voice tinged with a layer of frustration. He sighed, reining in his emotions. “Just eat something. I have a meeting with the press in two hours. What should I tell them about your next project?”

Rafayel walked over and bit into a chicken tender strip. “Ugh, bland,” he quipped, tone unchanging. He waved off Thomas’ question. “Tell them I became a hermit. I ran away and I’m not painting anymore.”

Thomas crossed his arms and looked at Rafayel with a shake of his head, sensing that Rafayel was trying to maintain his usual flippant attitude, but this time, though, the once normal exaggeration seemed genuine. “I’ll tell them you are taking a break then.”

Rafayel waved him off without a glance as he stared at the array of fried chickens, buttered toast, onion rings, and a soda on the counter. “Should I make a sandwich…”

He placed the toast on a plate, spreading mayonnaise on the bread before stacking two chicken tenders and a large onion ring on top. He closed his creation with another slice of toast, pressing down on the sandwich before taking a bite, wishing he could go back to that perfect evening when she and him had shared a similar homecooked meal together.

Days slipped by in the usual monotony of disinterest and solitude, but sometimes Rafayel would break the cycle and sit down on the floor in front of the coffee table with Reddie’s fish bowl on top.

He watched the little fish swim in circles for hours, both of them unaware of the passage of time.

“Do you miss her?” Rafayel asked the fish. “Do you think about her?”

The Lemurian listened to his fish companion respond, and he sighed empathetically. “I do, too,” he admitted quietly as he reached for the bottle of fish food. He gave three light taps, watching the little round pellets float on the surface of the fish bowl.

Reddie immediately swam to the bottom of his bowl, hiding within the modest decorations to avoid his owner.

Rafayel frowned.

“You need to eat,” he scolded the little fish.

Reddie peeked out and opened his mouth, seemingly echoing the same words back to his owner.

For a moment, silence filled the studio, the only sound heard were the waves crashing on the shore outside and sea gulls crying overhead. Eventually, Rafayel relented.

“Yeah, okay,” he muttered, standing up and heading into the kitchen, unaware that Reddie swam to the top of his bowl and began eating again.

Rafayel knew there was no correct or concrete unanimous consensus for the exact appropriate time to grieve, but he still found himself angry with everyone.

The world was already moving on. Her former co-workers have already returned to some semblance of normalcy without her. No one mentioned her or her name. Strangers who had only met her once or pass by her unspoken had no idea a fair maiden had been taken from the world, her mere life exchanged for the sake of others.

The very thought enraged him, igniting the flames within himself.

She would not be forgotten, he vowed. Not by him and not by the world. For the remainder of this mortal life, he would pour his heart and soul into preserving her existence.

Rafayel picked up a paintbrush for the first time in months and he stepped forward, his sight set on the enormous canvas that claimed the entire studio wall.

My magnum opus.

The studio filled up with canvases of varying sizes, all at different stages of completion. Many of them were deemed as failed attempts to capture her beauty, her soul, her existence. Crumbled sketches scattered across the floor, surrounding Rafayel as he lay there staring up at the ceiling. Occasionally his eyes drifted to the large canvas waiting for him to start adding paint strokes to it.

It was not time yet. He hadn’t perfected her, still needing to practice recreating every single part of her on sketch papers and smaller canvases. He needed to perfect the curves of her body as she moved and swayed, capture the way her hair had flowed, and mix the perfect shade of paint that truly was reminiscent of her beautiful eyes.

Rafayel was in a hypnotized daze, losing himself to his newfound obsession of preserving her memory for the world to see.

She was here.

She was here.

She was here.

Through his paintings, he was going to scream to the world that she was here and she would be immortalized alongside the great muses of the past. He surrendered himself to endless nights of painting, trapped in a frenzy as he hurried to capture the images in his mind before they slipped away.

“…here…she was here…” His hand glided across the canvas as his chest throbbed, the desperation to hold onto the image in his mind was etched on his face as he moved quickly to preserve it. “She…is here…”

Dawn broke through the night, the orange glow of the sun taking over, its light creeping into the studio as Rafayel staggered back from his latest creations. He smiled, delirious from the recent spells of sleep deprivation, his eyes taking in the portrait of her he had painted a week prior. The beauty before him smiled radiantly against the backdrop of a blue sky, her eyes locked on his, beckoning him closer to her with an outstretched hand.

One day, in a new lifetime, they will be together again.

“For ‘tis Lemuria’s vow…” he murmured, stepping forward and letting his lips meet hers on the canvas. His eyes closed as he shuddered and sighed, his hand splayed over hers.

A bond everlasting.

[hollowed-theory-hall]

i remember you mentioned Harry loves spending time with Diary bc of his connection with Voldemort (or i think so) but what about Voldemort in his head? does he loves it or not? i also think after death-and-rebirth he kinda feel more lighter and even sad about it

Like, it's canon Harry likes to just hold the diary becouse he feels drawn to it, even before knowing how it works:

Harry couldn’t explain, even to himself, why he didn’t just throw Riddle’s diary away. The fact was that even though he knew the diary was blank, he kept absentmindedly picking it up and turning the pages, as though it were a story he wanted to finish. And while Harry was sure he had never heard the name T. M. Riddle before, it still seemed to mean something to him, almost as though Riddle was a friend he’d had when he was very small, and had half-forgotten. But this was absurd. He’d never had friends before Hogwarts, Dudley had made sure of that.

(CoS, Ch13)

That's an actual quote from the book.

Also, later on, Tom has to literally spell out that he's Voldemort because Harry was just completely unwilling to accept that his new BFF Tom who he might have a baby crush on is evil:

“Tom — Tom Riddle?” Riddle nodded, not taking his eyes off Harry’s face. “What d’you mean, she won’t wake?” Harry said desperately. “She’s not — she’s not — ?” “She’s still alive,” said Riddle. “But only just.” [...] “Are you a ghost?” Harry said uncertainly. “A memory,” said Riddle quietly. “Preserved in a diary for fifty years.” He pointed toward the floor near the statue’s giant toes. Lying open there was the little black diary Harry [...] For a second, Harry wondered how it had got there — but there were more pressing matters to deal with. “You’ve got to help me, Tom,” Harry said, raising Ginny’s head again. “We’ve got to get her out of here. There’s a basilisk . . . I don’t know where it is, but it could be along any moment. . . . Please, help me —” Riddle didn’t move. [...] But his wand had gone. “Did you see — ?” He looked up. Riddle was still watching him — twirling Harry’s wand between his long fingers. “Thanks,” said Harry, stretching out his hand for it. A smile curled the corners of Riddle’s mouth. He continued to stare at Harry, twirling the wand idly. “Listen,” said Harry urgently, his knees sagging with Ginny’s dead weight. “We’ve got to go! If the basilisk comes —” “It won’t come until it is called,” said Riddle calmly. [...] “What d’you mean?” he said. “Look, give me my wand, I might need it —” Riddle’s smile broadened. “You won’t be needing it,” he said. Harry stared at him. “What d’you mean, I won’t be — ?” “I’ve waited a long time for this, Harry Potter,” said Riddle. “For the chance to see you. To speak to you.” “Look,” said Harry, losing patience, “I don’t think you get it. We’re in the Chamber of Secrets. We can talk later —” “We’re going to talk now,” said Riddle, still smiling broadly, and he pocketed Harry’s wand. Harry stared at him. There was something very funny going on here. . . .

(CoS, Ch17)

Like, it takes Harry forever to get to the realization something is wrong even though Tom steals his wand and says mysterious evil shit because Harry was so desperate to keep Tom as his friend.

I mentioned here, how Harry does like his mental connection to Voldemort in DH in a way because it gives him a sense of purpose.

Harry is the one to decide they should be wearing the locket after he sensed life from it:

“Can you feel it, though?” Ron asked in a hushed voice, as he held it tight in his clenched fist. “What d’you mean?” Ron passed the Horcrux to Harry. After a moment or two, Harry thought he knew what Ron meant. Was it his own blood pulsing through his veins that he could feel, or was it something beating inside the locket, like a tiny metal heart? “What are we going to do with it?” Hermione asked. “Keep it safe till we work out how to destroy it,” Harry replied, and, little though he wanted to, he hung the chain around his own neck, dropping the locket out of sight beneath his robes, where it rested against his chest beside the pouch Hagrid had given him.

(DH, Ch14)

He's also the one of the trio that insists they should be wearing the locket even after they learn of it's effects, while Hermione suggests that maybe they really shouldn't:

“Hmm,” said Hermione, looking down at the heavy gold locket. “Well, maybe we ought not to wear it. We can just keep it in the tent.” “We are not leaving that Horcrux lying around,” Harry stated firmly. “If we lose it, if it gets stolen — ”

(DH, Ch15)

Ron is also against wearing Horcruxes, while Harry didn't seem to mind keeping the cup in his pocket:

Harry pulled the Horcrux from the pocket of the wet jacket he had just taken off and set it down on the grass in front of them. Glinting in the sun, it drew their eyes as they swigged their bottles of juice. “At least we can’t wear it this time, that’d look a bit weird hanging around our necks,” said Ron, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

(DH, Ch27)

So, yeah, I think Harry definitely could feel his connection to Tom and the various Horcruxes.

