#and i was like. i hope its amanda young

[jackienautism]

died for amanda young today

[ace-of-clubs-and-diamonds]

Too Late I'm Dead

After rushing out from a Jigsaw survivors meeting, you meet another survivor who isn't exactly intent on attending group therapy. A companionship blossoms, and then a friendship. And then, something else.

Rating: Explicit, NSFW 🔞 Fandom: Saw Pairing: Amanda Young x AFAB!Reader Word count: 5.1K Content warnings: Gore, mentions of self-harm (both in the Jigsaw trap context and the more typical context), trauma, PTSD, angst, discussions of disability (since a lot of Jigsaw traps are disabling), Saw is its own warning, smoking, alcohol consumption, flirting, kissing, making out, biting, vaginal fingering, friends to lovers, as is Saw tradition gay shit goes down in the bathroom, reader is AFAB but gender neutral AO3 link: Here

Author's Note: And here’s Blood Fest Week 3, with the keywords “twisted” and “fixation” and the prompts “traps” and “rage”!! “Traps”, of course, got me thinking about Saw. And since I’m down terribly bad for Amanda and have seen appallingly few fics for her…. well, why not? Underrated characters are kind of my signature anyway. Hope y’all enjoy! <3

“Hi everyone. My name is Brandon and…. I’m a Jigsaw survivor.”

A subdued chorus of Hi Brandons echoed around the small church room. You barely even bothered to mouth the words. The gesture felt about as empty as the tipped over plastic water bottle you’d discarded by your chair some time ago. There was coffee at the sad makeshift snack table too, as well as a box of pastries that looked a few days past their prime, but you figured you didn’t need the caffeine to make you any more jittery than you already were. Your leg was bouncing enough as it was.

“It’s been about a year since uh. Well.” Brandon smiled nervously and made a vague, fluttery gesture with his hands. “Well. You know.”

A quiet, obligatory response from the other people – a murmur, a nod of heads. You stared at your bouncing knee.

“I’ve made great progress with my recovery. My knees have healed really well. I can fully walk on them again, even run if I’m careful. My dog Rex doesn’t really like it when I’m careful though.” He laughed fondly. A couple others offered the obligatory chuckle. “They hurt if I get too eager with stairs. Or if it’s too humid. But it’s going really well. I’m really, really proud of the progress I’ve made.” He nodded, as if assuring himself.

He’d had to break both his knees in order to get out of his trap. Was in a wheelchair for months and only recently started moving around without it. Or so you’d been told.

You weren’t sure you’d be able to break your own knees.

“Somedays, though.” Brandon looked away from the loose circle you all formed. Blinked rapidly. “Somedays, it feels like I haven’t made any progress. Somedays it’s hard. Really hard. And it feels like I didn’t survive that trap. Or if I did, some part of me got left behind.”

Everyone else was nodding, some with sad, understanding smiles on their faces. Your own pulse thundered in your ears like a distant, approaching storm.

“It’s really hard to have hope on those days, but…. what else can I do?” He shrugged, a helpless smile on his face. “Give up? Wallow around in my own misery? I can’t live like that. No one can live like that. Not forever. You just have to choose. You have to make a choice, just like the choices we made to be here. You have to choose to live. You have to choose hope. Or else you just can’t survive.”

You shot to your feet, heartbeat pounding in your ears, chair scraping back. Every face in the room turned to look at you. The church felt too small. Your ribs felt too tight. You felt too…. seen.

Who was he to judge you for wallowing in what you’d fucking gone through?

You spun around and bee-lined for the exit.

The cool city air against your face was a relief as you barged through the church’s double doors. But you stopped in your tracks as you spotted someone else already there. A woman was sitting on the church stairs. She twisted around, eyebrows raised and half-hidden by the choppy, irregular bangs across her forehead.

“Uh. Hey,” you said, somewhat awkwardly.

She paused, as if uncertain. Of what? You weren’t sure. “Hey,” she eventually said back. Then, after another pause, she twisted further around, a frown crossing her features. “Is the meeting over?”

“No. I just needed some air.” Fuck, you needed something to calm yourself. You dug around in your jacket pockets until you found a lighter and a cigarette. “Um. Do you mind if I…?”

She stared at the cigarette in your hand with an expression you couldn’t quite decipher, but eventually shook her head no. You internally shrugged and lit up. The first drag uncoiled the tension that had built up in your muscles, and you breathed the smoke out on a relieved sigh.

The woman glanced between you and the church doors. “Having fun in there?”

Did she know? The place didn’t exactly advertise, but it wasn’t exactly a secret either. You scanned her face. She looked vaguely familiar, but you couldn’t quite place her. Had you seen her in the meetings before? “Oh, yeah, lots. You know. Fun therapy shit.” Supposedly, anyway. It was supposed to be some sort of Alcoholics Anonymous shit, but instead it was for the few survivors of an active fucking serial killer. Jigsaws Anonymous or whatever the fuck.

“Must be going well if you’re out here,” she said dryly, resting her chin on a propped-up fist.

You shrugged, taking another drag. “Well…” Did you really want to tell her about how Brandon’s words had hit just a little too close to home? How they’d made you feel too small, as if the sticks you’d used to prop up your fragile post-trap reconstruction of the world had suddenly snapped, and the weight of it all was now bearing down on you? She was a stranger waiting outside the church. She could’ve been some Jesus freak for all you knew.

Not that she really looked like one. Not with the sheer red shirt over a black bra and fishnet undershirt, or the combat boots, or the sheer exhaustion around her eyes.

She looked less like a Jesus freak and more like you did on the days you could bear to look in the mirror.

So you just shrugged again. “It can be a lot,” you said. “What about you? What’re you doing out here?” You hesitated. “There’re still seats open if you wanted to…”

“No thanks. I’m good.” She offered you a close-lipped smile. “I’ve heard enough of the sob-stories.”

Yeah. You could understand that.

She didn’t look like she was going anywhere, and you didn’t exactly have plans of your own. So you gestured to the stairs next to her. “Mind if I sit?”

“Be my guest.”

You sat to her right so the wind wouldn’t blow cigarette smoke into her face. The smooth grey stone steps were wide enough that it didn’t feel quite so awkward sitting in silence together. Even though you could feel her analyzing you as you took another puff.

You blew the smoke away and smirked dryly at the cigarette. “Think Jigsaw’s gonna put me in another deathtrap for smoking?” You ignored the tightening in your chest as you said the words. Ignored the tremor of unease. Surely it wouldn’t be enough. Surely lightning wouldn’t strike twice.

“He wouldn’t do that.” She said it with such simple certainty, as if it was an inarguable fact. Even still, you found yourself stubbing the cig out and searching for a trash can to toss it into. You didn’t want to just flick it into the grass. Maybe Jigsaw would get you for littering. Maybe he was really passionate about saving the planet.

Who needed to be God-fearing with the possibility of Jigsaw watching your every move?

You shook the thought off. Introduced yourself to the woman. You smiled awkwardly. “Um. I’d offer you my hand but my, uh–” Personal hell “–Trap involved a hand thing so. I’m not a big fan of handshakes these days.” It had taken a long time for the nerves to repair themselves in your hand. A long time and a shitton of agony and medication and physical therapy. You still hadn’t totally gotten rid of the tremor. Fine motorskills were still harder than before.

Before. That.

But the woman just gave a rueful, understanding sort-of smile. Funny how people smiled so much in the presence of trauma and pain. “Amanda. I still have trouble going to the dentist sometimes.”

Shit, that’s where you knew her from, wasn’t it? You’d heard of her, read about her before, seen a clip of her punching a journalist square in the nose when she tried to follow her. All the photos you’d seen had been such shit quality that you hadn’t recognized her immediately.

Amanda Young. The person who killed a man and rummaged around his guts to free herself from the machine hooked into her jaws. The first person to walk away from a Jigsaw trap. The first survivor. In a weird, fucked up way, it was almost like meeting a celebrity. A celebrity for the most depressingly specific thing possible.

You weren’t sure whether it would make things weird to bring that up. So you just nodded. “So. What’re you doing here then? Are you waiting for someone?”

“Mm no, not really.” Amanda scraped at the chipped black polish on her nails. “I just like to come here sometimes.”

You stared at her. Something about her reminded you of a deer, twitchy and ready to bolt at the slightest sign of danger. Or maybe not a deer. Deer looked like they’d snap in half if the wind blew too hard. Amanda…. did not. She was twitchy, but for some reason you got the feeling that she was just as likely to start kicking as she was to start running

Permanently caught between fight or flight.

You went with freeze, yourself. Or wallow, as Brandon had put it. Anger and embarrassment burned against your ribs.

“Hell of a place to visit.” You weren’t sure if you meant it as a light-hearted joke or a deadpan remark. The words came out somewhere in between.

“You’re one to talk.” She finally turned to you. It was the first time she’d actually met your eyes, you realized. “You actually believe all this bullshit?” she asked, gesturing to the church.

“Not really,” you admitted. “My therapist wanted me to go. Said it would help me to be around others who understand what I went through. That it would help me get closure or something. I didn’t want to. But he insisted.” You shrugged. He’d pestered you about it until you finally gave in a few weeks ago. He thought it would be good for you. Would help you heal. Really, it just made you want to fling yourself out of one of the church’s fancy stained-glass windows.

Amanda gave a derisive snort. You almost took offense until she said, “Half of the time these therapists don’t even know what they’re talking about. It’s a bunch of bullshit, too.” She propped her cheek on her fist again, giving you a side-long grimace. “People don’t change until they have to. Or until they’re forced to. A bunch of psychoanalyzing isn’t going to do anything.”

You…. strongly disagreed. But the slim scar peeking out from her sleeve kept you from saying that. “Bad experience with a therapist?” you asked, flicking your gaze away.

“It never really worked for me.”

“What did?” you asked cautiously.

She paused. Thought about it. Stared at you with an intensity that had you wondering what the hell was going on inside her head. Until eventually, “Jigsaw.”

You blinked. Stared. Tried to figure out how to respond to that.

She thought…. Jigsaw helped?

You didn’t want to judge. Fuck, that was exactly why you’d stormed out of the church. You were self-aware enough to realize that. Different things worked for different people, and different people responded to trauma in different ways, but….

The church doors squealed open. You both shot to your feet and turned around. Your fellow Jigsaw Anonymous members were leaving, the meeting over, spilling out from the doors with all the speed and excitement of molasses being poured out from a jar. You stepped to the side to let them come down the stairs. Amanda did the same, arm brushing yours, and you wrestled the urge to jerk away. You weren’t sure of the last time you’d actually touched someone, or the last time someone had touched you, aside from the gentle but coldly professional hands of doctors and emergency personnel. It was as startlingly foreign as it was familiar.

Amanda seemed completely unaware of your clashing emotions as her gaze locked onto something. You followed her stare to Brandon slowly making his way down the steps. A man with sandy-blond hair and a cane was with him, chatting, the both of them completely oblivious to either of you.

Did she know them? She was staring at them with such an undecipherable intensity and it was the only explanation you could think of. You glanced at the two men again, then back at Amanda. No… she wasn’t staring at them. She was staring at the blond man specifically.

It really wasn’t any of your business, but you couldn’t help but ask, “Do you two know each other?”

“Sorta,” was as much of a response as you got.

Once Brandon and the man reached the bottom of the ramp and went separate ways, Amanda turned back to you. It was just the two of you on the stairs now. And it was a little embarrassing how flustered you were just by her proximity. For fuck’s sake, you didn’t even know her.

Maybe your therapist was right. You did need to get out and be around people more. So you could remember how to fucking act normal again.

“Well.” Amanda bumped her arm against yours again. This time deliberately. You were pretty sure the facial expression you made was not a normal one. “See you round.”

Then she shoved her hands into the pockets of her cargo pants, hopped down the steps, and just. Walked away. You stared after her for longer than necessary.

She was impossible to get a read on. Weirdly confrontational, weirdly evasive, and weirdly magnetic anyway.

You kind of hoped you’d see her again.

She didn’t appear for the next few meetings you obligatorily dragged yourself to. It wasn’t until about a month later that you found her sitting out on the steps again. When you, again, had rushed out to clear your head when the room got too small.

“Hey stranger,” she said, tone somewhere close to teasing. It made you smile. Just a little.

“Hey,” you replied, approaching the stairs. And again, you gestured to the space beside her. “Mind if I join you?”

“Be my guest.”

And so you developed a bit of a routine. She appeared on the steps about once a month, for a reason she never shared and that you never really minded. You would sit on the stairs with her, and the two of you would shoot the breeze. It was a comfortable, casual companionship born from a common factor and convenience. It was never anything very deep. Neither of you were there for therapy, not really. You kept it light, casual. That was the point, wasn’t it?

At least until one day when Amanda was standing by the stairs before the meeting had even started. You didn’t bother to hide your surprise as you approached her and exchanged your usual heys.

“You coming in today?” you asked.

“No. I thought we could head somewhere else.” She tilted her head at you. There was a playfulness to her expression, her smile. A playfulness that made you both a little bit cautious and a little bit excited. “Somewhere a little more fun. Unless you want to stay here. For therapy.” She pointedly lifted her eyebrows at you as she said therapy.

You glanced at the church doors behind her. Really, talking to her about anything but the fact that you were both Jigsaw survivors had done a lot more for you than going to these stupid fucking meetings had.

“Only if you promise not to put me in a death game for smoking,” you joked. Or tried to, at least. It really wasn’t that funny. You winced at yourself. But Amanda, to her credit, just linked her arm through yours. You almost preened at the friendly touch.

“Deal,” she said.

She ended up taking you to a bar. A gay bar, more specifically. You were a bit surprised she’d clocked you so easily but never said a word – but then again, neither had you about her. So you supposed you couldn’t be too surprised.

From there, your casual companionship escalated into something much more like a genuine friendship. You got to know each other properly. You talked about your personal lives and hobbies and interests. You even talked a little bit about Jigsaw, and everything after that. You told her how you’d been struggling with insomnia and how you’d lost your job when you stopped showing up. Because of, y’know, being stuck in a deathtrap. And being too terrified to set foot outside your door for a while after. You told her about the new job you’d gotten and struggled to adjust to. And you told her about your hands.

Nails through the palms Jesus-style. Because according to the hoarse voice on the tape that now haunted your nightmares – “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop”. She’d winced as you told her the story one evening. You’d winced as you’d recollected it. The pain shooting through your fingertips, up your arms, into your very fucking bones. The squelch of blood and muscle, the way you hadn’t been able to stop from screaming or the tears from spilling as you twisted and ripped your hands free of the metal spikes.

It was a miracle they didn’t introduced any infections into your bloodstream, the doctors had told you. A miracle.

You told Amanda how your hands still shook, were still a bit weak. How some days they were worse and some days they were better. And how fine motor skills had become hard now, whereas before you’d taken them for granted. God, had you taken them for granted. You’d been able to write your name, use a knife and fork, all that shit, so damn easily.

It had taken a lot of getting used to.

Amanda has just listened and nodded her head. Understanding. Not offering the grating sympathy people so often flung your way, all the while looking uncomfortably unsure of what to do with your presence and your hands and your experience and your trauma. But Amanda understood. Because of course she did. She knew what you’d been through and where you were coming from.

And she’d even smiled a bit mischievously, glancing down at your hands on the bar counter, and said, “Well, if you ever need help with anything, I’m pretty good with my hands. I could always lend a finger or two.”

Maybe it was the little smirk on her face, the glint in her eye when she said it. Maybe it was the loneliness and then the sudden friendship. Or maybe you’d just been a little too buzzed, but her words had remained lodged in your mind as you tried to go to sleep that night.

Amanda had shared things about herself, too, in the time you’d spent together. It had taken a little longer for her to open up – she was a bit slower, a bit more cautious. She seemed a lot more eager to listen than to do the talking. And you couldn’t fault her for that. But eventually, you learned that she worked as a mechanic, knew a lot about fixing and building machines and shit like that. She had a pet guinea pig that she’d acquired entirely by accident. His name was Pigeon. Her favorite color was red, her favorite bands were Nine Inch Nails and Hole, and her favorite movie was The Princess Bride. Her dad was a piece of shit she hadn’t seen in over a decade, and her relationship with her mom was strained at best. She was an only child.

You’d also learned more about her Jigsaw trap. How she’d become a drug addict in prison, how she’d woken up in a Jigsaw trap for it. How the little puppet with swirls on its cheeks had rolled out of the darkness on a tricycle and told her that she’d survived. And how she’d ended up in a trap a second time, a hellish prison of a house with several other people, most of whom had died.

The news had nearly brought your drink back into your throat. Lighting did strike twice after all. He did pick the same victims more than once.

God, maybe you really did need to quit smoking.

Amanda had placed her hand on your arm. Touch gentle but grounding all the same. And she’d assured you that that wouldn’t happen to you, Jigsaw wouldn’t choose you again. He had no reason to. She said it so confidently, and you so desperately wanted to believe her. That you wouldn’t be taken a second time. Or that she wouldn’t be taken a third. Not that she seemed too concerned about it.

That was the strange thing about her. When she told you about what had happened, she stared down at the counter. Her hands shook a little bit. The memory terrified her.

And yet…. she had this fixation on the idea that Jigsaw had helped her. The trap had gotten her off drugs. It had put her on a completely different path in life. Rather than dying from a drug overdose, she’d gotten clean. He saved me, she’d said, eyes wide and earnest and afraid.

You’d fought against the urge to argue that, to say No, he didn’t save you, he almost killed you. The idea of Jigsaw possibly helping – all while you struggled to sleep and were plagued by nightmares as you did, while you struggled to make your handwriting legible, while you fought the urge to bolt back home as soon as the sun started lowering in the sky? The idea felt like swallowing glass.

Had Jigsaw ever made anyone do that?

But you didn’t say any of that to her. People dealt with trauma in different ways. You supposed this was just her way of dealing with it. And it wasn’t really hurting anyone, so who were you to judge?

It certainly didn’t stop you from going to the bar with her regularly. It didn’t stop you from laughing with her, from getting close to her both emotionally and physically till the edge of your seats were almost touching and your arms were practically interlinked.

It didn’t stop the spark of warmth in your chest when she offered a genuine smile. Or the electric feeling that shot through your veins when she traced her fingers over your knuckles one night, after the conversation had lulled and your drinks had gone lukewarm.

“I wanna try something,” she said, voice soft enough that you would’ve missed it had you not been sitting so close your thighs were pressed together.

Eye contact right now would’ve been like staring into the sun. So instead, you stared at her hand on top of yours. Her knuckles were scratched up as if she’d gotten into a fight. “Sure,” you said slowly. “What did you have in mind?”

Amanda turned to you. You cautiously met her gaze. Christ, it really was like looking at the sun. Warm and beautiful but intense. Burningly intense.

