#and she died feeling unloved and haunted

[autismmydearwatson]

I need someone to hold my hand whenever I rewatch saw iii cause its a good movie but it makes me violently angry whenever I watch it

[nikovraskol]

crack baby ; prologue

wc ; 1572 masterlist after dying, you expected to be greeted with the open arms of the void swallowing your body, mind and soul. what you didn't anticipate is waking up sixteen once more with a chance to change your fate -- but something strange is happening, why are the locks changing and why are all eyes suddenly on you ?

tw ; death, neglect, brief mention of drugs, curse words

prologue, one, tbc..

Your death was completely preventable.

As you lay on the concrete floor of the cold alleyway, you can’t help but feel a sense of peace. Yeah, sure, you were shot 5 times and you’re currently bleeding out in some piss-smelling drug-ridden pavement. At least you’ve died in a somewhat honorable way, people will have a tell to tale, whether it’s good or bad, you’ll be remembered for a while.

Or maybe that’s wishful thinking, maybe the lack of blood is making you delirious. There’s no way you’ll be remembered as anything but the child that haunts the manor, that stalks around, staring at the residents of the Wayne manor with hopeful eyes. A child who doesn’t belong, who’s body isn’t able to fill in the cracks in the family, a child who wasn’t able to give anything, to devout anything.

A child of 21, but a child nonetheless. 

The way you got caught up in the shooting was so unbelievably stupid, you were too nice to refuse taking on an extra shift from your co-worker, working overtime for free because you didn’t know how to say no. You got caught up in a fight between goons on your way home. For a brief moment, that small child you had buried foolishly believed your father would swoop down and protect you.

Then you were shot, again and again and again.

You don’t want to die, you decide at the last minute. You want to go back in time, to tell your poor 16-year-old self that yearning for the love of a family who doesn’t have love to give is foolish. A foolish child dying a foolish death.

And then, your eyes shut for the last time, you can almost hear your mother’s low humming, the smell of the dingy, old apartment you used to live in with her, you can taste the cold food she worked to provide (you can feel her hands on your neck, can hear her apologies ringing over and over as she cries).

It’s peaceful, almost nice.

Until you wake up – and your first thought is; what the fuck?

Your hand instinctively moves to your lower abdomen where you were shot – you were shot! You remember the burning pain shooting through you, so why on earth are you unharmed and.. in your bedroom?

It’s strange, why are your old posters up? Trinkets you distinctly remember throwing out, clothes you don’t wear thrown about – and that’s when it happens.

Your eyes catch a reflection in the mirror, your reflection. Your reflection that isn’t yours, why is

your hair shorter? Why are you so small– why are you.. Sixteen?

“What the fuck?” You hiss, jumping out of bed – wobbling as you whip your head around, taking in every nook and cranny of the small room. “What the fuck?!” 

You jump towards the mirror, leaning in as you slap, pinch and stretch your face, awed by the youthful appearance, you had forgotten how cute you looked. No, that seems like the wrong word, you looked sixteen. Just an average sixteen year old, healthy and alive (somehow).

A few moments ago you were lying in a pool of your blood in a run-down alley, an unloved 21 year old – now you’re sixteen again, and you have a chance to change the inevitable! If you ignore the pit of dread in your stomach. Sixteen had been the worst year of your life, full of anger and hormones and teenage drama. Sixteen had been the year you struggled the most.

On the bright side, at least you had a trial run..?

“Young Master (Name)” A british, familiar voice calls out and you tense, whipping your head around to see Alfred. It had almost slipped your mind, Alfred is alive. He’s standing before you, as straight and proper as always, smiling at you as if nothing had changed. As if you hadn’t sobbed at his funeral, as if you hadn’t cursed your family for dragging him into their mess, as if you hadn’t spent countless nights at his grave, as if–

“Are you.. alright?” He asks, taking in the flabbergasted expression on your face – to which you straighten up, nodding with a shaken exhale as you ignore the churning of your stomach. You felt nauseous, everything felt too real in an uncomfortable way. A very uncomfortable way – the mix of emotions threatening to consume you.

“You didn’t come down for breakfast, I was beginning to grow worried.” He explains, taking in the way you nod blankly once more, his brows furrowing. “Is– everything alright”

“Y– yes, I’m just not hungry, I’ll– have something later.” You can’t keep your voice from trembling, you’re five seconds away from breaking down and sobbing before him, but you don’t want to worry him. You need to figure out a game plan, you’ve no time for stupid pleasantries like food, plus even if you tried to eat you’d probably throw up then break down sobbing.

“Alright, Young Master. But please, eat something before noon.” Alfred sighs, clearly worried by your peculiar behaviour, his eyes lingering for a moment too long before he leaves your room, shutting the door behind him with a resounding click. Oh fuck, how are you supposed to interact with anyone in this family if a two minute interaction is enough to have you trembling? Whatever, it matters not! You fumble around with your face for another moment before letting out a long sigh, your head already aching from the bewilderment of the situation. You shuffle over to your bed, plopping down with another huff. You had no idea what to do, no plan to go forward, but you had to figure something out. 

You couldn’t stay in the Manor, you couldn’t deal with the dismissive eyes, the fake words of reassurance. You couldn’t stand curling up in your room, listening to the distant sounds of laughter as everyone celebrated without you. You couldn’t stand being that child again.

“I need to leave.” You say with more firmness than you had intended, your eyes set on the mirror before you. Of a sixteen-year-old (Name), staring back at you with pitiful eyes, you’ll get them out, you’ll give them a future – you’ll give yourself a future.

“Okay. Now, where do I begin?” You mumble, staring up at your ceiling before reaching for your phone. Time to go house hunting at sixteen. Yipee.

Meanwhile, downstairs, Alfred was picking up your plate with a thoughtful expression, breakfast had always been your favourite time of day because it always gave you a chance to see your family. No matter how you felt, or how busy you were. How peculiar.

It’s unusual for you to so blatantly skip it, there’s also that whole thing with your demeanour. Something in you had shifted, and he didn’t like it – it felt as though you were slipping away, as though you had resigned, as though you had stepped back, content in living as a shadow lurking in the dark corners of the Manor.

That simply won’t do. 

He won’t give up on that smiling child, looking up at him with their front tooth missing, dirt staining their clothes as they ramble on about how they found a top secret hide-out, how they can’t wait to tell your big brothers their adventures. 

Well, he’s sure with a few clever strings pulled he can finally put you on centre stage, with the lights shining on you. He just needs to remember to reserve a front row seat, for himself, of course.

“What the fuck?” You grumble, repeating that sentence for the nth time as you angrily type on your phone – why is every apartment in this city and the city over so bummy? It’s either too expensive or overridden with rats or overtaken by gangs.

You never moved houses in your past (?) life, staying in the Wayne Manor was easy once you accepted the inevitability of chasing after a fruitless relationship. Plus, the housing in Gotham and Bludhaven has always been..

Well, it could be better!

“(Name).” Your heart jumps out of your chest as an strangely familiar voice calls out for you, dark, low, paternal. Who on earth?

Your heart sinks as your eyes shift to the figure at your door. Batman, Bruce Wayne, your father, is in your room? What the fuck? This had never happened in your life, certainly not at sixteen. You can recall every single time you’ve ever seen your family, so why? Your hand curls around your phone as you gape up at your father. This isn’t supposed to happen. The one thing grounding you through this crazy, disconnecting experience was the comfort that you were familiar with your future, that you had a grasp on what events are bound to go down.

You’ve been awake for about twenty minutes – how’s it already changed?! Inside you, a deep part of your soul shifts, the air in the room suddenly being sucked in by his overwhelming presence, his eyes – cold and calculating, sizing you up as if you were a specimen, as though you were a pretty piece of silver at an auction and not his flesh and blood, your breathing become uneven as you try to grasp at your memory, anything that might've slipped your mind regarding interactions with your father.

You draw a blank, this has never happened. It's not supposed to happen – what the fuck?!

“Let’s go for a walk.”

yall i feel like this sucks i havent written in like two years im so rusty omg im so embarresed ill die bye

[violet-eng]

Fem!reader married to a Neuvillette who loves not her but someone else | NSFW 🔞 + 😢

In this one I'm going out on a limb, because I presume without any argument other than my own intuition, that Neuvillette and Focalors had a platonic relationship with feelings never confessed out of fear or genuine ignorance of them (like Violet Evergarden, yes). But you are Neuvillette's wife and so you will fall victim to his coldness when Focalors dies.

Includes NSFW with the reader and angst. Never mistreatment because Neuvi is a gentleman. NOTHING BETWEEN FOCALORS/FURINA AND NEUVI NONONO

⚠️ Warnings: established relationship between Neuvillette and reader, implied cheating, unloving and unprotected sex, pregnancy, sex during pregnancy, mentions of masturbation. Mentions of death. More sex between spouses bc yes.

mndi, if you feel unconfortable reading this then don't. Your mental health is first.

6k words, not edited.

