#and when she struggled on bad days shadow would be there to still her paint brush or fold more stars

[casart]

Paper Stars✨

[xhoess]

pls can you write an happy ending angst with nicholas chavez where reader and him discuss mariage and having children in general and reader shuts down the subjects saying mariage is overrated and meaningless and she hates children and doesn’t want any. so they starts debating/ fighting and he’s flabbergasted bc they don’t have at all the same vision of life and during few days it’s very cold/tensed between them especially him bc he told her that he wanted her to be the mother of their children. but at the end she ends up telling him why she is afraid to have PPD since she had a long depression and there more risks to have post partum depression if you had been depressed, to become a bad mom like her narcissistic mom …

(Yes omg I immediately started when I saw this🥲🥲)

"Facing Fears, Finding Love"

Nicholas chavez x fem reader

Summary: When Nicholas Chavez shares his dreams of marriage and children, you shut him down, leading to a tense argument. Days of distance follow until you confess your fears of postpartum depression and becoming a bad mother due to your past struggles. Nicholas, understanding and supportive, reassures you with unconditional love. Together, you begin to rebuild trust, facing the future with renewed hope and mutual understanding.

Words: 7.6 K

The air was thick with tension, the comfortable silence that had enveloped your cozy living room now feeling stifling. The soft glow of the table lamp cast gentle shadows over Nicholas's features, but the warmth was rapidly giving way to something far colder. He sat perched on the edge of the couch, a half-empty cup of tea cradled between his hands. His gaze had shifted from the window to you, and you sensed that something in him had changed since your blunt words had cut through the evening.

His enthusiasm had been infectious just moments earlier as he excitedly shared his visions of a future filled with laughter and children. You could remember the way his eyes sparkled, how his voice had held such a soothing cadence as he painted dreamlike scenarios of family vacations, birthday parties, and the cozy chaos of everyday life. The dreams that had built up effortlessly in his imagination had felt almost tangible, revived by the warmth of your shared space.

But then you shattered that moment. You could still hear the harshness of your own voice as you declared, "Marriage is overrated and meaningless," and then coolly added, "I hate kids. I don’t want any." The sting of your words hung between you, suspended like a bitter fog that neither of you knew how to dissipate.

Nicholas's expression shifted from one of hope to confusion, and finally to pain. His brows knitted together, as if trying to piece together the fragments of the conversation, and you saw the light in his eyes dim. "Why didn’t you say something before?" he asked, his voice a tight whisper, the tremor in it revealing the depth of his shock.

You opened your mouth, intending to reply, but the words caught in your throat. "I... I didn’t think it mattered," you stuttered, the pit in your stomach tightening as you tried to pick apart your jumbled thoughts.

Nicholas shook his head, his deep-set eyes searching yours for an answer you were not ready to give. "It does matter! You make it sound like all my dreams are foolish. I always thought you’d be the mother of my children!" He stood up abruptly, his movement punctuating the tension that crackled in the room. The chair he had been perched on scraped against the floor, a sound sharp enough to increase your heartbeat.

"I didn’t realize you had those dreams," you argued, defensiveness creeping into your voice. "Why would you assume that I would fill that role? Just because we’re together doesn't mean we want the same future."

Nicholas's face crumpled at your words, and for a fleeting moment, you wondered if he would crumble under the weight of your lack of understanding. "Because I thought we were building a life together," he shot back, the hurt evident in his tone. "I can’t believe you never mentioned this before. I always shared my dreams with you, and I believed you were sharing yours too. Was it all a lie?"

Your heart raced, and the sense of being cornered filled you with an urge to flee. "It’s not a lie!" you exclaimed, desperate to have him understand. "I just... I never thought you meant it so seriously. You know how I feel about kids, and you always seemed so... sure."

"But those were my hopes!" Nicholas’s voice rose, filled with bewildered frustration. "And you made me feel like I was the only one on this path. I thought we were on the same page—working toward a future together. Now I find out you’ve been harboring these feelings in secret!"

"Do you think I want this?" you replied, anger rising from a place you hadn’t known existed. "Do you think it’s easy for me to admit this? I didn’t want to disappoint you!" The words were out before you could snatch them back, biting into the already frayed fabric of the evening.

Nicholas paused, his chest rising and falling heavily with each breath, the realization washing over him as he processed your admission. "You must’ve known I would want to know," he said quietly, the hurt lying heavy in each syllable.

“I thought it could work,” you said, your voice betraying the edge of desperation. “I thought I could learn to want those things. But I can’t. I don’t want them.” The finality in your voice echoed around the room, but the truth collided with the storm brewing within you—a twisted mix of anger, sadness, and guilt.

Nicholas took a deep breath, visibly deflating. "I don’t want to pressure you into something you don’t want," he said, the warmth of his usual tone replaced by resigned coldness. "But I thought we were building a life together. I thought you were on board with this."

A painful silence descended, so thick you could nearly touch it. The more you tried to dismiss your internal storm, the louder it grew, shrieking that you could lose him, that this could be the turning point of everything you shared.

Nicholas stepped back then, retreating from your presence as if he needed physical space away from the wall he felt was being built between you. "I just... I need some air," he murmured, his voice just above a whisper. And with that, he walked away, leaving the conversation unresolved, like an unfinished melody that echoed in the empty silence.

You stood there, rooted to the spot, a ghost of guilt weaving its strands through your being. You wanted to go after him, to take back your words, but instead, you remained motionless, staring into the distance, the shadow of what had just transpired pressing down on you like an anchor.

The weight of your convictions pressed heavily against your chest, but so too did the fear of what might happen next. Would he really walk away? Would this moment linger? You felt trapped between the walls of your own design, and you couldn't decide which was more terrifying: the thought of losing Nicholas or the dread of confronting the real emotions behind your aversion to his dreams.

Breathing low and shaky, you sank onto the edge of the couch, the faint sound of Nicholas’s footsteps fading into the night. You were left alone, surrounded by silence, filled with a torrent of unresolved emotions swirling deeper in the recesses of your heart.

You spent the next few days drifting through your routine like a ghost. Each morning greeted you with the same tightness in your chest, a constant reminder of the cavernous rift that had opened between you and Nicholas. You felt it as you brewed your coffee, the familiar sound of the kettle boiling echoing in your small kitchen, yet it felt so foreign without Nicholas’s laughter or his gentle teasing about your obsessive coffee-making rituals. The silence was heavy, suffocating.

Nicholas had retreated into himself, a stark shift from the exuberant man who had spent countless evenings talking about dreams and plans. Now, sitting on the couch, you watched him scroll through his phone whenever he was nearby, his eyes dull, the corners of his mouth pressed into a thin line. He seemed a million miles away, lost in thoughts you couldn't penetrate. Each glance in his direction felt like a glimpse into an impenetrable fortress—one that had been built overnight after that fateful evening.

As you prepared your meals, the routine felt strangely haunting. You would plate two servings, only to find yourself taking the food to the table in silence. The atmosphere was heavy with unspokenness, punctuated only by the clattering of utensils. Nicholas would sit opposite you, often looking down at his food, as if it was the most fascinating spectacle in the world. After a few awkward bites, he would excuse himself, muttering something about an early start the following day. You would watch him go, the door swinging shut like the final nail in the coffin of your conversation.

In the evenings, you found yourself gravitating toward the living room window, staring out at the street below, watching people pass by with their laughter and carefree chatter. Your heart ached as you thought of how easy it had once been for you and Nicholas to share such moments, laughing and dreaming about the future. Now, memories felt like daggers, cutting deeper with each recollection of his face lighting up while talking about a family.

You tried to reach out, to bridge the distance, but every time you opened your mouth to speak, words got stuck in your throat. There were so many things you wanted to say, so many unexpressed fears that loomed over you like dark clouds. You didn’t want to unpack them in front of Nicholas, especially after how he had looked at you in shock. Instead, you chose solitary evenings, curled up on the couch with a blanket and a book, pretending to be engrossed in stories that danced around you but never quite touched your heart.

Occasionally, you’d catch Nicholas’s eye, and in those brief moments, your heart would flutter with hope. Maybe he’d reach out, maybe he’d say something… But each time, he just looked away, as if he were afraid to delve into that abyss of unexpressed thoughts. It reminded you of the time a friend had brought an injured bird to your doorstep. You both stared at it, sympathizing with its struggle, but when it came to the actual act of helping, you froze. Both of you had chosen to leave it alone, believing it was better that way.

One evening, as golden twilight faded into cool dusk, things grew unbearable. The silence felt like a living entity, twisting around you both like vines, choking the air. You found yourself standing by the window, tracing patterns on the glass with your fingers, when Nicholas’s voice cut through the stillness, soft but laden with weight.

“Are you just going to keep shutting me out?” he asked, his tone edged with pain.

You turned slowly, locking eyes with him. There was a vulnerability there that made your heart ache. Memories surged, unbidden—moments of joy, laughter, and warmth—and it shattered something inside you. You opened your mouth to respond, but the words cowered, retreating back into the shadows of your mind.

Nicholas stepped closer, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jeans as if they were the only anchor he had left. “We can’t keep doing this,” he continued, his voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t talk to me anymore. You don’t look at me the way you used to. I feel like I’m losing you.”

His admission cut deeply, the truth of his words reverberating within you. You wanted to scream that you were still there, still the person who loved him fiercely, but the fear of unveiling your struggles kept your tongue tied. Instead, you bit your lip, the taste of dread pooling in your stomach.

“I’m...fine,” you said, the lie tasting bitter on your lips as you looked away.

“Fine? You think this is fine? You closed yourself off after that night, and I am left here, feeling like some kind of stranger. I just want to understand,” he urged, his voice thickening with emotion.

His frustration hung thick in the air, and you felt an overwhelming urge to run, to hide away from the truth that loomed behind your eyes—the fear, the apprehension—a tangled web of hurt that you were still unraveling.

“Just leave me alone,” you finally managed, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. It was a defense mechanism, your voice detached and flat, concealing the tempest inside.

Nicholas’s face fell, eyes wide with hurt. “Why are you pushing me away?” he asked, his voice cracking. “I can’t make sense of any of this! I thought we were in this together!”

His words stung, and you stood there, feeling the distance grow wider, casting long shadows in the light of the fading day. “You wouldn’t understand,” you whispered, the admission barely escaping your lips.

With that, he turned and walked away, the weight of his footsteps reverberating through the quiet of the house. You could hear the sound of the door shutting behind him, blunt and final, and you were left standing alone in that echoing silence, the guilt rising inside you like a relentless tide.

As the minutes turned to hours, you sat on the edge of the couch, your head spinning with confusion. You were filled with guilt for not sharing your fears, yet terrified of how he would react if you did. As darkness enveloped the room, so did the realization that the love you cherished felt like it was slipping through your fingers like grains of sand.

In the emptiness, you found yourself wavering in that fragile silence, torn between the love you had for Nicholas and the walls you had built to shield yourself from the storm raging within. As night deepened, and shadows crept along the walls, you sat encased in loneliness, wondering if the silence between you could ever be broken.

You had counted the hours, but when you were finally able to measure the silence in days, it felt like a weight pressing against your chest. The quiet hung in your apartment like an uncomfortable guest who had overstayed their welcome. The remnants of heated words still echoed in your mind, taunting you as you passed through rooms once filled with laughter and conversation. You thought about reaching out to Nicholas, but each time you opened your mouth to speak, words crumbled in your throat, frail and weak.

The living room, once a sanctuary of warmth, had become a battleground adorned with remnants of the life you shared—the cozy blanket on the couch, the coffee mug still resting on the side table from a time before the argument erupted. Now, even the soft tremble of the air felt altered—thick, stifling. Nicholas had barely spoken since that fateful night, his eyes betraying a hurt that cut deeper with each glance as he withdrew further into himself.