I do think, once he comes back to life, he feels emptier, like a part of him is gone in a way. He'd feel lighter like a weight was taken off his shoulders, but I think he'd also feel off and aimless. I talked about it more here.

It's why I think Harry should've gone back for 8th year, I think getting his NEWTs and the familiar environment at Hogwarts would do him good after everything. Give my boy a break.

[duskier]

Is Soap the crazy ex that's stealing your stuff and Ghost won't do anything about it?

cw toxic relationship, stalking, pillow humping, panty sniffing/licking

The sheer AMOUNT of asks and comments and tags I got begging for it to be fem Soap... TBH I hadn't originally Thought that but yall convinced my ass so easy!! (As if toxic lesbianism isn't my bread and fucking butter)

Soap being sooo obsessed with you- Ghost dumped her because he loves loves LOVES seeing Soap emotionally distraught but got distracted with you soon after, he forgot to take Soap back before her last bits of sanity fled her.

She starts by finding all your social media, she swears that you're posting soft launch photos of Ghost’s hand on your thigh specifically to taunt her. Of course, all that does is rile her up more, and the logical conclusion to cope with that, of course, is to break into your flat while you're away on vacation with Ghost. Serves you right for flying to the fucking Caribbean with her man.

She considers smashing everything she can get her claws on while draped on your bed, your cat purring against Soap while she pets it mindlessly. Spares herself a little maniacal smile at the idea burning your whole fucking place down- she'd wait around a corner as you'd come home and fall to your knees in agony having lost it all.

Scratching just beneath the cats chin and cooing, "Don't worry love, I'd be sure to take good care of ye. Probably better than yer mum thas' for sure."

Ultimately, she does something stranger. She spends the entirety of your remaining vacation (two weeks, one day, and seventeen hours-- bleeding Christ, Ghost never spent more than two nights at Soap’s flat) living as you. The sweet old woman across from you that you asked to check in on your cat while you were gone? Why, she's so old her eyesight is going out. She doesn't trust her memory that much either. So when she squints up at Soap, she doesn't question anything as she passes the fraud your house key.

"Back early, eh pet?"

"Ah, no, but time does fly, doesnae?"

She wakes up every morning in your perfumed, satin sheets. She brushes her teeth with your brush, your paste- licking the bristles like a sweet until all the mint flavor was gone. Showers with all your soaps and slathers herself with your expensive oils after. Looks herself in the eyes in the mirror as she puts your lipstick on. Finds any set of clothes in your closet that fit her, unafraid to play tailor to make especially pretty items fit. Doesn't care if your shoes don't fit her, she makes them fit one way or another. Eats your oats, drinks your coffee from your unwashed mug as she looks down fondly as the cat eats the breakfast Soap put out for it. When she orders out, she puts your name down. Gets a little thrill in the cafes when they call out her tea but your name, gleefully smiling as she takes the paper cup.

Takes strange men home, and by home that still means yours, so they can fuck her like a worthless whore while spitting your name. It's pornographic when Soap throws her head back and cums with a cry when a man won't stop whining your name. She can't escape the sweet smell of your perfume.

Living as you, Soap has never felt so beautiful or put together in her life. It comes as a horrible, dizzying conclusion to Soap in the dead of night: she's not mad at you anymore. She's in love with you. It has her staggering out of bed, nearly collapsing at your hamper when she finds what she was hoping for. Falling over herself back onto your bed and mounting one of your pillows, muscular hips jerking as she rubs her bare, sopping cunt against the fabric. One hand gripping the corner of the pillow, keeping it in place and imagining it was your hair in her fist. The other hand holding a pair of your underwear to her nose. She takes a grotesquely deep sniff, eyes rolling back in her head with a guttural moan. She doesn't stop even as her hips start to buck faster, more desperate. It was then Soap’s turn to whine out your name like it were a last prayer, again and again. Strong thighs flexing as her rhythym became more erratic, her body bowing forward as she chased her orgasm. Tongue daring to dart out and tasting salt, tasting you, the new love of her life, this was the straw that finally broke Soap for good.

[arlathavellan-acotar]

Phantom Pains | III

Fandom: ACOTAR

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Reader: she/her, (3/4-High Fae, 1/4-Tartera), Y/N used

Genre: Fluff, Angst, Hurt/Comfort

Word Count: 2.7k

Something is... wrong. Time missing, memories missing, thoughts missing. Wondering where things both big and small disappeared to, like the dress you were working on or even the past seventeen hours of your day. Something is very wrong, and the thought seems to slip your mind as soon as it comes. || Azriel has been a part of your life for years now, and has been courting you since the fall of Hybern. Only, things don't seem to be as simple as you'd both assumed they'd be. It seems someone thought you were the weak link-- the easy ticket to infiltrating the inner circle through its spymaster. And maybe you are.

|| Previous Part | Next Part (wip) | Masterlist ||

All Azriel ever wanted was to keep you safe. From the moment he first saw you, he knew you were something precious, something to be protected. Convinced he knew best how, he kept you away from the inner court, away from the side of himself he was afraid you would turn from in fear. His hubris and shame kept you away from the people who could protect you while he was gone.

Cas and Mor had wanted to be introduced to you years ago, before things were even official between the two of you. Afraid it would only put a target on your back, he let himself pretend it was better for you to never cross paths with that part of his life.

After the war, he started to let his guard down. Mor would commission gowns from you, both supporting you and building a professional relationship as a compromise to respect Azriel's boundaries. When he eventually decided it was time to officially introduce you to everyone, he went to Feyre first, thinking it would be easiest for you to connect artist-to-artist rather than let one of the others completely overwhelm you. She was happy to agree, and excited at the prospect of helping ease you into their family. When she finally got her dress, it brought your little shop more attention than you'd had since coming to own it. The way your face lit up when you told him about having to hire someone to help you out helped reassure him that he'd made the right choice. He wanted nothing more than to introduce you to the rest of his loved ones, knowing they'd love you almost as much as he did.

It was obvious to them all how much you meant to Azriel.

It was obvious to everyone who knew who he was that you were the Spymaster's weakness.

That was his mistake; growing too comfortable with the bubble of peace that had existed undisturbed around the two of you. When he was with you, he let himself imagine he was someone else, someone with less blood on his hands.

He never should have forgotten, never should have let his guard down. It didn't matter how many times he'd been able to walk you home with no issue— every moment you were seen with him was a public admittance that you were important to him. Azriel could never be a normal illyrian, never act like it was possible to separate the parts of himself. Every waking moment he was the Shadowsinger, the Spymaster. His love for you didn't keep you safe, it only made you a target. Everything he did to put a smile on your face made it that much easier for others to hurt you.

——

Azriel is on his way back from his mission when Rhysand gets in contact with him.

Come home, he says. Now.

He tries to ask questions. Anxiety swirls in the pit of his stomach as he flies, any response met with a resounding silence.

The mission had been underwhelming, the intel he'd gotten no more than cold tracks leading straight to a dead end. Whispers of rebellion, more faeries foolish enough to act out against Rhysand moreso because of what he is than what he's done. There was nothing when he'd gotten there, just a long-abandoned camp that left no clues behind. His shadows couldn't find anything either, returning just to whisper confusion in his ear. While he was ready to call it and go home, he didn't feel right dropping the thread without seeing where it might really end. After a week of searching, he felt like he'd been run in circles, and told Rhysand he was coming back to Velaris empty-handed. It seemed to be a routine the past year, a lot of low-effort surveillance that seemed to result in nothing.

Not even a souvenir? He'd joked.

He wasn't joking now.

"What's going on?" He asks in response, scanning the room. The atmosphere of the house is low, and it has all of his senses on high alert. "Is everyone okay?"

Azriel lands on the balcony of the Town House. If it were official Court business, Rhysand would be in the House of Wind. But the Town House? This was family business. He opened the doors swiftly, some of his shadows immediately fanning out to sweep the residence.

"Az," Cassian calls, voice tight and shoulders tensed as he practically marches towards him.

Shadows curl at his neck, overloading him with information. He winces, unable to sift through it all at once. They're panicked, some moving around the room so fast they're knocking chairs into the table and toppling over vases. The noise draws another person into the room as Cassian steadies him by his shoulders.

Room, he can barely make out in their desperate jumble of cries. Your room, your room. Five in house. Three in room. High Lord, doctor, sw—

"Azriel!" Mor cries, ducking around Cassian's wings to help hold him straight as his shadows continue their barrage of information, nearly knocking him off his feet in their haste.

Five in house. Three in room.

"Mor, grab a chair before they knock him down—" High lord.

"We don't have time—" Doctor.

"—just get Rhys—" Sweetheart.

Silence falls over the room as his shadows still in a single breath. His wide eyes meet Cassian's, flicker over to Mor's distressed, tear-streaked face, and the pieces fall into place.

"Y/N?" he breathes, terror gripping his chest.

Hands reach for him once more, mouths opening in explanation, but as his knees buckle, the light is sucked out of the room in an instant, and he's gone.