💧💧💧💧💙💙💙💙💙💙💙🔹️🔹️🔹️🔹️🔹️💧💧💧💧💧💙💙💙💙🔹️🔹️🔹️

You had seen him crestfallen the last few weeks, after the flood, self-conscious in his own thoughts, drowning in his remorse and cowardice.

Neuvillette does not understand human feelings, not at all, though love is supposed to be a passion that transcends the natural laws of evolution. Focalors had been his friend, his companion, in the bruised body of a puppet that felt so real that its strings seemed invisible.

There was no denying the deep affection that had grown between the two, Neuvillette and Focalors, two wandering souls, roaming the world with ancestral antiquity, companions destined to the sound of agony and separation, haunted by the solemn ignorance of innocent creatures.

Love… what was it but a word in a spoken contract.

Neuvillette had married you months ago, a happy and superficially authentic marriage. You had captured his attention, and his knowledge of humans, as the Great Chief Justice, could be satiated by knowing you, a faithful human companion, devoted wife, and sublime lover.

The bed was the only moment where you two connected, where, to the rhythm of the waves, Neuvillette penetrated his marital responsibility towards your depths, that which he considered appropriate towards his so-called wife, who, in a frenzy of pleasure, crushed his pale back with her nails, set to music by the melodious moans he tore from your sweaty breast… There was no connection beyond the sexual, for as a dragon, despite the years, it is very difficult for him to connect with humans.

Focalors was an oceanid, and he was a dragon sovereign. Both turned human. Nothing more to add, two rulers abandoned by the world they were supposed to protect, what would grow between them but pure trust and admiration that would obviously develop into love?

Neuvillette didn't understand. Not until that moment. He had been deaf to his innocent heart pounding anxiously every time Focalors entered his office in her unruly human form, rampant in color and expression. He had been unaware of the flame of satisfaction in his chest that burned hot when she spoke to him in the privacy of their conversations in the theater…he did not understand, not until he understood that he would eventually lose her.

He cried, for the first time he let someone see him cry in his human form. Focalor's words, so exquisite before him, ethereal in her ornate louvered dress, echoed in his head…and in his heart… ….

"Hydrodragon, Hydrodragon… don't cry," she whispered… and he, very reluctant to leave her, wished with all his might to leap upon her, wrap her in his arms and never let her go. He would flee with her on his lap, in his draconic form, leaving Fontaine and everyone else to their fate.

No… a Sovereign would not do that… he would not do that… for to abandon his oath would deserve the most dastardly punishment of all. And maybe, just for thinking that, he deserved what happened next.

"Farewell, Neuvillette," her words, pure in his human form. His companion, his friend, his mentor… his soul mate, tossed away like the foam on the shore of a beach.

Death was a human concept, without transcendence over evolution… love, however, was another story.

He came home like a soldier after the war, he came back without a part of himself… he came back to his boring life married to a woman he doesn't even love, at least not the way you really deserve him.

"Darling," you offer him a glass of fresh spring water from Quiaoying Village, because you know he doesn't like anything else, especially in dark times like these, a glass of the freshest, coldest water suits him wonderfully.

He drinks from the glass, almost as stoic as ever, though his face is stiffer than usual. Routine is becoming overwhelming for both of you, and Neuvillette is suspiciously distant from you, more so than usual. You stroke his cheek while he sleeps to help him fall asleep, you make him breakfast in the mornings and serve him dinner when he comes home, all without so much as a hello.

You suspect the worst, because your friends have planted the idea in your head that Neuvillette has a mistress, and not far from the truth, his heart belongs to another.

After the flood, many had left Fontaine, and perhaps your husband's mistress was among them, or so you thought. How painful it had been for you to see him break for another woman, to see him crack at his most human for a heart that was not yours.

Overwhelmed, you write him a letter with the idea of leaving him and traveling to Sumeru with one of your friends in search of a new life, but everything is cut short when your symptoms begin. Pregnancy was imminent, after all the nights the Iudex had taken you into your bed, it was to be expected.

You receive Neuvillette that night, frustrated by your own doubts, debating between informing him of your condition or simply fleeing to new horizons with your child. It is so difficult to decide when your husband is the Iudex of Fontaine… and when you care about his reputation because you love him sincerely.

There is no need to search for words when your husband is a dragon with keen senses, for as soon as he set foot in the house, he sensed the scent of his brood stirring within you. The Iudex's interest, however, lay in whether or not you would confess to him.

"A package arrived for you this afternoon," Neuvillette comments as he sips the tea you prepared for him, pointing to a bag on the front table.

"Ah, yes," you say half-heartedly, taking the bag in your hands, emotions spilling from your chest as you crumple the paper between your fingers.

You sigh deeply, thinking that maybe this gift is your way of saying goodbye to him, of silently making amends and apologizing for something that is absolutely not your fault other than falling in love with the wrong man.

You take out of the bag an encyclopedia, a thick book with thick paste and yellow pages, brought from Sumeru, recommended by the very scribe of the Academya, a book of human anthropology for your dear strange husband, who seems to have a real interest in human behavior. Neuvillette looks at it as if it were a revelation, as incredulous as he is moved, touched by your gift and your attention to his interests. You try to say something, to tell him that you are pregnant, but you stop when you hear him speak.

"I know you're expecting my child," Neuvillette says, without going into the details of how he found out, touching the rim of the teacup, a wedding gift. "Whatever you need, tell me, health, food, you know I will cover all expenses."

"I want to go to Sumeru," you confess in an almost whispered tone, your words seeming to be carried away by the wind rushing through the window.

"That wouldn't be good," for a Hydro Dragon hatchling, of course it wouldn't. "You're too young to venture into a new nation, especially one with new leaders like Sumeru, not to mention the dry climate."

You don't argue, knowing he's right, and decide to simply retreat to your room and wallow in your defeat.

Neuvillette, however, with what little empathy he has generated, caresses the book with his fingertips, gliding over the fine markings carved into the cover.

A gift, he had never given you a gift before, but you had given him a gift by taking the initiative.

The months passed quickly. The precariousness of your relationship, increasingly dry on your part, provokes something in Neuvillette.

He looks at you from his side of the bed, the way you sleep peacefully with a swollen belly, carrying his little dragon without knowing it, without trying to get rid of it, loving it from the first moment. Neuvillette has seen you singing lullabies to your child these past few months, reading him stories while caressing your belly, telling him how much you want him to be born strong and healthy.

He's grateful for the deep affection you have for your child, so much so that he has tried to show it. Maybe what he read in the book worked, or maybe it is just a product of his new feelings for his wife, who is about to become a mother. He would do anything for your son to be born healthy and with a healthy mother.

He buys you fritters on the way home, from the store he found out you like best, courtesy of some Melusine, and sits next to you at the dinner table, trying to take an interest in your day and tell you about his, always aiming for your peace, a healthy heart would bring a healthy child.

His devotion is to the birth of your child, because that's what he tells himself. It's not that he was interested in you, of course not… it's not like he was surprised when you told him your clothes were too tight and you hated your new body, not when he likes to see your new figure when you lie next to him at night, with enlarged breasts and a round belly. He bought you new clothes, yes, by the boatload, but because that's what any husband would do.

He only appreciates you for being the mother of his child, it's not like his heart fluttered when he saw you helping some melusines with their problems, or coddling some baby of your friends, thinking what a wonderful mother you will soon be. It's not like h chest filled with pride when he saw you in the stores looking for maternity books and baby clothes, worrying about the weather and your child's health.

And it's definitely not like he's masturbating in his office, remembering the image of you undressing that morning to get into the tub, cutting the skin of your arms and breasts, moaning at the contact of the warm water against your body, and letting out a sigh of deep satisfaction.

That night, he comes home with the usual everyday gift, this time a box of macaroons, because he noticed that you were looking at them in the display case with great eagerness during the afternoon. And he sits down at the table with you, pours you a cup of tea and starts the conversation, even though he notices that you are much more tired than usual.

He carries you into the bedroom and helps you into your nightgown, taking the opportunity to caress your waist and back as he helps the fabric slide over your curves. And then he strokes your head to help you fall asleep, and without realizing it, he smiles as he sees you fast asleep next to him.

The birth is approaching and the strong pains make you desperate, confined to your room and reluctant to go out even to sunbathe. It was the midwife who unscrupulously suggested to Neuvillette that a little sexual activity would help you get through the contractions. And he, as devoted to his wife's health as any good husband, agrees.

You feel Neuvillette's cock thrust deep into you, deep into your velvety walls, soft and slow, not unlike what you've felt before. His hands rest on the sides of your head, his gaze fixed on his cock disappearing inside you, while you curl your legs at the delicious sensation of his thick appendage inside your pussy. He moves cautiously, sharply, trying not to hurt you, and as he pumps inside you, his gaze is lost on your breasts, bouncing to the rhythm of his gentle thrusts.

"Perfect," he whispers through his teeth, because in his eyes you are the perfect reservoir for his brood, yes, just that… he insists that you are simply his good companion, and pretends that he hasn't wanted to have you like this for weeks, under him, a mess between moans pinned to him as you cling to his arms.