You were busy preparing dinner—an unremarkable pasta dish—when you heard the sound of keys jiggling in the lock. Nicholas entered the house, and the mere act of him crossing the threshold somehow intensified the suffocating silence. You turned your back to him, focusing on the bubbling pot as if it could distract you from the gravity of the moment.

“Hey,” Nicholas said softly, his voice barely rising above the sound of water boiling, but you felt the tremor in it as if the ground beneath you was shifting. You willed your heart to slow, taking a deep breath, bracing yourself for the waves of anxiety that threatened to pull you under.

“Hey,” you managed to murmur without turning around. There was a heaviness in the air between you, a chasm of unspoken words stretching wide. You sensed him lingering in the doorway, unsure of how to breach the wall that had crashed down between you.

After an interminable moment, he finally stepped forward. “I can’t keep doing this,” he said, his voice cracking ever so slightly. “I can’t stand this silence.” His words wrapped around you, both a lifeline and a knife. “You feel so far away. Why have you shut me out?”

His vulnerability struck you. The warmth of his breath brushed against your neck, and despite the tension, a part of you longed to lean into him, to bridge that unbearable distance. But fear held you back, chaining you in place. You turned to face him, and the sight of his pained expression tugged at something deep inside.

“I don't know where to start,” you finally confessed, your voice wavering. “It’s just...everything has changed so quickly.”

Nicholas stepped closer, his eyes glimmering with concern. “You’re not making sense. I don’t understand what’s going on in your head, but it hurts to feel like you don’t want to share that with me.”

His words cut deeper than any shattering argument. You felt exposed and raw, and yet, in his gaze, you saw the remnants of the love you once felt so confident about. “You want to build a life together, Nicholas,” you said, trying to keep your tone even, but the tremor was there no matter how hard you fought against it. “You want a family, and I...I don’t want that. Not now, not ever.”

“What do you mean?” he questioned, his voice deepening with disbelief. “You never told me this. I always thought—” The weight of his words hung heavy, full of memories and dreams you once shared. He paused, swallowing hard as he looked away, as if seeking some kind of answer in the shadows of the room.

“You always thought I’d be the mother of your children,” you echoed, the bitterness you felt welling at the back of your throat. “So did I. But things don’t always turn out the way we plan, do they?”

His expression twisted with a mixture of hurt and confusion. “Why do you feel the need to shut me out? This isn't just about you. This is about us. Don’t you see how much you’ve changed and how much I care?”

“I just can’t think about that now!” you exclaimed, feeling the bubbling turmoil spilling over. “Life is messy. It's scary, Nicholas! I’m terrified, and I don’t want to repeat the mistakes that were made with me. I don’t even want—”

“Then what do you want?” he pressed, his frustration mounting, but his eyes softened, a glimmer of fear sparking behind them. “Tell me what you want. Do you want to be with me? Can we talk about this?”

“I don’t...” You hesitated, the internal battle raging loudly in your mind. You wanted to collapse into his arms and cry until there was nothing left, but each time you attempted to find the words, your throat constricted, as if afraid of the truth spilling out. The thought of his disappointment crushed you further, and the rawness of your own feelings cut deeply.

With a defeated breath, he whispered, “You know how much I love you, right? You’re my everything. I just always thought… I thought we were on the same path.” He looked down, and you could see the shadows of his dreams fading behind the weight of your words.

Panic clawed at your chest. You’d never intended to destroy the future he envisioned, but here you were, standing among jagged edges and broken pieces of trust.

“I thought you’d be the one to help me build a family,” he murmured, barely audible, his voice thick with emotion. You saw the hurt in his expression, and somewhere in that pain, you felt the truth of your own: you were losing him.

With that realization clawing at your heart, he turned away, moving toward the door again, each step reverberating with a heavy finality. “I need some air,” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “I can’t do this right now.”

In that moment, as you watched him walk away, the silence between you felt unbearable. You fell back against the cold counter, wrapped in a cocoon of guilt—but your mind spun in chaos, unable to clarify the thoughts clamoring for attention. You were afraid of losing him, yet still lost in your own shadows.

And between you and Nicholas, the door closed, sealing away all the words that now felt too heavy to utter.

The air in the room was heavy, thick with anticipation and unsaid words. You stood at the window, staring out at the dimming sky, the fragments of dusk spilling hues of orange and purple across the horizon. Each fleeting moment echoed your racing heartbeat, the silent battle raging within. Nicholas sat across the room, observing you with an intensity that made your heart clench. How had things escalated so quickly? One moment, you were weaving dreams of a future together, and the next, you'd shattered all that with a single sentence.

"Marriage is overrated and meaningless," you had said, and in return, you'd seen the light dim in Nicholas's eyes, the shock and hurt etched across his features like an unwelcome painting. Now, silence loomed around you, oppressive and thick, making it nearly impossible to breathe.

You turned away from the window, taking a step towards him, your feet heavy with uncertainty. Nicholas's expression remained guarded, a portrait of hurt and confusion, as if he were still trying to shield himself from the blow you'd dealt. But you couldn’t maintain the façade of indifference any longer. The truth clawed at your insides, begging for release.

"Nicholas," you began, your voice trembling. "I—"

He lifted his hand to silence you gently. “Please, just let me speak.”

So you fell silent again, heart racing as you waited for him to find the right words. He took a deep breath, and you could see the struggle behind his calm exterior.

“You shut me out, and I—” he hesitated, a shudder of emotion flitting across his face. “I thought you were my partner, but suddenly, I feel like I don’t even know you.”

You felt a swift pang of guilt. How could you expect him to understand? The words you wanted to speak slid around inside your mind like fish in a bucket, eluding you—but the truth was surfacing, rising, clawing its way out as you felt the weight of these hidden fears.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice was quieter now, softened by the weight of his pain. “I thought we were on the same page. I pictured us having a family together, sharing our lives… You never mentioned this.”

“I was afraid,” you confessed, the small admission at the tip of your tongue suddenly relieving. “Afraid of what you’d think of me.”

“Of what? You can tell me anything. I’m here, I love you,” he said, his voice almost pleading, and in his eyes, you saw the glimmer of hope, the raw sincerity of someone who was struggling to piece this puzzle together.

“I don’t want to be a failure,” you said, the words tumbling from your lips before you could catch them. You could see Nicholas’s confusion deepen, but you pressed onward, feeling the dam within you begin to crack. “I grew up watching my mother, who was supposed to be my protector, but she was… twisted. Emotional scars… they don’t heal easily, and I’m terrified of becoming her.”

Nicholas remained silent, his eyes widening with concern. The deeper you delved, the closer you felt to that dark recess of your past—unprocessed memories of chaos and confusion. “You know I struggled with depression,” you admitted, your throat tightening, “and I’ve read how that increases the risk of postpartum depression. It’s terrifying.”

As his expression shifted from confusion to understanding, you felt an odd sense of relief. “I don’t want to bring kids into this world and hurt them the way she hurt me. What if I can’t control it? What if I can’t be what they need?”

A tear slipped down your cheek, and you felt vulnerable, yet somehow lighter. Nicholas remained quiet, absorbing the weight of your fears, filtering through the chaos you shared.

“Please, say something.” You could hardly bear the silence. The truth of your feelings had surfaced, and now, you needed him to meet you there.

“That makes sense,” he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I wish I’d known sooner. But I’m here, and I don’t want to pressure you into anything. I love you for you, and I want what makes you happy. We can face this together.”

His words reached out to you, digging around the rawness you felt and slowly stitching it back together. The flutter of panic that had threatened to consume you began to ease, though the scars remained, raw but acknowledged.

“I want you to know that you're not destined to repeat any cycle,” he said softly, closing the space between you, his hands reaching for yours. “Whatever happens, we’ll face it together. You’re not alone in this.”

Tears streamed quietly down your face as you felt an unexpected warmth envelop you. The release of your fears had opened a door, one you’d thought was locked forever. You took a shaky breath, touched by his understanding, and nodded in silent appreciation.

“You’ll be an amazing mother if that’s what you choose, and I know that,” he continued, voice steady, “but I want you to choose it for the right reasons—not because of fear dictating your decisions.”

His touch felt like home, and you leaned into him, finally free to be vulnerable, shedding the layers you had clutched onto for so long. You didn’t realize how much you craved this connection until it enveloped you.

“What a relief,” you murmured against his shoulder, and you felt him relax against you.

As the two of you stood there, bound by shared secrets and the promises of understanding, it became clear that while the future may still remain uncertain, you had taken the first brave step in facing it together. Yet, deep down, you knew the path was still long, unfurling ahead of you like the dimming light of the outside world.

But for now, you were not alone. The chapter was still unwritten, but a flicker of hope danced softly in the shadows.

You sit across from Nicholas, your heart pounding in your chest, the weight of your confession still hovering in the air like a thick fog. Tears glimmer in your eyes, but the raw honesty you’ve just shared brings to life an entirely different kind of fear—fear of his reaction. The silence between you feels heavy, as if the world has paused, awaiting his response. You can barely breathe, the anticipation hanging like an unspoken promise.

Nicholas shifts in his seat, his expression unchanging for a moment that feels like an eternity. He looks deeply into your eyes, searching not just for what you’ve voiced, but for all the fears and insecurities that still linger unspoken. His brow furrows as his mind processes the layers of your confession, the vulnerability laid bare between you.

Finally, he exhales softly, the breath escaping him like a gentle wave retreating back into the ocean. “I…I had no idea,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m so sorry you felt you had to carry this alone.” His tone is tender, and you can sense the sincerity woven through his words.

You blink, trying to hold back more tears. The empathy in his voice warms your heart, yet guilt creeps in, gnawing at you for the burdens you've placed on him without sharing. You have kept this hidden for so long, convinced that being strong meant being silent. In his gaze, you see not just the hurt, but an earnest desire to understand.

“I wish you had told me sooner,” Nicholas continues, his expression softening as he brushes a hand through his hair, a nervous habit you’ve come to recognize. “But I understand why it was difficult for you.” There’s a longing in his voice, an ache for connection, and you can’t help but feel a flicker of hope.

“I was scared you would leave,” you admit, the words spilling out. “I thought if I could just pretend, maybe it wouldn't become a problem.” You feel exposed, both terrified and relieved as you unearth the truth. “I didn’t want to disappoint you… or lose you.”

Nicholas reaches across the table, his hand finding yours, warm and grounding. He squeezes gently, breaking through the walls of tension that once surrounded you both. “You could never disappoint me. I love you too much for that,” he assures you, his voice calm and steady, a lighthouse guiding you through the stormy sea. “This is a journey we can take together, however long it needs to be.”

His words ebb the tide of your fears, and you watch as a soft resolve spreads across his features. “You’re not alone, and you don’t have to go through this by yourself,” he continues, his grip tightening reassuringly. “We’ll figure this out, step by step, together.”

Your heart swells, a mix of relief and gratitude washing over you, but doubt still lingers like a shadow at the back of your mind. “But what if I can’t overcome this?” you ask, your voice trembling as uncertainty floods in once more. “What if…I’m really not meant to be a mother?”

Nicholas’s gaze intensifies, a fierce protection enveloping his eyes. “That’s not true,” he says firmly. “You’re not your mother. You’re stronger than that, and I know you can break the cycle.” His voice is a balm, soothing the wounds you've carried for so long. “We can learn. We can seek help if you need it. You could even talk to a therapist with me… whatever you need.”

His willingness to tread into those uncharted waters with you ignites a spark of hope, yet your heart weighs heavy as a sense of fragility looms between you. “You really mean that?” you ask, your voice a whisper, almost fearfully fragile.

“Absolutely,” he nods, his tone reassuringly steady. “The love I have for you isn’t conditional on motherhood or marriage. It's about us, our connection, our partnership. And I’m not going anywhere.” He looks deep into your eyes, his resolve unwavering. “We’ll face whatever comes, together.”