Confusion turned to shock as Amanda hooked two fingers into the neck of your shirt and tugged you closer till her lips were hitting yours. You must’ve made a noise of surprise, because she drew away almost immediately. It was all you could do not to chase her and ask why did you stop? A small crease appeared between her eyebrows and she opened her mouth. And God for a second you thought she was going to apologize, when in fact she really didn’t need to because holy shit.

“Oh thank fuck,” you blurted. “You were flirting with me.”

Concern turned to surprise. Then Amanda laughed, the sound pure relief. “Yeah, I was. Did it take you that long to figure it out?” she teased.

“Uh.” Your face warmed. “Maybe.”

She grinned, then grabbed you by the shirt and kissed you again. Gentle but insistent. Her other hand curled around your nape. You didn’t know what the hell to do with your own hands until one curled around her back and the other ended up braced against the bar counter.

The bar counter. Right. You were very much in public. Sure, it was a queer bar, but it was still public.

So you reluctantly pulled away. Amanda looked confused for a moment before you said, “Hey, maybe we should… do this somewhere else?”

She blinked at you. Then, wordlessly, she wrapped a hand around your wrist and pulled you off your seat. She dragged you past the other patrons and tables – it was a quieter night, so you didn’t have to fight through a sea of people – and pushed through one of the bathroom doors, yanking you in with her and locking the door behind you.

“There,” she said. There was a look to her eyes, a look that made your heart stumble and your entire body go warm. “We’re somewhere else.”

This time when she kissed you, you let her fully take the lead. You slid your arms around her and melted into the kiss, sighing against her. It just made her more eager. She prodded at your lips with her tongue, slipped inside with a sweet little moan that had your heart racing. Sent your head spinning. You backed up till you hit a wall, dragging Amanda with because fuck you weren’t breaking this kiss. Not as she was getting to know you with her teeth and her tongue. She tasted like alcohol and peaches, smelled of loam and sweat and faintly of men’s store-brand bodywash. It was heady, intoxicating. Addicting.

Her hands slipped under your shirt. You shuddered at the exposure to the overly air-conditioned bathroom. Shuddered harder at her warm touch roving across your skin, the slight drag of fingernails over your stomach. Amanda broke the kiss with a wet smack as your muscles tensed underneath her.

“You’re so cute,” she teased. She dragged her fingernails over your skin again with just a little more pressure. You arced into her touch. Fuck. Fuck.

You wished you could come up with some kind of response. Something to convey just how much you were aching for her, both emotionally and physically. How badly and how deeply these emotions were running through you. But words were currently beyond your grasp.

Amanda leaned in and nibbled at your neck as her fingers slid past your waistband and teased the edge of your underwear. You clamped your teeth down on your bottom lip. Heat swirled through your veins, in your stomach, at the base of your spine. You moved your hips a little, just a little, to urge her on. Nails dug into the soft flesh there. A whimper escaped.

“Mandyyyyyyy.”

“Yeahhhhhhh?” She was all mischief and smugness as she looked back up at you. It just made you more desperate.

“Mandy. Please?” You gave her your best pleading look.

“You’re so impatient.” She said the words lightly, playfully. But she must’ve been impatient too, because she was pushing your underwear down. When her fingers brushed against your clit, you gasped and dropped your head back against the wall. Fuck, God, yes, right there –

“You sure you only just figured out I was flirting with you? You seem pretty fucking wet already.” She punctuated her words with a slide of her fingers against you. Because yeah, you were fucking wet. It would’ve been a little humiliating if you weren’t so achingly desperate for her touch.

“Yeah, well.” You drew in an unsteady breath as she circled your clit. A teasing touch that wasn’t quite enough. Fuck, it was impossible to form a coherent thought. “You’re just…. really fucking hot.”

It was hardly eloquent. But her breath puffed against your neck in a laugh. And you figured it would do for now.

She kissed the hollow of your throat, firmly rubbed her thumb against your clit. You practically bucked against her. Her other hand hooked under one of your thighs and lifted, and you threw your leg around her waist. Let out a moan at how it changed the sensation. “Yeah, like that,” Amanda breathed. “Just like that.” She said it as if you were touching her, as if she wasn’t the one doing all the work, wasn’t the one making you writhe and whimper and leak over her precise fingers.

Christ, you hadn’t felt this good in a while.

The pace was languorous, exploratory, testing what made you shiver and dig your nails into her shoulders and gasp for breath. As if she was intent on taking you apart and finding out exactly what got you going – a machine to figure out and put back together. Slowly, slowly, but in a way you savored, you felt the tension inside of you building up and coiling tight like a spring. You were quivering. Your clothes clung to your sweat-sheened skin. The music spilling into the bathroom from the bar wasn’t quite enough to cover the ragged breathing and wet, rhythmic noises, and it just made the whole thing feel even dirtier. Especially with how Amanda was panting against you, as if she was getting off just from you getting off and fuck it made you clench.

When she picked up the pace, you weren’t able to stop the gasps and moans that spilled out of you, the way you panted and pleaded her name. The sound of her fingers squelching against you had you burning. And when your release hit you cried out, clenching, shaking, clinging to Amanda’s shoulders and digging your nails in as you rode out the high. She didn’t stop, didn’t relieve the pressure against your clit. White hot pleasure burned through your body till tears pricked at your eyes. Distantly, she said something. Soft, sweet words that didn’t quite reach your ears as they rang from the intensity of your orgasm.

She only stopped when you went limp against her. Only pulled away from the mess you’d made – that she’d made too, really – to wrap her arms around your hips and kiss you, deep and slow, as if trying to commit you to memory. You lazily brushed your tongue against hers. Your muscles felt like taffy, worn out in the best way.

“You were right,” you said when you parted. “You really are good with your hands.”

Amanda grinned so widely and genuinely that you couldn’t stop yourself from capturing her lips again. Fuck. You might’ve been a little bit in love. Or maybe that was the post-sex endorphins talking. You weren’t sure. You didn’t particularly care either way.

“I think I owe you an orgasm,” you said.

Amanda brushed her nose against yours. For the first time since you’d met her, she actually seemed truly, fully relaxed. As if she’d properly lowered her guard just now, just in this moment, just for you. “Maybe next date.” The words sent a flutter through your chest. Next date. There’d be a next date. “But first,” she said, moving away to grab some paper towels, “we gotta get you cleaned up.”

[coraniaid]

You said a few days ago that you would have liked if season 7 went more in the direction of Help rather than the direction of the First. I know you're not a big fan of the First but I was wondering what you meant by that specifically, and what kind of direction you might have preferred season 7 go in overall?

I don’t have any good reason to think it actually happened, but I always get the impression from watching or thinking about Season 7 that the early plans for the season changed pretty significantly at some point after most of the first few episodes had already been written.  (Perhaps when they decided that it would also be the last season?  I’ve heard conflicting accounts of when that decision was made.)

If you go back and look at the then-contemporary discussions of the show, the whole season was initially marketed as something of a ‘year zero’: a return to the show’s high school era roots, to something much more upbeat than Season 6, to the original Scooby Gang as the focus of the show.  

And just to be clear, I rather like Season 6 – it doesn’t always work, and I think some of the subplots are pretty dreadfully executed, and sometimes I respect the episodes more than I enjoy watching them – but it inarguably has a clear vision for the story it’s trying to tell, one that builds on and recontextualizes what came before it.  But for the payoff for that season to land, we needed Season 7 to be different.  To be less cynical, more hopeful.  It needed to show us that Buffy was right to promise Dawn in Grave that things were going to get better.  

And that sort of reset is what we got … for about half a dozen episodes.  Then, of course, it goes rather horribly wrong.

I like Help in particular because it is, for me, the closest the show ever gets to delivering on that promise of a return to the high school era.  It’s not quite a regression or a soft reboot: Buffy is still an adult with a job, even if she’s suddenly unexpectedly back in high school.  Her more mundane responsibilities haven’t suddenly gone away. But now the job she has isn’t something she hates but has to do – it’s something that she actually has a calling for, almost literally, something that harks back to her getting the Class Protector award back in Season 3.   In Help Buffy’s inhabiting the same world she did in the first three seasons, she’s still trying to save people, but this time with a new, more experienced perspective. 

The episode feels very aware of the show’s history, too.  There are nods to Lie To Me (a teenager Buffy knows is going to die because of illness, not anything supernatural Buffy can stop) and Reptile Boy (the cult trying to sacrifice a teenage girl to a demon for material riches) and Beauty and the Beasts (with Buffy herself taking on the role of Mr Platt, worried that Mike is going to turn out to be another Pete), and of course the whole episode is a callback to Prophecy Girl.  Because Cassie – probably the show’s last great one-episode character (and yes, the actor comes back later but the person doesn’t) – isn’t just somebody Buffy is trying to save, she is Buffy: a Season 1 Buffy who struggles to make friends and has a supernatural gift she doesn’t like to talk about and knows she’s going to die heartbreakingly young.  I don’t think it’s merely chance that Cassie’s big speech to Buffy about her destiny (“You think I want this?  You think I don’t care?”) echoes Buffy’s own words to her mother in Becoming either (“You think I choose to be like this?”).

Plus, while the episode ties into the wider story arc – with Spike in the basement and hints that Principal Wood might be up to something and our first appearance of future Potential Amanda – the whole thing still tells a coherent, self-contained story.  It stands on its own right; it makes sense on its own terms.  it’s not just another installment in the long running saga of General Buffy and the friends she never talks to who later kick her out of the house she owns.

And I think there was a lot more ground there to explore, in the same vein as Help.  At least a full season’s worth.  There was so much more the show could have tried to do in terms of going back and revisiting some of the classic moments of the first three seasons from a more mature and more grown-up perspective, instead of summarily kicking Buffy out of her new job and then blowing the school up (again).  If this season is about the future – about new Slayers being called, one way or another – then what does that mean?  How else are Buffy and Willow and Xander engaged in the challenge of trying to pass on what they’ve learned about life on the Hellmouth to a new generation?  

At its best, Buffy has always been in conversation with its past, building on ideas that were touched on in one season and asking the audience to think about them again from a different angle.  And the beginning of Season 7 sets up the perfect stage to try to do more of that.

I’d have loved to have seen a whole season of Buffy trying to keep her students alive while also preparing them to go out and live in the world.  Of Dawn making new friends and finding value in being herself, not just the Slayer’s sister or the mystical Key.  Of Buffy and Willow and Xander really getting to know each other again, and having a chance to talk about everything that happened to them last year.  A whole season of, in a way, seeing the show from the very beginning, but this time from the perspective of people like Giles or Jenny or Joyce.

But instead we got a lot of boring wank about an impossibly old super-god who can’t actually touch anything (but one who Buffy would definitely let Dawn die to defeat because this godlike being is so much more impressive and scary than Glory, trust us guys, please, we swear) and her army of interchangeable and personality-free super vampires (and of course Caleb, who’s somehow even more mind-numbingly boring than they are).  Instead we get a second half of the season in which Andrew Wells has more screen time than Willow or Xander or Anya or Giles or Dawn.  Instead we get to wonder whether Giles is the First and try to pretend to care that Spike has been hypnotized.  Instead we get Lies My Parents Told Me.

Oh well.  At least Faith shows up near the end.

[elikajinnie]

Young Love | Park Seonghwa X reader

a/n: This was posted on ao3, but now its here as well!

Genre: Fluff, minor angst, romance

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In the vibrant world of K-pop, I found myself as an ardent fan of many Korean Pop bands. But none of them could ever beat Ateez, with their visual, stage presence, and amazing songs that had stolen my heart with their infectious music. My room was adorned with posters of them, and every song, every dance move was etched into my soul. But my admiration went beyond mere fandom – it was something deeper, something that resonated in the core of my being.

Being a dedicated student, if you could call it that, I was constantly running on caffeine and energy bars, trying to finish my work for the day. My eyelids were dropping, and the words on my textbook were blurring into a spiral of letters. "Ah, I can't do this," I thought, not hesitating to grab my phone. To my surprise, multiple notifications from my friends lit up the screen. "They have been talking for a while…" I unlocked my phone and opened the group chat.

"Amanda has sent a link."

Amanda: "ATEEZ IS COMING TO OUR TOWN, GUYS."

Soojin: "Wait, really?"

Athena: "OMG! IT'S REAL!"

Amanda: "@Y/N WAKE UP."

78+ unread messages.

I clutched my phone tightly, feeling like my whole world collapsed as I read my friends' chat. "They are coming… here? I can see them?" With shaky hands, I typed in a message.

Y/n: "We have to buy tickets."

Soojin: "YEAH, NO SHIT. LET'S GET VIP, GUYS."

Athena: "Isn't that too expensive?"

Soojin: "NOTHING IS TOO EXPENSIVE FOR THE NAME OF LOVE! RIGHT Y/N!?"

I groaned at Soojin's antics. "Name of love… yeah, more like me being delusional," I thought.

Y/n: "Very funny."

Amanda: "Come on Y/n, this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity."

Soojin: "I AM CURRENTLY IN THE QUEUE, GUYS."

Athena: "You are seriously buying VIP tickets??!"

Soojin: "YES!"

I let out a sigh before putting my phone down and going on my computer to open the ticket sale. Seeing the VIP ticket's price, I cringed internally, feeling sorry for my bank account. I clicked on it, hoping the purchase would go through.

Amanda: "I GOT THE TICKETS."

Soojin: "TICKETS ARE SECURED! I GOT ONE EXTRA FOR YOU TOO, ATHENA, SO YOU HAVE TO COME!"

Athena: "Damn it. Fine. Thank you, Soojin."

Soojin: "You're welcome!"

Soojin: "Now you owe me."

Athena: "….fine."

Amanda: "Did you get yours, Y/n???"

Soojin: "????"

Athena: "Yeah, did you?"

I stared at the screen of my computer, unblinking as the words washed over me.

CONGRATS Y/N. YOU HAVE SUCCESSFULLY BOUGHT VIP TICKETS FOR ATEEZ. WE CAN'T WAIT TO SEE YOU THERE.

I glanced at my phone and tried to type in my answer with a few mistakes.

Y/n: "I got mine."

I turned off my phone and put it down, my whole body vibrating in excitement. "I'm seeing them.. I'm finally seeing them."

As the concert day drew closer, my heart raced with anticipation. I carefully selected my outfit, aiming for a perfect blend of style and allure. I wanted to exude confidence when I finally stood in front of the group that had captured my heart. My friends arrived, and we embarked on the journey to the concert, blasting Ateez's songs along the way, our excitement filling the car.

When we arrived at the venue, the sight of the long queue and the bustling crowd took my breath away. The realization that I was about to see Ateez up close made my heart flutter with a mix of nerves and exhilaration. Hours seemed to pass like minutes as we stood in line, chatting excitedly about what the night might hold.

Finally, the moment arrived. The doors opened, and the crowd surged inside. My friends and I found ourselves swept up in the sea of fans, our hearts pounding in unison with the music that echoed through the arena. The energy was electric, the anticipation palpable. "So many Atinys.. it's amazing," I thought as I was pulled along by Amanda towards the barricade, chatting with other Atiny's.

The minutes ticked by as the lights dimmed and the performance started, screams of girls and boys around resonating as screams were heard throughout the giant stage and halls. My heart skipped a beat. This was it. There they were, the idols I had admired from afar, now dancing and singing just a few feet away. My eyes darted from member to member, each one shining in their unique way. And then, my gaze locked onto him – Park Seonghwa, the one who had captured my heart from the very beginning.

I looked around and saw the immense energy resonating from the fans and started matching their energy, shaking my lightstick in rhythm to the music. My eyes closed for a minute, feeling the song. When I opened my eyes, I met the gaze of him.

Their eyes met, and in that instant, time seemed to stand still. It was as if the world faded away, leaving only Seonghwa and me in a shared moment of connection. I could feel his energy, his passion, radiating from the stage and intertwining with my own. For those fleeting seconds, it was as if we were the only two people in the universe.

But as quickly as it had begun, the gaze broke. Seonghwa had to continue his performance, his moves seamless and his voice captivating. I watched with a mix of awe and admiration, my heart still racing from our brief, intense connection. The music swelled, the lights danced, and the concert carried on, but for me, those few seconds of eye contact with Seonghwa remained etched in my memory.

The night soared by, a whirlwind of music and emotion. As the final notes of the last song echoed through the arena, I felt a bittersweet ache in my chest. The concert was over, and reality was settling in. But I knew that the night was still young.

As the lights came up and the crowd began to disperse, my friends and I exchanged excited whispers and shared smiles.

After the exhilarating concert had concluded, my friends and I found ourselves waiting anxiously in a designated area, eagerly anticipating our meeting with Ateez. The moments of anticipation seemed to stretch endlessly, but as the queue gradually lessened, my nerves started to lighten. I exchanged excited glances with my friends, our shared enthusiasm fueling our excitement.

Finally, my turn arrived to meet the members of Ateez. My heart raced as I stepped onto the podium, the space filled with the vibrant energy of my idols.

As I made my way down the line, I felt my pulse quicken when I came face to face with Kim Hongjoong. He exuded charisma and kindness, putting me at ease with his warm smile. Our conversation flowed effortlessly

, and I couldn't help but feel a deep sense of gratitude for this opportunity.

Each member greeted me warmly, and I managed to have genuine conversations with all of them, laughing and sharing stories as if we were old friends. It was surreal – a dream come true that surpassed all my expectations.

But what truly caught me off guard was when I reached Seonghwa. The moment our eyes met, it was like time had folded, and we were back in that shared gaze from the concert. The connection between us was undeniable, a magnetic pull that transcended the chaos of the room around us. We spoke, our words weaving a tapestry of shared interests and laughter, as if we had known each other for years.

Throughout our conversation, I noticed that Seonghwa's eyes held an intensity that seemed to match my own feelings. It was as if he was as captivated by my presence as I was by his. Our hearts communicated through unspoken glances and shared smiles, creating a bubble of intimacy within the bustling room.

Just as I was about to leave, I felt a gentle touch on my hand. Looking down, I saw a piece of paper discreetly handed to me by Seonghwa. My heart skipped a beat as I took it, my fingers brushing against his for a fleeting moment. I discreetly pocketed the paper, the anticipation of what it held only adding to my excitement.

I waited for my friends to be done before excusing myself to the bathroom, ignoring their snickers.

I quickly located the bathroom and locked the door before pulling the paper from my pocket, carefully unfolding it, my heart racing as I read the message.

Seonghwa had written a simple yet powerful request – to meet him at the stage once everyone had left. My breath caught in my throat, and a mix of nerves and exhilaration surged through me. Without hesitation, I discreetly made my way to the stage, the shadows of the night concealing my movements.

As I reached the stage, I saw Seonghwa waiting for me, a soft smile on his lips. He gestured for me to follow, and we walked together in silence until we reached a small, secluded room. The air was charged with a mix of emotions – anticipation, nervousness, and an undeniable attraction.