"Monsieur~" you whimper, bringing a hand to your face to cover your expression, though he takes your wrist and looks at your face as if you were a treasure just discovered by a hungry, ambitious man.

When you reach your orgasm, he kisses you, for the first time during sex, Neuvillette kisses you, and even he surprises himself with his own actions. He washes your body and dresses you before you rest, now much calmer than before, sinking into your husband's chest as you fall asleep, ignoring the feelings that surface between the two of you.

When the child is born, Neuvillette is surprised to continue his affection for you. He did not fall into the same materialism as before, because now he recognized in the shared work of the novices how difficult it was to take care of a baby. It is he who washes the child because, to your surprise, he knows the strange need for fresh water that your baby requires at least twice a day. Neuvillette enjoys the laughter that you get from your child, and the way that he lifts his arms so that you can hold him and show him how well you are feeding him, he looks strong and healthy.

One day, as he was leaving the Opera Epiclese, he was distracted by the statue of the Focalors, but his attention was immediately drawn to the babbling exclamations of his son, who was waving in your arms near the fountain. How gratifying is that moment when his heart leaps with joy as he sees you holding his child.

The days have been sunny in Fontaine since your son was born, and to Neuvillette's relief, the bitter memories of his separation from the Focalors are just that, memories… past images that he does not cherish, as he knows humans do, not now that his being is entirely devoted to his mate and his brood. What kind of elixir have you become for him, that he can forget all his sorrows and his past loves?

Neuvillette spends hours in his office poring over the pages of the book you gave him months ago, highlighting this thing called melancholy, the longing for past situations and desires, and feeling sorry for those who feel it, because if it were a disease, he would call himself cured of this melancholy.

He finds it curious how you managed to get rid of all the gloomy feelings that plagued him, and even wonders if you are not some kind of sorceress… No, not you, not when you so devotedly cleanse your child and offer him a carefully prepared dinner, and practically put your heart and soul into every act of domesticity.

Focalors… her name and image sail through the ancient memories of Neuvillette's tattered mind, the smile of a woman he loved, now replaced by that of the one who lies beside him, coddling a bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked child. Funny how in such a short time he had acquired such human habits as feeling part of a family he hadn't even planned to have.

Your relationship with Neuvillette, full of respect and admiration, help and companionship, seems to evolve into something more. You become his confidant, his mentor when he has doubts about human children or about the customs between parents and children. Involuntarily, he comes to you when he has questions, not to a library, for despite your young mortal age, you know much more than books could ever give him.

You are patient with his ignorance and loving when he is wrong. Mutual and pure respect, absolute devotion and admiration. Neuvillette doesn't believe you are human, how can you be human with so many virtues… his curiosity grows and changes, so much so that he counts the hours in court to come home and chat with you while you nurse his child.

He returns home that night with new doubts, because he has seen strange devices for children without understanding their usefulness, called fun. Can they have fun by themselves? Aren't they too young for that?…oh, and he brings a storybook, because he understands that made-up stories are interesting for babies, even if they don't understand much of the language.

He goes to the baby's room with an enthusiasm he doesn't know he has, and stops at the door when he hears you soothing your baby's cry with sweet words.

"Hydro-Dragon, Hydro-Dragon, don't cry," you murmur as you caress your child's cheek and try to feed him.

Your child is frantically breastfeeding, his tears fading as he closes his bright purple eyes, his little hands clenched into fists and his nose twitching. Neuvillette watches the whole scene from the doorway, his heart in his throat and his feelings on his skin. Those words that broke his soul so long ago now seem to put the pieces of his shattered existence back together.

He smiles, a melancholy, self-satisfied smile. And he looks at you, he looks at you with devotion, because you have finally made him understand what he feels and has felt for so many months. His devoted wife, as patient as she is charming… seems wiser and more skillful than any scholar.

Leaving your child in its cradle, you straighten your neck and turn to Neuvillette, who has entered the room.

"What a beautiful book," you murmur, picking it up, "the baby will love it.

Neuvillette watches you with one hand on the crib that protects his baby, then watches his son sleep, wrinkling his nose the way you do when you sleep.

"You must be exhausted," he whispers, stroking your arm and leading you out of the baby's room.

"Not at all," you smile, "the child fills me with vitality."

"So… Hydro Dragon," Neuvillette recalls the words you said to his baby.

"I said it when I was a girl, like everyone else in Fontaine, it was an idea that came to me suddenly," you answer, and he smiles at your expression, thinking that maybe he heard you when you were a girl, maybe you were one of the many children who recited the same words when it rained in Fontaine.

"I have to tell you something," Neuvillette says, his voice lacking authority, more like a prayer. You watch him from the kitchen.

"'Tell me.

Focalors, Neuvillette, Furina, Fontaine's hydrodragon, the flood, his never-confessed love… he tells you everything because he understands that you deserve the truth, and that he doesn't deserve you because you're too understanding of his confession. It is as if this conversation has cleared up all your doubts, and you have finally seen the real Neuvillette, who fully trusts you to know what to do with this information.

Neuvillette believes that you will ask him for a divorce and leave him alone with his son, but he is surprised to find you preparing breakfast the next morning with your child tied to your leg while you both laugh.

He does not deserve you, definitely not, for he is perhaps the most despicable man in Fontaine and all of Teyvat. To think of another while he is married, to take his wife with him in a grief that is not hers, to bind her to him forever by impregnating her… how mean he must have been, and how understanding you become as his selfishness grows.

He hugs you from behind, buries his face in your neck, inhales your scent and clings to your waist. He begs for forgiveness countless times, and you feel that he may have already shed a few tears on your shoulder, because the sky suddenly begins to cloud over.

"There's nothing to forgive," you whisper, stroking his head, "we can't choose who we fall in love with."

He looks at you in disbelief, wondering in what book he would find such an accurate statement. You had fallen in love with him, and he finally understands, for you are both victims of the disorderly course of love, so messy in its actions, indifferent to those it hurts.

He thinks about your words as he sits in his office, as he looks at the framed photograph he has of you holding his son, and wonders when he fell into the trap of the reckless love that humans call it.

The name of the Focalors does not mean anything to him anymore, even less when he sees Lady Furina in boutiques or restaurants… surely a memory has finally become just that, a memory. His heart is now the prey of another person, his wife, the mother of his son.

Neuvillette understands that there is a difference between soul mates, first love, and true love. The connection with Focalors had been imminent years ago, as both were unaware of the actions of the society in which they had become intruders, but they were nothing more than that, accomplices in a game of masks and power, the first experience of mutual affection and trust. Focalors was his soulmate, yes, because she understood firsthand everything he experienced, but being a living part of her theater did not feel authentic.

With you, however, Neuvillette had learned to be a part of his people, whether as a human or a dragon, as Chief Justice or as the father of an infant. He was no longer an intruder or a stranger ignorant of human ways, not after you. At your side, Neuvillette had known a new range of sensations, of experiences and learning based on mistakes, all very human on his part, and as expected, he had learned to fall in love again, because it was inevitable, after several problems and misunderstandings between the two of you, after the birth of his son and the new horizons that fatherhood brought. His affection for you had been disguised as admiration and redemption, his ignorance had once again avoided love, a mistake he wanted to make up for.

Sitting in your living room while he reads a book and you braid his hair and hum a lullaby, Neuvillette lets the waves of your voice carry him away, wondering what kind of marital experiences he had missed with you.

"What kind of things do husbands do?" He asks suddenly, looking up at you from the carpeted floor, surprising you with his curious question.

"Well…" you think, it's not like when he asks you why kids suck their thumbs or why people give each other presents on non-holidays. It's not a question about trivial human behavior, not this time.

"I've seen couples go out to dinner, but you told me that friends also go out to dinner," he continues, elaborating on his puzzle. "Wriothesley and I have had tea together, what would be the difference between having tea with him and with you?"

"Well…" you continue to think about your answer. "Perhaps the most obvious is living together, planning the week together, household and food expenses, child care, and confidentiality between the two. When you and I have tea, we talk about things that you probably don't mention to Wriothesley".

" Certainly," he says with a hand on his chin, "you and I do all those things, but how is that different from students who share a house? They also plan expenses and discuss confidences."

"Then I guess the biggest difference is in starting a family. Normally, people get married because they want to have a family with the person they choose, the person they love, or the person their parents impose on them."

"So sex is what differentiates married people," he says, and you remain static at his words, stopping to braid his hair, "of course… the physical and emotional affection shown by both parties in marriage…" Neuvillette rambles on, his own conclusion as he sits on the couch next to you, thinking about how he hasn't shown his affection the way he should.

He looks at you out of the corner of his eye, you are distracted by the details of your skirt, picking out rebellious threads, and then he thinks about the last time he kissed you and wonders what it would be like to kiss someone with marital affection.

"Can I kiss you?" The question is thrown out with innocence, causing surprise in you.

"You've kissed me before, Neuvillette," you say, smiling and getting up to go into the kitchen, "we even have a son, I don't think there's anything new to try."