——

"Now," you say, making a few final adjustments to the garment in front of you. "There's still some work to be done, mostly alterations, but it will absolutely be done in time for the party."

The woman behind you is absolutely giddy, facing away until you give the word.

"Before we get started on all that, I know you mentioned you wanted a draping that was loose and flowy, but I was worried the fabric might snag on your jewelry." You explain. "So It's still a loose drape, but a little less than what I first showed you when we were picking out fabrics."

She lets out an impressed 'ooo' as you explain. "That's so smart; I can't wear my chunky bracelets with half my dresses. My lady, I defer to your judgment."

Letting out a laugh, you fluff out the skirt in preparation for its presentation. "Okay! Now, three, two—"

"—one!" Mor cuts off, spinning around to see the dress. Her hands fly up to her mouth as she bounces on her feet. "Yes, yes! Oh, Y/N, it's even better than I imagined."

Pride wells up in your chest as she moves closer to see the gown, but a wave of confusion washes over you as you sway slightly on your feet. She… liked the dress? No. No, she didn't like the dress. This isn’t what happened. Your head spins as you watch Mor fuss over the skirt, playing with the fabric to have the gemstones on the inner layers catch on the light like stars.

You ran out of that fabric. There wasn't enough left for a full skirt, so you had to go without it. You stumble backwards towards the wall, but nothing catches you. Panic grips your throat as you float weightlessly, and everything is drowned in black.

It's okay, a voice whispers in your mind. You're alright. I need to see what memories they locked away so I can figure out what they were looking for.

Memories… that was a memory? But that didn't happen. You try to close your eyes tightly against the darkness, but you feel nothing. Light floods your vision, and suddenly you're sitting on your couch alone.

"Hello?" You call, voice shaking. "Who's there?"

"I suppose an explanation is in order, now that you're here." The voice comes from everywhere and nowhere at once, until an unfamiliar faerie steps out of the shadows with his hands raised.

You stand unsteadily as he moves closer.

"My name is Rhysand, though you can just call me Rhys," he says.

"While I wish the circumstances were better, it's a pleasure to finally meet you, Y/N."

"Rhysand…" you mutter, feeling feint. "Azriel's brother?"

A fond expression crosses his face. "Not typically the first title that comes to mind for people, but I must admit it's refreshing."

The couch behind you seems to beckon you once more, and he has no objections when you sit back down. "What's going on?"

"I thought this might be easier to digest." A chair you certainly don't own appears on the other side of the coffee table for him to take a seat. "We're in your head right now. I can't say I've ever tried something like this, but I quite like it. Although I believe your mind may be doing most of the heavy lifting, so we don't have much time."

Holding your hands out, your flip them over as you curl your fingers. Everything has a bit of a smoky quality to it, like it would all disappear with a gust of wind, and feels the same sluggish consistency as your shadows.

"What… happened?" Quiet as your voice is, he seems to hear you perfectly well.

His gaze is pained when you look back up at him, eyebrows pinched as he tries to explain. "From what I can tell, someone has gotten access to your mind, and had been taking and altering your memories. I don't know for what purpose, so I've been trying to see what they've hidden to try and figure it out. Do you know when this may have started?"

The answer comes to you immediately, the incident having weighed on your mind since it happened. "I lost a few hours a little over a month ago. Azriel found me standing in the street."

Something passes over his face, and the moment of silence that follows has dread building in your gut.

"Az spoke to me about that night," he says softly, almost slowly. It reminds you of that moment with Mor, before everything in your head exploded. He opens his mouth to speak once more, but his attention is snapped elsewhere. Looking to the side, his expression twists with confusion and anger. "Someone's trying to break through my wards. I'll be back soon; let your mind rest, and we'll continue once you've regained your strength."

"Wait—" you lurch forward, reaching for him, but you continue falling forward as everything you see dissipates.

Your existence feels lighter and lighter, until you feel nothing at all.

——

Azriel feels the wards fighting him, digging under his skin as his shadows slip through cracks that aren’t there. He’s never tried to travel within the house like this, never had need to, but with his shadows guiding him to you he had no complaints.

His room explodes with darkness as he finally lands on his feet, the sound of an older woman screaming in shock filling his ears before they all congregated around his bed. Looking around frantically, he took stock of the occupants of the room.

Madja stood by his dresser, hastily straightening bottles of medicines and salves that had been knocked askew by his arrival. By his bed, stepping back from the writhing mass of darkness, was Rhys, with a displeased expression.

“What happened?” he asks before the High Lord can speak.

Rhys sighs, rubbing between his brows as they pinch together. “Was that you, bursting through my wards?”

“Rhys,” Azriel hisses.

“You were right,” Rhys says, leveling him with a look that urged him to try and stay calm. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you then, Az. But we can fix it, now.”

The ground seems to fall out from beneath his feet. Stumbling forward, the Spymaster catches himself on the foot of his bed, shadows curling up his arms.

“She’s had multiple memories locked away, and when Mor caught on…”

Azriel looks up at him, wanting him to finish but not wanting to hear the words.

“It was a Daemati.”

The breath leaves his lungs, and the illyrian curls in on himself at the jolt of pain that shoots through his chest. A steady hand grasps his shoulder, grounding him.

“She’s alright, now. I’ve shut them out of her head so they can’t do any further damage, but…” he trails off, as if it might ease the blow.

Azriel understands the implication loud and clear. “But they’ve already caused damage.” He digs the heels of his palms into his eyes, taking deep breaths as Rhys sighs. The only sounds in the room are his breaths, the rustling of his sheets, and the near-silent clacking of Madja’s equipment. “How bad is it?”

Rhys’ hand twists on his shoulder as he moves to sit beside him on the bed. “She may have some residual issues with memory loss in the future. I didn’t get very far, but they’ve locked numerous memories away, most pertaining to interactions with you or Mor.”

The silence that follows is somehow more tense than the last, and when Azriel finally straightens back up to look at Rhys, the expression that greets him is pained.

“When I asked her when she began to have issues relating to her memory… she claimed that you found her standing in the street a little over a month ago.”

A month ago. Had you really been suffering for so long unnoticed that you’d lost so much time? Everything he’d just chalked up to stress about the customer influx, and you were missing three months worth of memories. What had they even left for you?

He turns to look over his shoulder at you, his shadows parting just enough for him to see you sleeping peacefully in his bed.

“I’m keeping her unconscious for now,” Rhys tells him. “It will give her mind time to rest and heal itself, so I don’t do more harm than good.” His hand squeezes his shoulder, turning his attention back to him. “With the depth and frequency of attack… they have to be somewhere in the city, Az. Somewhere close to her.”

His fists clench tightly in his sheets, a low-bubbling rage festering in his gut. “Someone in Velaris did this?”

“We opened our gates to Hewn city,” Mor calls from the doorway. The two turn to look at her, a heavy weight settling upon the room at her words. “We should start with any frequent visitors, see who spends a lot of time in her part of the Palace of Thread and Jewels.”

“The intel we’ve been getting,” Azriel says, voice raspy. “Almost a year of nothing.”

Rhys answers with a dawning dread. “Someone wanted you out of the city. Away from her.”

He shares a look with Mor as Azriel stands from his bed and storms out of his room, half of his shadows rushing after him.

——

Cassian is downstairs to meet him at the door. “Don—“

“Move, Cas,” he snarls, stopping in front of him.

“Think, Az. If you go tearing through the streets of Velaris—“ an attempt to shoulder past him is stopped with a hard shove, “—they’ll be in the wind before you can find them.”

The two have their stand-off, Azriel’s siphons beginning to burn as Mor makes it back downstairs, Rhys close behind.

“You’re needed here, Az.” She’s met with a glare, hazel eyes dark. “Don’t give me that. You know we need to narrow our search down so they don’t see us coming.”

Rhys steps forward with a subtle tilt of his head. Azriel’s gaze snaps towards him, brow cocking as he waits for a third iteration of the same argument. “Y/N needs you here, with her.”

Silence falls between them, a battle of wills crackling the air around them. Darkness creeps up his legs, his torso, curling around his neck to voice their deliberation.

Sweetheart, they say. Alone, hurt, with us, safe, sweetheart, safe.

He closes his eyes with a heavy, weary sigh, shoulders dropping and siphons fading. A heavy hand lands on his shoulder from behind.

“We’ll find the son of a bitch who did this,” Cassian promises. “And then they’re all yours.”

He opens his eyes for a moment, searching for deep blue. Rhys’ gaze meets his, darkening as he nods his confirmation.

“You’d do the same for me, brother,” he says. In a moment unshared with the others, the rest goes unspoken.

If it were Feyre lying there. If it were my mate instead.

----------

Here I am falling into my old dialogue-heavy traps! I was going to queue this for tomorrow but I got too excited lmao

TAGLIST (comment or message to be added/removed)

@pellucid-constellations @horneybeach1 @hyemishii @brujitafantomatico @batlokiuniverse

[yandere-writer-momo]

Yandere Baki Short Stories:

Awake

So I decided to make a second part to Wake Up due to all the asks. I combined a few of the asks into this little companion piece too! This is the last part so you guys can use your imagination to decide who she should choose. So leads enjoy!!