Seonghwa motioned for me to sit, and as we settled into the quiet space, the world seemed to fall away. Our conversation flowed effortlessly, unburdened by the expectations of the outside world. We shared our dreams, our passions, our vulnerabilities, and with each passing moment, I felt myself falling deeper in love with the person I had admired from afar.

Our eyes locked once again, and with the heart eyes we exchanged, it spoke volumes. It was as if we were the only two people in existence, our connection forming an unbreakable bond. Seonghwa's hand brushed against mine, a simple touch that sent shivers down my spine, igniting a fire of longing within me.

As the night grew darker, our conversation continued, traversing the realm of music, dreams, and personal experiences. Time seemed to lose its grip, and it was just Seonghwa and me, two destined souls intertwined in a space where nothing else mattered.

As the hours slipped away, my heart felt both heavy and light. I had shared something profoundly intimate with Seonghwa, a connection that transcended the boundaries of fandom and reality. And as we finally bid each other farewell, I knew that the love story that had begun with a shared gaze had evolved into something deeper – a story of two hearts finding solace, comfort, and love in the midst of a bustling world.

Weeks had passed since that serendipitous night when Seonghwa and I had shared our first intimate conversation. Our connection had deepened over late-night phone calls, bridging the gap between our physical separation as Seonghwa continued on his tour. The miles between us seemed insignificant as our voices carried our emotions across the line, turning ordinary conversations into moments of shared intimacy.

But as Seonghwa's tour took him back to South Korea, the physical distance began to weigh on both our hearts. I missed him with an ache that only grew stronger with each passing day. Determined to surprise him and bridge the gap, I made a bold decision.

I booked a flight to South Korea.

My arrival in South Korea was both exhilarating and nerve-wracking. As I stepped off the plane and breathed in the unfamiliar air, a mixture of excitement and anticipation filled my every step. I made my way to the Ateez dorms, as I had gotten help from San to my surprise. A swirl of emotions churned within me. When I finally arrived, I was greeted with warmth and hugs from San and Yeosang, both of whom had become familiar voices through the phone.

"Welcome, Y/n! We've heard so much about you," San exclaimed, enveloping me in a tight hug that made me feel instantly at ease. Yeosang joined in, his smile as genuine as ever.

After the initial excitement settled, I couldn't help but ask the question that had been on my mind since I arrived, "Where's Seonghwa?"

"He's at the company right now, but he should be back shortly," San replied with a mischievous grin. "He's going to be over the moon when he sees you."

As I waited for Seonghwa's return, I spent time bonding with San and Yeosang, our laughter filling the room. We shared stories, inside jokes, and moments that I knew I would treasure forever.

Finally, the door burst open, and Seonghwa walked in. His eyes widened in shock and disbelief as he took in the sight of me standing there, a radiant smile on my face. Without a second thought, he crossed the room and enveloped me in a tight embrace, his happiness palpable.

"Is this real? Am I dreaming?" he exclaimed, his voice tinged with disbelief.

I laughed, my heart swelling with affection. "I'm real, Seonghwa. I wanted to surprise you." Seonghwa could only hug me tighter, spinning me around the room, our giggles filling the air.

Over the next few days, Seonghwa and I embarked on a whirlwind adventure across Seoul. We explored the streets, visited popular spots, and shared moments of quiet intimacy. One sunny day, we found ourselves sitting on a park bench, enjoying ice cream and each other's company, the sundown casting a golden glow over the bustling town.

Our conversation flowed effortlessly until an elderly couple passing by stopped in front of us. With a twinkle in their eyes, the old woman smiled and said, "You two make such a cute couple."

Seonghwa's reaction was unexpected. He chuckled nervously and quickly denied the assumption, causing a pang of disappointment to flicker within me. I quickly masked my feelings and brushed it off, but inside, doubt began to creep in.

As the day turned into night, I found myself retreating into my thoughts. I withdrew from the members' offers to eat, choosing to wallow in self-pity instead. I felt like an outsider in a world where Seonghwa was a star and I was just an ordinary person.

Unable to bear the silence any longer, Seonghwa finally pleaded for me to let him in. I hesitated before reluctantly allowing him into the spare room they had given me during my stay. As he saw my tear-stained face, his heart shattered, and he, too, was reduced to tears.

He cupped my face gently in his hands, his voice trembling as he asked, "Y/n, what's wrong?"

I looked up at him, my eyes brimming with vulnerability. "Do you… not like me? Is that why you denied us being a couple the other day?"

Seonghwa's heart ached as he realized the impact of his words. He wiped away my tears and took a deep breath, his voice steady yet laden with emotion. "No, Y/n. It's not that. It's just… I was afraid. Afraid that if I admitted my feelings, you might reject me. I never wanted to risk what we have for my feelings."

My heart swelled with a mix of relief and understanding. I reached up and gently silenced him with a kiss, shocking him. I pulled away to see his reaction, but I found that impossible as he pulled me into a deeper kiss, a soft yet profound message of requited feelings. We both laughed through our kiss, our emotions finally finding an outlet.

When we pulled away, I pulled and tackled Seonghwa onto the bed, both of us laughing.

As we cuddled on the bed, our laughter faded into hushed whispers. The air was charged with a newfound intimacy, our shared experiences deepening our connection. Seonghwa gazed into my eyes, his heart in his throat as he asked the question that had been on his mind for so long.

"Y/n, will you be my girlfriend?"

Tears welled up in my eyes once more, but this time they were tears of joy. With a radiant smile, I answered, "Yes, Seonghwa. Yes, I will."

Our lips met in a tender kiss, sealing our newfound commitment to each other. As we embraced, the weight of doubt and distance lifted, replaced by the certainty that our love story was just beginning – a love story that had transcended the boundaries of fame and ordinary life, bringing two souls together in a journey of shared moments, whispered confessions, and unbreakable love.

[heartysworld]

Make your choice Pt.1 || Aemond Targaryen x Reader

A/N: This one turned out being way longer than I anticipated so I decided to divide it into two parts. I spent almost 3 hours writing it last night and the second part is still far away from being completed. I hope you guys enjoy this one. It is more like a prequel to what's about to happen!

PART 2

Word count: 3335

MASTERLIST

Five moons ago you left King's Landing alongside you father, stepmother and siblings. The day you left your heart was heavy as a stone as you knew it was unlikely to return any time soon, leaving not only your childhood home,but also the man who held the key to your heart for so many years. The second son of the King, Aemond had been the one to charm you when you were still a young girl. There was something about him that made a feeling of comfort and peace blossom in your chest every time you were close to him or felt his presence. Who knew things would take such a turn so suddenly. The night before you left you and Aemond shared one last night together, as a goodbye in case it was your last forever. Who would've known that this decision of yours would have its long-term consequences.

There yet you stood now, in front of the Black Queen's council as everyone present was trying to give Rhaenyra different advice on what to do and how to act in such times. The Dowager Queen and her son had usurped the Iron Throne less than two days ago, crowning your cousin Aegon King. The tension in the Realm was getting stronger and stronger and you could only watch from the sidelines for now. You stood next to your younger brothers, Jace and Luke as you witnessed yet another quarrel between your father- Daemon and his wife. During the past turn of the moon this has been a constant. The Queen had just lost her youngest babe, stillborn, and your father's attitude and actions were not in anyone's favor at the moment.

All this wasn't treating you kindly either, as until yesterday,you and your stepmother shared something precious between the two of you. You were also with child, Aemond's child. This was a sore topic nobody wished to discuss at your presence as it was known you still kept the second son of the crown close to your heart. Daemon only cared for the wellbeing of his daughter and the part of his grandchild that was coming from her, nothing else. The kicks of the babe pulled you out of your thoughts as another topic arose in the room.

Somebody had to serve as a messenger on the Queen's behalf,and remind of the Houses of Stark and Baratheon,the vows their late rulers made to the then Princess Rhaenyra all those years ago.

"Jace." Rhaenyra started. "You are to go to The Vale,and visit my mother's cousin, Lady Amanda. The Vale would not turn its back on their own people." She finished, handing a scroll to Jace that contained her message for the person intended. Her eyes then fell on your younger brother,Luke. His would be the task to deliver the message to Lord Borros Baratheon- a man with a large ego who's only concern is who is on the winning side.

"Y/N, I entrust Luke in your care whilst on this journey. Storm's End is a short ride away from here, but knowing Lord Borros, an adult would be a good addition to accompany Lucerys there. And remember, you go as messengers, not warriors. Especially you, cousin,the health of your child is more important than anything else. Be safe ." Rhaenyra finished as her eyes held yours before you nodded as a response.

"Yes,my Queen." You answered. With that your turned around, heading for your chambers to put on a more appropriate attire for a ride in dragonback than a dress.

The weather was unpleasant, to say the least. A powerful storm was on its way. After all,it was called Storm's End for a reason,you though. Vermithor was your old boy,as you liked to call him,but a very loyal friend and protector. You saddled Jaehaerys' dragon at the ripe age of ten, making yourself one of the youngest dragonriders in the story of House Targaryen. Ever since you became with child, the old dragon was even more protective and alert than before.

An odd feeling settled at the pit of your stomach as one of the towers of Storm's End came in view. You trusted your senses,and you knew, that if something felt off,that it probably was. And your suspicions did turn out being true. As you descended from the saddle on Vermithor's back,another loud screen filled your ears,one that you knew quite well. Vaghar's head appeared from behind the large buildings on the other side of the courtyard. Your heart dropped at the sight. If she was there, then her rider was close as well. A hand fell on your swollen stomach in a protective matter.

"It is going to be alright, sister. Nobody could do anything to us. Remember what mother said, we come as messengers,not warriors. If they dare touch us they risk enduring the Queen's wrath." Luke's words made you smile but also saddened you at the same time. He was still so young and had not much knowledge about the world you all lived in.

"A brave boy you are, Lucerys. You are going to make a wonderful ruler of Driftmark one day. I am sure if this." You smiled, putting a hand in his shoulder as an act of encouragement.

"We carry a message from the Queen, addressed to Lord Borros Baratheon." You said to the guards that stood in front of the big wooden doors that led inside.

At your words, they turned around, motioning for you and your brother to followed behind.

The sound of old wood cracking echoed around the big,cold throne room. It was as dark as it was outside, barely any light present. Lord Borros sat at his seat the the opposite end of the room, staring at whoever dared enter.

As you walked in, the feeling of heavy eyes fell on your body. The one eyed Prince stood further away from the Lord's seat. At the same time, the Prince's breath hitched at the sight of his beloved walking in before his eyes. It all felt like a dream. His good eye took in as much as possible of your looks,bit wanting to miss any detail that could be new about you. Not much has changed,he thought as he watched you.

While Lucerys spoke,and handed the scroll from your stepmother to one of the guards,your eyes slowly fell on the Prince in question, locking eyes with his. Your heart clenched at the sight of him. Not only was the man you loved on the enemy's side,but the way his eye moved towards Luke,full of despise and hatred, hurt you even more.

You couldn't help but wonder sometimes, what it could've been if there wasn't so much thirst for power in your family. Was your child going to have a father present in their life? And a mother too? Parents that love each other deeply, not having to hold knives to their throats when they meet on the battlefield.

"To remind me of my father's oath? Is this how your mother plans on security allies? By sending a child and a pregnant bitch to deliver her threats to those who don't wish to comply?! What a Queen she is!" The voice of Lord Borros boomed around the big room.

Your body froze at the words he used to address you and your brother. You thought your clothes hid you well, turns out you were wrong.

"Escort Prince Lucerys and Princess Y/N to their dragons. I do not wish to negotiate any longer ." The Lord added.

By that time your senses were overwhelming you with the feeling of eyes burning a whole in your back.

Aemond's mind was racing when he heard Borros' words. Pregnant? His Lady Y/N pregnant? With whose child? Was it his,or someone else's? However, all these thoughts were drowned out by his anger that always managed to take out the best of him. The sight of his nephew who bad taken his eye,and the woman he loved carrying a child he didn't know about or was probably another's filled him with rage and anger, blinding his senses.

"Wait." Aemond called out, his voice sending shivers down your spine. Countless nights you have spent with him at the safety of his chambers and his embrace, listening to his stories,but still you couldn't help the way his voice made your heart beat like a drum, threatening to explode any second. As if it could sense your sudden change of emotions,your babe started kicking widly against your belly, making you since at the sudden movement.

"You and I still have something we have to settle...Lord Strong." Aemond said,his last words affection Luke more than any other time. This was not going the way it was intended to.

Luke turned around once again, facing he Prince as his eyes burned with the same hatered for his uncle.

"It is not the time, Aemond." You said as you held your stomach tightly, fearing for your safety.

Your voice caught his good eye,but wasn't of much help. After all, hatered always dominates in such situations.

"Hold your tongue,my love. You and I shall speak of this disgrace of yours another time." The Prince spat out at you.

You never imagined words could cut one so deeply,but they could, you felt it right now.

"You owe me an eye, nephew. Here and now. One will do, I plan on presenting it as a gift to my mother . I do not wish to blind you" Aemond said as he pulled out his dagger, throwing it in the growing between him and Luke.

Your brother glanced at the shining weapon on the floor,his eyes going between it and his uncle before he spoke once again.

"No!" He said.

"Give me your eye!" Aemond shouted as he strode towards Luke like a madman.

Next thing you knew,your body was pressed against Aemond's, keeping him away from Lucerys. Your arms held his shoulders while his chest was lessed against yours. His eyepatch had fallen during the heat of the moment, revealing the beautiful sapphire that laid in his eyesocket where his eye used to be long ago. Aemond looked at you,breathing heavily as he tried to contain himself from doing anything he'd regret later. Suddenly, strong kicks moved against his stomach. Looking down he saw your closeness to him,no space between the two of you.

His expression worsened while your heart filled with sorrow more and more. He thought the child was not his,you knew that by now and the way he looked at you when he realized.

"Do not lay a hand on my brother, Aemond. We did not come to battle!" You raised your voice while still keeping him still.

Next thing you knew your body hit the ground. Aemond had thrown you aside with all his force,once again heading towards his nephew. Your heartbeat was going crazy at the moment. All the possible outcomes of this only making you feel worse.

"Stop this! I will not have blood be shed under my roof! Leave now and do as you wish!" Lord Borros yelled angrily at the scene happening in front of his eyes.

Lucerys helped you stand up as much as he could,one of his arms around your waist while he supposed your body towards Vermithor. Pain was shooting through your body with every step you took towards your dragon. The storm that was coming from earlier was now in all its power, raging and destroying everything in its way.

"Concentrate,Vermithor! Fly fast! Waste no time!" You yelled in High Valyrian, encouraging the old beast to do his best in this weather.

At the distance you could hear Luke say the same to Arrax. Worry settled in your chest once again. Arrax was small compared to the two other dragons present. You could only pray to the Gods to be generous and spare both yours and Luke's lives on the journey home. Vaghar's silhouette could be seen whenever a lightning struck somewhere close. She was enormous in size, a true Valyrian beast from the old times. Aemond wasn't less of a beast as well, everybody knew that. Whenever something angered him or wasn't to his liking he would take care of it, in a heartbeat. And taking care of something had a very different meaning for you and for him.

It was mid flight when the tragedy happened. You watched from the clouds as Vaghar devoured Arrax and your brother in one big snap of her jaws, sending blood and different parts of what bow used to be Arrax in the air. Aemond's shouts could also be heard as he tried to keep control of Vaghar,but to no avail.

"No, Vaghar! Serve me! No!" He continued yelling as she remained out of control. You could feel nothing but blind terror as you watched her eyes fall on Vermithor,her next victim.

When he realized what was happening Aemond's body went cold with dread. The thought of your spilled blood on his hands crawled up his throat. He couldn't let this happen, not now not ever. Whoever the child you carried was, whichever side you were on,he couldn't let the love of his life be taken away by the very same dragon he sacrificed so much to claim.

"Aemond! Stop this madness! Haven't you done enough already?!" You were screaming,not knowing if he could hear you. Tears were streaming down your face,hot tears from both the loss of your younger brother and the thought of losing yours and your child's life to the man you loved dearly.

"She's out of control! She's not obeying my commands!" Aemond was also screaming. "Vaghar no! Serve me! Calm down!" He kept yelling.

Meanwhile, a patch of land fell in your eyesight in the water below. A small, probably deserted island. Grasping Vermithor's reigns as hard as possible,you yanked them towards you, commanding the old beast to lower himself to the water level,in an attempt to land there. You had to try, in the name of your son or daughter,you had to try and save them.

The last thing you remember was the hard impact Vermithor made with either the ground of the island you had seen or Vaghar's jaws that were at a distance only a few flaps of her wings away.

When your eyes opened again your perception of time was blurry. Your entire body ached and nothing could compare to what you were feeling. The sand underneath your body didn't provide any comfort either. Slowly, you raised your body, wincing at every little movement you made. Looking up at the sky you could see your dragon flying around, protecting you from the air. Anothert thing then fell in your eyesight. A familiar figure stood with its back towards you a few feet away from where you laid. Aemond was looking at the horizon,which was only water to where your sight reached.

"What are you doing here?!" You asked, demanding an answer. "Was it not enough to make me watch as your savage beast devoured my brother because you were unable to control her like a rider should do?! Do you wish to watch me suffer all my life?! Your family is taking away all of my happiness one by one and you proudly stand on their side, watching!" You were crying by the time you finished your words, hot tears streaming down your face.

You watched as Aemond turned around to face you. His eyepatch was gone and both his good eye and the blue sapphire were now staring at you. Whatever he felt was unrecognizable by his look, something he was good at doing, hiding his emotions. Without saying a word he slowly made his way towards you.

"I never wished for Vaghar to kill your brother." He said as one of his hands went up to your face, feeling the falling tears,while the other one went around your waist, pulling you closer to his body.

"And still you were unable to control your dragon." You answered harshly. His touch had a powerful hold over you, being able to settle down any overwhelming emotions.

"On that much we can agree." Aemond said back, meanwhile his eye had moved down to take a better look at your stomach that was once again pressed against his like earlier. An odd feeling settled in his chest as thoughts from earlier flooded his mind. "However, all I could care was your wellbeing and making it out of the storm unharmed." He added and you felt the hand that held your waist sneak around and fall over the swell of your stomach.

"Is this child the next thing you are going to take away from me?" You asked quietly,unable to look him in the eye. The thought of being separated from a child that was still unborn made your heart clench.

"I would never wish for my lady and child to be separated from one another, or from me." Aemond said,his lips coming closer to your forehead before placing a kiss just above your eyebrows.

"I would never wish for the man I love to be my enemy...but here we are, Aemond, we can't undo what's already been done. I cannot stop loving you,but I also cannot leave my family and side with the enemy."

"I am your family now, this child is your and my family." He protested.