"Indeed," he says, getting up and walking toward you, your back against one of the walls, "but the variable that makes this situation different from the others is that I didn't feel that way about you."

"Like what?" you ask, as he moves closer to you, almost cornering you against the wall.

"I like thinking about you, being with you, hearing you talk," he says, his tone low, as if he were ashamed to confess everything to you. "I thought it was a simple instinct to care for you as the mother of my child… but now I know it's something deeper than that."

You look at him in surprise, now it is you who has unknowns that only he can answer. The silence between you is cold and almost tactile.

"What about her? Of the Archon," you whisper, your breath depending on the question, Neuvillette's forehead inches from yours.

"It's not the same. There is no excitement or desire. I never longed for her or desired her like you. She didn't provoke me the way you did, it's almost annoying."

"Am I annoying? "Is that what she's telling me, Judge?" You smile as you touch the tip of his nose, trying to take some of the seriousness out of the conversation.

"You are adorably hypnotic, I must say. More than you should be. You have taken everything from me without me even realizing it, subtly and carefully taking over my mind and my heart," Neuvillette's hands caress your cheek, high above your skin, avoiding friction as if his touch would bruise your flawless complexion.

"Let me show you these human feelings that have taken over me, please," he whispers, his thumb sliding over your lower lip. He says it almost like a complaint, his bursting emotions becoming painful, trapped in his chest, longing for you to give him comfort and permission to act.

"I'll let you… only if you promise me something," you say, taking his hand, avoiding the marks of his fingers on you. "You will never push me aside for another woman again…"

His oath needs no words, not when he has you leaning against the kitchen table, his cock pushing behind you to your cervix. Your muffled moans as he adjusts your skirt over your waist and spreads your legs further to give him free access to your pussy, which sucks him contemptuously.

Neuvillette feels like a fantasy, thrusting relentlessly into you, touching the bulge that has formed in your belly from the penetration of his cock, pushing with his hand so you can feel it better, eliciting a high-pitched moan from you. . He kisses your cheek and you hear his muffled moans against your ear as he utters words of worship.

You grip the marble edge of the table, moaning at the burning building in your belly, your eyes glassy and spit falling from your mouth. It's as if your legs were lifeless, as if you were prey to Neuvillette and the way he drives his love for you so deep that it seems to stir your womb.

That afternoon he takes you in the kitchen, and the next morning he doesn't let you get out of bed, one hand on the headboard and the other around your waist, Neuvillette has you with your ass up like a dog in heat, hitting your slippery with his length. The strength that his support gives you is hard to bear, your breasts trembling strongly as your ass bounces to his rhythm, your skin moving like waves in the sea with each vibration that Neuvillette's relentless interference causes.

His hand slides down your body, caressing your breasts and down to your clit, your face buried in the pillows, almost crying at how good his fingers feel on your nervous lump. He fills you with his seed when he reaches orgasm, because he is dying to see you again with your belly swollen for his offspring. And he kisses you again, he kisses your forehead while you catch your breath, while you cover your body that has been bruised by his fingers, defining the lustful path of his digits over your body.

In his office, he remembers the past hours with fanciful lust and longs to return home to enjoy this new activity that you have made him experience, this new addiction that your body represents against his. He longs for your company and your warmth, your voice moaning with pleasure and the way your nails dig into his back. He adores everything about you, not only because you are the mother of his child, but because he finally understands, after several months of reading and reflection, that he has truly fallen in love with you, his precious human wife.

[morverenmaybewrites]

Imagine Wayne Manor as a Haunted House (Bruce Wayne x Reader)

Been thinking about Wayne Manor.

What it would be like as a haunted house, and Bruce Wayne cursed as its last living heir.

Imagine Wayne Manor as a haunted house, its great stone walls overgrown by twisting kudzu vines, its hallways creaking with the weight of all the tragedy that had befallen the Wayne family tree.

In an upstairs bathroom, a leaky faucet drips water like tears. A strange stain darkens the bottom of the tub, where one of Bruce's ancestors had drowned herself after the loss of her lover.

No one ever uses that bathroom, yet there are days when Bruce can hear running water. And he would feel a grief so profound that it would leech all of the color out of the sky.

And he would remind himself, with renewed determination, of all the terrible fates that befell anyone who has loved a Wayne.

Imagine Wayne Manor as a haunted house, older perhaps, than Gotham itself. Where the walls are overrun by kudzu vines, the fat purple clusters of their flowers all but hiding the weathered stone.

Except, perhaps, in the East Wing, where even the vines do not grow. The walls remain blackened, the windows cracked and warped. Here, there once lived an heir who thought that he could outlast the curse. Or perhaps he believed that there was no curse at all.

He had held the wedding on the grounds itself—ignoring the way the grass twisted around his bride's ankles like starving rats—and moved her into the East Wing that very night.

One would hope that they were happy in the week before the fire. Where the heat was so intense that it blackened the Manor's stone walls and the smoke that rose from it blotted out the sky.

One would hope they died instantly, suffocated in their sleep before they even knew what would happen.

And yet, Bruce knows they did not. Perhaps it is only his own pessimism. Or perhaps, the Manor wanted him to know.

It was she who died first. Her smooth skin turning cracked and leathery, blisters forming on her skin and bursting like the fat of a pig on a spit.

It was she who died first, and the heir had enough time to run away. To live with the knowledge of what he had done to her.

But he did not.

Instead, he lay down next to his bride and let the fire claim them both.

And Bruce Wayne, heir to Wayne Manor's wealth and tragedy memories, would wake up some nights with the taste of ash in his mouth.

Imagine Wayne Manor as a haunted house, a cursed house. A house that has claimed everyone its heirs have ever loved.

But oh, it is hungry. Its once-thriving grounds have become dry and barren. The grass that had once twined around a doomed bride's ankles have grown yellowed and shriveled.

For while its previous owners have kept it fed with its share of tragedies, Bruce Wayne had starved it.

Bruce Wayne, who as a child would wake up with the taste of ash in his mouth, who once used an upstairs bathroom where the faucet drips water like tears.

Bruce Wayne, who promised himself that he would be the last heir Wayne Manor would ever have.

Now, imagine you. You who have lived in Gotham City, your whole life.

You who would pass by the Wayne Manor on the way to classes or to work, and you would look at its barren gardens and its cracked windows.

And you would feel...something.

A pull perhaps or an ache, one that could only settled by approaching this house, this cursed lot, placing your hands against the wrought iron gate so that you can get a better look.

And you would see its blackened walls and its barren gardens, the grass yellowed and withered and dead.

And you would feel a strange sort of tenderness for a place that looks so unloved.

You feel the cold of iron against your palms, a flash of heat.

And then—

"Ouch."

Somehow, you had cut yourself against the gate. A wide cut, a deep cut, straight against the meat of your palm.

You don't quite know how it happened. And perhaps, it did not matter, because the only thing you can focus on is the pain that throbbed against your skin like a heart.

You curse, try to staunch the flow, and in doing so, you catch a glimpse of a figure.

Perhaps it was the mansion's old butler or perhaps one of its many ghosts. But as he approached, you knew that this could only be one person.

The heir to Wayne Manor was said to be a glib playboy, one who would spend rather spend his family's vast amount of wealth on drugs and women and sex than actually fixing his broken-down home.

And yet, when you meet him on that fateful day, he did not look like the blindingly beautiful man you had seen in the newspapers.

He didn't have a fixed smile that could have meant anything from loathing to adoration, he didn't wear a suit that cost more than your yearly salary.

That day, he looked human. He looked reachable.

Perhaps that was what made you accept the handkerchief he so graciously handed to you. Perhaps that is what makes you smile—a little clumsy, a little lopsided, but a smile all the same—as you say,

"Thanks a ton. See you around, Bruce Wayne."

And when you walk away, you do not look back.

You do not see what Bruce Wayne saw.

You do not see how your blood dries preternaturally fast on the surface of the black gate, as if something was drinking it in.

You do not see the way the grass along the driveway twists around your ankles like a starving rat.

And you definitely do not see the expression on Bruce Wayne's face when he realizes what it all meant.

Imagine Wayne Manor as a haunted house, its great stone walls overgrown by twisting kudzu vines, its once-barren gardens now blooming with life. Galica roses with buds so heavy that their stems drooped, as if begging one to cut them and place them in a bouquet.

Imagine Wayne Manor, which has fed well on centuries' worth of tragedies, as a house starved.

For its latest heir, Bruce Wayne, had vowed never to fall in love.

Had vowed that whatever curse lingered in his family tree like the rot in an oak would die with him.

Imagine your blood drying on a wrought iron gate. And a leaky faucet that drips water like tears for a story that already has an ending.

Imagine a blackened wall, and the story of a man who lay down next to dead bride, to be consumed alive in a fire.

Imagine Wayne Manor, its hallways creaking with the weight of all the tragedy that had befallen the Wayne family tree.

And now imagine: its hunger.

[shrenvents]

Haunting Fear of the Dead

Warnings: Angst, mentions of death, implied (small) age gap, survivors guilt etc

Pairing: Rick Grimes x reader

Summary: Negan’s aftermath served as the last straw to instill in you, the belief that nothing lasts forever.