The intensity of his promise warms your chest, pouring light into the dark corners of your fear. Nicholas’s breath mingles with yours as the distance that once felt insurmountable begins to fade with every reassuring word. You feel something shift in your heart, like the first thaw of spring after a long winter.

Overwhelmed with emotion, you lean in closer, until your foreheads almost touch. The warmth of his presence envelopes you, easing the tension that has knotted your heart for days. You take in the tangible sense of togetherness, feeling more at ease than you’ve felt in a long time.

But as you search his eyes, uncertainty lingers still—a flicker of concern reflecting back at you. “You know, even if we decide to have kids one day, it will take time for me to be ready—if I ever truly am. I don’t want you to wait for something that may never happen,” you confess, your heart aching with vulnerability.

Nicholas pauses for a moment, the weight of your words settling between you like a soft blanket. “I’d rather wait for you than rush into a decision that doesn’t feel right,” he responds, his voice filled with patience and understanding. The kindness in his eyes tells you that he truly means it, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, you begin to believe that maybe you could share this journey of self-discovery together.

As the two of you sit in silence, the noise of the outside world fades into the background. In that stillness, you realize that the road ahead may not be easy, but holding onto each other through it offers a kind of comfort you’ve never truly experienced before. Nicholas’s presence feels like home, and with that thought, you draw a breath deep into your lungs.

The chapter ends with Nicholas pulling you into a comforting embrace. Lost in his warmth, the realization washes over you: although fear still lingers, it no longer feels insurmountable. Together, you can navigate the unknown, one step at a time.

The air felt different between you and Nicholas in the days following your heartfelt confession. The emotional storm that had raged in your hearts for what felt like an eternity was finally beginning to calm, but the residue of tension lingered like a faint, stubborn smell—too subtle to pinpoint, yet always there. You could almost see the invisible threads tethering you two together, slowly being rewoven, one earnest conversation at a time.

Nicholas had become a constant presence beside you, both a pillar of support and a gentle nudge urging you to confront your fears. The warmth of his hand on your shoulder, the soft, understanding glances he tossed your way when you faltered, made you feel safer. The distance had shrunk, but trust was a fragile thing, one that required careful nurturing.

It started on a Monday evening. The sun dipped low in the sky, casting a golden hue through the small kitchen window and wrapping you both in a soft glow. You were in the midst of organizing the clutter on the counter—a resurrected pile of bills and unwritten grocery lists that had become a silent witness to your distraction over the past few weeks. Nicholas stood nearby, stirring a pot of simple pasta, the unmistakable aroma of simmering garlic wafting through the air.

“Hey,” he called softly, breaking the silence that had become comfortable in its own right. “What do you think about planning a little getaway this weekend? Just you and me. Somewhere quiet.”

You turned toward him, the rhythm of your thoughts disrupted. “A getaway? Like… a vacation?” The notion stirred a note of excitement within you that had long been dormant. The idea of distancing yourselves from the daily grind—of seeking solace together—sparked a flicker of hope.

Nicholas nodded, his expression earnest. “Someplace where we can talk, be open. I think we both need a little time to breathe, to focus on each other.”

Feeling a rare swell of emotion, you put down the bill you had been sorting through. “You really think it would help?” There was a hint of disbelief in your voice, as if you had almost forgotten the two of you could enjoy simple pleasures together amidst the chaos of your emotions.

“Absolutely. Just you and me. And maybe some nature, fresh air, and absolutely no distractions,” he replied, a knowing smile stretching on his face. “We can figure things out together. No pressure.”

You glanced at the pot of pasta simmering away; the steam rising was almost hypnotic. But between each soft putter of the boiling water, you felt the pull of uncertainty—a reminder of the fears that still loomed, like shadows in the background. “What if we focus so much on talking that we end up pushing each other away again?” The doubt slipped out before you could rein it in.

Nicholas sighed softly, placing the wooden spoon down on the counter. He turned to face you fully, allowing the playful banter to fade into the realm of sincerity that had become your new norm. “It’s part of healing, isn’t it? We can’t avoid the tough conversations forever.”

Looking into his eyes, which sparkled not just with love but also with a determination to work through this together, you could see how deeply this mattered to him. Your insecurities waged war inside you, and still, the thought of turning away from that possibility sent a wave of panic crashing through.

“Okay,” you agreed, your voice steadying with resolve. “Let’s do it. A weekend away sounds perfect.” A tentative smile grazed your lips, igniting a glimmer of excitement. Perhaps this was the step you both needed.

As the week rolled by, the anticipation of your weekend getaway began to thaw the lingering frost in your relationship. Each night, you and Nicholas shared small glimpses of normalcy—watching your favorite shows, cooking together, and sometimes, just sitting side by side in silence, the once-painful quiet now a source of comfort.

The more open your conversations became, the more you began to reflect on what had once driven a wedge between you. You realized how easy it had been to retreat into yourself, a learned reaction rooted in your past disappointments. With Nicholas, though, you found safety in honesty—a revelation that came like a dawn after a long, dark night.

On Friday evening, you guys piled into the car with a playful mix of excitement and nervous energy. The road stretched before you like an unwritten story, your destination a small cabin nestled in the woods, just far enough away from bustling city life for you to truly escape. As you drove, Nicholas took your hand, intertwining your fingers—a simple gesture that sent warmth coursing through you.

“Just you and me,” he repeated, glancing at you with a soft smile that spoke volumes. The trees gradually transformed from a blur to individual silhouettes with each passing mile—stories waiting to be told, mysteries to unravel.

When you finally arrived, the cabin stood sturdily against the backdrop of towering pines and a rapidly darkening sky. It felt like a hidden treasure, a safe harbor from the storms that had threatened to destroy everything you held dear. Stepping inside, the scent of cedar enveloped you, mingled with a crackling fire that flickered warmly in the stone fireplace.

As you settled into the space, the initial thrill of the getaway settled into a tender stillness. You sat on the couch, the warmth of the fire playing along the walls as Nicholas draped an arm around you. “Here’s to new beginnings,” he toasted, raising an imaginary glass. Laughter bubbled from your lips—an echo of familiarity, the joy somewhat striking in its discomfort after the recent storm.

The evening unfurled like a blanket, soft, reassuring. Comforted by the gentle sounds of the wilderness outside, you found the courage to engage in small talk that danced around deeper fears. “I’ve been thinking about therapy,” you admitted quietly as you both watched the flames flicker.

“Really? I think that’s a great idea,” Nicholas said, his voice encouraging as he leaned closer. “And I’d love to go with you. I want to be part of your journey in any way I can.”

His words resonated like a soothing lullaby, and for the first time in ages, you didn’t feel the walls closing in. The conversation turned to lighter topics—memories, holiday plans, and silly dreams. And amid the laughter, you realized that rebuilding trust didn’t just stem from big declarations—it thrived in the everyday moments, the tenderness shared in glances and gestures.

As the night deepened, ultimately it became clear: fear and love could coexist, but it was how you navigated the waters between them that defined your journey. Slowly, you began to understand that while you didn’t have all the answers, the effort to communicate was your most significant step forward.

The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting warm hues of orange and pink across the sprawling beach. Waves lapped softly at the shoreline, their rhythmic cadence soothing the remnants of tension that had once gripped your heart. You walked along the sands, hand in hand with Nicholas, each step feeling lighter than the last. It was a picturesque scene—one that felt vibrant and alive—much like the renewed connection you both shared.

“How perfect is this?” Nicholas broke the silence, glancing at you with a smile that lit up his face. His eyes sparkled with the same warmth as the setting sun, and you couldn’t help but smile back.

“It is,” you replied, letting the gentle breeze ruffle your hair. It was moments like this that reminded you how far you’d come. The ocean stretched endlessly before you, mirroring the vast possibilities of the future laid out ahead.

Nicholas paused, pulling you closer as you walked. His presence felt reassuring, grounding. You had spent countless sleepless nights processing your fears, the weight of your mother’s shadow looming large. Yet here you were, finally facing those insecurities, hand in hand with someone who promised to navigate the unknown by your side.

“Can you believe how much has changed since our fight?” Nicholas asked, his tone hinting at disbelief, yet filled with hope.

You could hardly believe it yourself. The storm that had once threatened to capsize your relationship now felt like a distant memory—something you had survived together, anchored in honesty and understanding.

“What we talked about… it’s not gone, but it doesn’t feel as terrifying anymore,” you confessed. “I think facing it head-on made it easier to breathe.”

Nicholas nodded thoughtfully, his fingers tightening around yours. “I’m just glad we’re both willing to talk about it. Can you imagine how different things would be if we didn’t have that conversation?”

You shuddered at the thought. The idea of burying your fears, of risking silence over honesty, felt suffocating. “I know I was scared to share my feelings before,” you began, looking up at him. “But your reaction…it changed everything for me.”

His eyes softened at your words. “I’m always here for you. It’s just a matter of finding the right way to open up. I wanted to be supportive but didn’t know how. I never want you to feel like your fears make you less deserving of love.”

There was a richness to his voice that filled you with warmth. Nicholas had done more than express his love—he had actively opened the door to healing. Knowing that he was here to buoy you through those moments of despair allowed you to cultivate hope.

With the sun now sinking lower, the sky was ablaze with color—blues and violets mixing with the fading gold of the day. You settled down on a nearby blanket laid out earlier, creating a cozy spot to watch the world’s beauty unfold. Nicholas joined you, wrapping an arm around your shoulder, his presence an anchor in a world that often felt chaotic.

“What if we made it a tradition?” he suggested, gazing out at the water, which glistened in the dimming light like thousands of diamonds scattered across the surface. “Coming here, whenever we need a reset. Just you and me.”

You smiled at the thought, imagining countless sunsets shared together, a space ever filled with laughter and honesty. “I love that idea. It’s like a reminder that we can always come back to each other.”

Nicholas turned to face you, his expression earnest. “And we’ll continue to talk, to share. About everything. There’s no shame in discussing our fears. Sometimes they’ll deepen but others, like with kids… it’s no longer just a ‘what-if’ if we approach it together. It’s just a matter of time.”

The thought made your heart race, fluttering with both excitement and lingering fear. “I want that, but it terrifies me still.”

It’s okay to feel that way,” he assured you, his gaze steady. “What’s important is that we’re growing together. We won’t rush anything—but we both know facing that chapter when we’re ready, together, is what counts.”

That sense of mutual understanding allowed a certain relief to wash over you. Navigating the future felt less like a solitary journey through treacherous waters and more like a gentle drift under the stars, together in a small boat.

“I never thought I would feel this way,” you admitted softly. “About children, about us. That I could come to terms with my past while looking forward to what’s ahead, no matter what it looks like.”

Nicholas smiled, his warmth radiating through you as his thumb gently stroked your arm. “You’re not destined to repeat your mother’s mistakes. You’re stronger than you realize. Whatever route we take, I promise to be alongside you. You’ll never be alone in this.”

The final flush of sunlight dipped below the horizon, the twilight wrapping you both in a cocoon of soft shadows. You leaned your head against Nicholas’s shoulder, comforted by his promise and knowing that trust had been rebuilt through vulnerability.

“Let’s make plans,” you said suddenly, a surge of bravery rising within you. “Not just about kids but about us. Let’s talk about where we see our lives heading—the little things we can do to nurture our love.”

Nicholas’s eyes twinkled with excitement. “Absolutely. Maybe we can start with that cooking class you mentioned or exploring some new trails for hiking?”

“Or finding a place together!” you proposed, a giddy anticipation bubbling inside.

The possibilities felt endless, a blank canvas primed for new experiences. In that moment, everything shifted—the uncertainty you once feared began to fade, replacing it with eagerness and hope.

As you both made tentative plans for the future, a sense of exhilaration enveloped you. You grasped his hand tighter, feeling the warmth of connection both profound and palpable.