Kinda Angsty and there’s nothing adult in this. Just minor yandere behavior and the importance of knowing your self worth

Third part

Yandere Jack x Afab reader x Yandere Hanayama

………………………………………………………

What was it with television making that feeling of aha so dramatic? The sky didn’t cry for (your name) as she sobbed her heart out into her pillow. Jack wasn’t going to burst through the door like a shining knight to kiss away her worries and reassure her that he cared about her because he didn’t. At times she wished she could live in a fantasy world where everything was happy, happy, happy but alas, her world was nothing like that.

Jack only agreed to marry her because she bugged him about it. That it would be strange for a woman to travel with a man if they weren’t married. All of this was her own doing because she was so blinded by the love she had for him.

They were only married on paper. There was not a single moment of warmth between them other than the fond childhood memories she held close to her heart. She clung to his empty words of how she has been ‘his good luck charm.’ She truly didn’t feel lucky at all with how neglectful he was to her.

A part of her wished for her old Jack to return to her but she knew deep down, he was dead and gone. There was not an ounce of love or care in the man who would occasionally drop by their shared home. They were merely acquaintances who would say hi to each other every once and awhile.

They’ve never even been intimate before so she couldn’t delude herself into thinking he might have some form of care for her. Jack only did this at her insistence, not out of love but out of obligation. They were childhood friends and nothing more.

(Your name) felt herself grow exhausted as the hours dragged on. She was sure she looked a mess with tear stained cheeks and swollen eyes. It’s not like it mattered. Nothing mattered right now other than succumbing to her desire to sleep.

There was no point in letting herself cry over spilled milk. As much as she wanted to rot in bed and tell the world her woes, it wouldn’t change anything. The reality of Jack not loving her back wouldn’t change and the rose tinted glasses she put over her own eyes was too shattered to create that illusion again.

Tomorrow would be a new day. Tomorrow she would stop. She would stop the one sided conversations with herself and she’d stop going to every tournament and fight.

It was time to put herself first. She needed to love herself again while she reevaluated her marriage. (Your name) knew if she didn’t, she’d fall apart and there wouldn’t be anything that could glue the broken pieces together again.

.

.

.

(Your name) frowned at her reflection. She looked like someone hit her with a car, backed up, and then hit her again. Perhaps a little self care would help?

(Your name) shuffled through the contents of her drawers until she pulled out a face brightening mask. She needed a little brightness in her life that wasn’t the screen of her phone staring back at her as she watched three little dots flicker every once and awhile. She was not going to be putting anymore one sided effort into this tumultuous marriage… it was a dumpster fire she no longer had any interest in salvaging.

(Your name) pressed a kiss to her reflection. A few positive affirmations spilling from her lips.

“You are beautiful. You deserve love. You deserve…” she smiled warmly at her reflection. “Better.”

.

.

.

A few days had gone by and she finally felt a bit more at peace. Her reflection no longer looked as ragged and she was smiling a bit more.

“You are beautiful. You are worthy of love.” She whispered the affirmations to herself with a smile. This was a small step but it was helping her with her confidence. “Fake it till you make it.”

Today she was going to go out into the city and take herself on a date. She felt like she deserved one… one where she was the priority for once.

(Your name) slowly began to paint her face with a smooth foundation with a giggle. She could not remember the last time she’s dolled herself up like this for herself. She needed to be more independent and more confident in herself.

Maybe she’d treat herself to the new cafe down the corner? The place looked like it had some decent caffeinated beverages and some cutesy treats. Maybe she’d get herself some flowers too?

.

.

.

A bouquet of sunflowers and honeysuckle sat on the dining room table as (your name) enjoyed a meal she had made for herself. It’s been about two weeks since she started to put herself first. (And two weeks of her still rejecting Kaoru).

There wasn’t a single message or call from Jack so her recent misadventures must not have any effect on him. This only proved to her how little she truly meant to him…

(Your name) glanced over at the pictures that lined the TV stand and the few on the walls. It was time to close this chapter in her life.

(Your name) rose up from her chair to take down the memories that no longer made her heart flutter. Her fingers gently tracing over the old face of Jack. There was no longer a flutter in her chest when she stared at his hardened expression. The butterflies were dead in her stomach and now she felt… nothing.

She took her time removing each picture before putting them in a cardboard box in the corner of the room. She’d take them out to the dumpster tomorrow first thing.

(Your name) walked over to her purse and pulled out an envelope. She gave a sad smile to the envelope in her hands before setting them by the bouquet of flowers.

Inside the envelope were signed divorce papers. All Jack had to do was sign his name on the dotted lines and they’d no longer have to be around each other… no longer would he be trapped by her. Jack would be able to do whatever he wanted without a bird that chirped constantly on his shoulder.

“Happy birthday to me…” She whispered softly to herself, her fingers slipping off the simple gold band off her ring finger. “And thank you for everything.”

She’d start looking for apartments tomorrow, for now, she’d spend her nights in the room with her heated blanket. The blanket no longer a replacement for Jack, but a feeling of security.

.

.

.

Kaoru felt his breath hitch when he saw (your name) alone at a cafe from his limousine. It’s been the same routine for him for the last two weeks. His dark eyes studied how happy she looked… why was she in such a chipper mood today?

He recently noticed a change in her. One where she wasn’t as cold towards him but also still politely rejected his numerous advances. Kaoru also had seen the wedding pictures of her and Jack were removed from the TV stand yesterday. The few pictures that hung up on her living room walls were also gone from what he could see from the doorway… there was trouble in paradise… and Kaoru knew this was his chance.

Kaoru took in a deep breath before he turned to Kizaki, “I’m going to head out, Kizaki. Can you pick me up in an hour?”

Kizaki sighed from the drivers seat but nodded his head. “Of course boss.”

Kaoru exited the vehicle, his eyes didn’t leave (your name)’s form for even a second. Kaoru wasn’t going to waste this opportunity presented to him.

He would not be deterred from her rejection. Kaoru wanted her and he would have her. No matter what.

.

.

.

(Your name) hid her smile in her mug when a large shadow looked over her. It seems Kaoru had found her.

She turned her head to glance over at the large Yakuza.

“Hello.” She greeted him simply. “And what do I owe the pleasure of being in your presence?”

Kaoru just cracked a small smile at her, the yakuza gesturing to the chair in front of her. “May I sit?”

“You’re asking me like I have a choice? That’s funny.” (Your name) looked Kaoru up and down. “Take a seat.”

Kaoru chuckled and sat in front of her, the scarred man admiring her beauty. “You’re even prettier up close…”

“Always with the flatteries.” (Your name) chuckled as she took a sip of her hot beverage. “So what can I do for you? Or are you simply a moth drawn to my flame?”

Kaoru smirked, an itch stirring in his loins. She’s been a bit feisty as of late and he loved it. He liked that she wasn’t afraid to speak her mind to him. He found it even more attractive.

“So what if I am drawn to your flame?” Kaoru huskily whispered, his eyes wide when he saw the ring was no longer on her finger. That simple band of metal was gone…

(Your name)’s noticed Kaoru’s focus on her hand, the woman smiled at him. “You have quite an observant eye. I filed for divorce.”

Kaoru could hear the sadness in her laugh when she chuckled, his heart ached for her. The yakuza hesitantly taking her hand in his to give it a firm squeeze.

(Your name) gave him a soft smile. “So soon I will be a single woman. Hopefully that doesn’t make the chase boring to you.”

Kaoru’s heart thumped on his chest, a fire ignited in his soul. “No… no it doesn’t.”

(Your name) and Kaoru sat at the table, completely lost in their own world together. Neither one looked away from the other. This was the start of a new chapter… she just hoped she wouldn’t regret this decision.

.

.

.

Jack finally made his way into the home, the blonde grumbled when he smacked his head on the door. He was a lot taller since the last time he’s been here, but hopefully (your name) wouldn’t mind too much.

It’s been strange lately. She hasn’t come to any of his fights nor has she texted him. So he decided to hurry it up and come home to check on her.

Jack slowly made his way into the living room, his eyes narrowed when he noticed the wedding pictures weren’t up. Why were they taken down?

Jack made his way into their room, the room now bare save for the few items of his he left behind a few months ago when he was last here.

“(Your name)?” Jack’s voice quietly rung out throughout the house. But there was no response… why was it so quiet?

Jack began to open all the doors but there was no sign of her. Where was she? She always replied right away to him?

“(Your name)?” Jack went into the kitchen, his eyes wide at the wilted sunflowers and honey suckles on the dining room table. A big white envelope in front of it… but what caught his eye the most was the small gold ring that sat on top of it.

Jack snatched up the ring in shock. (Your name) never took off her ring… never. Had something horrible happened to her? Was she okay?

Jack tore open the envelope, his hands trembled at the contents inside… (your name) wanted a divorce… a divorce?

Jack took a seat at the table, the reality setting in. (Your name) had finally given up on him. She left him… but she had promised to never leave him even though he was difficult.