Word count: 1k

...

The conversation rings in the back of my mind, and your face dominates my thoughts. That despairing, lost expression still makes me wonder whether I crossed the line.

Life is moving too fast, and the overwhelming concept of inevitable death, and her vivid memory haunt me.

The idea, that you may see her in my eyes...

Things fall apart, and I'll never be her.

I knew Lori for no more than a week before she died. And now I've known you for several years, yet she hasn't left my side. Has she left yours?

Your wife and I couldn't be more different.

A troubled, younger girl, who can't help how unloveable she feels. How vulnerable I am. How susceptible I am to doubt. Versus the mother of your child. Your woman before the fall.

How can I compare? How can you love me? After this tragedy and loss, how can I return your love?

Maybe these are all the things I should’ve conveyed, but the moments gone, and I’ll never get you back Rick.

…

"If ya sigh one more time girl, I'll smack you," Daryl intimidates passively, and I snap my obscure stare at him below my post. Then, looking at the world outside these metal walls, one last time, I turn to the ladder. "Call Rosita, I'm tired."

"Nuh-uh, if I'm here all night, so are ya," He challenges, catching my gaze. He holds it before scoffing in defeat, obviously feeling guilty, after viewing my sorrowful appearance.

As I pass him, he grips my forearm. "I know things are bad right now, but yer a survivor," he murmurs, full of pity. "And if ya ain't gonna believe in yerself, believe in Rick." He trails off, and I nod to make him loosen his grip, so I may walk away.

Things just blew over with the Saviours, now that Negan is behind bars. But regardless, death plagues my conscience. How can I think my happiness is important, or everlasting when my survival is just dumb luck?

Ending things with Rick rang so much truth to that.

Now lonely and isolated, I only have myself to blame. Since confusion and indecision left my bed empty, my head is full of profuse distress.

To this day, after weeks, I'm still unsure of what I was trying to achieve -what I was running from, and why was it him?

No, I know...

I feel it again, her looming behind me. Lori. Whispering stories of their pleasant life together before Walkers existed.

Her ghost regularly tells me how life would be different if it wasn't the end times. She remarks how Rick wouldn't look my way if I wasn't his only option.

My rapid imagination slows to silence when I pass his house. I picture Carl on his porch bouncing Judith to sleep, and misery brutally latches onto me, forcing me to remember what is lost.

'You left him when he needed you the most...' Lori breathes.

Tears prick my eyes, and I bite my bottom lip to reduce its trembling. Then, a call of my name drags me out of the dark, and I seek out its source.

"Rick?" I reply, swallowing my cry and straightening my back. Blinking frantically, I assess him as he marches towards me, seeing concern playing across his features.

'Good things aren't meant to last...'

"How are you?" I croak.

"Fine," he stammers slightly, "you?"

"I'm well," I lie pathetically, and even though he clearly doesn't believe me, he accepts my response nonetheless.

"Shouldn't you be patrolling the wall?" He questions hesitantly.

"Yeah, but Rosita offered to take over, to let me rest you know?" I murmur with a shrug like I'm asking him to confirm my lies. He nods again, seeming just as awkward. "Need me to walk you back?" Rick proposes, motioning his pointer in the direction of my place. "No," I utter flatly, far too fast. He gulps, unable to hide his dejected manner.

A beat later I wordlessly amble away, but he hollers my name again, and I freeze, whirling around, brows furrowing. "Can I walk you back?" He urges this time, and his dilated pupils hold such fervour and desperation, that I give in. "Okay," muttering, I look to the ground as he jogs to my side.

Walking closely together, we're uncomfortably quiet. I peer at him and see his eyes squeezed shut as he inhales, expanding his chest to its limit.

"Rick?" I mumble. His eyelids pop open, and he swivels his head to mine, brows raised.

"Why are you," exhaling, "forcing yourself to-" I cut myself short, and he grasps my meaning. "I'm not forcing myself to do anything," Rick rasps. "If anything, I'm forcing you, to be with me," he drops my befuddled stare. "I'm sorry," he grunts.

"You have nothing to be sorry for," I splutter as a wave of grief, racks through me. "I'm the one with problems," my meek voice gets choppy.

The pace of his legs falter. "Problems," he echoes, puffing a soundless laugh in disbelief. "Problems I want to hear," he more or less pleads. I faintly shake my head.

When I stagger, Rick stops moving completely, and captures my hand, yanking me squarely to him. I take in how alarmed his features appear and again, wish I was alone so I could cry.

"C'mon beautiful, talk to me," he begs, cupping my hand in both his palms, and when he utters my name of endearment, I finally break.

Liquid flows down my cheeks, and Rick, with his thumbs, hopelessly tries to sweep them aside. But the more his rough pads graze my skin, and he pulls me closer, adorning me with such affection, the more tears stream.

He wraps his sturdy arms around my smaller frame, tugging me tightly to his chest, and I collapse into him. He holds me upright when my knees buckle, and simply lets me cry.

"I broke up with you, why on Earth are you consoling me?" I sob, words escaping my mouth in messy bundles.

Sighing, "Because I love you," Rick's voice grows rocky, "and I hate to break it to you," he chokes up, "that isn't gonna change, just 'cause ya don't feel the same."

His statement makes a louder cry erupt. But, I struggle to muster the courage to dispel, the third lie told tonight.

Of course I love him.

"I'm here, always," he soothes, nuzzling his nose into the crook of my neck, and I feel water drip onto my nape.

As my arms encase his shaking body, Lori materializes behind me.

Reminding me, for the hundredth time:

I don't deserve Rick Grimes, and I never will.

[nylongenesis]

Here’s the thing about Timothy stoker

here it is the tim post

People who say tim is an asshole are partially correct.

People who say tim is ‘toxic’ are INCORRECT.

I am very strongly about this because. listen to me. okay.

SPOILERS UP TO TMA SEASON 3 AHEAD

Imagine BEING timothy stoker. After whats probaboy the secondmost traumatizing experience of your life in which you almost die if not by the worms then by the MEDICAL EMERGENCY (respiratory acidosis is a medical emergency :3) your body was put into- plagued with nightmares and the pain of your body being covered in holes and your medical issues, you come back to the archives expecting to see your best friend, That will make it all better. It’ll be so worth it once you can see her again.

And then she acts so distant. And you dont know why.

And you have just lost your friendship. The one that’s kept you going this whole time. The one you were starting to believe might have been unbreakable. And you Don’t. Know. Why.

Eventually after many failed attempts to reconnect, you resign yourself to the fact that she just got tired of you. That you were right this whole time. That she just pitied you. You still don’t know what you did wrong and it’s eating you alive, but she won’t tell you, so you have to settle with pretending to be glad that she’s at least alive, All while your boss is literally going insane and STALKING YOU???

Only to find out after a YEAR of believing you were just unlovable that this person? The person youve been trying to ‘reconnect’ with? That isnt your best friend, Your best friend dies and you never noticed. How could you not notice? But when you see the real picture of her she feels like a stranger and you realize you have no fucking escape from your horrible, unforgivable sin of forgetting your friend. Because no matter what you do, trying to look back at your memories, that *thing* is there instead. You can’t even enjoy your memories before she died.

So you sit there, alone and afraid. Angry, grieving, everything else. What are you supposed to do but make the thing that has haunted you since the disappearance of your Brother feel the kind of pain it is making you feel?

Tim isn’t toxic. Hell I wouldn’t even say he’s that much of an asshole.

He’s a hurt child.

Mentally, especially in season three, he’s having the equivalent of a child’s breakdown. The kind they have when they don’t know how to express the emotions they’re feeling. These emotions- this grief, this anger, this pain- it’s so big, it’s so much, and he feels so small, so incapable and weak, and he cannot properly handle it. He cannot cope. Especially since he’s still somewhat trapped in who he was when his brother was taken.

Now im not saying the way he went about this is at all great, but yknow. Everyone forgives reactions to trauma until they’re personally inconvenient or ugly.

Tim lost everything, and honestly i would be pretty damn similar if I was in his position! That’s DEVASTATING.

In the end, there’s such a horrible tragedy to his entire character that goes almost entirely unnoticed unless you’re like me and you’re insane and overanalyze someone based on one word in an extra audio thats not in the podcast.

Anyways, that’s why I love Tim.

[cepetriwrites]

Alicent Reverses the Hourglass Chapter 50 Memes Pt 3

“Yes, yes. There is something of the netherworld about you,” Callan said. “A being who has been brought back from the veil of the Deathlands.”

Gwayne looked between Prall and Callan uncomfortably. “What…does that mean, sorry?”

Alicent

Me remembering that Gwayne died jousting

I totally forgot he died

“No, Ser Gwayne is right,” Prall said. “The Prince asked for Lady Alicent to be branded on the hand instead. He said that chest would be too painful.”

Alicent looked at Gwayne. “Did he really?”

Gwyane leaned in to whisper. “He said it might stop you gnawing at your fingers. That you’d see it and be reminded of him.”