A few moments passed in complete silence before you spoke your next words.

"If you wish to watch this child grow, you'll have to fix your priorities, Aemond. It is either us,or the crown. You make your choice. If you wish to be a father, come again here in a fortnight and let us fly away from Westeros, or choose your family who would rather watch you suffer all your life than swallow their pride for a moment."

Taglist

@ccallistata @social-life-does-not-exsists @kiribrima @westsidelegendary @vaf24

@edum123 @kittycatcait219 @nataliarosana60 @scarletraine @strawbbyjamb @rosey1981 @dunkle-mondseite @anaisbambia @yourswitchling @misskatiewrites @sprikadirkkirk @barnesfilms @beelanie

@fairyfolkoresposts @multifndom @nerdy4itall @simpforfictionalchatactersstuff @drmeghanjones @eudximoniakr @percypup

@idkjj04

[narrans]

My Borrowed Son | 15 | To My Friends...

Chapter Fifteen | To My Friends…

It was a bit of a restless night for Amanda. She knew it would be a challenge but that it was good for both of them at the same time. Not having Parker sleeping within arm’s length was strange. The maternal part of her wanted to make sure he was okay.

What if he needed something?

What if he had a nightmare?

What if he went to get off of the table and slipped on the ladder or rope? Parker was prone to climbing things after all.

Fretting and worrying took its toll on Amanda and, by morning, she found herself blankly staring at her reflection for several unblinking minutes as the water washed away her toothpaste. There were faint dak rings under her eyes, but perhaps that had to do with the other matter of Parker getting older.

He was growing into a fine young man. He was gaining interests and wanting to explore more things. Just the other day, her son asked her about sports as he practiced his swimming in the bathtub and possibly joining this thing called a Dungeons and Dragons campaign that one of his friends, Billie, was hosting.

Amanda remembered D&D when she was growing up, and it didn’t seem all that interesting if she was being honest.

But Parker was his own person. He needed to be able to express himself and be free to explore the things he wanted to but within reason.

The fear in the back of her mind crept up once again. The omnipresent force that constantly loomed over the disguise that was Parker’s “condition” lurked in the shadows and threatened to rear its ugly head every time Amanda wanted to give Parker the freedom he earned.

There was a portion of Amanda that scolded herself for not telling Parker sooner about his so-called “condition” and how he actually came into her life. The other part, the dominant one, hoped she would never have to tell him. To her, it didn’t matter where he came from. He was her son, and she reasoned that not having answers to his existence was worse than providing one lie.

Regardless of her feelings, Amanda knew that she needed to start letting Parker make some of his own decisions when it came to his interests. If it was dangerous, she would intervein. Otherwise, she needed to trust in Parker and reinforce their lessons when needed.

“Hey mom! Good morning!” Amanda turned and glanced down by her feet to see Parker by the bathroom door that she had left open. “Are you finished?”

“Oh, yeah. Of course. Sorry. Good morning Parker,” greeted Amanda as she quickly rinsed out her toothbrush and stepped past Parker into the hall. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yeah, I did. You?” grinned Parker.

“I slept well enough,” his mom replied. “It’s Saturday. Do you want cinnamon rolls or eggs?” The look in his eyes said it all – cinnamon rolls. With a quick nod, Amanda headed off toward the kitchen was Parker started his morning routine.

Parker heaved his way up the line he fixed on the side of the sink, despite his mom insisting he use the ladders for everything, and washed his face and brushed his teeth. The newly minted teen stared at his reflection in the mirror and, for the first time in a while, felt like he was a little different.

He knew his hair probably needed a trim, but there was something about his physical body that felt different. There was something about his features that felt like they were changing. His mom had explained that his body would be going through changes as he got older, but today was the first day he actually felt a little different.

Parker decided to table that for another time as he began working on a mental spiel for his mom instead about why he should be able to get a Tumblr account. He went over the talking points in his head.

Selina has an account for her art to better her portfolio and gain a following.

I want to publish some of my writing because I like it and I’m good at it.

I’ll be responsible.

It’ll be another way to make friends.

I know we’ve talked about safety on the internet before, and I promise I’ll be safe.

The more Parker thought, the more he didn’t feel confident in his argument. The teen still wanted to try though. The worst thing that his mom could say was “no,” right?

He shimmied down the line and hurried to the kitchen before he could lose his nerve.

Parker crossed the wooden floor, taking in the heigh of the hallway and the vastness of the living room before walking into the kitchen. After spending the evening in a place designed specifically for someone of his size, looking up toward the ceiling was vertigo inducing. That weird part of him felt, for whatever reason, apprehensive as he approached his mom.

It happened from time to time, but that sensation was something he couldn’t identify.

The sweet smell of baking cinnamon bread wafted through the air and dismissed his concerns as his mom knelt instinctually and helped him up onto the counter.

“So, I was thinking that we should start working on the hot water in your space first so if there are any leaks and spills we can clean it up, dry it off, and not get any decorations and electricity wet. I know we set up the basics yesterday, but I just want to make sure it’s all good before getting everything else in place. What do you think?” asked his mom. A healthy portion of iced cinnamon roll was dished out onto his plate and handed to him.

“Sounds good to me,” replied Parker. “And thanks for making breakfast.” He inhaled the sweet scent and dared to lick a large portion directly off of the top when his mom wasn’t looking.

“You’re welcome sweetie,” Amanda said in response. “Then, if you’re feeling up to it, we hook up the chords and lights so you can be ready to show your friends your new room on your webcam by Monday for class.”

“That… sounds great,” said Parker, his mind thrumming with a slight, growing anxiety as his question continued to prickle the tip of his tongue. Parker winced as he saw his mom looking at him. He didn’t know how she did it, but anytime he had something on his mind, she knew.

“Or… we can do something different,” suggested Amanda. Parker looked up and saw his mom’s intuitive eyes looking at him quizzically.

“No! No, I want to do all of that. It’s going to be a great project,” said Parker hurriedly, his heartrate spiking momentarily. “It’s just… I wanted to ask you for something. Like… a delayed birthday gift?”

The concern in his mom’s brow dissipated into curiosity. She nodded and laid her hand down onto the counter, a signal to Parker that they were going to go sit at the table instead of eating on the kitchen counter. He stepped onto her hand, noting the small blister on her thumb from where she probably accidentally burned it while making breakfast, and let her get settled down at the table before continuing.

“Um… okay… hear me out,” said Parker as the argument he had been practicing in the bathroom and all this morning vaporized immediately.

“Okay,” said his mom with a cautiously amused smile on her face. Parker cleared his throat a few times before it clicked again in his head.

“Um… right. So, I was wondering if I could start my own Tumblr page,” said Parker. His mom’s brow furrowed in confusion, so the teen decided to elaborate. “I was talking with Selina and the others during the party yesterday and Selina said that she had one and was using it to post her art and stuff like that. She said I should put my writing up on there and… I… kind of want to.”

Parker knew this was a big ask. Generally speaking, his mom tried to emphasize that time should be spend off of the computer and not on it. His access to the internet was usually kept under mild monitorization simply because the internet had a lot of things that he wasn’t ready for.

As his mom would say, “The internet is a powerful tool that can be used for good and bad. There are some… different… people on the internet and sometimes the things they put out there are cruel or not for young eyes.”

Parker had always adhered to that and only used his internet searches for academic purposes.

This, he felt, was a good resource for him to utilize.

Amanda, on the other hand, felt herself squirm and pale, and she prayed Parker hadn’t noticed. That website was the same one way back when that she had found a lot of writing about “little people.” A lot of it seemed like fiction and fantasy if not for the fact that her son fit in with the exact categorization of these small beings who lived in walls.

Amanda thought about the conversation she had with herself just this morning about letting Parker have a little more freedom and taking his feelings into consideration. He was expressing interest in publishing and writing. Parker wanted to make more virtual friends because, for better or worse, she had restricted his contact with the outside world.

She had to ask herself the ultimate question.

Was this something that was too dangerous?

Was this something that would harm her son?

Would this thing provide too much information for his mind to handle?

Or, on the other hand, would this prompt the conversation they might need to have about how he came into her life?

Amanda didn’t trust the world with her son, but she trusted him. If he was ready to ask those questions and seek out those answers, she needed to let him to that.

Who knew? Maybe he wouldn’t encounter anything or ask those questions. Maybe this was a change for Amanda to start formulating how to best talk to Parker about why he was the way he was.

Amanda swallowed dryly and looked into Parker’s thoughtful, light brown eyes. He was obviously eagerly awaiting her reply.

“Well, Parker, I think… that you’ve shown a lot of responsibility when using the internet. Obviously, I would like to be able to see the website and look into all of the options, but… I think we could come to some kind of compromise,” decided Amanda.

Parker, absolutely filled with elation, leapt up and cheered.

“Yes! Thank you momma!” he said jubilantly. He threw himself onto her hand and hugged her with all of his might. It reminded Amanda of the little boy he still was.

Once again, she sent a silent prayer that she was doing the right thing.

She suspected she would need to have a conversation with Parker, but not now. Not right after his birthday.

“We’ll get everything set up after we set up your space, deal?”

“Deal!”

~~~^*^*^~~~

The next eight hours were a test of sheer willpower.

The hot water was a trick and a half to get set up and that went double for the electricity, specifically the switches that turned the lights on and off.

The easiest part was, in all reality, decorating. Parker chose easily cleanable floor panels and mostly space themed wallpapers. He did choose to have his bedroom in a Hobbit style theme with greens, browns, and little grass patches which Amanda dug up for him. He also picked out a few gardening beds for him to grow stuff off of his balcony and plenty of wires and charging places for his devices.

His area right off of his bedroom on the second floor was his classroom and study area, hooking up the camera and tablet for class. The first floor was the gaming and hangout area. Finally, the attic was Parker’s not-so-secret tinkering area when he wanted to create and design stuff.

All in all, things were coming together very well and, by the end of the night, Parker was exhausted; but not exhausted enough to deter him from creating his account.

With his mom’s blessing, he quickly filled in his email, birthday, and even uploaded a quick picture he took of himself.

The final thing to determine was the name of his blog, which Parker didn’t realize he needed to do.

What did he want to call his blog? His name was already taken, and he wanted to make sure it sounded genuine and professional if other people were going to see it. He didn’t want to make it something naughty and have his mom find out and revoke this privilege.

He stared at the blinking vertical line on the screen as his hands hovered over the virtual keypads.

Then, it hit him.

The name was already on the place his mom gifted to him added with a little touch into his mind.

Parker’s Place: Welcome to My Little Life

It was suiting, and Parker felt like it represented him in a way that didn’t talk too much about his condition. He was more than some fancy Latin name after all.

The screen popped up and, for a moment, he wasn’t sure what he wanted to say. Should he make an introductory post? One of his dreams? Did he even have to use that button at the bottom called “tags?”

He decided his first course of action was to send the Tumblr link to Selina, which he did, before electing to make a little introductory post. It was polite after all.

Nerves and excitement starting to make him feel jittery, Parker began typing.

“To my friends... Hey there! My name is Parker and I'm a little new here. I like writing, poetry, tinkering, and I stream games and stuff from time to time. I'm also a bit of a space nerd and I usually have a favorite book every month, but my all time favorite is probably The Hobbit.

“I hope you all like my stuff. I'm just putting it out there to get over my stage fright (fingers crossed).

“Anyway, nice to meet you through the screen. If you have any story suggestions I should read here or cool art I should check out, just let me know!

“Look forward to hearing from all of you out there and, hey, welcome to my little life!

So long!

Parker”

After staring at the post for nearly twenty minutes, Parker decided to pull the trigger. Taking a breath, he pressed the “Post Now” button and hoped for the best.

He didn’t have time to watch and see if anyone noticed or cared about his post. Dinner was ready and it was his turn to pick the movie.

~~~~~^*^*^*^*^~~~~~

Continue

Previous

Beginning

[tinyattack09]

ALLL MORAL OREL FANS

you wanna see a fix where Clay is confronted by literal god???

Here it is!!!

Beseech

After the Danielle incident and the hunting tragedy, Clay Puppington receded to his study most of the time. Making no attempt to change, he would waste his days drinking and having an affair with both Censordoll and Stopframe. But, we all know that the lord giveth, and the lord taketh away.

“Clayton Middleinitial Puppington!”

“G-…God!?”

“It is I, the Heavenly Father.” His voice shook the room, and boomed into his body.

“Wha-…Why have you visited me, Lord?” Clay said, clearly in a daze.

“You have a lesson to learn, Clayton. You give your own

lessons and stories while convoluting their meaning to fit your way of destructive, abusive life. It is time that you learn, mortal. The Lord’s mercy only reaches you if it remains pure.”

A sword of pure light appeared. As the Lord held it, the power

changed its hue.

“Lord, what are you doing!?” Clay stepped back. He knew that

he was in trouble, and he couldn’t bribe this one to go away. The sword was raised, and all the light in the room was focused only on Clay.

“What is necessary to keep my world pure.”

“Why…?!”

"Why!? Pathetic. Unable to realize thy faults. Let us see your life, and what it really was."

Everything fades. There is a young boy holding a gun. It shakes in his hands as he struggles to bear such a deadly tool.

"It's a tradition in the Puppington family that the head of the household would pass off this gun to the eldest son."

"Wow, dad… But I don't think I could kill an animal. That seems too mean."

"Son, nature was made to be hunted. We get to 'play god.'"

“Play God?? Golly Pops… that doesn’t sound very right…

You know the sixty-third commandment! ‘Thou shalt never hold a gun without anything to shoot at!’ And we have to follow God’s rules!”

The memory switches to a young Puppington, holding that

same gun, while ketchup was spewed all over the child’s body.

“Clay! Clay! Clayton! Open your fucking eyes!” Clay’s body was shook violently.

“What?? I didn’t do anything!” Clay springs back to life, having

pretended he was dead. His mother then cried out

“Oh thank the heavens! Lord, thank you-“ She froze in the

middle of her sentence. She fell to the floor, her heart unresponsive.

“Mom!” Clay ran to his now dead mother, understanding what he did.

“Get back!” Clay’s father pushed him back, slamming him to a wall. No CPR could be done, and Amanda Puppington was declared dead. The memory fades to black.

Clay was frozen.

“I-… I was so young, Father! I didn’t know what I was doing! I was only six years old!”

“Then let us watch something more… recent, yes?” The memory flashes to the wilderness. Clay is an adult, and stands there with his twelve year-old son, Orel.

“Dad… I think you might be *too* drunk.”

“I… Let me tell you something, Orel! Drunk is nature.”

“I’m not really comfortable hunting with you, Dad.” Orel is tense, gripping to the log he’s sitting on.

“You aren’t comfortable hunting with me? Ever tried hunting with you!?” Clay gulps down his liquor like it’s the last bottle of water in the desert.

“Y’know kid, your cup is always half empty. Look at me. You should be more like your old man and look on the blight side of life.”

“B-Blight?” Orel said, shivering from his fear.

“No, I didn’t say ‘bright,’" Clay interrupted, "I said blight. My life is sunny and blight. ‘Bright’ means the opposite — it means sudden withering death. And that’s… not… Oh, who am I kidding, my life is full of bright…”

“Dad..?” Orel replied, terrified that his father would lose composure.

“Oh, God.”

“What’s happening, Dad!?” Orel cried.

"Oh, I hate myself…”

He runs out of liquor in the bottle. He stares at his reflection, silently hoping that it would be the last time he’d have to see it.

“Why do you quit working on me!?!”

Everything goes silent. No birds chirping, no crickets, no owls in the night.

“She always fools me, Orel. ‘I’ll make things better dear! Drink me! Put me inside of you, I’m great!’ And then she chokes me just like every other whore out there!! They’re all worthless, kid! Every woman. Don’t let ‘em get ya! All of them just wanna get ya! They just grab you and pull you into ‘em! And then you’re forced to stay in, pull out. Stay in, and pull out!! And then they cut ya! And they grip ya by the… right where it counts! And then they start SQUEEZING things out! Things that are like weights around your head! You’re stuck there for the rest of your life, with NOWHERE to go and NO ONE to be!!! AAAAGH!!!”

The scene faded out.

"What's so bad about that?! It's useful advice!" Clay exclaimed, deluded by his own prejudice.

"Just wait, mortal."

The scene reappeared. It opens to clay and Orel sitting across from each other, with clay in a drunken stupor. Orel is now as far away from Clay as he can be while still on a log.

"It's time you became a man. Where's my rifle!?" Clay yells, searching for it/

"Dad, I don't think-"

"There it is! No mistakes, no accidents, no fuck-ups, no blunders."

"Dad! W-What are you doing?!"

"Somethin' important!!"

A single, lone spark flew. Following it was an ear-splitting bang. No noise could be heard after that, other than the ringing going through both of their ears.

"D-...Dad…"

The scene fades for the final time.

Clay was frozen.

"Do you realize thy fault now? Are you able to comprehend the weight of your sin?! Do you finally see that your actions have consequences, Puppington!?" The ethereal voice boomed. Its volume was so loud that Clay was shaken back into reality.

Clay was speechless. Instead of pleading for his case, he simply stood there thinking. He didn't need to speak, for his god could tell exactly what he was thinking.

I couldn't have done that. But I did. How? Why? What do I do!? What do I do?!

But then a thought hit him.

Just give up. You've been so dedicated to your Lord your entire life. Give everything to Him.

"Please…" Clay said, hopeless and weak. Clay then fell to his knees. He didn't dare to raise his head, or so much as stand up.

"Please what?" The deity spoke. Tears began to roll down Clay's cheeks as he remained there kneeling before his God.

"Please… Have mercy," he muttered. He was too weak to raise his voice.

"Forgive me, Lord. Forgive me. I'm weak without you, God."

"You beseech for something you could not give to your own, Clayton. The kingdom of heaven does not allow those like you."

The sword of light raised up once more, as Clay said his final vow.

"I'm sorry, Orel."

A scream rang out. The scream of a weak, hopeless, self-destructive, and miserable young boy. The light disappeared, and all that was left was a soul, going to neither heaven nor hell. The soul was trapped in the mortal world, and had a chain around its neck.

Suddenly, Orel walked into the study. As he stepped further, something came into view.

The end of a chain that led directly to his neck.