You realized, perhaps for the first time, that the future was not just a timeline filled with uncertainties; it was a landscape you would cultivate together, day by day, moment by moment.

Nicholas pulled you closer, wrapping his arms around you as the last traces of daylight disappeared. Together, you stared out into the darkening sea, where the stars began to twinkle overhead. No longer on the precipice of fear, you knew deep within that you would face whatever came—together, always.

In that tranquil embrace, you felt a swell of gratitude wash over you. For love. For trust. For new beginnings. As the waves rolled in softly beneath the starlit sky, you held onto hope tightly and realized:

Your journey was only just beginning.

[felice-jaganshi]

Alastor x OC

His Pet

Chapter 1/?

A/N: hello tumblr! I've never tried posting a story here, so hopefully i get the format right? If not, some one plz message me how to do it better!

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

It was a month till the next extermination, Charlie was having her meeting with heaven this very moment. Alastor was going for a stroll around the Ring, when he heard a muffled sob from the nearby alley. Curiosity caught him for a moment, maybe an easy deal could be made. He wandered down to take a look and found a little sinner with orange fox ears crying to herself. He took a closer look and his eyes went wide with excitement! This wasn't a sinner, her blood was gold, a fallen angel then! Even better.

He slowly approached her, not wanting to startle her further. 

“My my, hello there dear.” He spoke softly as he approached, if he played this right, maybe he could get an angel to make a soul deal!

She gasped and looked up at him, fear filling her big blue eyes. “P-please, don't-” Her voice was cracking and faint. Her dual fox tails wrapped tight around herself and hid most of her body from view behind the fluff.

He softened his smile and bent at the waist to be closer to her face, he kept his voice soft,

“Now now, my dear… I do not intend anything villainous with you. I am a proper gentleman, unlike most of the worthless trash roaming these streets.” He was trying to soothe her, and it seemed to be working, as the more he spoke the more she relaxed. “You appear to be injured my dear. Might I take you somewhere that can care for your injuries?” She looked at him for a moment, staring into his eyes like she was trying to read his soul. He kept his expression soft.

“What's your name?” She asked, her voice was still quiet.

He stood straight and laughed, “haha! I'm Alastor my dear, most know me as the radio demon!” She smiled just the tiniest bit.

“Alastor, the radio demon… I'm Zariah. It's nice to meet a gentleman in hell… where did you want to take me?”

“The Hazbin Hotel! A place for sinners who want to get to heaven.”

She nodded, “okay… I'll go with you.” She tried to stand, only to immediately get scooped into his arms. She squeaked in shock, and looked up at him as she was suddenly in a princess carry. He stepped through the shadows and they were suddenly in the hotel lobby.  She was a bit dizzy from the sudden scenery change

Next thing she knew, she was set down on a couch,

“Here you are my dear. The rest of the residents are out on the town for the day, so it's just you and me. Mind if I see how bad your injuries are? I might be able to help you with them, for a price…” She shook her head.

“I- i just need rest. I haven't slept in two days… I have healing powers, just… too tired to summon it…”

“Healing? Interesting, can you only use it.on yourself?” His eyes had a glow of excitement to them.

“Hm? Oh, no, I can heal others too.” She yawned, exhaustion finally hitting her now that she was somewhere warm.

He chuckled darkly, excited at this opportunity. A healer would be very useful to keep in his back pocket. 

“Oh you poor little angel. Well, I might as well get you set up in a room. Don't worry about the cost for now sweetheart, your first night can be on me.” He smiled softly, “would you like to walk there yourself, or shall I carry you again?”

She blushed a little. “I… think I can walk.” She got onto her feet with some effort and slowly walked towards the stairs. He had a view of her back. Her shirt was ripped up and bloodied. There were deep gashes where her wings used to be, and several other smaller marks surrounding them. It painted quite the story, her struggling to get away and making them miss several times before they got it right. Yet she was still walking. He couldn't help wonder what her blood would taste like. The angel head he sampled at the overlord meeting was quite nice. Ah, too bad he couldn't snack on her wings. They'd surely have been wonderful barbecue’d. 

He then made his way in front of her and led her to a room near Angel Dust's, deciding to put some distance between her and himself till he knew if she was a spy or not. She went to the bed and flopped on her stomach immediately with a groan of pain.

“Thank fuck, a bed.” She then turned her head toward the door, “thanks. Imma sleep now… you're really nice, Alastor.” 

“Ah, before you do, may I ask one question of you?”

“Mh, yeah?”

“Who did this to you?” He put on his most sympathetic voice.

“Adam… did this… my only sin was stupidity. I didn't deserve this…” she turned her head and sobbed into her pillow.

Alastor sighed pleasantly, enjoying the view of another's suffering. 

“Oh my, the sin of stupidity? You have my curiosity dear. Would you like me to lend you an ear and get this whole mess out in the open?” He approached the bed and summoned a chair to sit in, resting a hand on his chin and looking at her fondly.

She took a moment to calm herself enough to speak. 

“Th-the exterminations. No one in heaven knows about them but the exorcists. We were told they went to earth to save the living, not that they kill humans in hell!” She sounded horrified by the news. “Wrong place, wrong time… I heard Adam talking about it. I was given two options, become an exorcist or get kicked into hell. I'm not a fighter! I'm a healer! I couldn't bear the thought of killing, even if it's sinners… that's just cruel.”

Alastor rolled his eyes, a real bleeding heart she was. “I see. So heaven doesn't know the atrocities they're committing?”

“Of course not! Most everyone has family in hell! None of us would approve of our own kin being slaughtered!” She snapped her head up to try to glare with her puffy eyes. “If I get the chance, I'm gonna punch Adam in his stupid dick he's so proud of!” 

Alastor's eye twitched,

“My dear, a proper lady shouldn't swear so much…”

She sighed, “I don't normally, I just… this is a special situation.”

He hummed, not buying it. 

“Well, I think I should let you rest for now. Let me know if you need anything at all.” He motioned with his cane to the bedside table and made a radio appear. He then left her room, shutting the door. He had some new things to think about…

[truelahey]

The Lost Potter extra scene: The Middle of the Night

Originally posted on AO3

Read The Lost Potter on AO3

Albus isn't the only one waking up in the middle of the night to bad dreams. Turns out it may run in the family.

This one-shot is part of a series of one shots taking place in "The Lost Potter" verse. You will have to read the original fic to understand these.

This one references Scorpius and Albus' feelings for Scorpius in the background but focuses on Albus and Harry. It takes place in the two week time period between chapters 15 and 16.

_____

It was still dark out when Albus jolted awake in the bed.

He pushed himself up to a sitting position, letting his blankets fall into his lap. He quickly looked around the room, his half-covered window letting in enough light for him to see the end of his bed, a wooden dresser against one wall, a desk in the corner, his Slytherin and Holyhead Harpies wall decorations, and a small stack of books on his nightstand. While everything was in shadow, everything was indeed still in place.

Albus was in his room, in his house, with his family. And Delphi wasn't here coming after him again, despite how real his nightmare had been just a moment ago.

She was an image that would never go away. While her blue hair and black cloak were strikingly familiar, it was her wicked grin and sneer that Albus hadn't been able to banish from his brain for the last week. In his dream he had been running through the halls of Hogwarts, his legs feeling like lead and making him struggle to get away from the witch chasing him. He had finally made it outside the school, where he tripped and fell into the mud and Delphi caught up to him. She pinned him down and held her wand right at his face.

"You have lost...everything!" Delphi hissed. Her wand lit up.

That's when Albus woke up. And even now, a few minutes later, he was still breathing heavily and his hands were shaking.

Albus got himself out of bed and crossed to the window, pushing the half-opened curtain fully aside. The street below was silent and completely empty. From the row houses across the way, to the street lamps illuminating the road, and the couple muggle cars parked along the street, everything was still.

Not a single person in sight. No one watching the house, or trying to come in through his window.

Albus shook his head and went back to bed. He was being ridiculous. Of course no one else was coming after him. Delphi was locked away and Albus was safe now. He was back with his family. He was supposed to be fine now. But that didn't stop the images still appearing in his brain every time he closed his eyes. He tossed and turned for several minutes, sleep alluding him more and more as time ticked by.

Finally, Albus tossed his blankets aside and got up again. Maybe he just needed some water or something.

Apparently, this house was one his dad had inherited from his godfather. Harry had mentioned the name once before, but he'd said it so fast Albus missed it, and was too afraid to ask again. Grim-something Place. Albus could tell the place was very old, despite all the fixing they'd done in the last twelve years. The rooms had fresh paint or wallpaper, and newer furniture. Yet the wood of the stair railings was still very worn, and a floorboard or two would still squeak. Still, Albus had very little reference, so he was happy with the home all the same.

He'd just finished filling a glass of water when footsteps just outside the kitchen door made Albus jump.

It was Harry, standing in the doorway in his pajamas, his hair a mess, and sleep heavy in his eyes.

"Albus? You alright?"

Albus tried to respond, but only a couple stuttering noises came out at first. There certainly was a lot of that this week. Albus just didn't know how to talk to Harry and Ginny. His parents, as he had to remind himself several times a day. He knew them, he knew they were his family, yet he didn't know them at all. Average interactions were completely lost on him. It's not like he had much practice growing up either. Anyone who was remotely nice to him always stayed on the fringe, just out of his reach of someone he could consider "close." Now he's thrust into a home and a family in a matter of a day. This was completely uncharted territory.

"Um...sorry… I was just getting water.”

”It’s alright,” Harry said, stepping into the kitchen. “It’s your home, you can do what you’d like.”

Albus nodded awkwardly.

Harry cocked his head. “Are you okay, Albus?”

“Uh…” Albus ran a hand through his hair. Certain words were on the tip of his tongue, itching to come out. But Albus tamped them down. Habit. “I’m fine. I should go back to bed.” He quickly brushed past his dad, averting his eyes.

Albus had just made it to the door when Harry spoke up again from behind him. “I get bad dreams too.”

Albus stopped, turning just so to catch his father’s eyes. There was something in Harry’s expression, something very unsure. It certainly matched how Albus was feeling now too.

“How did you…?”

”Call it a hunch,” Harry said.

Albus didn’t know what to do besides stand there silently. His thoughts and emotions had always been his own, always behind the wall keeping him from connecting to anyone else. No one had ever noticed him this way. Except for Scorpius.

”I’ve been through some scary things myself, son,” Harry said. “Things that still get me. Especially at night.”

Albus had always pictured Harry Potter as this hero, someone confident and so sure of himself after saving the wizarding world. Yet Albus had started to see a different side of Harry at home. His dad was the one who cooked most of the meals, who kept a messy desk, who was a little more quiet than Albus expected.

"They feel real, don't they? The dreams..." Harry's eyes drifted off for a moment, like a memory was starting to consume him. But he shook it off a moment later. "Well, you're not alone, Albus."

Albus' eyes began to sting. "Does it ever get better?"

Harry stepped toward Albus, putting a hand on his shoulder. The move was much less tentative than it had been a few days ago. "Yes, it does. I promise you."

The sting in his eye turned into a tear, which Albus tried to quickly wipe away. "It's stupid...It was just a couple hours that she had me..."

"What you went through that night was traumatic. Of course it's not stupid."

His father had come in and pushed his way past this wall, finally noticing him. Albus wiped his eye again.

"Having people around can help. Your mum helps me. She usually wakes up when I get nightmares," Harry continued. "And we're here for you, too. And James and Lily."

"Scorpius...he helps me too..." Albus stammered.

"He seems like a good kid." Harry patted his shoulder. "Come on."

Albus followed Harry to the living room. Albus laid down on on one couch while Harry did on another and simultaneously turned on the television.

"We're watching TV?" Albus asked.

"The noise helps me sleep," Harry said. "Want to try for yourself?"