Me:

It’s sweet in a way distinctly Daemon manner

“I don’t know.” Alicent said. “I don’t know what it is to have a love reciprocated, but this might be as close as I have ever come. Or ever will.”

Me

Maybe I’m reading too much into this, this breaks my heart because i feel as a society (at least American/western) relationships are often viewed as hierarchical, with romantic ones being on top. So when someone has a toxic/bad relationship they feel unlovable because we’re taught that romance is the end all be all. & it can make someone fail to recognize that they are well loved by family and friends. There’s a probably good chance Alicent is specifically talking about romantic love and I’m reading into it, but to me it reads like her terrible marriage & the way it destroyed her life makes her unable to appreciate she is/was loved by her family and friends and children.

The branding is extra funny to me because I have an adoption ceremony planned in my into the eye fic and it also involves branding.

Me & reddish coming up with Valyrian ceremonies

~~~~

Laenor & Gwayne seeing each other at daemon and Alicent’s wedding

Are you the narrative? Cause you keep haunting each other…

Prall put a hand on each of their shoulders. Both boys flinched, unaccustomed to the kind touch of a father.

Me @ reddish

Ow??? Fucking ow??? This is a wedding scene! Why are you making me sad???

Daemon controlled himself. She had no idea what would come next. Patience.

Come again?????

“Your trials are not yet over,” Daemon said, looming over her. He was planning his revenge for every seductive word that had left those lips, every doe-eyed glance, the cut that had left him breathless. “The worst is yet to come.”

Me & brielyse95 immediately messaging each other to theorize what TF he means by that

We’re between “weird Valyrian sex thing” and “having to climb the mountain THEN do a weird Valyrian sex thing”

~~~~

Also! I passed that test I was stressing about. Now I’m in my final hurdle… studying for finals 🙃🙃🙃.

Memes Masterpost

[manicplank]

Got any angst about the pt cast?

Of course, I do.

Peppino: He was bullied as a child/teenager and developed horrible social anxiety and depression from it. He also has generalized anxiety disorder. He's not necessarily estranged from his family, but he doesn't communicate with them a lot. This has caused tension to rise as his family began to think he doesn't love them. His failing business only adds to his crippling anxiety. He holds it against himself and is convinced that he's a failure.

Gustavo: I've said it a million times, but he's a divorced dad with minimal custody rights. He feels guilty for it. The divorce was super hard on him and still hurts. He was also very lonely at home before he got Brick. Other than that, he's a pretty jolly guy.

Mr. Stick: He's a lonely guy. His social skills aren't the best, and he's very condescending. His gambling problem has actually caused him great losses in life. He has maybe one friend (Burton). Despite being a con man, he's very gullible.

Pepperman: His narcissistic tendencies have cause many relationships to peril. Family, friends, and even partners had grown tired of his antics. He spends most of his time on his art and forgets to take care of himself. He's quite lonely.

The Vigilante: He doesn't have any family left. His maw and paw died early in his life after they were killed by outlaws. This is what made him decide to become The Vigilante. His peepaw, John E. Cheese, raised him. After he passed, The Vigilante had nobody but the ghost of him. He's become very lonely and is slightly depressed.

The Noise: He has an absent father who he resents for not being there. He grew up as a chaotic AuDHD child with a mother who didn't know how to handle it. He was bullied a lot. He's very paranoid that people will use him for money and fame, which is why he doesn't really have any friends other than Noisette. He's very angry and depressed underneath that silly persona. His social skills aren't great, either.

Noisette: She's incredibly insecure when it comes to criticism. She got bullied a lot in school for her poor social skills. Like Noise, she's also AuDHD, but her parents were educated and raised her well. She holds herself to modern beauty standards and occasionally gets insecure of her appearance.

Fake Peppino: He was met with violence and fear very early in life as he was constantly being hunted down by others in the tower (piggy police, The Vigilante). People were afraid of him, and it made him sad about himself. [Fic spoiler] Bruno was a great friend to him, but now he's gone. Until Peppino arrived, he felt that he was unlovable. Pizzahead is fine but can get too rough when it comes to correcting behavior.

Pizzahead: His poor social skills and onsessive behaviors have caused him to suffer greatly in his social life. He's very lonely and pushes most people away. He snapped at a certain point and went completely insane. He's a psychopathic maniac. He buries himself in work most of the time to avoid his feelings.

Pillar John: [Fic spoilers] John was originally a maintenance man in the tower. He was an incredible fixer and was good friends with Pizzahead. The tower was old and falling apart. Once Pizzahead realized there was no fixing it, he created a crazy contraption and trapped John in the top floor of the tower, causing the pillars in each level to support the tower's stability. Because of this, John developed a horrible depression after having a happy life.

Gerome: Gerome had somewhat of a tough upbringing. His mom and dad got divorced when he was young. His dad wasn't a great person. He was depressed as a kid because he felt the divorce was his fault. When his mom met John's father, things changed drastically, especially when John was born. At first, he didn't like John or his father. Once he saw how happy his mom was, he opened up and became close to John and his dad. Despite this, the depression still haunts Gerome to this day. Gerome even finds himself feeling a bit guilty over the tower situation.

[elvhenmage]

thoughts on carver, everett, and malcom that i'm transferring over from twitter in an attempt to also preserve my ramblings here 👍🏼

tweeted 8/9/24

spent my entire shower thinking about how everett never truly got a chance to mourn carver because she had to be the one in charge and take care of leandra and bethany while they grieved, and carver was before kirkwall so she didn't even have any friends to go to. she had to be the strong one and because of it she couldn't properly mourn the loss of her little brother, and i know that rocky relationship is going to knock the fucking wind out of her someday when she's thinking about him again in the wake of leandra's death. reminiscing about the family to anders who never really got to know any of them except for bethany, a little

carver always felt like he was living in hawke's shadow, even more so for everett personally i feel because he already couldn't compete with bethany being a mage, but now he can't even make a name for himself as a warrior/soldier because his big sister's always there. idk the specifics of their time in cailan's army but i imagine everett was by his side constantly because she was worried about him

i think malcolm raised her to be the man of the house because he wanted his family taken care of in the event he died or was taken away, and that absolutely messed everett up as a kid. it's why she doesn't let herself cry in front of the party and why she lies about how she's feeling or otherwise keeps it to herself. but because malcolm raised her that way, she mothers the twins a lot and where i think bethany appreciates it, carver hates it because he thinks hawke is being patronizing

it's such a shame they were never able to reconcile that. i'm sure everett's haunted by the fact that it always seemed like carver didn't like her and she could never figure out why until they were older but by that point the damage had been done and she didn’t know how to undo it, especially not after malcolm’s death, so they sort of just sat in limbo

she's also haunted by the fact that she'll never get to tell him how much she loved him and how proud she was of him and how she knows malcolm felt the same. one of her biggest fears/regrets is the idea that carver died thinking he was unloved or out of place in his family

another thing is that i think that the reason carver would nail bethany's braid to the bed when they were children stems from him seeking attention from malcolm, whether good or bad. idk what his relationship with leandra was like but we know from carver that he felt neglected by malcolm (though i can’t find the dialogue so idk what he says specifically)

and there’s also my personal canon being that carver is the spitting image of leandra where everett got malcolm’s hair and bethany got his eyes, so he doesn’t even have that tying them together. the only thing carver has from malcolm is that malcolm named him. bethany was his little mage and everett was the family guardian, and that left carver feeling like the odd kid out even when malcolm trained him similar to the way he trained hawke iirc. and he was never able to move on from feeling like the black sheep and resenting his sister(s) because he died so young :(

[milfsloverblog]

War Is Over

Larissa Weems (implied Larticia/Morissa)

Summary: As she lies dying on the cold tiled floor of the botanical classroom, Larissa can’t help remembering her life. What it has been and what it could have been, the betrayals and the longing for love.

A/N: I wrote this lil oneshot a few months ago, right after I finished watching Wednesday. Larissa’s death felt so unfair and so uncalled for, I had to get all my sad emotions out somehow. I posted it on AO3 but never on here, thought some of you angst lovers would enjoy it!!

Larissa falls to her knees, a hand flying to hold onto her neck where the syringe had been just a second before. And she isn’t sure what hurts more, the poison coursing through her veins or the unbearable feeling of betrayal that tightly squeezes her heart.

She gives Marylin one last look, hoping it will haunt the redhead for the rest of her miserable life.

This is what you get for thinking you’d finally found a friend, Larissa thinks as her body hits the floor with a soft thud.

Her body is convulsing now, thrashing around and she barely registers the voice that calls her name twice. There’s someone kneeling by her side and for a second Larissa’s mind plays tricks on her when she thinks she recognises an old lover in the brown eyes looking into her blue ones.

“Morticia” she tries to whisper but the word dies in her throat and the only thing that comes out of her mouth is bitter white foam.

It won’t be long now, she thinks, and yet a few seconds are enough for memories to flood her mind. She remembers her childhood, being bullied and mocked for the way she looked, how tall she was and how it led her to morph into a smaller version of herself for years.