RB AND LIKE I SPENT SO MUCH TKMD ON THIS OKAY BYE

[nigesakis]

for a long time i avoided the saw fandom but in the past few days i took a look again

i was one of the people who was there when we built the fandom. it existed before but in 2015-2019 we kinda came together as one and created a community. we were like about 50 *active* people on tumblr. we worked full time keeping the fandom alive and making content.

i remember when i wrote chainshipping fanfics we had about 30 existing works on ao3 and i remember when we came up with hoffstrahm (stroffman back then) and we were like "we hit 10 fanfics on ao3!" and if you saw viral tweets about saw during 2016-2019, that was me probably (and the tweet of leigh saying there was more to adam and lawrence relationship was also my edit... he did not say that, im sorry).

we had a theory that adams corpse wasnt really him but that they switched it with tapp's and everyone kinda took it as canon even though we knew it made no sense

but i think the most important part of everything was that the fandom came to life through trans people (mostly trans men and transmascs) and lesbians. there was barely any cishet person in the fandom and it was common knowledge that adam was a trans man (or trans in general) (also i dont know how its now, but him and diana as a father/daughter dynamic was a huge part of chainshipping) and amanda a lesbian. it was a fandom but it was also an lgbt community that felt like a little safe town for us

so after 2019, when saw became more popular i kinda retreated because it felt like an army marching into it and i guess i kinda overreacted, but it was something so dear to me and a huge part of my and other's lives and being trans, and it upset me in a way? (also autistics with a franchise/media as their special interest will know what i mean😭)

i remember seeing a meme that was like "only girls understand adam" and with the history of adam being like. the poster boy for a lot young trans boys it kinda hit the wrong spot, even if it wasnt serious at all

so a few days ago i saw some fanart by @turnipoddity and thought. let me check in, its been long enough.

seeing the amount of trans chainshipping fics on ao3 was so relieving and seeing posts that reminded me of back then showed me that, even with saw not being the little community we once had, there are still people that think the same way as we did and adam and amanda still being interpreted the same, too

i dont really know why im writing this exactly, but i needed to get it out of my system. i hope saw will continue to be as important to young lgbt folk as it was and is to us.

[degloved]

Heyyyy!! I love your hoffstrahm fics, can't get enough of them, the way you do them specifically. Was wondering if you at all took writing requests/prompts? If so, I've been thinking SO hard about a Strahm-lives scenario in which he gets Hoffman out of the bathroom. Doesn't have to be huge!! Just wondered about your take on it. -👾

i won't lie this has made me more excited than i can say !!!!!!! what do you MEAN people want more of MY hoffstrahm. god that's crazy. anyway!! absolutely anon, wrote a little drabble here just for you. hope you like <3

‼️ for the record, there isn't a saw prompt in the world i won't do. btw. if you send in any. for the record ‼️

He'd driven past the house once, twice, three times now, in the past few days. It had to be joke. It'd be ridiculous to think otherwise.

Peter had thought it a joke at first.

A perfectly plain, unremarkable envelope—no return address—and within it, an equally plain, unremarkable piece of paper. Scratched into it in ballpoint pen, a set of coordinates.

The perfectly plain, unremarkable brownstone occupied a plain, unremarkable street corner. Its plainness and unremarkableness set Peter’s teeth on edge. He knew what kind of darkness, ugliness, lay behind those walls—so visceral, his skin crawled on approaching. It didn't sit right with him, not at all, that this shouldn't be reflected on the outside.

He wasn't sure what to expect upon entering.

A newly restored, freshly refurbished, entirely inoffensive interior wasn't it.

Meandering from one room to the next, he called to mind old crime scene photographs.

Here, Xavier Chavez tossed Amanda Young into a pit of needles. There, Laura Hunter fell victim to sarin gas permeating the air. Over yonder, Addison Corday slowly and painfully bled out.

No trace of them left behind. In their stead, an IKEA coffee table bearing a grossly fake plant—and more along those lines. Inexplicably, it angered him.

No matter.

He was drawn to the basement.

He wasn't going in blind, to tell the truth. They'd been hot on Hoffman’s trail for weeks—till the trail, suddenly and without explanation, ran cold. Call it a hunch, but Peter had been with the feds long enough to know when one ought to put two and two together.

The doors, although robust and seemingly heavy, weren't difficult to pull open. The accompanying screech was deafening. The stench might’ve made a lesser man empty his stomach.

A flashlight had been a good choice. Peter flicked it open, unleashed the military-grade light into the decrepit old room, watched it flood and seep into every nook and cranny. (For better or for worse—some things might’ve been better off remaining hidden from view; Peter wrinkled his nose at Gordon's foot.)

Hoffman sat there, a lifeless pile of limbs slouched against some piping. Peter couldn’t tell, not from that far off, whether he was even breathing.

He wasn’t sure which to hope for.

His boots click-clacked against the slightly sticky tile. Hoffman stirred.

His eyes, blue and tired and bloodshot, lingered on Peter. Alert but unseeing, cloudy and unfocused. How long has it been since Hoffman had been left down there?

A while, surely.

Peter could pinpoint the exact moment things snapped into place. Hoffman jerked like a kicked stray, a weak hand reaching out before again collapsing by his side. "Strahm?"

His voice was hoarse; beyond that, really. It crackled around each syllable forced up his raw throat. A haunting realization rattled through him: Hoffman must've screamed. He must have screamed for a long time.

"Yeah." Peter’s mouth was dry.

"Hey."

Peter wasn’t sure what had finally dragged his ass out here, to this accursed house and its rank basement bathroom. He'd have claimed revenge initially, or perhaps that deep-seated drive to see justice through. As it was, none of that seemed to matter much at all. Maybe he'd enact all those fantasies later, but...

For the moment, he found himself rather overcome with the singular desire to haul Hoffman to safety. (Certainly a strange sensation overall.)

Interestingly, instead of reaching for the bolt-cutters hanging off his belt, he reached for Hoffman’s dirty, grimy, cold face. Heaved a sigh upon feeling familiar skin beneath his fingers. (Godamn him to hell. Goddamn Hoffman, too.)

He sniffled—Christ, he sniffled.

"Been a while," he muttered into the pocket of air between them, running his thumbs over Hoffman’s cheeks.

Hoffman smiled an ugly, lovely smile.

Old habits and their hard deaths, and all that.

[street-artists]

Heya! Welcome to the blog once known as "Ask-Julie-Kostenko" and its now "Street-Artists"!

This is still a Parody/Rp Blog but now featuring both

Julie Kostenko from the Legion.

And

Carmina Mora aka The Artist!

All the same rules are here or course. Don't be a bigot, they murder people they're not monsters.

I'm a 22yr old Transfem whose been rping for 8 or so years now surprisingly.

I've been playing dbd for almost a year now with Julie as my highest prestige (p50).

And I will tag both OOC and NSFW stuff. Now, HC's for all characters are below here (because i don't want this to be too long and some NSFW stuff is there)

Julie Kostenko: Julie is a rather rowdy girl, she typically acts first thinks later. Being a bit of a sadistic bastard, during trials if she has the time she will taunt survivors about many things. And if shes even given the opportunity, will lick their blood out of fun

She does use the other legion members Knives and rarely masks. But I believe that they just share knives. Especially with Julie because she likes collecting them

Now of course. Julie is freaky, she will stab, choke, force the partner to lick her own blood or their own blood. And if shes able even use other killers for pleasure... like Doctor's sock for example!

Carmina Mora: Carmina has grown a bit too attached to the crows that seem to follow her around nowadays. Shes a bit too... co dependant on them at times too given her INCREDIBLY limited voice. And they help translate her thoughts into words

Given her past, Carmina is terrified of trying to protect any boys younger than her, given her brothers death. So if she even slightly sees a Younger guy as a sorta mini brother. She will act like a mother hen protecting her young

Alongside that. Any killers that wield any sort of Knife. Be it the Legion, Chucky, Myers, Amanda, Ghostie, etc etc. She will visibly freeze, and even start to get aggressive unless they sheath/put away the blade

In her down time of trying to relax outside of trials, she ever rarely leaves her "terf" of Eyrie of Crows. It gives her a sense of sanctuary despite the fear and anxiety she has, and will rarely if ever attack survivors outside of trials if they find their way to Eyrie of Crows

Alongside the Crows. She sorta sees The Entity as the mother she wished she had. Provided comfort (via the crows), a place she can call 'home'. And even gives her opportunities to try to still keep her title as "The Artist" by making gifts for the Entity, or other killers to keep to themselves or store away in their personal realms. And sometimes to survivors as well to give them some bit of hope

And i haven't made many NSFW hcs for her yet.... she likes women definitely tho

[fanartalchemist]

I made Amanda The Adventurer as The Owl House character, with wooly being her palismen.

here they are, with more explanation below each one. check out the end for the meme.

also, you can use these drawings however you want, because this may be the only time I draw them. cant wait to see what you guys do.

Amanda, who use to be named Rebecca, was a 10 year old witch adopted by a remarkable witch named Sam Colton. His daughter loved telling stories to young kids at different libraries. Sam loved her daughter so much, he made a palismen just for her, and broadcast her storytelling live, so everyone across the boiling isles can see her. her stream became an educational show on 24/7, which soon caught the attention of Hamlen.

When Hamlen wanted to turn his show into a cartoon series, he agreed as long as he keeps an eye on her daughter during the process. as Sam watched, he grew suspicious of their activity, such as strange chanting by Rebecca, and spells and potions he isn't familiar with being used on his daughter and her palismen. even Rebecca was uncomfortable with it, and she told her father that she wanted to quit. before Sam could cancel the agreement with Hamlen, he disappeared without a trace. When Rebecca was left under the care of the company, they started preforming more experiments on her and Wooly.

these experiments involve trying to make animated characters respond to the audience, make it capable for palismen to use spells, find ways make a witch more powerful in some way. they even changed her appearance and named her Amanda. the final straw was when they carved glyphs into the child's arm as a way to strengthen her magic. Much like Belos, this caused Amanda to mutate into a horrid beast. since different glyphs were used for her, her transformation was different from Belos.

the curse made her capable of powerful magic, but make it hard for her to control herself. when she loses herself to her amplified magic or her emotion, she becomes a lanky imp-like demon. in this form, she is partly blind, but can see through crystal balls of any size, and scrolls, and use them to track down her prey. this is the only magic she can preform as a monster.

the only thing that could undo the curse and temporarily keep it at bay is Wooly. thanks to the ability to preform magic, along with probably the power of Sam, he can use his essence to keep the demon from taking control of her. he is also able to preform witch magic, but its not as strong as a witches. he mainly uses illusion spells to talk to other witches on the isles.

ever since the curse, the friendship between the young witch and a one of a kind palismen started to fade. from ignoring wooly to yelling at him when he has something to say, the curse seemed to made her personality worse. she use to have a positive side on everything, but after what happened to her and her adoptive father, she is starting to lose grip on her own optimism.

one day, she went too far and lost control of herself, badly hurting wooly in the process, and ending many lives of hamlen workers. wooly ran away while Amanda felt grief of what she has done to wooly. to make sure it doesn't happen again, she uses a spell to keep herself in a frozen state, never aging and will remain asleep until she is awoken. the only hint of where she is kept is in the recordings installed in the scrolls she left behind. meanwhile, wooly stays with the bat queen, hoping that when the time comes, he can return to her companion and change her back to normal again. it will happen starting when someone finds her messages, someone like Luz and her friends.

Bonus:

p.s.: before anyone asks, the typo for the company name was intentional.

[ace-of-clubs-and-diamonds]

Find My Sanctuary

Your fingers twitched around the cup cradled between your hands. You pressed the pads of your fingers into its warmth and imagined it was someone’s neck. Her father’s, Jigsaw’s. Whoever it needed to be.

Rating: Mature Fandom: Saw Pairing: Amanda Young x GN!Reader Word count: 3.2K Content warnings: Angst, trauma, violent intrusive thoughts, mentioned gore, implied/referenced abuse, emotional breakdowns, panic attacks, implied/referenced self-harm, kissing, non-explicit sex, sex as a coping mechanism. There’s some cutesy shit too but it goes downhill fast, so savor it. Some weird prose, tangential rambling, and unnecessary symbolism as the author tries to be poetic. Saw is its own warning. AO3 Link: Here

Author’s Note: So this was inspired by a self-indulgent piece I wrote back in December! I wanted to expand upon it, but in the process it became.... much less cute than the original. In fact it became quite angsty. But this is the second installment in a series of Amanda Young x Reader fics, the first of which is Too Late I'm Dead. It’s not necessary to read first, but it might provide context. I had a lot of fun with this, and I’m super excited for this series! I hope you enjoy <3

You tapped a fingernail against the glass, breath leaving a puff of condensation on the pane from how cold it was outside. “I don’t think this is gonna let up anytime soon,” you admitted. You’d already waited at the diner for an hour longer than you’d expected, and the rain had only gotten more intense, pounding against the window as if determined to force its way inside.

Amanda made a noncommittal sound of agreement. She looked tiny on the other side of the table, the faded red vinyl of the booth threatening to swallow her up. But she looked at ease with the thought of that. At ease sitting here, drinking endless amounts of coffee and talking about nothing, talking about everything. As if the world didn’t exist outside the preciously unremarkable 24 hour diner.

She looked.... happy. She had a fist planted against her cheek and a soft, barely-there smile. Fuck, you wanted to capture that image forever. Wished you had a camera to snap a picture of her, of the tender curve of her lips, the choppy hair that reached just past her chin, the lack of tension that seemed to take residence in her shoulders as if she was permanently braced for a blow that never came.

The thought settled in your stomach and left a bitter taste in your throat. All the things she’d experienced at the hands of her father, the cards she’d been dealt in life, and then Jigsaw.... Your fingers twitched around the cup cradled between your hands. You pressed the pads of your fingers into its warmth and imagined it was someone’s neck. Her father’s, Jigsaw’s. Whoever it needed to be. Before this, the thought might’ve given you pause. The overwhelming desire to lash out and unleash furious, boiling, poisonous hatred and take someone by the neck, so intense you could almost feel it. You would’ve stopped, maybe been a little concerned. Where did that come from? you would wonder to yourself.

You knew exactly where it had come from. It had come from the same part of you that ripped yourself free of the nails Jigsaw had hammered through your palms. It had come from the same part of you that was holding onto Amanda like a lifeline, like the last thing in this damned world keeping you afloat. You would kill for her, would kill to protect the life you had escaped with despite all odds. You would kill to preserve the soft smile and the tender gaze that had settled against you. After all this, you would’ve done anything.

“Most people are so ungrateful to be alive. Most take for granted the fragility of their lives and how numbered their days are. How easily good things can slip between their fingers. But not you. Not anymore.”

Not anymore.

Now you kept a death grip on every good thing that showed up in your life. And Amanda was at the top of that list.

“What are you thinking about?” she whispered. You shook your head and grinned sheepishly. You’d been mid-reverie, hadn’t meant to stare. Although you gladly would’ve spent hours memorizing every line, every curve and angle and detail of her face. The rest of her, too.

“Nothing.” You shifted your gaze out the window again. Her own gaze remained on you, heavy like a physical touch, like a possessive caress. It drew you back to her. As it always did. When it came to her, you were little more than a moth drawn to the flame. “Just happy to be here, I guess. With you.”

The words might’ve been cheesy under any other circumstance, but not with you two. Not when you’d both fought and killed and maimed to see another day.

And that wasn’t lost on Amanda. She looked at you with such raw, open adoration that it made your heart hurt. And then she came round to your side of the table and kissed the hurt away.

Someone muttered something nasty and only half-audible. The image of crushing the column of a throat flashed through your mind again. You tightened your grip on Amanda instead. When she finally pulled away, her lips were soft and wet and her crimson-red lipstick was just slightly smeared. The desire to wrap yourself around her, to press her to your chest and hold her there until your skin and bones melded together, pulsed through your body with breath-stealing intensity.

“Do you want to head back to my place?” you asked quietly. “Or yours.”

“Yours,” she said immediately. “But not yet. Just a little longer.”

You nodded and pulled away, ignoring the pang of disappointment at her words. Not at her desire to stay here longer. You found yourself hesitant to leave, as well. You could’ve spent the rest of your life trapped in this mediocre diner with her, just to see her smile and laugh and never worry again. Just the two of you, isolated from all the shit that had happened outside. No, the disappointment was from the first part. “Yours.” She had answered so quickly. She always wanted to go back to your place. She always wanted to talk about you, your job, your hobbies, what you were up to. She never wanted to go back to her place, never wanted to tell you about her job, her hobbies, what she was up to. She evaded any question that was too deep, that required anything more than a vague hand-waving answer. It was like she was determined to keep the conversation away from herself. You weren’t sure why. It would’ve made you uneasy if not for everything she’d been through, and that’s why you didn’t press. Because she had been through so much, been burned so many times. Even with your disappointment, you couldn’t find it in you to be too upset about it. God knows how long it took you to open up about your own shit, after Jigsaw. And she’d been trapped by him twice. You couldn’t blame her.

Instead, you just wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pressed you cheek against her hair, inhaling the faint smell of sweat and cheap shampoo. It was comforting. You uncoiled as she leaned into you.

The two of you watched in silence as the diner’s staff changed, trading out one group for another. The rain still hammered against the glass, almost religious in its determination. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled like a slow-approaching omen. Of what? You weren’t quite sure, at first.

But the answer came soon enough.

You’d only distantly registered the sound of the diner’s door opening, the little bell pinging. It wasn’t until Amanda went rigid in your grasp that you looked up. Her face was frozen in an expression that you could only call “deer in headlights” – brown eyes wide, face pale, something startled and unpleasant and indecipherable written across her features. Your mouth was already starting to form the words, “What’s wrong?” when you followed her line of sight.

A man had entered the diner and approached the counter, one arm propped against the edge, the other resting against his hip and strategically brushing the edge of his jacket back to reveal a police badge hooked to his belt. Dark wavy hair, lips fixed halfway between a grimace and a pout, and a build like a brick shithouse. You didn’t recognize him. But Amanda most certainly did – she’d gone dead still in your grasp. You could hear her teeth grinding.

Who the fuck was this guy?

He ordered something from the cute girl with a nose piercing who was manning the counter, then cast a glance around the diner. He looked so deeply unimpressed that his expression bordered on disgust. And then his gaze snagged on Amanda. Surprise and recognition flitted across his face, lighting those blue eyes as his mouth pressed into a flat line. You could feel the tension bleeding into the air, from both him and Amanda, like blood from a wound bleeding into water. That rigid tightness had returned to Amanda’s shoulders, coiled even tighter than usual, so tight you thought she was going to spring out of the booth and throw herself at him with bared teeth and brandished claws.

And then his gaze landed on you.

Questioning, roving, examining you like a butterfly’s corpse pinned to a board. Like sticky, careless hands pawing through your organs. Your skin crawled. You didn’t even know why. You curled your hands into fists and dug your nails into your palms, into the scars there. It took everything not to cringe under the intensity of that look. The intensity of Amanda’s gaze was warm like the sun, inviting and alluring – his burned like ice.

After what felt like an eternity, he turned away. Discarded the both of you to turn his attention back to the girl behind the counter, who was offering him the coffee he’d ordered. She looked just about ready to offer herself, too.

You remembered to breathe. And then you remembered Amanda in your arms, and the fact that she’d stopped breathing.