Jack reached for his phone and dialed her number. The dial tone only built up more distress in him as he waited for her to pick up.

“Hello? This is (Your name).” The giggle on the other end of the line gave him a moment of relief..

“(Your name)? Where are you-“

“I’m not able to reach the phone right now so please leave me a message. I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Bye bye.” The relief was gone just like she was. Jack could only tremble as he sat at the table.

The blonde rose up from the table. His hands repeatedly dialing her number again. He wouldn’t give up. Jack made his way to the box full of pictures. His fingers fondly traced over her smiling face.

Each call went straight to voicemail now rather than the cute dial tone. Had she blocked him? Why would she do that….

Was there someone else now? Is that why she left?

Jack sighed, he was going to have to find her… and this time. He wouldn’t give her so much freedom.

He thought if he kept her at a distance, it’d keep her safe but he was a fool. The safest place for her was beside him.

[jxsterr]

something crazy that’s just crossed my mind is the whole thing of does zelda miss link while she’s stuck in the past? i know the memories don’t do shit all justice to tell us ANYTHING about zelda’s feelings on this whole situation but it does make you wonder. i personally think she misses him like he’s dead

because imagine this. you’ve been trapped in stasis for literally a century. you’ve watched all of your friends and family die. then your knight, the one you watched die in your arms, finally comes back and frees you. you then move into a small house together, it’s not much but it’s honest living. you spruce it up with decorations until you can both stand back and say, “yeah, this feels like home.” you live the next year or so quaintly, travelling around hyrule to restore it to its former glory as best as you can, all within the company of someone you hold closer than a best friend. he’s still there, even though he doesn’t have to be, and follows you ever loyally. you wonder if he’ll ever go his own way, but his insistence on remaining by your side makes you think otherwise.

you believe in the strength of learning, that the children of hyrule need to be better educated in order to solidify a strong future for the kingdom, so you build a school. you hire teachers and organise the school’s curriculum, taking part so much that you become a teacher yourself. he greets you every evening when you come home and plates up dinner already piping hot so you don’t have to worry about it. life continues this way, simple and non exhaustive, living earnestly beside someone who would extinguish the sun if it meant you’d smile. you love him, realistically, and he loves you too.

something stirs under the castle and, like the good princess you are, you go trundling into the depths below with your loyal knight to solve the problem. it bears endless discoveries, things you know you’ll stay up all night studying; things that bring you so much joy that he holds your torch so you can enjoy it without interruption. instead of the torch, he’s soon holding a shattered blade in his bloody hand, arm eaten and burnt raw by something that smells so vile it’s all you can do not to vomit. you watch the world fall into peril once more, and as you do so, you feel yourself falling to the exact same fate. you see the way he throws away legend and jumps after you, knowing that he is also falling to his demise. you see the fear in his eyes, the way tears cling to the corners of them and feel the burn of your own.

his plan was always to die by your side, and he will do it by any means necessary.

you wake up and he’s gone, your world is gone, and you’re somewhere new. two strange people greet you and quickly take you under their wing, and while a new world means endless discoveries, you can’t help but wonder if link is dead. did he kill himself alongside you, only for you to somehow survive and let him fall alone? the thought makes the bile creep up your throat.

who’s to say that, during the period of time where link is unconscious, she isn’t wracked with guilt at the realisation that he may be dead? she’s thousands upon thousands of years in the past, and his body may be the only one laid cold at the bottom of that chasm. would people even remember him? yes, he was the hero of hyrule, but he’d always kept a low profile. humble to a fault, she’d tell him. and the fault may be that if he’s dead, perhaps only her name would grace the lips of hyrule. the survivor’s guilt would eat her whole knowing that he’s died for her twice now.

so you can imagine her relief when she feels the pull of him and his sword. the relief when she can make her vow to him. the relief in knowing that he’s okay, somehow, and that he’s alive above everything else. but now that she knows he’s okay, what’s there left to do? well, miss him, of course. they’re inseparable and very rarely do things without the company of the other, she’s going to miss him like her right arm.

in the day she’s surrounded by people—sonia, rauru, mineru and her army of constructs, plus the rest of the people of this era of hyrule—but come the night, she’s alone. her bed lacks the warmth it used to hold, doesn’t bear the imprint of where her love has slept beside her. she’s painfully, irrefutably alone. she’ll step out onto the balcony of the castle alone and wish he was by her side, wish that she could just speak to him again even for a little while. for as long as she walks this hyrule, there is an overwhelming, gaping hole in her chest. she finds comfort in the presence of sonia, rauru and mineru but there’s only so much they can do. she talks to sonia about him. she talks to rauru about him. she talks to mineru about him. anyone who will listen to her speak of her talented hero, she will talk to.

she rides a construct and thinks of him. a steward construct explains to her the biodiversity of the land and she thinks of him. she spends her nights at her desk, quill in hand and illuminated by candlelight, and writes in her diary as if she’s speaking to him. it cuts her open over and over with every day she has to wake up alone.

when she decides the only thing fate has left in store for her is to become a dragon to aid link in the future, she weeps for days on end. she knows that this is it, everything she’s ever known will be beyond her forever now. she lives on in the skies, but her soul dies here. all those years they spent together building a life together, growing, all for nothing. they were cursed from the very beginning. ever since they fell to the calamity the first time fate has had it out for them. and so her last thoughts while she can still think are of him. she prays for his safety, for his success, and for him to have a happy and long life without her. she weeps knowing she’ll never grow old with him or get to experience the revival of her kingdom. it tears her from the inside out, and she screams even as a dragon at the loss. it’s overwhelming, devastating beyond any weight words could hold. she’s lost everything, lost everyone, and lost herself. she was doomed from the beginning. she was never meant to be happy.

so yes, the ending of totk should’ve been a HELL of a lot more emotionally charged. seeing someone you thought was dead AND that you worried you’d never see again?? she’d be crying for hours in his arms

[daresplaining]

Daredevil vol. 6 Annual #1 by Chip Zdarsky, Manuel Garcia, Chris Mooneyham, Rachelle Rosenberg, Le Beau Underwood, and Clayton Cowles

There's a part of me that says I should conserve the few Mike Murdock scenes that I haven't analyzed yet, because who knows when (or if...) we will get more? But it's also nuts to me that four years have gone by and I haven't posted about this scene yet, so screw it, I'm gonna talk about it now.

I've written a bit before about the way this issue emphasizes the concept of Mike barging into pre-existing spaces, observing things that had not been observed before by any pre-existing characters, and ultimately presenting a new path for readers to follow through Matt Murdock's life history. The creative team positions Mike not alongside his twin, but almost in opposition to him, through stark differences in their childhood experiences. Matt loved his father unconditionally, Mike's relationship with Jack was a bit more complicated. Matt tried to stay out of trouble in school, Mike beat up bullies without apology. And then we get this absolute bomb drop of a scene, in which Mike is present where no one was supposed to be, and as a result, is struck with a life-upending revelation that will not hit Matt until years later. This scene stunned me when I first read the issue, because no matter how much Real Boy Mike's story might have diverged from his brother's, I never expected him to have a different experience of this.

Daredevil vol. 1 #230 by Frank Miller, David Mazzucchelli, Christie "Max" Scheele, and Joe Rosen

In Daredevil volume 1 #230, Matt finds himself in a church basement being cared for by nuns after collapsing, near death, in the street. As he lies there, feverish and delirious, he eventually takes notice of a particular nun. Her presence, her smell, and the feel of the cross necklace she wears (which, as seen in the panels above, she ends up giving to Matt) conjure up a long-forgotten memory from the time of his accident. He recognizes this nun as a mysterious woman who visited him in the hospital, as he lay suffering from his newly acquired hypersenses.

Man Without Fear vol. 1 #1 by Frank Miller, John Romita Jr., Christie Scheele, Al Williamson, and Joe Rosen

It is an intimate moment, written almost like a dream; a calming presence in the middle of one of the most nightmarish experiences of his life. Adult Matt pieces together this sensory puzzle, the mystery of this nun, and eventually uncovers the truth: that she is his mother, who he had been raised to believe was dead. This revelation is the start of a long and winding journey through which Matt and Maggie carefully, nervously inch back into each other's lives and begin to build a relationship.

But in the 2020 Annual, this private little moment between Matt and the stranger he will one day come to know as his mother is private no more. It now has a witness, and we the readers have a new, messier perspective on this classic scene. Enter: the brother who wasn't supposed to be there.

In this new version of Daredevil history, Mike spends the night at the hospital, watching over Matt after Jack is forced to leave for work. As Daredevil fans, we have spent plenty of origin retellings and flashbacks inside that hospital room, but Mike stays on a bench out in the hallway, involved but still not fully immersed in what is happening-- an intruder, a spare (I love the detail that he and Matt are dressed exactly the same in this scene). Not once do we see Mike enter that room at any point. The closest he comes to it on-panel is standing uncomfortably in the doorway. And that is how he remains when Maggie arrives and makes her fateful visit: outside, unconnected. When Mike wakes up, she is already in the room with Matt. Maybe she took a moment, as she passed by, to reach out to her other son and he just wasn't awake to notice. We might never know, and neither will he. What matters is that Mike is forced to listen in, and by listening in, he reaches the same conclusion about Maggie that Matt won't until years later. And for Mike, it isn't a gentle, gradual, fever-softened understanding. It is a sudden, nightmarish jolt at the end of a long day filled with sudden, nightmarish jolts.