While the television played some muggle procedural show, father and son chatted every few minutes about nothing in particular. But soon enough Albus was able to relax, his mind distracted away from the frightening images that were there before. And eventually he was able to drift off to sleep again, and Harry did the same too.

(A/N: the quote from Delphi in the beginning is a reference to the musical Nerdy Prudes Mus Die.)

[townsenddecades]

1316 – Day 1 – Praaven Castle

Lord and Lady Petersmarch have lost another son.

News of another pregnancy had been a blessing to the young countess, who had still been struggling with the loss of her second son. And the pregnancy had been going well. Only when she had given birth, and the longed-for cry hadn’t come, had she realized that something was wrong.

The loss of her third child hits her hard, and even after her confinement ends, she hardly leaves her chambers, doesn’t even seem to rise from her bed. A hush descends over the castle, and once again, each of them seeks their own diversions, except for Lady Katheryn, who stays with her cousin most of the time.

It is better that way, Robert supposes. Lady Katheryn had made good on her idea for them to paint together, although she hadn’t yet elected to sit as his model, as he had so carelessly proposed. It hasn’t taken long for her to find out about his parentage, but the fact that he is a bastard – and not even a naturalized one – doesn’t seem to deter her efforts to seek his companionship.

He is reading a book in an out-of-the-way corridor when she approaches him.

“Squire Robert! Well-met.”

He tries to rise immediately, but she waves him off, and, to his great astonishment, sits down next to him. She does it gracefully and with the daintiness expected of a woman of her station, but he is still rather sure that an Earl’s daughter shouldn’t be sitting this close to a mere bastard squire in a shadowed corridor.

“My lady, I’m not sure this is appropriate”, he complains, but she just laughs.

“It’s not, but I don’t believe anyone will catch us here. And I need a diversion.”

“Is everything all right with the countess?”

“I believe it will take my cousin quite a while to be ‘all right’ again, but she’ll recover, I think. But you, Sir, are a bad diversion. Talking about my cousin is exactly what I didn’t want to do.”

He can’t help but smile. “I apologize, my lady. What do you want to talk about?”

“Well, we could start by you telling me what book you have been reading.”

And so he does, and although he knows he shouldn’t enjoy sitting this close to her, he can’t help the way his heart is beating faster. Since her arrival, she had sought him out repeatedly, and he has had much opportunity to admire how charming and witty and well-spoken she is. She is far more salacious and forward than a well-bred lady ought to be, but he would have to lie to claim that this isn’t one of the things about Lady Katheryn Deane that draws him in.

She is also still the prettiest girl he has ever seen.

He hardly even notices them inching closer to each other, until his arm slides around her shoulders and he is leaning over to kiss her. He knows it’s wrong, he knows he should draw back, but because she is enthusiastically kissing him back, he can’t bring himself to.

And then, after far too long a time spent kissing the cousin of his lady, he realizes what they are doing, and jumps out of his seat, leaving behind a blinking Katheryn. For once, she seems to need to get her bearings before speaking again, a reprieve he uses to back up even further.

“I’m so sorry, my lady. I shouldn’t have let my judgement lapse so.”

She rises as well. “You have no need to apologize, Robert. I rather enjoyed your lapse of judgement.”

“It was ill-advised”, he insists. “If someone had spotted us, it could have compromised your honour.”

“My honour is my concern, not yours”, she says with a faint smile, stepping closer. “And no one has spotted us, so it is quite intact. In fact, if chivalry is your only argument against it, I was rather thinking we could repeat that performance.”

He shakes his head. How can a woman that has been raised to be the great lady of some domain someday be so brazen, so careless? It thrills him, and draws him in, but he keeps steadfastly to what he has been taught. “Sir Silas would have my hide if he found out, not to mention the Earl”, he says. “Your father would never consider a knight, let alone a bastard squire, a suitable husband for you.”

“I wasn’t talking so far as marriage, Robert”, she says gently, taking his hand. “Just a bit of fun. Nothing that will seriously taint either of our honours. I like you, and spending time with you, and, well…kissing you.” She smiles faintly. “Don’t tell me you don’t feel the same.”

He wants to tell her so many things. How seeing her has quickly become the best part of his day, how he’d like to ride as her champion in tourneys, how much he admires her learnedness, so unusual for a woman, and her grace and her eye for beauty.

And she’s right. What can a few walks through the castle or even a few stolen kisses hurt?

“Yes”, he answers, after a moment, and is rewarded by a bright smile and another kiss.

Prev: 1316, Day 1, Part 1/3 <--> Next: 1316, Day 1, Part 3/3

[rrpochi]

I was the only child of a loving family, my world painted with the vibrant hues of joy and laughter. My parents, Papa Rolando and Mama Cherille, were the pillars of my universe

In those carefree days of my childhood, my family spent weekends going to the nearby markets, going on picnics, and creating cherished memories. My father, was a gentle soul with a warm smile that could dissolve any worry. He would often lift me onto his shoulders, my laughter echoing through the air as we played games outside.

However, fate has a way of weaving unexpected twists into the fabric of our lives. One fateful day, tragedy struck in our family when my father met with a sudden and untimely demise. The once lively household now echoed with the haunting silence of grief.

My world crumbled. The warmth of my father's embrace was replaced by the cold reality of loss. My mother, now a widow, struggled to navigate the emotional turbulence, trying to hold onto the fragments of normalcy for me. The house that was once filled with laughter became a solemn echo of what it used to be.

Days turned into weeks, and I found myself grappling with the void left by my father's absence. The familiar routines became unfamiliar, and the once comforting hugs from my mother carried the weight of shared sorrow. The once vibrant colors in our life now seemed muted, as grief cast a shadow over my innocence.

Then one day, my mother started to change, she became an alcoholic. She then started to beat me when she was drunk. I would cry every night, asking what I did wrong. Why did she change? Doesn't she love me anymore? Where did my loving mother go? I would cry every night, wishing my father was by my side.

Years pass. I was 11 years old at the time when my mother met someone. My mother gives birth to my stepbrother, and my mother became more alcoholic when she met him. She still always beats me when she's drunk, she always makes me babysit my stepbrother, sometimes I would be absent because my mother and her new boyfriend were drinking, leaving my stepbrother alone. I always envy my neighbors because they can play outside without babysitting their siblings.

Then another year passes, my mother gives birth to my second stepbrother, and I have two siblings to babysit now. It's so tiring, isn't it?. I'm just a kid too, why can't I enjoy my life? Why can't I play outside like other kids do? I need my father, why did God take him away from me?

I would always harm myself every night, believing that the pain would go away someday.

Then one day, my mother decided to go abroad to find a job. I was happy that time. "My mother can't hurt me any more!" My inner self said that, but why did I feel sad? My heart and mind are fighting.

"No one will ever hurt you, silly," my mind said.

"But she is still my mother; of course I will miss her," my heart responded.

But I can't do anything if my mother really wants that. "Bahala na si batman," I said to myself.

My mother then let my grandma and her siblings stay in our house before she left. I was so happy at that time because "the more, the happier," they said, but for how long?

Suddenly COVID-19 happened. My mother couldn't provide us food any more because she couldn't work anymore. Who will feed us now? My stepfather can no longer work because of COVID, and my grandma and my uncles have lost their jobs. Then my mother decided to let us go to Leyte because my grandma's sister has a basakan there, but my stepfather and my siblings didn't come with us. I was sad because my siblings couldn't come with us.

The first 3 months in Leyte were nice. I was having a lot of fun feeding our goats, cows, chickens, and buffalos in there, but who would have thought that what I thought was fun turned out to be my nightmare? My mom's brother did something bad to me. I thought I could count on him, but why did he do that? We are family, right? Why did he do that? Even now, I still don't know the answer to those questions. After he did that, I told my mom right away, so she immediately sent me money so I could go here in Cebu. I thought my mother believed me, but when I got home, she scolded me.

"Pataka lang kag istorya about sa akoang igsoon ha! Pwede raman unta nga mo sulti ka nga gi laay naka didto sa leyte bantog ganahan naka mo uli sa cebu, nganong mag buhat buhat paman kag story para lang madaot akong igsoon!" I still remember what mom told me that night. I thought that she would comfort me. I just thought that.

I wish dad was here.

until now, I still carry the trauma I suffered there in Leyte. I can't sleep well either. I just pray for everything. I hope, One day, I will forget what I went through. I hope God will give me strength, and I hope that wherever my father is now, he is happy.

[dulluhan-iralun]

Pathetic, in all honesty.

"Shut up."

So, you admit it? You've fallen to such a new low.

Alcina grumbled, covering her bloodied face with crimson painted hands. Her head hurt, it panged painfully as she sighed.

"What is it? This new low you speak of?"

Chasing this blubbering blonde domonculus like you've no other choice--

"--I won't be talking about her." She huffed, eyeing the shadow her form cast upon the wall. "She isn't what you're referring to. You simply like being cruel--"

--and I'm so good at it, aren't I?

Alcina laid in the pile of gore that had accumulated in her loss of consciousness. She eyed the lifeless corpses that formed some deformed nest she now rested in.

"...we're disgusting."

For once, her voice garnered no reply.

"You know, at times I find myself entirely too envious of them. The Swarm. The collective slew of minds all meshed together in that semblance of familiarity."

Why?

"It is far better to have someone, don't you think?"

The voice hummed.

We aren't like them, Countess.

Alcina shut her eyes and swallowed weakly.

"Would it be so bad? To simply be?"

Your mind is tired. You're spiraling, woman. Sleep.

"If I sleep, we'll kill again."

Better the devil you know, isn't it?

Alcina looked at her reflection in her bedside mirror; a monster.

A creature only Satan himself would think to create.

A demon of brimstone and ash, made to destroy.

An undesirable thing.

We were never meant for heaven's light, Alcina. Sleep.

So, she did.

(alcina and the beast are one in the same. it doesnt mean they agree.)

Anon, when I say that I gasped...

I love this, and I know Raffi loves it too! You get the characters, and that's... I mean we are thrilled that people love the smuttier aspects of the story, but when someone's poking at the gritty horror underneath it all too... That makes an author's day. The dichotomy not just between Alcina and the Dragon, but Alcina and her Cadou - which is an extension of the Black God's power and presence willingly taken in to save her life.

They all go through these moments where the woman that was might... struggle with the ethics of not just surviving, but thriving... as the disicples and near-demigods that the Cult has reforged them into.

Not that I think any of them were what we'd consider "good, moral" stock before the transformation but there's still parts of their humanity that have to be horrified when the curtain's pulled back, just for that second or two.

Ugh. I love this. Thank you. Thank you, thank you.

[starwrittenfates]

𝐁𝐚𝐞𝐥𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞'𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐞𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫…(as a Teenager)

"Just a lost little girl, who didn't matter, and didn't think she ever would. A little girl, who cried herself to sleep at night 'cause… she wanted her parents so bad."

After ending up in "the Land Without Magic" without her father, Baelfire wanders the streets of the 1900s of London, trying to manage how she can. She's cold, hungry, miserable, and missing her father. However, when she is caught stealing from the Darling Family by their daughter, Wendy, she ends up getting adopted by them.

While Baelfire is glad to have found a family (or at least a sense of what it should be), it still doesn't change the fact she deeply misses her Papa. This is a rough time for Bae. She is a mix of anger, betrayal and pain, feeling abanonded by her father, but she tries to push through it and not give into it. She forces a smile on her face whenever Wendy or her family ask her about her life before them.

However, Wendy and her brothers can sometimes hear Bae crying in her sleep, calling out for her father. Sometimes Bae can even be caught wishing her mother were here instead, hoping things could be different. ---at this point she still doesn't know the truth behind her mother's death yet.