You squeezed the solid muscle of her bicep. It broke whatever spell she was under. She snapped her gaze away from the man to your face, eyes wild and furious and with that element of something you still couldn’t put a name to. You let your concern show on your face. “Are you okay?”

“We’re leaving.” Amanda was on her feet and shrugging on her jacket before you could blink. Her movements were sharp and aggressive, like she was barely restraining herself from exploding. You scrambled for your own jacket. Amanda threw a wad of cash onto the table, and you hoped it was enough to cover the obscene amount of coffee you’d both consumed while there. She was already halfway to the door while you were struggling to get your arms through your jacket sleeves. You almost pointed out that it was still pouring.

You doubted she cared.

Amanda shoved through the door, and you felt the man’s eyes on both of you as you followed her. Neither of your jackets were waterproof. You were soaked and shivering in seconds, teeth chattering so hard you could feel your skull vibrating. The angry, quick walking pace Amanda set wasn’t enough to warm you up, so you just crossed your arms and hunched your shoulders and grit your teeth as your mind whirled.

Who the fuck was that guy, and why had Amanda reacted like that? He was evidently some sort of cop. You raked over everything Amanda had told you about her past. Former drug dealer wasn’t likely. Neither was an ex – he was hardly her type. He couldn’t have been the cop who’d framed and arrested her, because Amanda had told you that he was dead. Was he someone she’d run into while she was in jail, when she’d first started using? A cop who’d been particularly cruel? Maybe a cop who’d interviewed her after her Jigsaw traps, who’d dismissed and belittled her? Or maybe it had nothing to do with his badge. You mulled over the other possibilities. There were several, and each of them had your stomach roiling with unease.

By the time you got back to your tiny apartment, your hands were trembling so badly you struggled to get the key into the lock. Amanda huffed in frustration and grabbed them from you. She stabbed the key in as if imagining the lock was the cop from the diner.

“I had to cut him open to get the key. It was in his intestines. And I thought he was dead at first, but he wasn’t. Just drugged. Just... asleep. He woke up right as I started cutting into him....”

The door’s lock clicked open and Amanda shoved through. You followed her with less fervor. The sounds of squeaking boots filled the apartment as she paced angrily. You listening to her as you clicked the five different locks on your apartment door into place – you’d had them installed after you’d been discharged from the hospital.

She was muttering to herself under her breath. You couldn’t parse the actual words being said, but the acrid fury was clear. Tension locked around your vertebrae.

“Fuck!”

You whirled, alarm spiking through you. Amanda had stopped in the middle of the space, the palms of her hands smacked against her forehead, fingers gripping her hair and eyes screwed shut and face contorted as if she was in physical pain. She looked like she was on the verge of a breakdown. She looked like she was on the verge of bursting apart.

The image of digging your fingers into that cop’s neck tore through you, visceral and hot and angry. This time, you held onto the image. Pictured your nails breaking his skin and your palms crushing his windpipe as he stared up at you with wide blue eyes. Whoever the fuck he was, you’d make him regret whatever the hell he’d done to send Amanda spiraling.

A ragged breath sawed out of Amanda. You tucked the image away for now and rushed to her side. “Hey, honey, sweetheart. Look at me.” You kept your touch as soft as your voice when you placed your hands against her arms. Enough to let her know you were there, but not enough to force her into anything. “Look at me. It’s okay. We’re home now. You’re okay, sweetheart, it’s okay.” Amanda’s breath rattled in and out, too rapid and too shallow, as if she was struggling not to burst into tears.

You had no idea what was happening. It was so surreal to see Amanda – strong, capable, beautiful Amanda, who’d been your lifeline ever since you met her – on the verge of a breakdown. It was as if your roles had been flipped, like Amanda had rushed out of that Jigsaw survivor’s meeting instead of you, tears in her eyes, and like you’d calmly turned around from your seat on the steps instead of her. It made anxiety gnaw at your insides and your throat ache. It made you feel woefully ill-prepared to deal with this. But fuck, you had to do something. You had to try.

“Mandy,” you pleaded with her. You moved your hands to her wrists and gently tried to pull them away. You were afraid she was going to rip her hair out. “Sweetheart, please.”

She stared at you with wild eyes. She no longer looked like a deer in headlights. She looked like a cornered animal, hackles raised and ready to shed blood to survive, even as fear pumped through her veins like a half-blinding drug. Your heart thudded painfully against your ribs.

“Here. Put your hand here.” You moved one of her hands to your neck, pressing her ice-cold fingers against your pulse. “Feel my heartbeat. Pay attention to it, yeah? Don’t focus on anything else, just focus on that. Focus on me.” It was a shot in the dark. You’d done something similar for yourself a thousand times before when you were in the worst of your post-trap paranoia, when you thrashed awake in the middle of the night drenched in sweat and unable to breathe. In a moment of desperation, half out of your mind with sleep-deprivation and fear, you’d bought yourself one of those stuffed animals with a heartbeat. You’d listen to it when you woke up already barreling head-first into a panic attack, focused on the metronome ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum instead of your own rebelling body. It had helped you. Grounded you. You had no idea if it would help her. Or if your own pulse was too frantic to be effective.

And at first it seemed like it didn’t. She was trembling and cold and teary-eyed. Her grasp on your throat was just a hair too tight, just shy of comfortable.

But after what seemed like hours in limbo, her breathing slowed. Deepened. It was unsteady, but it was something. Her eyes lost some of their panic and focused on you.

You offered her a soft, cautious smile. “Hey. Hey, honey. I’m here. You’re okay.”

She stared at you for a silent moment, then her hand moved from the column of your throat to cup the back of your neck and she was pulling you into a bruising kiss. A fierce press of lips and teeth, a possessive gnashing that didn’t give you a chance to draw breath until she pulled away. She cupped your face between her hands. Dark eyes glimmered with desperation.

“Please don’t leave,” she whispered.

“Whu–”

“Please promise me.” She choked back tears. “Promise me that you won’t leave. You’ll stay. You won’t leave me.” She shook her head at some unspoken question. “Not after everything, not after all this. Everything I’ve done, I–” A small, broken noise that made you feel ill. “Promise me. Promise me you’ll stay.”

You stared at her in bewilderment. You’d been plummeted into unknown waters, had no idea where this was coming from, only half an idea of what she was talking about. The traps? The things she’d done to survive? Of course you couldn’t blame her for that, of course you wouldn’t leave her –

“I promise. I promise.” You brushed your thumbs against her cheeks, sweeping away the spilt tears. You kissed them away and tasted salt. “I promise.”

She kissed you again with the same fervor as before. As if she was scared you’d slip out from between her fingers, like mist in the sun, like blood in water. As if she was trying to memorize you, to convince you to stay with the movements of her mouth and her hands. As if she might just consume you to keep you. And there was nothing you could do but kiss her back and desperately try to communicate in that same language that you didn’t need convinced. You were here, you were with her, you weren’t leaving, and you never would, no matter what. No matter what she thought she’d done, no matter your scarred bodies and your bent souls.

At some point you ended up in your bedroom, and Amanda begged you to distract her, to ground her, to keep her from destroying herself piece by piece. And so you did. You worshipped every part of her. You pressed kisses to her scars, whispered promises and sweet nothings into her skin. You wrung out sweet pleasure from her until the tears of fear and desperation turned into tears of ecstasy and she was sweetly moaning your name like you were the only thing keeping her from shattering.

She fell asleep curled in your arms. It was almost unnerving how fragile she suddenly looked, how small and brittle. You gently traced a line up her arm and pressed a kiss to her shoulder. She buried herself further in your embrace. She looked so much calmer, now. At ease. A total contrast to just a few hours ago.

Despite the exhaustion tugging at your own mind, you stayed awake a while longer. Kept watch for whatever mental demons might come, held her close, and imagined wringing that cop’s throat with your bare hands.

[rotworld]

23: Breathless

(previous)

quiet moments and stillness leave you feeling uneasy and afraid. jamie and malachi help you relax.

->sexually explicit. contains body horror, parasites, threesome.

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“There is death in you,” the thing in the dark whispers. You are handled gently, like a broken bird in cautious fingers. Alien appendages, rippling frills and soft, flexible tendrils, graze against you. An eyelid, thin and translucent gray, flicks across the enormous, moon-like eye. “Slow, creeping death. Perhaps it can be healed.”

This is a dream like all the others. You can’t breathe or speak. Knowing that you could once, that you managed to dispel the crushing pressure and force air through your constricted throat, frustrates you but also gives you hope. There is a way. You just have to remember. 

Your eyes never fully adjust to this sort of darkness, but your other senses sharpen. You hear faraway voices; whispers and song, deep and mournful. You feel the movement of beasts that could swallow you whole, their mere passing knocking you aside. Stars trickle like falling snow. There is light if you know where to look, how to recognize it. Ribbons of it, fluttering like sails in the breeze. You struggle to understand how this could be home—how this could be Anchor. Was it hidden somehow? Cut away like Aliquando Island for its incurable strangeness? Somehow, somewhere, it still exists. You want to see it with your own eyes.

“Brave little thing. Yes, I want to see you, too. To feel you beyond the dream.” You are brought higher, lifted before the great eye. It is silver rimmed with prickling obsidian, a lightless void of dilated pupil stretched across the center. “I will hold you,” it says, auroras waving in the wake of a slow, upward movement, the moon rising and distant. “And I will never let you go.”

[NOW PLAYING ON THE RADIO: GHOST BY NOVAH FEAT. AMANDA MAIR]

You’re woken in the middle of the night. By what, you can’t say for certain. The house is quiet, but you do hear muffled, terse chatter drifting up from downstairs and music softly playing. The shift is vivid through the skylight window. You settle against the pillows and watch reality grow soft and shimmery like the surface of a bubble and other worlds swim by. You think about what Jamie told you about Higgs’ flukes, creatures who send their young beyond the boundaries of the only world they’ve ever known. Do they know what they’re doing? Do they ever wonder what becomes of their children, rocked to sleep in the cradle of their small, fragile eggs by the glistening churn of a shift? 

You wonder if they yearn for home, too. If there is a place in the Drift for every fluke, a strange patch of a grass or a quiet pond where this world intersected with another and birthed a miracle. 

Time passes and your thoughts are too busy to fall back asleep. You get out of bed groggily, passing the bookshelf on your way to the stairs. The photo of Malachi and the God of Nelton sits atop the shelf now, perched on a lace-edged doily and flanked by fresh cut, fragrant roses. The hallway at the bottom of the stairs is dark but the shift illuminates your way in quivering, luminous color. You’re reminded of your dreams—auroras in the dark. Has the place you come from ever passed by without you noticing, the void moving across the sky like a dark ghost ship? 

“I sent out warning letters earlier this evening, but I’m not sure how much good it’ll do,” you hear. Malachi’s voice, deliberately hushed. “I struggle to imagine a scenario where a municipal government would willingly shut off its own anchorware, no matter the risks.” 

You hear Jamie hum thoughtfully; the clatter of a teacup on a saucer. “It’s worth trying. I’m more skeptical the letters will reach their intended destinations in the first place.” 

“A Verlindan volunteered to deliver them. They have their own roads most places. A bit more reliable than ours.”

“Most, you said. No way to Anchor through the Verlindan backroads, then?” 

“Unfortunately, no. They’ve been cut off for a long time now. Makes me wonder how long they’ve been working towards this.”

They’re sitting in the living room, lights off, curtains open to let the alien glow of the shift through. You see Malachi out of his cassock for the first time, dressed in a soft, long-sleeved shirt and blue plaid pajama bottoms. He’s hunched forward in an armchair, leaning over the coffee table with a mug of steaming herbal tea in one hand. Jamie sits across from him on an olive-colored sofa, one bony shoulder exposed by their lopsided, oversized University shirt. They sip from a floral teacup while flipping through a pile of loose papers strewn across the table. There’s a radio sitting on the windowsill, crackling peacefully. 

Your footsteps draw a squeaking creak from the floorboards. Jamie and Malachi look up at the same time, their eyes drawn to your shape in the dark. “I’m so sorry. Did we wake you?” Malachi asks. 

You shake your head. “Can’t sleep. What’re you guys doing?” 

Jamie scoots over to make room for you on the couch. The papers they’re looking over are an assortment of official Nelton documents; anchorware installation paperwork and maintenance reports. “Grasping at straws,” Jamie admits. “Looking for any clue we can find. Getting to Anchor’s just the first hurdle. Everything’s going to be locked down tight.”

The most recent document is from your first visit to Nelton, the time you ran into Bachman. He was here, allegedly, to double-check the installation of new anchorware around the meat processing plant. He signed and dated the paperwork to verify everything was satisfactory. “What about this repairman?” you ask. “Does he seem strange to you? I can never quite remember what he looks like.” 

“That’s standard for anchorware technicians,” Malachi says. “They wear advanced shielding tech to stabilize themselves and protect against any sort of anchorware troubles.”

Jamie frowns. “His shielding is cranked up unusually high. We get a lot of repair techs at the University and they’re a little blurry at worst. He might be wearing more than usual, just in case he gets caught up in the malfunctions he’s causing. Then again, you said he hasn’t been here in a while. If you’re going to cause such a catastrophic reaction, it seems safer to do it remotely.”

They take another long gulp of tea and then set their cup down again, just a sliver of dark liquid lingering in the bottom. Malachi plucks the cup and saucer from the table and rises out of his seat gracefully. “Courier, would you like something to eat or drink? There’s lemon balm tea on the stove now. Jamie says you like eggs. I could make a frittata, if you’d like.”

You’re about to decline but Jamie nudges against your shoulder. “Just say yes. He won’t leave it alone,” they mutter, exasperated. “He wouldn’t sit down until I let him bring out half a bakery’s worth of scones and muffins.” 

“There were two of each, Jamie, and I seem to recall you ate them without complaint,” Malachi calls from the kitchen. You hear pots and pans clanging around, the sink running, a knife chopping swiftly across a cutting board. 

“You don’t have to go to all that trouble,” you say. 

The noises pause and Malachi leans out of the kitchen, smiling gently. “It’s no trouble, courier,” he says. “It’s our way here in Nelton. He didn’t want that to change, and neither do I.” 

The sounds of a busy kitchen resume; the crisp shredding of vegetables, the crack of egg after egg and the rhythmic hiss of whisking. Malachi starts humming a church hymn. “I’m surprised you’re getting along so well,” you say quietly. “I figured, after the last time we were here…”

Jamie rolls their eyes. “I’m not exactly thrilled about what happened, but I’d be a hypocrite if I held it against him, wouldn’t I? We have bigger problems and he’s willing to help. And he makes acceptable tea.” 

“I think you said it was incredible, actually. Some of the best you’d ever had,” Malachi calls. You can hear the smile in his voice. “You asked me for the recipe.” 

“I said it was fine.”

You can’t help but smile a little. It’s nice to have a quiet, peaceful moment, after everything that’s happened. But your thoughts return to darker places before you fully relax. You’re staring down what feels like countless unsolvable problems. Thumbing through the papers on the table, you’re reminded of Anchor’s reach, their stranglehold on the Drift. “How are we going to get in?” you ask.

Jamie gestures towards the kitchen. “They want to come with us; everyone who survived the fire. Malachi thinks they have a good shot of getting past the front gate that way. Anchor probably knew what was going on here, and I’m sure they know they got what they wanted. If all of Nelton turns up on their doorstep seeking asylum, they’ll let them in. It’s an irresistible research opportunity.” They sigh. “That’s assuming we can get there in the first place, of course.” 

You nod numbly. You don’t feel reassured. How many places are like Nelton now, ravaged by disaster? How many places are unreachable, adrift in time and space like Aliquando Island? You think of all the places you’ve been, the people who have shown you kindness. What will be left of them—of the Drift—when this is over? 

“Hey,” Jamie says softly. They reach over, wiping away your tears with their thumb. “It’s alright. We’ll figure it out. We’re not alone in this.” 

“I don’t want to think about it,” you admit. It’s all running through your head now; Glenn and Halvard and their family, and the virus ravaging Verlinda. A deliberate choice, you think, because the Verlindans use so little anchorware. Iridesce, who insisted that you be repaid for your work, who trusted you with the most precious cargo. The girl and the Singer and Compass Hill—is it still standing? Is everyone okay? Does it burn while you sit here? Is it collapsing, dragged into oblivion by a catastrophic failure of reality and physics? 

“Come here,” Jamie murmurs. “Let’s not think for a while.” They tug you gently closer, a hand brushing against your cheek as they lean in and press their lips against yours. You kiss back frantically, wanting to forget. The Road Ripper. The querrow. The fire in Nelton. An island of artists who can never go home again. You’ve stopped moving and now everything that’s happened has managed to catch up, claws of worry sinking in your heart.

Jamie demands your attention by pushing you down gently and crawling on top of you, setting a slow, sensual pace for the kiss. They nip at you, coaxing out your tongue with their own. Their hips grind down on yours, languid rocking motions that make you gasp into their mouth. “Jamie, we’re—” Your words cut off with a moan when their hands slip beneath your shirt and tease your nipples, thumbs flicking, rolling the buds between their fingers. “We’re on Malachi’s couch, he’s in the next room—”

“Then don’t make too much noise,” they whisper. Your shirt gets bunched up around your neck and their mouth is kissing down your chest, dragging their tongue over any spot that makes you squirm. You have to bite back a gasp when their mouth closes around one of your nipples and you feel not only their tongue but the fluke’s firm, flexible body flick against it. Both soft appendages toy with your sensitive flesh, tonguing and suckling, bullying it into hardness. Jamie watches you through their lashes, peering up at you with a heated look in their eyes. 

When they grind on you, you feel something twitch between their legs. A slender, snaking shape throbs against your core. 

“I love how sensitive you are. You just melt under me.” Jamie’s hand slides down and palms your sex through your clothes, rubbing and stroking until you push back against their fingers, panting. “I’ve been fantasizing about all the things we could do together. Dreaming about it, sometimes. I’ve never been with someone who knows about me—all of me. I want to hold you down and make you cry. I want you to eat me out and I want to fuck your throat. You have no idea how long a Higgs’ fluke can get once it’s fully grown, do you? It could be inside both of us at the same time.” 

Their hand slides into your pants and stroke up and down your sex, agonizingly slowly. The pressure is barely there and not enough, and then they’re moving on again, circling your entrance. They kiss your ear, sucking at the lobe. Their soft, pleased sigh tickles your skin. “C-can you…” You hesitate, embarrassed. 

“Can I…?” 

“Can you touch…my neck?” 

Jamie nuzzles against the side of your face, blowing softly into your ear. “You’re so cute.” One of their hands stays on your sex. The other rises, cupping around your neck. Jamie leans back so they can see what they’re doing, stroking the tender spots beneath your skin. “You want it? Want me to squeeze right here?” 