Mike bears this revelation alone and silently. He could have marched into that room and confronted Maggie. He could have gone in after she left, just to be closer to his brother in this moment of shock and uncertainty. Instead, he chooses to walk away. Later in the issue he reveals to Jack that he has found out the truth, but if the volume 1 continuity has remained intact, we can assume that he never tells Matt. Instead, he carries the burden of this secret knowledge himself, and allows his brother the freedom and peace of mind to not be hurt by the shattering of such a foundational lie.

[imagine-you]

I Will Avenge My Ghost [Bucky Barnes/Reader] (2/?)

Summary: Your sacrifice on Vormir was meant to be your end. You did it for love. You did it for family. And you had no regrets in your decision to be the one to jump instead of Steve. But you never expected to wake up in Wakanda and you certainly never thought that you would still lose Steve and your sister in the years since your death. While you can't get Steve back, you're determined to figure out what happened to your sister and you end up dragging Bucky along for the ride. Your questions lead you to Westview, a sleepy little town harboring a dark past, and a witch named Agatha Harkness. Will you find what you truly seek down, down, down the Witches' Road or will Death finally come to claim you?

Word Count: 3.8k

Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who responded to the last chapter and showed this fic some love. Y'all kept me going. 💖

Chapter One //

Read on AO3

"She's dead," Stephen choked out once you loosened your grip enough to allow him to speak. 

"Bullshit," you snapped, watching the way the darkness around him swirled, attempting to curl around your magic.  

"Your sister was not the same person you remember,” he tried to claim, as if that would make any of it better for you. 

“Then tell me,” you snarled, keeping him pinned to the wall with your magic. “Tell me what kind of person she was.” 

Stephen seemed like he was hesitant to answer, but when you tightened your hold on him, he finally spoke. “She was consumed by her grief and she did terrible things because of it. She enslaved a town with her mind and created a whole reality for herself where she got to have a family with Vision and her children at the expense of innocent civilians. She let the Darkhold corrupt her, because she was looking for the children she created across the multiverse, and she nearly killed a girl just to steal her power. She was responsible for the deaths of countless others all while she was blinded by what the Darkhold had done to her. I tried to tell her that the children, well they never truly existed, but--" Stephen's words cut off with a croak when you lashed out again with your magic, preventing him from continuing.  

"Children? Wanda had children? She had a family? With Vis?"  

"They weren't real," Stephen gasped, his hands attempting to push away your magic and give himself enough space to protect himself, but you realized with a thrill that you were stronger. "She created them with her magic." 

"That's what every mother does," you muttered, not sure where the words had come from, but knowing that it was true. It had been a whisper at the back of your mind. A forgotten memory rushing up to greet you.  

Stephen looked haunted for a moment, his skin paling at the words. "What did you say?" 

"It doesn't matter how she made them, because they're real. She made them real," you refuted with a quick shake of your head, ignoring Stephen's question. "My sister deserved a family. She didn't deserve whatever happened to her. And I refuse to believe she's really gone." She couldn't be. Not after the second chance you had been given.  

"Wanda died at Wundagore when she destroyed all copies of the Darkhold," Stephen continued, watching you warily as you got closer to him.  

You were listening to Stephen, but keeping your focus on the darkness around him. It was still trying to twine itself to your magic and you likened it to a pest that would never go away unless you did something about it.  

"It was her penance for what she did while under its influence," Stephen managed to get out before you tightened your hold on him again, cutting off his words.  

"Should we be stopping her? I feel like we should do something," Sam whispered to the others.  

"Not yet," Shuri responded. "I'd like to see where this is going." 

"And what of your penance, Stephen?" You wondered, tilting your head to the side as you considered him.  

"What?" He asked, gasping in a deep breath when you finally let him go.  

You had seen enough and heard enough from Strange to know what you had to do.  

"You used the Darkhold, didn't you?" You accused, watching him for his reaction.  

His eyes widened just the slightest, finally showing just the briefest glimpse of true uneasiness. "How did you know that?" 

"Because it corrupted you," you hissed at him, leaning forward again and caging him in by placing a hand on either side of his head. You swept your arms down, letting them slide along his sides, feeling the way the darkness inside him tried to latch on to you. "It stained your soul," you realized, knowing that the auras you were seeing around the others was a glimmer of their souls. You wondered if it was a side effect of sacrificing yourself for the soul stone. 

The darkness was unnatural and didn't belong attached to Stephen. You were suddenly sure that it would be so easy to burn it out of him and what better way to show your good will than helping the man who had let your sister fall apart from grief?  

You offered Stephen a smirk, letting your magic flare up in your hands. You knew, somehow, that your plan would work. You were changed, reborn, and stronger for it.  

"Well, you're in luck, Stephen, because I've decided that I'm going to help you. Brace yourself, though, this is gonna hurt like a bitch." 

Stephen barely had a moment to react before you were letting your magic cover him. You let it seep into his skin, curling around the darkness inside him and burning it away. Stephen was screaming and Bucky was calling your name and Shuri was yelling something to Sam but all you could do was smile at Stephen and wonder if he felt even a fraction of the pain your sister must have experienced.  

The power of your magic felt intoxicating. You had never been so completely embraced by it and you didn’t know what to do with the feeling. It was still incredibly impulsive and hard to control, but you knew that with time, you would adapt to it. You would control it more than it controlled you.  

You let your magic sweep all the darkness inside Stephen away. You felt it trying to retreat, curl itself up and hide itself away, but you wouldn't let it. You burned the corruption of the Darkhold right out of Stephen and when you were done, he collapsed, no longer held up by your magic.  

You suddenly felt arms around you and before you could lash out, you felt a brief sting at the side of your neck. You caught sight of Shuri's apologetic expression as she injected you with something. An icy chill crept through your veins and your vision blurred. The person holding you tightened their grip around you before lifting you up.  

"Sorry about this, doll," Bucky muttered before you felt unconsciousness claim you.  

The next thing you were aware of was someone's hand in yours and the sound of someone's soft breaths filling up the silence. You forced yourself to open your eyes, the dragging pull of sleep still clawing at you, but you were stubborn enough to fight it off. You managed to glance down to see that it was Bucky holding onto your hand. His head was tipped back and eyes closed as he slept sprawled out in an armchair that had been pulled up to your bedside. 

You were in a room you didn't recognize and lying on a bed that definitely wasn't yours. The room was plain, bare, all except for the necessary furniture. You didn't know whether to panic about being in a strange place or be grateful that Bucky hadn't abandoned you for acting like a vengeful psycho with Stephen.  

"It's mine," Bucky told you, startling you enough that you tightened your grip on his hand. "This is my room while I'm here in Wakanda." 

You nodded your head, trying to think of something to say. You felt like Bucky had just witnessed you at your worst and you only hoped there was nowhere else to go but up from here.  

"It's nice?" You tried, a smile tugging at your lips at the sound of Bucky's amused laughter.  

"Yeah, well, haven't had time to hire the interior decorator yet," he joked before glancing down and realizing he was still holding onto your hand. He untangled his fingers from yours, the barest hint of a blush staining his cheeks. "How are you feeling?" 

"You mean after I decided to burn the Darkhold's corruption out of Stephen and then got knocked out for my troubles?"  

Bucky winced, but nodded his head.  

You shrugged your shoulders, feeling your lips pull down into a frown. "Not much I can feel after everything I've lost," you mused, fighting the urge to reach out and grab Bucky's hand again. You were on your way to accepting Steve's loss, because he had never really felt like yours at all. You had fallen for him hard and fast while helping him fight Tony Stark and the government all for the sake of Steve's best friend and your feelings had only intensified while you were on the run with him. You knew that Steve had loved you, but you always got the feeling there was something missing with every kiss he gave you. His 'I love you's were meant for someone else, you supposed, and you were only lucky they had graced your ears at all.  

But Wanda? That was a loss you would not accept. She wasn't dead. You wouldn't allow it. Which meant that you would have to find a way to uncover the full story of her demise and find a way to fix it.  

"I'm sorry," Bucky interrupted your thoughts, a remorseful look on his face.  

"For helping Shuri knock me out? It was the smart thing to do," you assured him, knowing that your magic was no longer fully under your control. You were still learning the way it burned, bright and potent, and entirely too destructive. You knew that if left unchecked, you could do an incredible amount of damage, and you would have to find a way to tame the wild impulse of it before it did something you truly didn't want. "I'm not saying I would have killed Stephen, but he's definitely on my shit list." 

"I'm not sorry about that," Bucky told you with a shake of his head. "I'm sorry because I know what it's like to wake up and find out that everything has changed. I know what it's like to feel like you're not really in control." 