Baelfire finds she enjoys reading, gardening, and walking to the market with the family. She has come to think of Wendy as a sister with John and Michael as her brothers. However, despite all the love and kindness the Darling parents have offered her, Bae struggles to think of them as her parents. She can't even call them mother or father because she feels if she does, then she entirely forgets her own and she's not ready for that...yet.

When the Shadow ends up taking Wendy away, Bae is overcome with worry, afraid to see magic (or at least some type of it) back in her life again. She will do anything to protect her new family and not lose it again...even if this means she must be brave and give herself in return for their safety, being parted from them too.

With this, the Shadow takes Bae to Neverland. And from here, Bae is rescued by someone called Captain Hook. Immediately, he comments on how she shares a similar appearance with someone he once knew (her mother.) Once he finds out she is Milah and Rumple's, things change as he tries to protect her from the Lost Ones. The two bond over their experience over being abanonded by their fathers.

Bae thinks that maybe she can start life over as a pirate, traveling the seas with Hook, but is afraid that if she connects with someone again she may lose them. When coming across the drawing of her mother, Milah, one day, and that Hook knew her, things change again.

When Hook admits about her mother wanting to run away with him, but also her, so the three of them can be become a family, Bae isn't sure what to think. At first she thinks about giving into accepting Hook being her father, but when he brings up the fact that Rumple was the one to kill her mother, she can't accept this fact. She starts feeling as if her mother, her father, and Killan are all lying to her and deceiving her and it only hurts her more. All she wants is to return back to her life with the Darling family who only ever treated her right, but that isn't possible to do.

When Hook turns Bae over to the Lost Ones, they compare her to the painting of a young boy, realizing she is not the one they are looking for. She ends up living in Neverland as the only Lost Girl, trying to find a way to escape.

However, little does she (or Peter Pan know)...it's not a boy they are looking for, but a girl.

(to be continued in Part 2 with her life as an Adult)

[recaffeine]

4/28/2023

It was there where I found a decrepit shadow leeching on my wound. There laid a soul that had been rejected far too many times. Often they was abandoned without a single word. I knew each time they took the rejection personally. "What was wrong with them," they thought. All they ever wanted was a civil explanation, right? Wrong. It was never going to ever be enough for them. Rejection scathed them like boiling water and their kind demeanor was merely a mask.

There was no one ever to tell them of their own controlling tendencies. No one ever told taught them how to recognize the hurt in someone's eyes. No one taught them how to feel the discomfort that washed away someone's voice. They didn't know how to understand the soul of others. How could they, when they couldn't even understand themselves?

There I saw the shadow retreat behind phone lines and small phones. I knew of the fear that consumed her. Yet even when she was given a fuzzy blanket, she would throw it away and demand another. Projecting her fears, she needed to be right. She needed to believe she was always the bigger person, for no one ever was able to look her in the eye and tell her that she acts with cruelty. Her compassion for others no longer existed. Her cup was empty for years. Over such years she had transformed into a being warped by her circumstances.

She continues to claw and scratch. She continues to bite and tear. She would attack even the smallest of children if provoked enough. All in the name of healing and self-love; weapons that mask her self righteousness and her malicious actions. They are mere reactions to her perceived attacks. She criticized me over my behavior when I knew that this behavior is she herself still embodies. She is annoyed of me? I know she really just hates herself because she sees her flaws through the past me.

I wanted more than anything to singe her leech-like actions with a flame. I wanted more than anything to pierce this heartless beast. I chose to distance from her for good reason.

Even then, I chose to give her a hug and a second chance. I opened to her that we were on our last leg and she still tripped it nevertheless. I have to realize that she isn't a monster, a leech or a beast. I grew up with her. I know that she grew up feeling unwanted. I know she grew up battling herself everyday. I know she grew up believing she was a mess. I still see the tired eyes that she has. I still feel her heart struggling everyday just to fake a smile and contentness.

Yet I can't hurt for her anymore. I can't allow my empathy to reach her anymore. I was so busy trying to not be angry for months that I never allowed the anger to heal me. Anger is healthy emotion to remind someone to never let someone treat them that way again. I want to fully embrace the anger this time.

It's just because In another world, I could have walked down that same path. We were the same but I was able to find love within myself. I was fortunate to lead a tribe of my own. I was able to give love and also receive it ten fold back. I was able to find love that stays with me despite my imperfections. I am a lucky one and I know that to be true. Yet luck is where opportunity meets effort. I worked tirelessly to heal. I sheathed my sword in the eyes of the beast. I chose not to react with anger.

For If I were starved like them. If I were still so wounded like them, I would have done the same. I would have ripped the hearts of others. I would backstab someone in the name of protecting them. I would use self protection too. I would create a narrative where they merely can't accept criticism. I would paint them a bad person that lost friends for a reason too. I would let the jealousy and envy poison my bloodstream.

To you, even though I cannot welcome you back to my home. I send a silent wish that you will be okay one day. As you bark through your self-made cage, I have to stand behind my boundaries. I have created a white picket fence for I must not let generational trauma fester around me.

[rapunzeljfk]

every. single. year. every single year the most gorgeous lights filled the sky like a beautiful painting. and it happened on her birthday! how lucky was she? and tomorrow, it was happening again. but hopefully, she'd be able to see them up close and personal. because tomorrow, she'd be twenty one and surely that was old enough to venture out on her own, right? sure, she tried on her eighteenth, nineteenth, twentieth, but twenty first was the magic birthday she could feel it.

and like the past few birthdays, all she got was yelled at for daring to even ask. the outside world was full of bad people. people that would hurt her for her hair. she was safest here. just like she always had been. a stupid, gullible girl who was too helpless to ever defend herself. how dare rapunzel be mad at her mother who just wanted to protect her only child? another year, another year of crying on her birthday. she just wanted out. and maybe someone, anyone, that understood her. so she didn't have to feel so lonely. but who was she kidding? the girl definitely wasn't normal and she'd never experience the things she read about. it's okay, punzie. it always is.

the blonde doesn't even hesitate when she sees the figure, immediately wacking it with her frying pan. she then runs to hide, heart racing before getting back the courage to approach the.., creature? again. what was this? she uses the the pan to check on the body on her floor, his teeth, his hair, well he didn't look like a monst— his eyes flutter open and she jumps again, back to knocking him out. shit. okay, it's fine, just put him in the closet, god, how much does this guy weigh? ugh. after many attempts of trying to throw him in her closet, she uses her hair to secure the door. and her mother thinks she's helpless. psh, she has a person in her closet! that counts for something, right? her gaze then moving towards a shiny object from his bag. she picks up the stunning object, lost to what's it use is before she puts it on her head. hm, not for her, the chameleon agrees as she hears her mother outside the tower. hide it, hide it.

the dark haired woman makes up her way with a basket in her hand. hazelnut soup for dinner. her favorite. "mother about earlier, i was thinking —" "we're still not talking about those stars, are we?" "lights, mother, and i know you don't think i can defend myself —" "oh, i know you can't defend yourself," it's the snark. it's always the snark. " but if you just trust me —," the blonde moves closer to the closet, hand close to opening it. "rapunzel, we're done talking about this," "mother, i can —", "enough. you are never leaving this tower. ever!" there's a boom of her voice that causes her to jump. rapunzel abandons the closet, another idea quickly forming. "great, i'm the bad guy now. "no, i was just gonna say i know what i want for my birthday now." treading lightly. that's all she can do. "which is?" "new paint. from the white shells you once brought me?" "well, that is a very long trip, rapunzel, nearly three days," "no, i know, but i thought it'd be a better idea than the... stars..." got her.

now for the next part of her plan. using her hair to tie the stranger up to a chair, she waited in the shadows. then she heard the struggling. "s-struggling is pointless, you know." the blonde emerged, steadying her voice. no fear. "i know why you're here and i'm not afraid of you. who are you and how did you find me?" the ever so trusty pan in her hand that says go for round three? "who. are you. and. how. did. you. find. me?""

reeeeer, beep beep. the syncable inevitable warning that was accompanied by flurries of blurs of red and blue neon lights flashing beckoned off of flynn’s ears like a boomerang, through one eardrum and exiting the other. ignoring his friend’s plea to stop, drop, and roll out of the already in-too-deep situation of a car chase that the reckless pair had found themselves in. as far as the brunette knew, his numb soles of tis feet were carrying him out of the country and into safety. whenever that ended up being. so to avoid a vicious meeting with the police following behind them even more intense, his sidekick made most of the incognito of the plan in itself. “just go left, throw ‘em off,” he commanded, fiddling with the baggage slung along his neck as it tossed to and fro from side to side while he journeyed.

stuffing a faux suede tan satchel with the important item that was an embroidered, jewel encrusted crown out of the royal palace was an easier feat than he had first anticipated. a simple distraction was all he needed to suffice enough time to break into the steel glass encapsulated dome and scurry away like a scared animal offset by its predator. flynn’s mocha hues quickly shot a glance behind him, the crisp blue and red lights flickering in sync with the cadenced sirens that followed in. it’d taken them this long to cover up their tracks while on the run, the pair’s fate was already decided for them. “let’s go over here,” the fugitive instructed, ushering to the hidden patch of nearly unscathed grass of what looked to be desolate isolation, with miles upon miles of open field in close sight. securely wrapping the bag around his shoulder, he followed the road of green in front of him before flailing behind a sturdy bolder, while his friend was in suit. up until now, flynn hadn’t truly realized his lungs were lacking the oxygen needed to circulate his body, the blisters that pulsed at the arch of his feet beginning to roar with a stinging pain that he simply had to ignore. “we’re gonna have to split up,” flynn interjected in slight defeat. “if i can hide fast enough and keep them off our scent and they don’t see me, you have to keep going. call me when you make it out and i’ll meet you when this is all over,” he had this all planned out from the start. of course, he didn’t realize just how difficult it was to find a decently soft pillow of grass for him to land. his friend was disgruntled with the plan, but agreed. a curt nod later and the blonde was bounding abc toward the entrance of the field, the whirring of the alarm police now a distant echo, miles away.

army crawling as fast and as efficient as he could, the wanted rebel slithered as far as he could go until he saw a skyscraper of a tower that intimidated him to a blip on the scale of the earth. the twisted mansion looked ornately founded, with weeds and bricks covering a vital vein of his plan of entrance. His muddy eyes slowly drew themselves to the strongest forst vine as he bevied his way up the yards of stone and gravel. each focused step was arched by his ratty brown loafers, as he quietly made contact around the perimeter until he saw a convenient tree located next to an agape window. thanking the fact that he had grown up climbing the rungs of trees as his own hobby in his adolescent years, it didn’t take the thief long to find a dull bright light at the end of the formidable tunnel — safe haven. around the window was a boa of thin, wispy curtains waving its length through the gusts of wind much like a flag cutting through the flow of the atmosphere.

once he made it into the open air of the seemingly vacant bedroom, he assumed no one would claim him an intruder from his own limited eye sight. inhaling one last deep breath, flynn’s irises observed the room’s surroundings, walls covered in a thick, pastel pink paint as he dipped his toes into the soft fur of the carpet beneath. “thank god. it’s just you and me,” emitted from a once tightly wound chest from the adrenaline of finding safety. for the first time in what felt like hours, a relieved sigh vacated opened lungs. clunk! it was within that very next millisecond that flynn’s vision faded to black, a haze of falling onto the floor with a simultaneous whack that bounced off the room’s walls as the boy’s limp body collapsed onto the floor.

[charnelhouse]

👀 but would you write rick x reader x harley? Bc that’s a thing I didn’t know I needed until now

A/N: Rick Flag x F!Reader x Harley Quinn. Threesome FFM. Oral. Creampie. Angst. Trauma.

Harley used to think that the happiest moment in her life was the moment she felt Mr. J’s arms around her at Ace Chemicals. The liquid had stung - felt like sparks snipping across her skin like tiny snake fangs. Snip. Snap. Crack.