Then there had been Nevermore. Most people had known her as “Morticia’s tall roommate”, but to Morticia…Oh, to Morticia she had been much more than that.

Larissa remembers alabaster skin brushing against her own, she remembers long jet black hair tickling her naked breasts and soft moans in her ear. She longs to go back to one of those early mornings where she would wake up with Morticia’s legs entangled with her own.

And then there had been the betrayal, not the first and definitely not the last one.

“Gomez has already invited me… I said yes.” She still hears Morticia’s voice saying when she had invited her to the Rave’N. And from that moment there was no more waking up in the brunette’s arms. If Larissa had known, if she had known it would be their last night together, she would have held Morticia a little tighter, kissed her a little longer and probably offered her another orgasm.

Larissa had always been second, whether it was in school competitions or in her lover’s heart. She would never be first, she would never be someone’s first choice and as much as she tried to convince herself that she’d made peace with that idea, her heart still swelled every time she thought of what could have been.

Where most people hoped of dying surrounded by their family, Larissa had always known she would die unloved and she often wondered if anyone would even grieve her.

Her life has been nothing but a war, the enemy often being her own reflection in the mirror.

Tears fall down Larissa’s cheeks as foam starts filling her lungs. She wishes it was quicker, that she wouldn’t have so much time to remember. But it doesn’t matter anymore, not when there’s a hand tightly holding onto hers as she takes her last breath.

As her body falls still, Larissa knows. There will be someone to grieve her, someone to remember.

And finally, war is over.

[jellymaple]

Pt 5 (Dw they’ll definitely meet again)

The years passed slow, as sorrow deepened,

And in her grief, the queen lay weakened.

Yet from the night, a secret grew,

A child within her, born anew.

But when the babe first met her eyes,

Her heart was cold, her love disguised.

For all she saw was darkened pain,

A haunting shadow, grief’s refrain.

The child, a girl with raven hair,

Held in her gaze the queen’s despair.

A silent echo, dark and bright,

A daughter born of endless night.

Fear clenched the queen’s fragile heart;

She could not bear this child,

Part of her that lived when love had died,

A memory of the cruelest tide.

With trembling hands, she turned away,

Unable yet to let her stay.

She cast the child beyond the gate,

To live alone, to shape her fate.

The years went by, and distance grew,

The girl a stranger, known to few.

But still she dreamed of mother’s arms,

Of love unearned, of distant charms.

One winter’s night, with pen in hand,

The daughter wrote, with heart unmanned,

A letter fair, with words of grace,

In hopes to see her mother’s face.

"Dear Mother, though you turned from me,

In you, I found eternity.

For in my heart, I hold your name,

Though you could never bear the same.

I see the grief within your eyes,

The sorrow woven into lies.

I know the shadows haunt you still,

But even now, I love you, still.

I have your eyes, I have your fire,

A spark, though born from cruel desire.

And though you left me in the dark,

I carry you, my heart your mark.

Perhaps one day, when shadows part,

You'll find a place within your heart

To think of me with softened gaze—

Your child, lost in distant haze."

The queen, alone within her hall,

Received the letter, cold and small.

Her fingers trembled, eyes went wide—

A mother’s guilt, so long denied.

Each line a dagger, sharp and keen,

Her daughter’s words, so soft, serene.

A love unearned, yet freely given,

A light that cut through grief’s dark prison.

She sank, bereft, upon the floor,

For all her heart had shut before

Now opened wide in painful bloom—

A haunting echo in the room.

Her daughter lost, her heart had strayed,

A life unloved, cast and betrayed.

Yet in those words, she felt a spark,

A warmth amidst the endless dark.

With tears that traced her hollow cheeks,

The queen, once fierce, now frail and weak,

Reached out, as if to touch a hand

That long had left, to distant land.

But all she held was empty air,

The price she paid beyond repair.

For love rejected, love cast wide,

Would haunt her heart till end of tide.

And so she walks the halls alone,

A ghost, a queen, with heart of stone.

No crown, no throne, no power bright,

Could quell the ache that bloomed that night.

The daughter, gone, yet ever near,

A shadow, faint, that drew her tear.

For love, once scorned, can never die—

It haunts the soul like midnight sky.

And in the depths of endless night,

The queen would weep, with heart contrite,

Her daughter’s love, a wound unhealed,

A light her grief had long concealed.

For though her child would never reign,

Her love remained a sweet, soft pain.

And in her letter’s gentle grace,

The queen at last beheld her face.

The years drift on, as seasons change,

And yet the queen feels something strange.

A warmth that lives, despite the chill,

A child’s love, forever still.

[calebwittebane]

real found family is when you find out youre the last in a series of clones made of a long-dead murder victim who was in fact killed by your creator who has been posing as your parent figure (but an adoptive one of course. he generously stepped up and took you in) which really sucks and then youre haunted by the idea of the person youd been created in the image of and wonder what makes you resemble them and what exactly makes you supposedly a better version of them and then your fucked up parent figure dies and at first it feels so lonely but then its not so bad because youve found people who actually care about you and consider you family and its great but there is a void and a sense of loss you cant explain and you realize that for years youd been mourning a family that never existed outside of a fake tragic story sold to you by your late fucked up parent figure and meanwhile the closest equivalents to them (none of whom had ever met you and never even knew about the possibility of your existence) have been so forgotten so lost to time that at this point no one even knows how many of them had to live and die that way because that knowledge died with your fucked up parent figure and there are so many things you dont understand and youre angry on behalf of your younger self who had to live so alone and so unloved. and then one day years later one of your friends who is actually a god and the son of the island you live on and the source of all magic and who has been growing and changing and along with him the land and magic have been changing as well and developing new kinds of magic never seen before realizes theres someone trapped in the in between realm someone who couldnt become one with the boiling isles after death and while theyve been dormant for who knows how long theyve sensed something has changed and theyve woken up and he talks to his almighty star child friend and together they figure out what to do about it and they manage to summon that presence into the demon realm and you realize that its literally the person you are a clone of and neither of you have any idea what to do about it not to mention this person has no clue what had transpired and whats going on and its really awkward and you have a bit of an existential crisis but then you kinda bond and she warms up to you and as she pieces things together and gets to know you she starts seeing you as her son and well its as close as it gets doesnt it but she wont push that on you she understands if this is too weird for you after all this is all a part of a very painful aspect of your life and your past and much if it is painful for her too but when you think about it something about this brings you immense comfort as you think about your younger self and realize that the story about dead relatives wasnt entirely false after all and though it feels naive its like a retroactively comforting thought that even back then even as a lonely unloved child there was someone out there who wouldve loved you and was waiting to meet you one day and when you tell her about all of this she says that she wants nothing more than to have been there for you and watched over you and let you know that you deserved so much better. and then you hug because shes your mama. idk

[someonesomewhe]

braindump

i wake up in my bed at boarding school

the leaves are falling outside my window

my roommates snores tickle the walls

the laughter of conversation from other students walking to the dining hall

echo outside my dorm

as I pull myself out of bed

i am 17 and over 200 miles from my parents and sisters.

yet im still in that house.

i wake up in college

my weary eyes taking in the frost lining the window sills

there are tens of dogs walking with their owners

the preschool up the block walking their students in line,

small children holding hands in their puffy jackets and mittens.

they are so precious.

yet im still in that house.

im 23 and starting my new job across the country

the phoenix heat greeting my face the way it feels when you open your oven to check on your roast.

there is sunshine everywhere

the apartment pool is already packed.

im still in awe at the palm trees on my way to the office.

i am greeted by smiles by my older coworkers

the 21st floor, where my desk faces Camelback Mountain and Squaw peak

I am proud of myself for getting here

yet i am still in that house

i am 26. i wake up in fear. an abusive partner is already on his morning tirade.

my dogs are running from him to hide behind my legs.

my parents dont care.

my sisters dont care.

i end the night crying on my bathroom floor,

the cold tiles reminding me how cold this world is.

he screams as im curled in a ball.

how is this my life. again.

no one is coming. no one cares.

he gets away with everything.

permanent puffy eyes overshadow my scratchy throat.

i start smoking cigarettes for the first time.

i am frozen. stuck in quicksand.

this feels normal.

this feels like home did.

and still i ask myself, how did i get here.

i am still in that house.

i am 29. my new boyfriend loves me.

he hugs me all the time, never gets mad st me for hugging him too much. never turns away a kiss. texts me he misses me while we work the day away. greets me with a long hug and a kiss everytime he gets home.

my new boss is as intolerant at my last.

the flashbacks and feelings from my childhood haunt me still. it never got better. the part of me that hoped and dreamed died long ago. sure it makes it hurt less. but she wont come back to life. haunted. every second of everyday. if only walls could talk.

i am still in that home.

i am still small.

i am still to blame.

i am still unlovable.

unworthy.

ungrateful.

i wish it came with a warning sign.

“you will never be able to open ur eyes in the morning without the flashbacks from that house”.

i wonder if it will ever get better.

will it ever leave me.

its been so long.

there isnt much left of me anymore.

still i open my eyes.

how much longer do i have to open my eyes.