"Yeah," you sighed, reaching out and placing your hand over his wrist. "I'm sorry you had to experience that at all. It's a shitty, terrifying feeling." 

Bucky snorted, gifting you with another smile. "You're telling me." 

You had always liked Bucky. You hadn't spent a lot of time around him, but you could see why Steve was willing to risk everything to save him. He had a sneaky brand of sarcasm that never failed to make you smile and he had always been there to watch your back when you needed him. He was kind, if self-deprecating, and carried a weight on his shoulders that life and tragedy had unfairly heaped on him. Despite the guilt he carried, he still found the time to comfort you when you needed someone most. You supposed maybe that was part of his guilt, but he had no blame to feel for what happened with Steve or Wanda. You were grateful for his presence, though, and you knew you weren’t done clinging to him like a lifeline.  

You really didn't want him leaving you too.  

"Let's get out of here," you suggested.  

Bucky quirked an eyebrow at you. "And go where?" 

"I don't care," you told him, already moving to get out of the bed. "Just out of the building, out of Wakanda. Somewhere where I don't feel like I'm constantly being watched." 

Bucky studied you for a moment before he narrowed his eyes in thought. "I think I have just the place in mind," he told you before he stood up. "Just let me tell Sam we're heading out." 

Three minutes later, you were waiting for Bucky while he had a tense conversation with Sam just down the hall. There was a lot of disappointed sighs on Sam's part and a lot of eye-rolling from Bucky, but it wasn't until Sam's voice rose that you caught any of their argument.  

"Are you sure you want to go with her? She seems a bit unstable," Sam pointed out, gesturing towards you.  

"I heard that," you called, shooting Sam an unimpressed look.  

He arched a brow at you, challenging and somehow accusatory. "I hope you did. I said it loud enough so you would." 

Bucky groaned, before reaching out to sling an arm around Sam's shoulders and began to tow him in your direction. "Look," Bucky started, lowering his voice, but you could still hear him despite the effort. "She just woke up after being dead for years and she's found out that her whole world is gone. And maybe she's not exactly the same person she was before she fell. If there's anyone who might be able to help get her through this...," he trailed off, letting Sam fill in the rest for himself.  

Sam froze in his tracks and turned to look at Bucky. "Ah, hell, Bucky," he breathed before his shoulders slumped in defeat. "You're sure about this?" 

"Yeah," Bucky answered, letting his gaze settle on you. "I'm sure." 

Shuri got you a flight out of Wakanda. You didn't see Stephen on your way out, but you didn't care all that much to see him again. You still didn't forgive him for his part in Wanda's suffering and while there would be hell to pay, you had other answers you needed to seek first.  

By the time the jet was landing somewhere in America, you were starting to feel exhausted. Bucky took care of finding a rental car and instructed you to get some rest once you were settled in the passenger seat. You didn't think you'd be able to sleep, but the second you let your head fall back against the headrest, your eyes closed and you drifted off.  

You woke to Bucky's hand on your shoulder. "We're here," he told you, keeping his tone gentle in an effort not to startle you.  

You opened your eyes to the sight of a graveyard.  

You felt yourself tense at the vision of the cemetery gates guarding the rows of graves beyond it. You were suddenly sure that Bucky had taken you to Steve's grave in an attempt to get you to make your peace with his death, but Bucky kept his grip firm on your shoulder and seemed to realize that you were beginning to freak out.  

"Just trust me, alright?"  

You glanced over at Bucky and met his eyes. You knew Bucky wasn't cruel, so your first assumption that you were here to pay your respects to Steve was way off. You nodded your eyes and got out of the car once Bucky did.  

Bucky led you past one row of graves and another, seeking a specific one. He seemed to know exactly where he was going and you began to suspect it was a grave he visited often. He finally stopped in front of a headstone, standing just at the foot of the grave before shooting you an expectant look.  

You offered him a nervous one in return before finally reading the name on the tombstone.  

You couldn't stop the surprised laugh that escaped you once you realized whose grave you were visiting.  

"It's mine," you marveled, moving forward to brush your hand over the headstone. There were fresh flowers left all around it, ringing it like a boundary of protection. There was a wreath displayed beside the headstone that looked like it had been left recently enough that it hadn't been destroyed by the elements just yet. The sash across the wreath proclaimed ‘gone but not forgotten,’ and once you read the words you had to look away, choked up at the sentiment. Your gaze fell on the stuffed animals resting against the base of the tombstone, lined up like they were keeping vigil over your grave. 

"I thought you might find it funny," Bucky offered with a helpless shrug of his shoulders. "I've got one too. An empty grave," he clarified, shifting on his feet when you glanced at him over your shoulder. "But no one ever leaves me teddy bears," he added with an amused grin.  

"Who left them?" You couldn't help but wonder, reaching out to pick up the teddy bear that Bucky had mentioned. It was blue and had white button eyes with a red heart stitched onto the stomach.  

"People who are thankful," Bucky answered, his voice growing solemn. "People who know you saved them. Their loved ones. The world." 

"Huh," you breathed, placing the teddy bear back down before thinking better of it and grabbing it again. "How often do people leave stuff?" 

"Daily," Bucky responded, clearing his throat when he started to say something else. "I, uh, I try to maintain it. Me and Nat and even Sam. Sometimes Clint, but he's been trying to spend as much time as he can with his family and doesn't come out this way that often. But it's mostly me. We'll throw out the flowers once they've wilted or donate the stuffed animals. Sometimes, they even leave balloons and cards," he said, studying you as you brushed your fingers gently over the roses left in one of the vases.  

You had been right all along. Bucky had easily navigated the way to your grave because he visited it often enough to have memorized where to go. The thought set off a funny little flip in your stomach and you decided to change the subject before you could embarrass yourself.  

You stared down at your own grave for a few moments before finally speaking.  

"What was the funeral like?" 

"Weird," Bucky huffed, sounding oddly relieved at the change in subject. You glanced at him, noticing he was blushing yet again. You never thought the Winter Soldier would be so easily flustered, but here you were with the evidence staring you in the face. "Silent," he added after another thoughtful moment. "No one really wanted to believe you were gone. Steve gave a beautiful eulogy and your sister didn't really say much of anything. We never saw her again after that. I think she had just lost too much to want to stick around." 

"Strange mentioned that Wanda took over a whole town," you started, finally turning to give Bucky your full attention. “Which town?” 

"Westview," Bucky supplied with a grimace. “It’s in Jersey.” 

"What happened?" You couldn't help but wonder. "What happened in Westview?" 

"I don't know much more about it than Strange did," Bucky confessed, offering you an apologetic wince. "The people who live there didn't seem like they really wanted to talk about it all that much. Like they just wanted to move on. Far as I can tell, though, what you heard was correct. Wanda took over a town and kind of used the people who lived there as her puppets. She created the life she was never actually going to get with Vision." 

"And she had kids," you mused, feeling your heart ache for your sister. Growing up, Wanda had only ever wanted a family and a life free of war. Losing your parents at such a young age and then being used as Hydra's lab rats had only made Wanda crave the kind of life she witnessed in the sitcoms she adored as a kid. The kind of life where nothing bad ever happened and the most harrowing choice the characters had to make was what to have for dinner. She wanted the white picket fence and dreamed of having a loving relationship with a partner who loved her unconditionally and kids of her own to mother. The fact that she had been so stricken with grief that she had been forced to create all of that with her magic left you feeling guilty.  

Maybe if you had been there for her, you could have helped her channel her grief in a healthier way. Instead, Wanda had to gain it all just to lose it all again.  

"Stephen talked about my sister like she was some sort of delusional villain," you finally continued, breaking free of your thoughts. "Wanda's not a bad person, Bucky. Just, sometimes, loss can make us do funny things."  

You thought of Steve using the time stone to get his own version of the white picket fence life with Peggy. Steve had broken the rules to find his own happiness. What happened to the timeline he disrupted? Maybe you would never know, but if everyone was okay with Steve breaking one of the cardinal rules of time travel, then why couldn't they understand that Wanda had only been chasing her own dream?  

She wasn’t a villain. She was just in pain.  

You were biased, sure, but you couldn't stomach the idea of people turning your sister into someone to be hated. Someone to be feared.  

You knew you would have to learn more about the deaths she caused, but you weren’t ready to unfold that part of Wanda’s story yet. The Darkhold had twisted your sister and you knew, deep down, even if you were loathe to admit it, that Stephen had likely been right. The Wanda that let herself fall to the temptation of the Darkhold wasn’t the same sister you had sacrificed yourself for, but you sure as hell weren’t going to stop until you found her again.  

"When she realized what she was doing to the town, she did release them," Bucky assured you, swaying forward like he wanted to reach out and console you. "I heard there was another witch there stirring up trouble and the only way to save everyone was for Wanda to destroy the illusion. I don't know what happened after that or to that other witch, but your sister went off the grid for a while. And then, well, maybe it's best we not get into that part of the story now. You've been through a lot lately." 

You wanted to argue, but you had a feeling that Bucky's next part of the story entailed whatever had happened to Wanda to make Stephen believe she was dead. You wanted more answers and you had a feeling that you were going to have to follow in your sister's footsteps to get them. You refused to accept that you had lost her like you lost Steve, which meant that you needed to try to get a feel for what happened to her.  