She drifted and drifted as she sunk into that warmth. An acid womb that drank up all her clothes and turned her hair to snow.

Then she had felt those hard hands - long fingers - tight around her waist and his kiss had bruised her. Sour. Brash. Metal. Then that - laugh.

He’d come back for her. He wanted her. He loved her.

He saved her.

Would you live for me?

Yes. Yes. Yes.

But then it had hurt and she couldn’t fucking see up from down and those fingers felt like noxious sludge nudging the soft meat of her brain.

Do not pass go. Do not collect $300.

Ms. Red’n’White in the copter with the gun.

Harley lost all her sense. She could no longer fit her shape - the whole of her unable to be pressed back into that familiar mold. Only pieces of herself could remain - could be thrust into the furthest corner as Puddin took the rest.

But she had steadily found herself despite J. He’d left her and it had shattered her bones, but the pain had dulled with each new morning - each melty breakfast sandwich - and that was just fine.

She has lots of happy days now. She has friends. She has you and she has Flag.

***

Her vision aches - swirls like a hurricane or one of those cyclone roller coaster rides and she smells cotton candy and popcorn too many hours a day. She wonders if it’s the shadow of the chemicals she swan-dived into - wonders if it has scarred her spirit and her veins and if she even cares?

You keep her steady though - sitting cross-legged on her bed as you play board games or talk about knives or how stupid freakin’ hot Superman is and how much hotter he’d be if he wasn’t such a wet blanket.

“Like watchin paint dry,” Harley observes - tapping her chin as the television screams about Supes’s latest victory. “At least, Batsy has that angst.”

“Yeah,” You pick at your black nail polish. “It’s all about the trauma.”

You’re only half-kidding. Maybe.

Harley trusts you and she doesn’t remember the last time she trusted anyone. A year ago, she couldn’t recall joy or how warm hands on her cheek could feel as good as lubed fingers stretching her just right.

“Of course - we chose the nicest one,” you remark - slightly amused and mostly incredulous. “Rick is like...good.”

Harley chews her lips. Her whole apartment reeks of Chinese food and paint after she’d decided that she hated the burnt walls and the water stains. Bright tangerine. Now - she wakes up seeing juice.

“He is good,” she agrees. “He’s like a prom king wrapped in camo.”

“Great bod.”

“Freakin stupid handsome,” she adds. “Stamina up the wazoo.”

“I miss him.”

“Same.”

“Probably shouldn’t tell him.”

“Might get cocky.”

***

Harley’s climaxes are violent. They had been violent when she’d been with J and they were still violent. The ripple of her lower muscles twisting and sparking as she rode a cock or your face. The deliberate way she dug her own nails into her pale thighs as she felt herself crack open and go to liquid.

Except now there’s relative safety after the fall. Rick will shove his tongue into her cunt with his giant hands palming her ass - pulling the hood taut and suckling at her clit like some feral fucking wolf. Big Bad Wolfie kind of thing, but Rick stays after she explodes on him. He secures his arms around her and curls her hair behind her ears and tells her fuck you taste like candy.

It makes heat blossom in her chest - her gut clench.

You’re built from the same cloth as her - same anxiety burning under your skin as you struggle to accept good things. But you’re kind to her during sex, which is so fucking weird. You part her knees and hover over her, your thumb dragging across her jaw as you kiss her breathless. She touches your pussy - feels that hot slick and when she puts it to her lips - it’s all tart and like she’s feeding on your fucking heart.

“Harl,” you whimper as you rock down onto her hand. “Shit - right there.”

“C’mon, sweetums,” she grins - enjoying the pulse of your walls - fluttering like butterfly wings and she thinks you’re just as pretty as a bug - colorful bright burst of shades within her drab life and against the golden, silky canvas of Flag.

***

She likes to watch you and Flag fuck. It’s like one of her favorite fucking things in the world next to American Cheese and Hot Pockets.

There’s Rick bearing his tremendous weight above you. His broad shoulders rippling with undulating tasty muscles as he takes you in brutal - powerful strokes. She especially enjoys the sweat practically pooling in his lower back as he exerts himself with his crazy soldier-strength.

Only you can handle him. Only Harley.

“Tilt your hips up, sweetheart,” he croons - gripping your chin. “Aw - fuck - yeah just like that-that’s my girl.”

Harley lies down right next to you - fingertips swirling around her clit as she turns her head to watch more of the show.

“Grab the headboard, baby,” he orders as he slaps your ass - hooking your knee up over his waist. He bends his head and sinks his tongue into your mouth and Harley copies the motion - pushing her fingers inside the gasping ache of her cunt.

Flag glances at her - his eyes dark and hard and furiously hungry - but never terrifying. They’re never slitted in madness like J’s or threatening in a way that meant actual damage to her person.

Rick - Ricky - is the kind of guy who would shake your daddy’s hand and then finger you under the dinner table.

Okay - maybe not - but she certainly dreams up the image for her lonelier nights.

He eases his cock out - that thick gorgeous soaked anaconda between his legs - before he plunges right back into your pussy. It makes you squeak - makes your fingers nearly break the wood of Harley’s headboard.

The bedsprings are creaking and there’s the pornographic wet sounds of him pounding aggressively into you. Each snap of his hips drives you up the bed and you try and match it - pelvis bucking up against him - tilted to swallow his full length.

Drive straight to the hilt - hit the furthest part of her. C’mon. Fuck.

“Make her cum, Harl,” Flag mutters as he plants his knees and picks up the pace like a fucking psycho sex maniac - like he’s fucking superman and maybe he is - at least to her and at least to you.

She salutes him. “On it, Colonel.”

It makes his hips stutter - lips quirking up as he tries to bite down the laugh threatening to spill out and Harley likes that about him too. He laughs for real - not like J who laughed to get a point across.

She slithers closer to you - flush to the side of your body. There’s sweat dripping from your chin and she licks it off - enjoying the crack of salt on her tongue. You’re shrieking hot - chest heaving and Harley’s eyes find the place where Rick is drilling into your sweet little body. The shadow of his muscles - the glossy sheen of his cock drenched in you as he punches it into that gorgeous tight pussy again and again.

“Does it feel good, sweets?” she asks - lips silky on your cheek.

“Yeah,” you pant - shaky and trembly and throat tight with the climb of your orgasm. “So good. So fucking good”

“Fuck,” Flag groans. “You’re so fucking perfect - both of you - fucking gorgeous.”

Harley simpers before wiggling her fingers in front of you. “Lemme help a little bit.”

She slips them between your bodies before finding your perky clit - puffy and wanting. She touches it gingerly - deft strokes and then circular motions before she twists and pinches.

You arch.

“Jesus Christ,” you sob as your nails rake down Flag’s back and you must convulse around him - absolutely choke the shit out of his dick because Flag’s rhythm shutters and stutters until he goes all rigid with a low, feral grunt.

He falls - collapsing roughly into your arms and Harley punches him in the ribs to knock him off you. “Move,” she snaps. “Move - move.”

“Alright,” he chuckles - hand skating down his flat belly - unconsciously cupping his softening dick (ugh it’s truly a beaut). “Fucking hell - what’s the hurry, Quinn?”

Harley shifts between your legs before she forces your knees back - spreading you apart and on display. You’re fucked out - gaping from Flag’s huge cock - and too exhausted to say anything, except saddle her with a curious look.

“Wanna taste,” she smiles with the brunt of her heart pounding in her lungs. She drops her face to your plush folds - the gleam of Rick between them. “Wanna taste both of you.”

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

What’s yours is mine 1

Warnings: nonconsent and rape, allusions to abuse, stalking, possessiveness, pregnancy, and more tags to be added.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Pairing: dark!Ransom Drysdale x pregnant!Reader

Summary: After five years, your past is far behind you but just as you think you can live your happily ever after, your ex shows up at the worst moment.

Note: I couldn’t sleep and ended up writing this and it will not be a long ongoing series but it will be a few parts. But Roo you say that all the time. Yes, well, I’m trying and I’m sorry but I’m gonna try to not be the worst.

Hope you enjoy it. Thank you. Love you guys!

Please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3

“Oh my god, is that really you?” the voice made you stand stalk straight.

You took a breath and forced a smile before you turned to the indomitable woman. You never expected to see Linda again, not after you broke up with her son almost five years ago. And there she was, as rigid and righteous as ever, her thin lips curved in a mocking grin.

“Linda,” you greeted her in a singsong and looked around the grocery store. You never went to the overpriced organic market but your local shop didn’t have dragonfruit and you had a painful craving, “how are you?”

“Darling, I’m just great,” she held an empty basket on her arm, an odd sight as you never expected her to do her own shopping, “oh, and look at you!” Before you knew it, her hand was on your stomach and you struggled not shy away, “how far are you?”

“Um,” you looked down at the large ring on her finger and resisted the urge to step away as you often did in this situation, “almost five months.”

“And married?” she grabbed your left hand and pretended to admire the small teardrop diamond, “gorgeous.”

“Mhmm,” you waited for you to release you and swayed in place, “you barely look a day older than the last time I saw you.”

“You’re well? You look well,” she primped her short hair at the compliment, “oh, a baby.” She reached out again and you sighed as she rubbed your stomach, “for luck.”

You tried not to frown and ended up laughing at the tension, “well, it was nice running into you.”

“Oh, you know, I barely come down here but we’re headed up to my father’s place, you remember, such a cozy house, and Joni is in charge of food and well, I wouldn’t trust her with a plastic spoon so of course, I have a back up plan.”

You nodded along with her awkwardly, frozen in the spot as the dragon fruit barely seemed worth the torture. Linda was hard to please and alway derisive, but for as long as you were with Ransom, she had taken a keen shine to you. That alone came with an edge but it was rarely used to cut you.

You forced another laugh, “that sounds fun, getting away from the city.”

“Ugh, just another family gathering,” she waved it off with her free hand, “I’ll have to tell Ransom I ran into you, if he even shows up.”

“Well, I don’t think--”

“He’s grown up so much,” she interrupted, “you wouldn’t believe it. He got his own imprint in my father’s company publishing true crime. He’s really making a place for himself now.”

“That’s great,” you tried not to falter at the mention of her son. You hadn’t ended on the greatest terms and your relationship had been tumultuous and regrettable.

“I hope you have a great weekend, Linda,” you said, “but I got to--”

“Oh, not at all, I’m keeping you,” she squeezed your arm, “God, he was such an idiot to let you go.”

You nodded and swallowed through your tight throat, “I’m glad he’s doing better for himself.”

“You too,” she trilled, “oh, before I let you go, darling, is it a boy?”

You blinked and your smile wavered, “how did you know?”

“I could always tell,” she said, “so precious.”

She gave your stomach one last pat and disappeared into the produce section. You blinked as you looked down at the scaled fruit in your right hand. Chocolate, you needed chocolate.

You were rattled as you waited in the express line and put your things on the belt. You hadn’t thought of Ransom in a very long time. Not much. His shadow followed you around in those moments when your heart raced and your head spun, but you had learned to work through those fits. No one else knew what happened behind closed doors, they only knew Ransom, not Hugh.

You paid and shoved your fruit and candy into a paper bag. You headed out into the misty spring air. The rain had finally stopped and left the streets slick and shining. The sun was hazy as it clung to the last of the clouds and you inhaled the wet scent of grass and gravel.

You let your key hang from the ignition as you took a moment to gather yourself. You stared at the modest ring on your finger and held your stomach and you swore you could still feel Linda’s bony hand there. 

You had a loving husband, Dez, and a son on the way. Ransom wasn’t a part of any of that and this was just a blip on radar, the aftershock of the storm that ended years before. You sniffed and turned the engine. You wouldn’t go back to that store, it was far too expensive and the clientele were certainly not of your ilk.