“Please,” you beg. You’re ashamed of how needy you sound already, how hot you feel. 

“Like that, baby?” They push down on both sides, thumb and fingers pinching both sides of your neck. The sudden pressure sends a bolt of pleasure down your spine and you shiver, a moan slipping out before you can stop it. Jamie pauses for just a moment. You see their eyes narrowing, a smile snaking across their face. They dig their fingers in harder, rhythmic, massaging squeezes that have you arching your back. The hand between your legs starts moving again, hard, merciless strokes that have you grinding shamelessly into their palm. 

You’re going to cum like this, still half-dressed and pushing your hips into Jamie’s playful touch. You feel yourself being driven right to the edge by the friction, Jamie’s dexterous fingers and their legs bracketing your body, the heated, husky whispers and tongue grazing your ear.

And then Jamie glances over the back of the couch, eyes half-lidded, smirking. “Are you just going to stand there, Malachi?” 

Heat rushes to your face. Of course he heard you. You want to get up and apologize but Jamie shoves you back down and keeps you there with a hand on your neck—playful, not choking, just enough force that you can feel it. You can’t see over the back of the couch but you can hear tense silence, the creak of floorboards beneath nervous shifting. 

“I’m…so sorry,” Malachi says hoarsely. “I didn’t—I shouldn’t have—”

“Are you just going to stand there?” Jamie asks. “Or are you going to come over here, and make your angel feel good?” 

You squirm again, trying to sit up, desperate to see Malachi and know what he’s thinking, if this is all too far and you’ve overstayed your welcome. But Jamie caresses your neck again and it takes everything you have not to make an embarrassing sound. 

You hear a shaky inhale. “Is that…what my angel wants?” 

Jamie glances down at you, their hands stilling long enough for you to get your thoughts in order. “What do you think, courier?” they ask softly. “Do you want us to help you stop thinking so hard?” 

You swallow hard. “Is Malachi okay with that?” 

You hear movement. Slow footsteps. Malachi comes into the living room and crouches beside the couch, bringing your hand to his lips and kissing it reverently. You want him. You want them both. Jamie and Malachi share a brief glance and some shared understanding passes between them. “My bed would be more comfortable for the three of us,” he says, his voice lower than before. 

Malachi’s room is just down the hall. You have little time to appreciate the decor beyond the soft rug beneath your feet. They don’t give you time to stop, doubt and worry. Malachi leads you to the bed and eases you down slowly while Jamie sits above your head. You’re kissed breathless, the two of them working together to have you bare and writhing beneath them. Malachi undresses you like he’s unwrapping a priceless gift and Jamie’s hands smooth over your skin, sliding up and down your sides, caressing your hips, pressing a kiss to your shoulder blades when your shirt comes off and then laying you gently back down.

You can feel Jamie staring. Not at you, but at Malachi, everywhere he touches, everything he does to you. They chuckle. “Awfully bold for a man of the cloth.”

Malachi is between your legs, one hand massaging your inner thigh while the other digs through the bedside table. You hear a bottle click open. His fingers come back cool and slick. “Flesh is holy. Pleasure isn’t a sin,” he says. “I offer this sort of comfort to anyone in the congregation who asks. If you face me while you take pleasure from their mouth, I can show you.” 

“I guess overconfidence isn’t a sin either, huh?” 

Malachi smiles. He’s gentle and patient, sinking one finger into you and stretching you slowly. “I’ve been with you all this time, in a sense. As long as he was there, so was I. I saw what he saw, felt what he felt. I fell in love, just as quickly. So let me take care of you tonight, my angels.”

You relax under Malachi’s touch. He’s thorough, easily able to multitask. One hand moves in a slow, sensual slide over your chest and abdomen, his palm warm and his featherlight touch stirring unexpected pleasure across your skin. The other hand opens you up further, two fingers crooked and massaging your inner walls. Above the slick sound of Malachi’s lubricated fingers, you hear Jamie let out a soft, pleased sigh.

Nobody speaks, but they both move at the same time. Malachi withdraws his fingers and nudges your knees apart. He’s half-hard and stroking himself the rest of the way, biting his lip at nothing more than the sight of you splayed before him. He pulls your hips into his lap, your lower body slightly elevated and poised right against his twitching length. Jamie swings a leg over your head and settles on top of you, hovering just above your face. 

“Hands up here, courier,” they murmur, patting their thighs. “Two taps if you need to stop.” You take their advice. Jamie sinks slightly lower, resting most of their weight on their knees. The position is slightly awkward; with them facing Malachi, you don’t think you can reach their clit very easily. 

This isn’t a problem, as it turns out. Just as your hands settle into place, resting gently on their thighs, Jamie stiffens and moans. The fluke’s lower body protrudes from their entrance, its grasping limbs and tendrils nestling against Jamie’s clit and vibrating rapidly. 

“How is it when the two of you are involved?” Malachi asks curiously. He has a hand around his length and the other on your hips, guiding his tip inside of you. The first thrusts are slow, gentle, rocking motions that gradually sink deeper into your welcoming heat. 

“Indescribable,” Jamie says. “It’s like—like I feel everything twice. Everything is so sensitive.” You slide your tongue against Jamie’s folds and they sigh, encouraging you deeper with a slow grind. At the same time, the fluke pricks your lips. You give it an experimental lick and Jamie shivers. 

“You’re gorgeous together,” Malachi says softly. He holds onto your hips, keeping you firmly seated in his lap as he thrusts a little harder, a little faster. It’s not long before you’ve taken all of him and he savors the sensation, sinking in to the hilt and holding you there, his cock twitching against your inner walls. 

There’s a pause, one of his hands leaving your body. You hear skin stroking skin; his hand on Jamie’s cheek. It’s hard to believe they don’t still have some sort of connection. Nothing is said again, but after a moment of silence and stillness, you hear them kiss. It’s sloppy, tongue and teeth and swallowed moans, and you know the moment Malachi feels the fluke atop Jamie’s tongue because he flinches, startled—and then kisses them even more feverishly. Maybe no connection is needed. Maybe they’re just more alike than you thought, because they both starts to fuck you at the same time. 

Malachi’s hips slam into you and the fluke is opportunistic, slithering past your lips when you gasp. It doesn’t choke you or cram itself down your throat, but you feel that it wants to, the impatient slither of it against your tongue. It’s there, taking its pleasure while you please Jamie with your mouth. It thrusts in and out and you feel it pulsate, the segmentation along its body a strange but appealing texture against your tongue. It’s thicker than the part of itself that comes through Jamie’s mouth, less chitinous, more worm-like. You give it a gentle suck and Jamie rips away from Malachi just to praise you, whimpering, “Don’t stop, don’t stop!”

“Beautiful. Both of you, so beautiful,” Malachi says, sounding enraptured and breathless. He rolls his hips and rarely pulls out of you more than halfway, his deep, grinding pace hitting all the right spots. “If only you could stay, I would worship you like this every night.” You can hear yourself, the slap of Malachi’s hips against yours, the muffled moans you make around the fluke as it ravages your mouth. 

Your only warning that Jamie is about to cum is sudden tension in their thighs, more of their weight settling against your face. The fluke fills your mouth and your throat spasms gagging around it. Jamie nearly sobs, riding out their orgasm with harsh thrusts that drive the fluke deeper, and there’s a moment where you are completely, utterly full. 

“Fuck, that was amazing,” Jamie mutters. They collapse into bed beside you, smiling lazily as they wipe their juices from your cheeks. “Your turn, baby. Let me see you cum.” 

You’re close and you know Malachi’s not far behind. He’s losing his composure and careful gentleness, slamming into you harder. With your mouth unoccupied, he feels emboldened to surge forward and bend you nearly in half, hard, missionary style fucking with your legs wrapped around his waist. He mumbles incoherently and you catch only snippets, slurred worship and keening whispers of, “angel, my precious angel,” as he pounds you into the mattress. 

“Are you gonna cum, priest?” Jamie teases. Malachi answers with a groan. He’s losing his rhythm, thrusting mindlessly. His hips snap against yours and all you can hear is his ragged breathing, the slap of your bodies meeting. “Go on. Cum in your angel. Fill them up, give them everything.” 

Malachi crushes your lips with his, one last, desperate cry of “Angel!” muffled in the kiss, and you reach the edge. He fucks you through it mercilessly and you’re sobbing, toes curling, your nails raking his back. You don’t know how long he goes after that but it feels like you’re perched on the boundary between pleasure and pain for hours. Malachi trails his lips along your jaw and sucks on the side of your neck, and you think you cum again.

By the time your pulse has slowed and you’re aware of yourself again, no longer tingling and weightless, you’re surrounded by pillows. Jamie is curled up against your side and there’s a warm washcloth dabbing between your legs, soaking up some of the dried cum that trickled out and stained your thighs. You have to get up—have to get back to the guest room, you think—but Malachi chuckles and kisses your inner thigh.

“Get some rest, angel,” he whispers. For the first time in a while, you slide easily and willingly into a deep, restful sleep.

(next)

[s0domizer]

do you think Spock ever met Amanda’s side of the family?

How do you think they reacted?

What do they think of Sarek? (My thoughts) I think we have skewed perspective on how humans react to aliens, because we basically just see Starfleet officers. I think some humans could be resentful of how much other worlds have “influence” earth. Like the ufp is only like 100 years old? Especially Vulcan who have touch telepathy and never tell anyone anything EVER. They just cool with that? *press x to doubt*

Also, how are you? :D

first of all, THANK U. babies first ask im so happpyyy!!! something really pos just happened in my life so im good!! my year has been very 📉📉 so im glad its finally going 📈 thank u! how are u!!<3

THE QUESTION IS SO INTERESTING BECAUSE IVE ACTUALLY BEEN THINKING ABT THAT A LOT!!

i dont think amandas family took too kindly to her marriage. like you said, the federation is very young and to the average human, aliens and space still are not as normal as they are to our main little space guys!

i think personally, that amandas family probably wanted the best for her, and wanted to see her happy and so they let her go, even if not completely happy with that. the idea of her marrying a man that is so fundamentally different to them (species) probably freaked them out. sarek being an ambassador eased their minds a little bit tho, he might not be human but at least he respects human traditions and customs.

i want to believe that amanda insisted on a traditional human wedding on earth. maybe to see her family for one last time, before she and sarek move to vulcan. yes they may come back to earth, but who knows how often. the wedding was beautiful but also very tense. amandas parents probably telling her that she could stay on earth, that she didnt have to leave them and that love might not last forever, esp with a vulcan (im convinced many humans have negative prejudices against vulcans)

when spock is a little kid, maybe 2 or 3 they probably go back to earth. maybe its even because of sareks ambassador duties. spock is a very polite kid, and for both human and vulcan standards incredibly behaved, but his extended family is weirded out when they first see him. his grandparents were expecting to see a more human kid... spock didnt bounce around the house nor talk anyones ear off. he just sat, spoke when spoken too and fidgeting with a little stuffed toy.

nobody says it but its clear that spock is different, and the rest of the family isnt used to that.

im sorry if this got a little long, i hope my answer was satisfactory :] have a little spock introducing himself as a treat (he was informed that humans would be weirded out if used the 🖖 to greet them)

[yanderes-galore]

Can we get a yandere concept for Pig/Amanda Young? I just realized that you haven't done one yet.

I can try, never watched the SAW movies so I hope I can keep her personality right. Not really using her Tome personality but I'll sprinkle it in here and there to keep it unique.

Yandere! The Pig/Amanda Young Concept

Pairing: Romantic/Platonic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Stalking, Slight sadism, Delusional behavior, Mentioned past drug addiction, Mentioned past self-destructive behavior, Death/Murder, Violence, Poor mental health, Dubious but forced companionship.

Supposedly according to her original lore Amanda entered the fog after her death.

By this point her mentor is dead too and she's left to serve The Entity as "The Pig" once again.

She says in her lore no one in the fog can be redeemed.

To her they're simply meat to slaughter.

However, for the sake of this concept, maybe she sees you in a different light.

Maybe she sees your fear and nervous behavior and sees herself.

You're scared... easily manipulated... similar to her.

While she learned she herself could not be redeemed... perhaps you're different.

Maybe you don't deserve to be here... a poor soul unable to escape.

How unfortunate, for now you will be prey.

Yet later that may change.

Amanda is depicted as nervous and scared to fail while being attached to her "savior" in SAW from what I've seen.

While DBD makes her more sadistic in nature.

So I have a feeling how I'd depict her is somewhat understanding of the survivor she's close to but also be sadistic towards others around you.

In her delusional mindset she may begin to think her darling could do no wrong while those around you could tempt you.

Her sadism could be explained by her time in the fog.

My personal HC is The Entity corrupts those in its realm, which would change how Amanda behaves as she's used to all the murder now.

I think this would be a good way to incorporate both versions of her personality (The movies and DBD).

Her obsession starts like most killers, she just sees you as prey.

However over time she'd begin to see the similarities between you and her.

Soon you notice you're no longer shoved into traps or put on a hook much.

Sometimes you're ignored and spared.

Sometimes the pig just likes to stare.

Watching her crouched and just staring at you gives an illusion of innocence, she looks like she's in the same situation as you.

But by now you know that's a lie.

Amanda has a tendency to cling to those she feels she can't live without.

Maybe, like some killers, you provide her with a sense of humanity/normalcy.

As a result she finds herself being attached to you.

The Entity can sense the changes you stir in Amanda, so you become obsession every trial for her.

The Entity likes how Amanda goes almost feral like an animal when she sees other survivors than you.

She feels they will corrupt you like she was in the past.

Amanda hates that she could never be redeemed, even by John.

Don't worry, she'll prevent such corruption.

No doubt by brutal sacrifice....

As a result she wants to prevent your corruption... unknowingly corrupting you in the process.

She already knows she's long gone in terms of redemption, she doesn't expect you to "fix" her.

It's hard to tell what Amanda feels for you.

Does she want to be a guardian to you?

Did she feel something precious with you?

She may, however, think you'll ease her pain.

Amanda's mental state is certainly fragile.

She used drugs long ago and even gave into self-destructive behaviors yet again before she died.

She may feel like she has to cling to you to feel normal in a way.

It scares you when she pounces on you in matches.

By this time the others are gone, you feel the remnants of them seep into your clothes.

Then the pig doesn't let go.

She doesn't put a trap, just clings to you.

There's no sound but the breathing of both of you.

In her mind she wonders if she can just trap you with her.

She wonders if her new "mentor" will allow her to keep this survivor as a reward.

She'll treat the others like the meat they are... but not you.

Amanda doesn't want to let you go.

The most she can do is give you the gate or give you the hatch.

But she doesn't want that.

So, as she picks you up and carries you to escape, she buries herself in her thoughts.

She wonders if she can sacrifice something to The Entity to keep you.

Even if it's just for a few minutes...

She'd do anything to keep you with her in private, just to relate to someone.

[hoffstrap-yuri]

In My Head, In My Heart

ao3 // masterlist

*Summary: Petra Strahm had come to terms with the fact that she was a lesbian after Husband #2, but never did she think she'd swing so hard for a pregnant woman.

*Rating: +18 for explicit mature content

*Content/Tags: Fem Hoffstrahm, Fem Coffinshipping, Yuri Coffinshipping, Yuri Hoffstrahm, WLW Coffinshipping, WLW Hoffstrahm, Petra Strahm (Fem Strahm), Maureen Hoffman (Fem Hoffman), Fluff and Smut, Shameless Smut, Plot What Plot, Pregnancy Kink, Pregnancy Sex

*Status: First Fic in Series/Completed (Second Fic Here)

Author's Note: Basically the thought of pregnant Fem Hoffman made me pass out with a nosebleed and when I woke up, this had created itself. But in all honesty I've poured at least 24 hours into this thing because I was like "I gotta write before my muse leaves my mind" so enjoy this fic!

I've got more fem Hoffstrahm coming, but this was just something I had started before taking requests so have this to tide yourselves over

Holy Shit.Petra had stopped a few steps short of the bottom of the staircase leading to the murder scene of their confidant, Alison Kerry. Sure she expected gore, maybe a head that flew off to one corner of the room…. But she hadn’t expected to see a heavily pregnant woman working the scene. She was going to launch into her ‘Open the Door and You Will Find Me’ spiel she had been mentally preparing while still in Perez’s car, ready to call out the city’s police department for its incompetence at handling a serial killer of this infamy. She decided better of herself and quietly hid behind her partner as she did the introductions. “Detective Hoffman, I’m Special Agent Lindsay Perez of the FBI. This is my partner, Special Agent Petra Strahm.” “Pleasure.” The detective leaned forward a bit, putting a strain on her dress shirt’s buttons and held out a hand for the two agents. Petra reached out first, surprised by the heavy grip the other woman hand. She pulled her hand back and behind Lindsay’s back massaged her hand. “How can I help the FBI?” “‘Open the door and you will find me’, does that mean anything to you, Detective?” Petra replied, the edge coming back to her words as she tried not to look at Hoffman’s giant baby bump square in the center of her plush body. “You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t understand your cryptic bullshit.” Hoffman scoffed at her, “Pregnancy brain leaves me so confused these days.” “Pregnancy brain, my ass.” Another officer under Hoffman’s command muttered under his breath. Hoffman’s heel just so happened to ‘hover’ over the top of his foot before pressing down; making the detective curse loudly before scurrying off to the opposite side of the scene. Hoffman covered her mouth behind her hand as she let out a reserved laugh. “Anyway, no. That means absolutely nothing to me, Agent.” She finally replied to the special agent’s inquiry from a moment passed. Strahm made some kind of grunting noise as she examined Kerry’s body. Hoffman pulled out a legal pad where she kept notes and flipped through them, hoping to provide some kind of information to the agents. “There must be another apprentice.” Petra stated “You’re sure that this isn’t the work of John…” “John Kramer was a bed-ridden cancer patient. Absolutely not.” Strahm countered “It could’ve been Amanda Young. Used a pulley system…” Hoffman offered once again “There’s no way. Amanda’s arrest record puts her weight at 107, and Detective Kerry was 130…” “Special Agent.” Hoffman batted her eyelashes at the other woman, “If you’re here for any other reason than just to assist, I suggest you back the fuck off.” “Wouldn’t want to miss anything your pregnancy brain let slip.” Petra bit back and walked through the crime scene. She heard Lindsay sigh behind her, probably shooting Hoffman an ‘I’m sorry about her’ look before following behind the older woman. After looking over everything, and some of the lower detectives shuffling back to the precinct, Hoffman approached the two agents. “You’re welcome to set up in the conference room back at my station.” One hand rested on her back for support, while the other rested over the crest of her bump. “Thanks, we could use a cup of coffee.” Lindsay cracked a smile at the matronly detective “You’re welcome. I’ll see you two later. I have another fire to put out.” She replied, turning on her heels before walking up the stairs. Lindsay craned her head up, making sure that Hoffman was out of earshot before nudging her partner with her elbow. “What?” Strahm asked, before being nudged again, “What?!” “I saw you staring at her.” “I was not.” Strahm rolled her eyes “Were too. She’s exactly your type.” “Bullshit.” “I’ve seen your ex-husband.” Lindsay retorted, “Only Maureen's got more curves.” “Why don’t you take the car to the precinct, and shut the fuck up.”