Maybe you needed to start at the place where it all began.  

"Do you know the way to Westview?" You asked Bucky, noticing the way his eyes widened just the slightest at your words. "I could try to go there by myself, but it's not like I've got my phone or a car, since I just recently stopped being dead." 

"I don't know if that's the best idea," Bucky started, his tone careful and unsure.  

"Buck," you started, finally crossing the distance between you. "I have to know. Please," you practically begged, suddenly sure that you couldn't do it without him.  

Bucky considered you for a moment before he heaved a defeated sigh. "Yeah, alright," he conceded, stepping to the side and gesturing for you to lead the way. “Let’s go to Westview.” He didn’t sound thrilled at the idea, but you knew he also didn’t want to let you wander off by yourself.  

"Great," you told him, pushing the teddy bear into his chest as you passed him. "There's more where that came from," you promised before you took off towards the cemetery gates, delighting in Bucky's pleased laugh. 

Author's Note: If you would like to be tagged in this series or be added to my all Bucky taglist, just let me know!

Taglist: @sunshinepeachx @bethexo07 @kisnini @greatmistakes @jvanilly

@circe143

[lisbeth-kk]

May Prompts (22) Night

The Luckiest Girl in the World (chapter 22)

I'm so sorry. Go get those tissues. I've used all of mine.

Summary: Rosie gets devastating news, and all she can think of is how her Papa is coping.

Twenty-Two Years Old

When Dad called with the news, my first thought was quite irrational: oh no, we’re never going to celebrate our twentieth anniversary! The second thought hit me with force and made me breathless: how is Papa doing?

“I’ll hop on the next…”

“No need, sweetheart. A car will pick you up in approximately fifteen minutes,” Dad assured me, and that’s when I started to cry.

***

Uncle Myc stood and waited for me outside the car when I ran to the kerb. His arms opened and I collapsed against him, heartbroken and totally devastated. He didn’t try to comfort me with words of nonsense, like it’s going to be ok, because he knew it would be a long time before any of us would be fine after this sudden and tragic loss.

“She seemed fine yesterday,” I told uncle Myc on the way home.

“Yes, so I have been…informed,” he sighed.

“How is he?” I asked, terrified of the answer.

“As expected.”

“Rock bottom,” I mumbled, and felt my throat tighten painfully from withheld tears.

“Indeed,” uncle agreed gravely.

***

It was worse than I expected. Papa’s loud voice boomed like a signal horn from upstairs when I locked us in.

“How could you not have seen the signs? You’re a bloody doctor, John!”

The words were spit like venom. I couldn’t discern Dad’s reply, but his voice was calm. He knew Papa wasn’t angry at him, but he needed to vent his sorrow, shock and devastation at someone. Luckily for everyone involved, Papa had chosen the right person for such an onslaught.

Before I climbed the stairs, I looked over at Nana’s door.

Gone. Dead. You’ll never see her again. There’ll be no more Christmas baking. She’ll never scold Papa for being petulant anymore. England has fallen.

The seventeen steps had never been so steep, my body never so heavy, and at the same time it felt hollow. 

“Nearly there, Rosamund,” uncle Myc murmured from behind me.

I woke from my daze and realised that the shouting had stopped. In its wake came a sound so heartbreaking, it made tears flow down my cheeks. Before I opened the door, a thought hit me like a battering ram, making me lose my balance for a moment.

If Papa mourned Nana like this, he would be utterly destroyed if Dad died before him. Not even his biological family’s demise could elicit such grief from him.

***

Inside the flat, Papa clung to Dad, and it struck me how small he seemed in that moment. So lost and bereft. This was not a puzzle he could solve, or a culprit he could catch to make everything right again.

“Rosie’s home,” Dad whispered to Papa and reached for me.

I didn’t think Papa would let go of Dad, give me room, or even detect the words, but he did. My name seemed to have a magical effect on him, because he straightened, turned his pained face at me and lifted his arm to indicate that I was welcomed into his and Dad’s cocoon. We held on to each other for what felt like hours. Dad asking if we were alright, Papa muttering something under his breath, and I just clung to my parents, wordless.

Dad, always reliable in a crisis, remembered that there was another person present, and carefully entangled himself after kissing us both, guiding our arms to embrace. Papa mumbled his name questioningly.

“Just give me a few minutes, Sherlock. Take care of Rosie, yeah?”

Papa nodded and pulled me closer, cradling the back of my head, whispering my precious girland I’m so sorry you have to go through this, and she loved you like a granddaughter.

***

The days leading up to the funeral alternated between the three of us sharing memories about the core of 221 Baker Street, what we would miss most about her, and lots and lots of crying. 

Dad was our rock in all of this, despite that he grieved his former landlady too. Some nights, Papa was inconsolable, and I thought his heart would literally break. He curled up in bed and sobbed full of despair. Only Dad could hope to console him, coaxing him out of the dark place he had locked himself in.

Both me and Papa agreed that we would honour Martha Hudson on the day of the funeral. Nana’s niece, Deidre, was her only living relative, and uncle Myc assured her that we would arrange everything if she weren’t able. From what Dad told me, she was relieved, having just started her tattoo studio, and she was quite short of money after the investments. 

***

Leaving uncle Myc and his minions in charge of the ceremony, proved to be ingenious, as we all expected. Even Nana would’ve been pleased with him, I think.

It all took place at Pembroke Lodge in Richmond Park. The Grade II listed Georgian Mansion is a beautiful and tranquil place, posh, but not over the top. 

The pleasantly warm weather allowed us to go dressed without jackets and coats. To honour Nana, all of us wore something purple, her favourite colour. Even uncle Myc acquiesced to leave his black suit at home, and instead he wore a light grey three-piece-suit with a deep purple tie.

Deidre showed up with purple nail polish, her black hair in spikes, the dramatic makeup intact, purple leather trousers, and a matching jacket with a black shirt underneath. Her Doc Martens boots were bright red. She was over the moon about the venue and to what lengths we’d gone to ensure a proper farewell for her aunt.

***

We didn’t know all the mourners, but I think I spotted a few celebrities who wore gigantic sunglasses and hats to hide their identities, which obviously had the opposite effect. 

Ginny, who conducted the ceremony was a calming presence throughout, and informed the congregation that there would be one speech apart from her own, and musical elements performed by a pianist and Papa on violin.

Papa held it together through his potpourri of Nana’s favourite classical pieces. He had his eyes closed and lost himself in the music. It was heartbreakingly beautiful. Beside me Dad clasped my hand firmly and never took his eyes off Papa. Admiration, love, sorrow and grief washed over his face in quick succession. He rose when Papa lowered his bow and looked over at the coffin that was decorated with purple lilacs. I saw the moment his knees gave way, but Dad was already at his side holding him close whispering something in his ear. I went over to them to pry the violin and bow out of Papa’s limp hands and let him lean into Dad’s arms.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” Dad murmured teary-eyed.

Papa’s sobbing was muffled by his face being buried in Dad’s neck. Dad’s hand cradled the back of Papa’s head like it was a delicate object made of china. Slowly, Dad led Papa back to his seat and he held him tight until it was my turn to honour my beloved Nana.

The night I decided how to do it, Dad and Papa asked if I was sure I would manage it on my own. I retorted that of course I would. I was not a child anymore. What I hadn't considered was that reading a poem out loud in my room was completely different than performing it in front of a crowd, not to mention the emotional impact this performance would have on me.

I got to my feet when Ginny gave the signal and walked over to stand beside the coffin and opened the book on the correct page. Dad and Papa noticed before I did. Something gave me away. Did the book tremble in my hands, did my legs quiver, or did my breathing start to go wild with panic? Whatever it was, they both stood, came over to me, embraced me with their backs to the onlookers to shield me.

“Are you sure you want to go through with this, Bee?” Papa asked with a thick voice filled to the brim with withheld tears.

“You don’t have to, you know. Nobody would…” 

I cut Dad off abruptly feeling the soothing effect the closeness of my parents had on me.

“I’m sure. Stay, will you?” I said quietly.

“Of course,” they retorted in unison.

***

I took a deep breath, let go of my parents and we all turned to the other mourners and I started to read with one father on each side, radiating comfort and love.

Warning

When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple  With a red hat which doesn’t go and doesn’t suit me.  And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves  And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter.  I shall sit down on the pavement when I’m tired  And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells  And run my stick along the public railings  And make up for the sobriety of my youth.  I shall go out in my slippers in the rain  And pick flowers in other people’s gardens  And learn to spit.  You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat  And eat three pounds of sausages at a go  Or only bread and pickle for a week  And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.  But now we must have clothes that keep us dry  And pay our rent and not swear in the street  And set a good example for the children.  We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.  But maybe I ought to practice a little now?  So, people who know me are not too shocked and surprised  When suddenly I am old and start to wear purple.

Today, I will nudge you in the direction of AO3 and the end notes to give you some context

@calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @helloliriels @raina-at

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