[theshippirate22]

guess what-

new idea time

so one day nancy wheeler wakes up and what the actual fuck she’s in the Byers house and Jonathan is there, and there’s christmas lights on the wall and bear traps on the floor and she’s got a revolver in her hand and steve is banging on the door outside, begging her to let him in, hear him out and

holy shit. she’s in 1983.

and nancy isn’t going to waste time, because this a moment for action, whether it’s real or not and she’s not going to panic, so she lets steve in and she tells him to leave, and she can hear the desperation in her voice. Please, save yourself… You have no idea yet…. let me save you…

But Jonathan is calling her attention away because the lights are flickering and Steve looks scared and now is not the time

So he stays, because steve does, always, and she lets him because she knows he’s ultimately the one that protects them that night

The next few weeks, things go exactly like they did in ‘83, except for now and then she’ll ask steve or jonathan or her mother or even mike “what year is it?” or “do you know me?” or “tell me something only you would know.”

and within a month she establishes that, yeah, this is 1983. these people know too much, are too real to be Vecna visions. it’s real.

if she’d gotten her way, she would’ve been sent back before barb died, she would’ve saved her and hid her from this, but it’s too late now, so she does everything else she can to save anyone else.

she doesn’t get drunk at the halloween party the next year. keeps the bullshits to herself and tells steve that night in the bathroom that she wants to break up, but it’s not his fault, really it’s not, and she’s overwhelmed by the monsters and barb and life changing around her. he still cries and this time, he asks her if he’s unloveable, which somehow hurts worse than his pathetic “you don’t love me?” but this time, she’s mature enough to reassure him that he’s perfect. none of this is his fault. he’s not unloveable. she didn’t know that at the time; now she does. and she knows he’ll be better if she tells him.

it still breaks his heart, she knows that, but this time it won’t haunt him for so long.

okay enough seriousness though because honestly what i actually want to happen is for her to bring all her category 5 batshit crazy unhinged-ness with her aight

like, she orchestrates it so she’s there with steve and the kids that night billy comes for lucas and the second he threatens violence and steve starts cracking his knuckles and preparing for a fight she just like. shoots him in the foot and steps over him. like “come on we have work to do.” and everyone is just staring at her and billy is literally writhing in pain on the floor, whining, and she’s like “hey, we’re kind of in a time crunch here, let’s go please”

and later steve is like “hey that was cool. racist son of a bitch deserved it”

and she’s just like “oh. is he racist? i guess i don’t have to feel at all bad about shooting him then.”

and steve is. “wh… why did you shoot him if you missed the fact that he was a horrible person?”

“he was standing in the doorway and i wanted to get through”

like she is taking no shit from anybody, her solution is guns and friendship every single time, she keeps accidentally asking robin to hand her something or come with her and everyone is like?? actually we don’t know a single robin??? and nancy is like. you guys don’t understand. the whole point of me being the weapon badass is to impress robin what am i even supposed to do here

[quinnmorgendorffer]

#no bc Tony is literally looking at him with the biggest heart eyes and it’s just so incredible?? brings to mind thag post I saw a few days#ago. and I gotta find it again. but it’s basically like the fact that gob is the bluth who is repeatedly said to be unlovable. the one who#is the most difficult. and yet HE is the one who ends up with this epic Shakespearean true love story. not Michael whose romances are more#plot driven and such but GOB who is over and over shown to have fail romances thag he’s not not that invested in either way#and I love that sm. me watching seasons 1-4 is like. gob is my favorite but also an ass but I still love him. s5 is me being all gob has#done nothing wrong ever/deserves only nice things. and I’ll admit I want to give him nice things in 1-4 as well but this whole development#really hits in such a satisfying way. he was willing to run away- to leave the family- for and with Tony. smth Michael always tries to do#and fails. and again that alongside his romances being not as pivotal as gobs is so interesting to me#i could be wrong but it’s the feeling that Michael HAD his grand true life changing love story already- and it was Tracey. and the loss of#of Tracey haunts him still- nearly every romantic relationship Michael has after is haunted by her.

omg i don't think I ever saw these tags before but I'm losing it omg. Gob, despite seeming to neve rhave a permanent residence with his family (remember how they didn't even know where he lived in the s3 finale? lmao), really never expressed an interest in leaving them. He planned on it in s1 during "My Mother the Car", but as soon as he realized Michael couldn't have been the cause of the accident, he decided to ditch his plans and basically save his brother. He does bad things to his family at times, sure, but he still helps them when needed in his own way, and clearly just wants them to love and respect him. Gob Love Family.

So, yes, him really being ready to leave his family? That means everything. I've talked way too much and yet never enough about how PERFECT of a romance Blunder is and I just will never get over how a silly little plot on a sitcom really is just such a profound and true romance of Shakespearan levels.

And, okay,I have to say that I find the psychology of all the characters fascinating already, but Michael and his love life truly make it even more fascinating to me. Partially because I have so many random headcanons about him and Tracey, or at least a lot I've written in fic about the two of them meeting and falling in love, but how could I NOT with how they wrote all of it? Like, Tracey truly DOES seem to be the ~epic love story~ of his life.

He literally shoots himself in the foot every time he tries to move on from her, since I don't think he literally ever can/will - maybe, deep down, he doesn't WANT to. Even with Rebel, one of the very first things he said was "my dead wife had red hair". Doesn't sound like moving on behavior, my dude!!!

And Rebel made it clear she didn't want or do committed relationships, yet he still pursued her anyway, maybe partially only because of the above mentioned reminder of Tracey. Of all his love interests, the only ones he seemed to have a chance with were Marta, Sally, and Rita. The Rita stuff is its own loaded issue i refuse to touch with a ten foot pole lol. But with Marta, he first almost ruined it by not just talking to her honestly when Gob thought she was cheating, which, if he really cared for her as much as he was convinced he did, he would've realized that was obviously not the sort of person she was. And even when they first start connecting, the narrator says that it was basically the first time he had been alone with a woman since his wife died and like...how much of that was him genuinely being in love with her and how much was it just the first time he even tried to connect with a woman since Tracey died?

And with Sally, oof. Finally got the girl and blew it instantly because of Maggie Lizer. Sally herself even pointed out how it was clearly him being unable to handle being in a relationship iirc. He literally just could not handle it. Part of it was being a martyr, sure, but much of it was just because he wouldn't allow himself to be happy. I have so much headcanon over his romance with Tracey, but since it was implied that he had a crush on her since, like, middle school with a throwaway line, he seemed afraid to live in another house properly without her (hence him and GM living in the attic of the model home), and a whole bunch of small little moments...man, I do think that was his epic love story and always will and would be.

[bloodybonbon]

I don’t have a therapist rn so tumblr is going to be mine.

When I was younger I was told I was unlovable for how I looked but that I was nice.

Now as an adult people call me beautiful, cute, sexy but I not only don’t believe them, I can’t and after years of being treated horribly by people I’m no longer kind either. I mean I am kind to friends and my mother and if I’m in a relationship but I almost always have my guard up especially with strangers. What disturbs me the most is I’m still often a lot kinder than the general public. I constantly wonder if any displays of care and friendship and affection are some lie from pity because that’s how I was treated by my peers as a child.

I also grew up in strange circumstances that most people can’t even imagine. Like if vc Andrews wrote about the paranormal so connecting to people is extremely hard. I don’t feel like an alien but like I died all the times I almost died as a child and adult, which have been quite a few, and I’m now haunting everywhere I go. I see and know things others don’t and see people for who they are, the inside of them but I don’t know if anybody sees me. I had friends in the past that projected everything on to me would call me vapid and vain for liking fashion, accused of being a know it all for correcting inaccurate information, a whore for going on dates where I often didn’t even kiss the person. I’m honestly afraid of the nerdy and artsy types of cis straight women now because of it. The only people who haven’t done that to me have been trans or gay or much older than me. Cis straight men don’t do it to me either but they do want me to sleep with them and as soon as I show emotion or thoughtfulness that they disagree with I’m pushed away.

All this to say I’m a deeply lonely person and deeply caring thankfully I do have a few good friends but now after my old best friend of 20 something years stopped talking to me because his narcissistic mother didn’t like that I accepted him being a man because she “wants her daughter back” and he chose to side with her instead. My mother predicts he’ll one day kill his mother and I must say I think it’s likely and that if he did I wouldn’t blame him. Anyways to the point, because of this rejection of someone I’ve bathed with, cried with, shared a bed with, and even was related to by marriage for a short while, I fear everyone else will do it to me. Because if someone I brought to meet my grandmother who I adopted a doll with discards of me with no warning then anyone could. I have nightmares at least 5 nights a week and some of these include the very few people I do have in my life disposing of me. I’m too afraid to express it and ask for comfort because I know it’s my own problem but also because I don’t want to be annoying. I don’t really know what to do except maybe disappear one day without telling anyone only for them to find my remains at the bottom of a cliff months later. Maybe in doing so I will be that ghost that wanders around everywhere.