“Damn.” Lindsay laughed, “I’ll go at least get the car started. Might want to cool down a little before you get in the car.” “Fine.” Strahm huffed a little bit, taking another walk through of the crime scene before deciding she was calm enough to face Lindsay’s badgering about her attraction towards Maureen Hoffman. Though there really wasn’t anything there. She hopped into the car and sat silently across from Perez as they drove to the police station together. The officer that Hoffman had stepped on came out to lead them to the conference room, showing them where the coffee machine was on the way in before the two pulled out their briefcases. Lindsay sat on the edge of the table as Strahm flipped through the manila file folders she crammed inside the case. “Do you think we should tell Maureen?” “No Linds.” Strahm replied, not taking even a second to look up at her partner, “We don’t know what they know and the evidence is stacking up that it’s someone on the inside helping the Jigsaw Killer.”

“I know, it’s just the tape said that there’s two police that’ll be the next victims and it might be better…” She started to explain. The whole atmosphere seemingly shifted as the doorway creaked slightly under the weight of the pregnant detective leaning against the frame. Petra looked her up and down with a level of disgust that she couldn’t even pretend to conceal. “Hope this is comfortable for the two of you.” Maureen said, walking across the room and taking a seat across from Strahm, “Certainly better than sitting in the bullpen.” “It’ll be fine.” Lindsay assured the other woman. Maureen pushed her chair back slightly to cross her leg over her lap, showing that she had switched to flats after coming back from the scene. “If you don’t mind my asking, how far are you along?” “Oh.” Maureen smiled in a manner that made Petra wanted to gag. So saccharine sweet, and for what? “I’m in my third trimester.” “Oh, then you’re due anytime now.” “I still have a couple of weeks before the due date, but yes.” Petra scoffed a little before saying something completely lacking any kind of tact, “Shouldn’t you be out on maternity leave, then?” Without hesitation and after looking at the simple silver band on her ring finger, Maureen shot back, “Shouldn’t you be with your husband?” Lindsay had to stifle her laughter and Petra shot her partner a look of ‘you were supposed to be on my side on this one’. “I’m divorced for your information.” “Congratulations. Your ex must be a lucky man.” “Not nearly as lucky as I am to be rid of him.” Petra responded. “Either of you want coffee?” Lindsay got up and made a dash for the door before either of the other women could answer her. It was a courtesy more than anything, but she needed an excuse to get out from there. “I’d better go.” Hoffman grabbed the teddy bear she had in her arms previously when she walked into the conference room “What do you want from me, detective?” “What?”

“I said ‘what do you want from me’? Don’t tell me you were just walking in here to check on Lindsay and I. God knows you could have sent one of your lackeys to do that while you were resting in your office.” Hoffman scoffed back, “I’m not some delicate flower despite being with child. I can still flip a man over my shoulder… even though my OB/GYN has advised against it.” She got up from her seat and leaned into Strahm’s space when she heard the agent utter something under her breath. “I didn’t quite hear that, Agent, mind saying it a bit louder for me?” “It’s none of your damn business.” Strahm growled underneath the other woman. She looked over her shoulder for an opening, but Maureen was all up in her business. Maureen pulled Strahm’s chair back and placed her hands firmly on the arms of the chair, forcing the FBI agent to shrink herself further into herself. “I said, repeat yourself, Agent Strahm.” She said in a low voice. Petra was surprised she hadn’t miraculously turned into a pile of goop in front of the heavy woman before her. Barely louder than a whisper, she replied: “Hot.” “Louder.” “I thought it was hot.” Strahm kept her eyes moving, anything so as not to stare blankly at Hoffman’s chest. “What was?” “The idea of you throwing a man over your shoulder, in your state. A big bulky girl like you…” Strahm could feel a nosebleed starting and “You’re right, it is hot. And I’m not a girl, I’m a woman.” The hot air from her mouth sliding across the skin of Petra’s neck. Petra shivered in her seat, forcing her hands to dig into the fabric of the arm of the chair as she tried to keep herself calm and even-headed. Maureen lifted her tempting chest away from Petra with a mischievous little smile on her face. Strahm tucked her legs one underneath the other around the bottom of the chair and locked her knees. Maureen’s hands worked their way to her back and massaged herself as she stood upright. “That was a lot to make me go through, in my condition.”

“I thought you said you weren’t a fucking flower.” Strahm spit back “I’m not, but you’d better make up for this. You free tonight?” “Do I have a choice?” “You always have a choice, Agent. Make it.” “Yeah, I’m free.” Strahm switched the order of her legs to keep from fidgeting with her fingers “Good. I’ll drive you to my place tonight.” Maureen turned on the back of her heels out of the room and walked towards her office. Strahm sat still in her chair for a moment before realizing she needed to be looking at something before Lindsay came back with coffee. She unhooked her leg, and reached for the briefcase before realizing what a number Hoffman did to her. She brushed up against Lindsay as she returned with a drink for the both of them and Strahm made a beeline to the bathroom. --- “Is Nancy Drew still here?” Maureen entered Strahm’s office space, her jacket slung over her shoulder like she was a mob boss. Without the stupid garment, Strahm got a generous view of the suspenders that were probably functionally useless as the wide woman grew from her pregnancy. “Don’t call Perez that, she’s a damn good agent.” Strahm snapped back “Touched a nerve, did I?” Maureen smirked. “I’m done for the day, if you want to hurry it up and join me.” “I’m almost done.” Strahm flipped through her laptop and checked her emails one last time. Maureen’s foot hit the floor with a slight patter as she waited for the other woman to tie up her loose ends for the day. “It can’t take you that long to be ‘almost’ done.” Hoffman glared at her “What, you got a hot date with the baby daddy after you’re done screwing me for the night?” Strahm retorted

“You’re keeping me from what I want, Agent. And I always get what I want, when I want it.” Maureen bared her teeth, placing her palms flat on either side of the laptop. Strahm didn’t bother logging off the device, only shut the cover and grabbed her briefcase from below her. “Good. About time.” “Shut it.” Strahm replied as she fixed the collar of her dress shirt. Hoffman lead the agent to her car and slammed the door on Strahm’s side once she slid into the passenger’s seat. She buckled herself in, making a show of the way the material had to stretch around her stomach. “Gonna need a fucking extender if that bump grows anymore.” “You’d like to see that, wouldn’t you?” Maureen smiled down at her baby bump as she teased Strahm. Strahm crossed her legs in the other seat before saying, “Just drive us to your place.” She covered her beet red face the best she could behind the palm of her hand. Hoffman reached an arm around the back of Strahm’s head rest as she put the vehicle into reverse, pulling out of the station before driving around town. She turned the radio on when they were stopped at a particularly long red light and hummed along to some pop song. Strahm couldn’t help herself from looking at the way her lips curved as her mouth made ‘oohs’ and ‘you’s, the velvet lipstick accentuating her ‘ahhs’ as her hums turned to singing. Strahm pursed her lips as she watched, leaning in closer to the siren’s call from Hoffman. As she was about to kiss Hoffman’s cheek, Hoffman stopped the car. It jerked Strahm a bit forward and she stayed in her seat until Hoffman came around the other side of the car to get the door for her. She followed behind the detective once more as the woman rummaged through her purse to find her house keys. On a separate clip from her car keys, she pulled the keys from her bag and unlocked the door.

“Make yourself comfortable, Agent.” She slipped her flats off by the door and dropped her things across the living room as she made a line straight for the kitchen. Strahm sat in the armchair closest to the door, leaving her jacket on top of Maureen’s. She rested her head against her fists and spread her legs as far as they would go comfortably in the leather chair. Her leg started bouncing underneath her, and rather than try to force it down she just let it go until the urge to vibrate died on its own. Maureen came back with two plates of food, one with a slightly bigger portion that she put in front of her spot on the couch and put the other before Petra. While it was a friendly gesture, Maureen told Petra “Eat.” in a tone that sounded more like a command. Petra nodded and picked over the broccoli with her fork, going for the salmon piece at the center of her plate. She went back to the vegetables when it was clear that Maureen was watching her and begrudgingly ate the damn broccoli even though it was actually cooked fine. Almost as if to reward Strahm, Maureen took the straining buttons on her dress shirt and popped them open, showing off her ample chest. Strahm tucked her legs closer together and shoveled the rest of her food into her mouth before she said something even more stupid than before. With a heavy sigh, Maureen loosened her updo and let the almost raven brown hair fall onto her shoulders like a waterfall. Strahm’s hair was messy, full of split ends… what she wouldn’t give to run her fingers through the soft locks. Her heart was practically projecting through the whole house, or so it seemed to her. She felt her pulse pounding in her wrist as her hand wearily reached up to her own hair and ran her fingers through it to ‘fix’ it. “Come here.” Maureen was tired of the cat and mouse game the other woman was playing with her. Strahm felt her words pull her from her spot and before her at the couch. She didn’t think she was that desperate a woman until Hoffman’s hand wrapped around her shoulder and gently guided her down to the floor, resting on her knees before the pregnant woman. “The things I could do to you, Agent.” “Like what?” Strahm asked. Hoffman tisked, realizing that despite all her gruff and loud barks she really didn’t have any bite. “Let’s start off easy on you. God knows it already looks like you’re going to pass out from just looking at me.” She pulled her back up so that Strahm could sit behind her on the couch. She leaned back into Strahm and draped her hair over the other woman’s shoulders. Strahm carefully pressed her lips onto the crown of Hoffman’s head, who responded in kind with a satisfied purr. Her hands hovered over the space of the detective before resting them against Hoffman’s back. “Good girl, keep going”. Strahm hands slid down Hoffman’s back before resting in the space just above her ass, kneading into the tense muscles as Maureen lifted her feet up from off the floor. Strahm jammed her knuckles slowly into the soft fat that sat on the woman’s hips and worked her joints deeper into Maureen’s muscle. She carefully snaked a hand around the front of Maureen’s body and rested it under the baby bump before tracing a finger over the stretch marks that were created from Maureen’s gift of life. Maureen’s eyes were shut tight as Strahm spoiled her but every once in a while Strahm would extract a mewl from the mother to-be that was like music to her ears. Her hand slunk its way back to just under Hoffman’s shoulder blades and worked out the tension from the center of her back. “You’re such a good girl when you have something you want dangling in front of you… almost like a dog.”

“You’re a dog,” Strahm bit back, “A bitch even.” “That’s not very nice.” Hoffman didn’t even open her eyes as she gently scolded Petra. “I might look like a bitch in heat, but that doesn’t mean just anyone can say it. If you were my subordinate, I’d give you paperwork duty for a month for saying that.” “Spare me.” Strahm rolled her eyes “And you’ve been behaving so well up until now. Did I hit a sore spot, Agent?” She feigned naivety. “Do you want to breed me, huh?” “I…” Strahm started to stammer “Oh, dear.” Maureen opened her eyes and pursed her lips, “Darling, has that been your goal this whole time?” “I-No I mean…” “Why didn’t you just say so?” She guided Strahm’s hand in between her legs and pressed her thighs together, “Follow my instructions carefully.” “And then what?” “Then you’ll get what you came here for.” “Fine.” Strahm looked away from the woman “Go upstairs. My room is the first room on the right next to the stairs. On the opposite side of the door is my bed and next to that is my vanity. In my drawers get out…” “Okay, I get it.” Strahm walked off and went to find Hoffman’s room. She lugged herself up the stairs and went into the bedroom. The bed was made up perfectly and Strahm found herself gravitating to the silk sheets, sitting down on the over-sized mattress for one woman. She ran a hand over the comforter before getting back up and pilfering through Hoffman’s drawers. Without a doubt the toy that Hoffman wanted was there, and Strahm brought it back down to the detective. “Don’t act like you’ve never seen a dildo before, love.” Hoffman uncrossed her legs as Strahm approached her with the toy in hand. “It’s just so… pink.” Strahm looked at it for a moment before sitting down next to Hoffman. Hoffman leaned into her partner and covered her lips in kisses of varying lengths. The first couple were like a puppy lapping at Strahm’s face before Maureen’s teeth came down and tugged on the inside of her lips. Strahm dropped the toy onto the couch as she let out a moan. She pulled away for a second to throw the thing onto the coffee table before going back to making out with the woman in front of her. She wrapped her arms around Maureen, grabbing at her ass while their kisses turned into sloppy mashes rather than something coherent. “I need you.”

“Then take me.” Maureen purred into Strahm’s ear, backing off her slowly. Strahm swallowed back the fear sitting in her throat and tugged at the hem of Hoffman’s maternity pants. Even her underwear was stupid sexy… or at least stupid sexy to a woman in a very long dry spell. Maureen seemed aware that Strahm was distracted by something, so helped the other woman slide everything off her thick hips, past her generous thighs and onto the floor. Petra worked the buttons open off Hoffman’s shirt as her lips connected back to Maureen’s neck. Without looking up, she unhooked the back of Hoffman’s bra. The fat spilled out from the garment and Petra moved her mouth further south, sucking on the skin. Hoffman wrapped her fingers through Strahm’s hair and forced her head down further so that Petra would suck on her nipple. They both moaned as Strahm licked at the overly tender skin. “Oh, honey.” “Honey?” Strahm pulled her mouth away, eliciting a whine from Hoffman. Her hand slid under Hoffman’s tit and massaged her. “Yes, honey. Do I need to say it again?” “Eh, one more time can’t hurt.” Strahm shrugged, resulting in the most deadpan stare from Maureen. Strahm nervously hovered over the other woman for a second after the gaff before undoing her shirt and showing Hoffman a little more. “So pretty.” Hoffman leaned back into her, “I could devour you.” “I’d like to see you try.” “There’s my confident girl again.” Hoffman titled Strahm’s head up by her chin, “Now. Make me yours, love.” “Fine. Fine. How do you want to do this?” Strahm grabbed the toy and coated it generously in lube. Hoffman got onto her knees and leaned forward with her ass sticking up in Strahm’s face, “Guess you didn’t need to think much about that.” “No. Just been thinking about it all day since I saw you at the crime scene this morning.” Hoffman shot back at her. Before she knew it, she felt Petra slid the toy into her slowly. Hoffman bucked her hips up into Strahm’s hand, taking the agent by surprise. She wrapped her free hand around the inside of Hoffman’s thigh before slowly thrusting the dildo into her partner. Hoffman’s fist pulled on the fabric of the couch cushions underneath her as she backed up into Strahm once more. “I lied earlier.” Strahm said, adjusting herself so she could be over Hoffman completely. “You’re not a bitch in heat.” “Yeah?” Hoffman bit down on her own lip, “What am I then?” “You’re a fucking heifer.” Strahm’s words curled over the edge of Hoffman’s ear and sat in her mind for a moment. “Everything about you is fucking gigantic. Your chest… your stomach… On your knees like this you look just like a fucking cow. How much bigger are you going to get before you deliver your calf, huh?” “F-Fuck…” Hoffman stuttered as she kept riding on the toy in Petra’s hand. Petra’s hand moved from in between Hoffman’s thigh and up her stomach, stopping for a moment over the baby bump. After running her hands over it in a circular motion, she clutched one of Maureen’s boobs in the palm of her hand. She gave it a light squeeze and Maureen shoved her head into the fabric of the couch, suppressing her moan. Her legs shook ever so slightly and Strahm pulled the toy out before tossing it to the side and pressing two fingers onto Hoffman’s wet clit. She rubbed at the muscle for a couple of seconds before Hoffman’s legs gave out from under her. Her whole body twitched as she came with the help of Strahm. She balled up her fists and hit the couch until she was satisfied. She would’ve happily fallen asleep face first in the fabric were it not for Strahm’s help in repositioning her onto her back. She took Strahm’s hand and placed it in the space between her boobs, just over her heart. She looked up at her with eyes that asked for more from the other woman as her hair splayed across the pillow like raindrops ebbing along glass. Strahm leaned into Hoffman and pressed her lips onto her cheek, trailing her hand up just a little higher to rest just below where Maureen’s neck started.

Hoffman scooched over to allow for some room at her side, patting the space. Strahm laid on her side and wrapped an arm over Hoffman’s center, curling around the space heater of a woman. Hoffman pulled a blanket over Strahm and ran the back of her hand over Petra’s cheek. “Sleepy?” She asked “Yeah. Just a little.” Strahm replied, stretching out a little under the blanket. Maureen kissed her forehead and Petra returned it with her lips on Maureen’s. Maureen looked down at herself with a subtle smile before saying, “I’ve never been this happy with someone… You just feel right with me, Agent.” “Petra.” Strahm corrected her, “I think we’re past the point of titles.” “Alright, Petra…” Hoffman used her name cautiously, expecting some kind of scoff or a pull back from the FBI agent. “Like I said… something about you and I feels right. Don’t you agree?” “Yeah.” Strahm replied stoically, “I’ve never been with a woman…” Her thought trailed off “A woman like me?” Hoffman tried finishing it for her “No…” Strahm bit the inside of her cheek “Oh.” Maureen’s lip curled at the ends and she wrapped her arms carefully around Strahm. A hand rested on Strahm’s neck, nearly covering every inch. Strahm shivered slightly at the sheer size of the other woman’s hand, and Hoffman smiled back at her. It was a bit more devious this time, but Strahm couldn’t put her finger on why. “You’d look beautiful in a white dress.”

“I…” Strahm’s brain proceeded to force restart over and over as she thought about what Maureen had just said. “We could probably get hitched in Atlantic City, if we’re feeling real crazy.” She said it to diffuse any tension that was there between them, but did almost fear that Maureen would take her up on her offer. Not that she’d mind. Maureen Strahm had a nice ring to it after all. Her face must’ve been bright red because Maureen took her hand off the small of her neck and moved it to the center of her back instead. “I’d rather we go somewhere nicer.” Hoffman ran her other hand along the front of Strahm’s chest. “Plus we could take the babies with us.” “… Babies?” “Oh, you didn’t think I was this big for one baby did you, Agent?” Hoffman smirked “Yeah… I kind of thought you were.” “No. It’s twins.” Maureen kissed her “You’re lucky you’re so… hot.” Strahm fumbled with her words while she tried to wrap her head around the fact that she had gotten a girlfriend, and two children in a day. “I know, love.” Hoffman ran her fingers through Petra’s hair before telling her, “Sleep.” “Fine. Good night.” “Good night.” Maureen kept stroking the back of Strahm���s head until her partner was out. “You’ll be the perfect mother to my children… And I’ll have my happy little family.”