🍼

Dez was in the kitchen when you got home, the smell of steak and peppers rose from the frying pan. You kissed his cheek as he kept one hand on the spatula and you dropped your bag on the counter beside the stove. You went to the fridge and poured yourself a glass of water. You turned and leaned against the marble and drank deeply.

“So, hon, how was your day?” he asked as he put the spatula down and peeked in the bag, “hmm, odd pairing but I don’t hate it.”

“I had a craving,” you shrugged, “it was… okay,” you heaved, “what’s for dinner?”

“Steak fajitas,” he said, “I trimmed the fat for you and,” he turned and reached out to you, “and I got you some champagne… non-alcoholic, obviously.”

“You know it doesn’t have the same effects,” you kidded as you put your glass down and settled into his arms, “and well,” you looked down at your stomach, “we already got one drunken night growing.”

He laughed and bent to kiss you on the lips. He rocked you as the pan sizzled behind him. You closed your eyes and tensed as suddenly your head flashed with the memory of Ransom, of the way he’d kiss you, harder than Dez, and the way it always turned to more whether you wanted it or not.

“Hey,” Dez pulled back, “you okay?”

“Yeah,” you lied, “hormones.”

“Aw, hon, well I have the perfect dessert planned,” he purred.

“Oh yeah?”

“Mmhmm, strawberry massage oil,” he framed your face with his hand, “a nice long back rub…”

“Perfect,” you giggled, “why are you spoiling me?”

“Don’t I always?” he smirked.

“Hmm, rarely without reason,” you said.

“Well…” he voice trailed off and slowly he dropped his arms. He turned his back to you and grabbed the pan, stirring the contents with a shake, “I didn’t want you to miss me too bad.”

“Miss you?” you came forward and bent your arms over the counter, “where are you going?”

“Chicago, there’s some evidence down there we need to look at and they refuse to transfer it to our office so… bullshit confidentiality clause, but we need it.”

“How long?” your heart dropped.

“Well, I gotta leave in the morning but I told Gary I won’t stay longer than Monday.”

“And what did he say?”

“He laughed,” Dez shook his head, “I promise, I’ll do my best to be back as soon as I can--”

“No, I understand,” you said gloomily, “it’s just…” you cupped your chin and tapped your lips with your fingertips, “I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you too,” he said as he turned the burner off, “and this little guy,” he touched your stomach and you shivered as you remembered how Linda had done the same with her cold palm, “so, you choose a name yet?”

“Still not naming him Superman, babe,” you chided, “but no, I can’t make up my mind. God, it’s like my mind is in shambles, I can’t remember why I go in a room or even focus on one thing for more than two minutes before I’m distracted by what colour I want to paint the nursery and I can’t even decide on that because then I’m thinking about what kind of wood the crib should be--”

“It’s fine, you’re fine,” he assured as he opened the bag of tortillas, “you’re still there, you’re just… sharing a brain right now.”

“Wasn’t enough to go around in the first place,” you scoffed.

“Shh,” he arranged the plates carefully, like a five star restaurant, tortillas stacked, steak and veg together, a little dish of cheese, some sour cream, lettuce, salsa, all divvied out in a spectacular salsa you would only make a mess of.

“I thought the pregnancy would give me a chance to finish my book, but--”

“Well, you got maternity leave after that,” he said.

“From what? Sitting at my keyboard and crying? I’ll just be holding a baby and crying,” you sighed, “you said you’d take some time off.”

“I did say that and I will,” he grabbed the plates and nodded you out of the kitchen. He set the plates on the table and you sat as he went to grab two glasses and as many bottles. He poured you your spineless champagne and had a beer for himself, “I don’t want to miss anything.”

“You can’t take forever off,” you muttered, “we both know that. I could go back to copywriting and maybe--”

“Babe, that job made you miserable and you will finish your book,” he handed you a napkin, “I’ve read your stuff, it’s… you said your ex was in publishing?”

“Did I?”

“I thought you did, you never really… talk about the exes, which I love but, I think you said something about it. You don’t think he would--”

“No,” you snapped, “no,” you said softer, “he wouldn’t.”

“Sorry,” he said startled by your reaction, “I didn’t--”

“It’s nothing, I just-- exes, right?”

“It was a stupid suggestion,” he said, “I’m sorry, but… I have a client, he might have some contacts.”

“You don’t have to do that--”

“I don’t have to, I want to because the world deserves to hear your voice,” he insisted, “I hate to share you but I’d be selfish to keep you to myself.”

You smiled and unfolded a tortilla. Still, your heart raced as the second mention of Ransom that day had you on edge. Dez watched you build your fajita and you looked up at him.

“Well, since you’ll be in Chicago, maybe I’ll get a few pages done.”

🍼

The call came on Monday, Dez wouldn’t be home that night. You contented yourself to stay in with your laptop and sugar cookies. Still, you barely got a sentence done before you snapped your computer closed and gave up with a frustrated grunt. You slept, not well, and got up with some trouble as your hips ached.

A good morning text from Dez made you smile but there was still no promise of an impending return. You felt pent up in the apartment and lonely as its emptiness reminded you of your absent husband. Too tense to sit down and type, you opted to go for a walk, hoping it would calm your nerves.

You walked past the shop windows and stopped to peek in at used books and handmade candles. You had no destination in mind, only a restless step. There was a little store at the corner with locally made quilts and knitted sweaters. The smell of potpourri wafted out from beneath the painted door and made your throat tickle. Even so, your curiosity drew you inside.

A small woman greeted you from behind the desk. She held two needles as she crocheted some indistinguishable craft. You smiled and said hello as you headed down the centre aisle. You looked along the racks of quilts, floral, striped, plaid, and polka dot. You stopped at a bright yellow piece with honey bees along the border. You hadn’t thought of yellow for the nursery.

You felt the soft fabric and checked the tag. You lifted the quilt from the bar, content that it was worth it and a great motivator. You stopped before you could turn back, a familiar voice chilled your blood.

“It’s cute,” Ransom said as he stepped up next to you, “kinda girly for a boy though.”

You glanced over at him and folded the blanket over your arm. You backed up but as you turned he did too. He blocked your bath as he stretched his arm across the aisle.

“My mother told me you were expecting,” he said, “and she was right, you look good.”

“What do you want?” you whispered as you clutched the quilt.

“Nothing, just saying hello,” his mouth slanted.

“Hugh, I’m not stupid,” you hissed, “it’s been five years.”

“Hugh,” he repeated dully, “you remember your manners.”

“Leave me alone and let me past,” you tried to duck under his arm but he shifted his body over and backed you up to the end of the aisle.

“And married,” he taunted.

“He’s outside,” you lied, “if I stay too long--”

“I didn’t see him when you walked up,” he intoned, “he must be easy to miss.”

“Have you been following me?” you uttered.

“Only from the cafe,” he shrugged, “short walk.”

“Please, get away from me,” you quivered.

“I’m not doing anything--”

“You know exactly what you’re doing,” you hissed, “now I will scream so move.”

“Mama Bear,” he crooned, “I love it, you’re so protective.”

“Hugh,” you warned.

“Sweetie,” he hummed.

You shoved his shoulder but he didn’t move. You hit him harder and he winced. He chuckled and stood straight. He waved his arm down the aisle and stepped aside.

“Don’t make a scene,” he said, “you always did like to be dramatic.”

“Fuck you,” you snarled, “don’t come near me again.”

“Don’t act like you don’t miss me,” he called after you as you dropped the quilt on the counter, “we were so good together.”

You left without buying, a shrill apology to the lady at the counter as you went as fast as you could out the door. The bell tinkled after you and the door clamored shut. You felt nauseous and dizzy. The last thing you wanted or needed was to ever see that man again.

[sylverstorms]

Cassandra x Maiden ----Anonymity Ch.10

Ch.1 Ch.2 Ch.3 Ch.4 Ch.5 Ch.6 Ch.7 Ch.8 Ch.9

The day shift gives you ample time and opportunities to walk around the castle. Within a week, you come to know every chamber and pathway you hadn’t previously crossed, intimately.

At first, you pictured making your escape through a weak point in its fortification. The walls are ancient; You would have bet money on one of its parts having given out in the passing of centuries and gone unnoticed. Now, you know such a thing doesn’t exist. It doesn’t really surprise you that Alcina has made sure the exterior is in the same excellent condition as the interior.

But it is a problem.

The walls are too big for you to scale. If there are any stepping points, you can’t see them from within. You tried over and over to at least peak out into the back yard, but the shrieks and growls of monsters had you immediately changing course.

You don’t know what those things are and you’re not eager to find out. According to the older maids, there are more of them deep in the dungeons. It is only a rumor, of course, since nobody has ventured down there and returned to tell the tale.

Which, taking the window bars into account… leaves only one way out.

The front door.

You are aware that Lady Dimitrescu and the daughters all have a key on them. You know from Cassandra those are the only copies. Nothing enters or leaves unless one of them allows it.

There is not a snowflake’s chance in hell you’re getting Alcina’s key. She will murder you on sight. Bela won’t do anything to disappoint her mother, so that rules her out, as well. Daniela is the one most likely to misplace it or be persuaded to give it to you, but the girl is as unpredictable as she is sly and you won’t risk your wellbeing for a distant chance.

That means…

Cassandra is the only way out, isn’t she…

-

-

You lay low and await an afternoon where the cold is downright bone-piercing. As warm as the castle is, with fireplaces burning everywhere, you can still feel the stinging kiss of the outside frost every time you so much as go near a window.

And it all comes full circle right back to the start; You in front of Cassandra’s bedroom door, trembling with anxiety like the very first time. It is oddly fitting, in a way, that the story of the two of you ends where it began.

For a moment, you almost marvel at how long ago it feels, now. But there is no time nor space in your heart for sentimentality anymore. You stand at the point of no return.

And you cross it as soon as you turn the handle.

Cassandra’s bedroom is softly illuminated by the dying embers of the fireplace. You walk forward cautiously, slowly, almost as if you’re expecting a landmine to go off at a single misstep. Except –well. A mine would be far more merciful. Just an explosion and then nothing. If Cassandra wakes…

You try not to think about it, lest your muscles lock in place.

Underneath the heavy covers of the bed, you see her, cocooned, pale fingers clutching tight at the blankets. It is too early for her to wake. She is deeply asleep, you tell yourself, simultaneously praying she doesn’t open her eyes.

You make it to her vanity, soundless. Her amber-jeweled choker and the necklace she and her sisters wear are neatly arranged, yet the key you’re looking for isn’t with them.

Shit. You inwardly curse, your hand shaking from the nerves. It means she’s put it in the drawer of her bedside table. It means you have to go next to her, to literally put your fingers in the sleeping wolf’s parted jaws and hope they don’t clamp down.

Easy, right?

An unsteady exhale later, you move further in and carefully kneel by the small furniture. Keep your eyes on the prize. Keep—

But you make the mistake of looking to the side.

Cassandra’s expression is not relaxed in sleep like how you remember it from the time when you would wake her up. Instead, her brow is furrowed, the line of her mouth pressed thin. She’s shivering, you realize, either from the cold or a nightmare or both. Shadows dance across her beautiful face.

Your first instinct is still to reach over and soothe her. You hate it, but you’ve accepted you won’t be over whatever it is you feel for her in quite some time.

It is not your place anymore to touch her, you remind yourself. You cannot ease her through her fears now that she has become your own.

With a clenched jaw, you force your body through the motions of opening the drawer and taking the key within.

At last. Your freedom is in your grasp.

And yet.

Shouldn’t you be happier about it?

Cassandra’s voice nearly knocks the air out of your lungs when it reaches your ears, faint. “No… please…”

You forget how to breathe for a couple of seconds. When your wide eyes shift to her, though, you realize she’s merely talking in her sleep.

Leave. Leave while you can.

But your chest constricts when you hear her sob. “…don’t leave me here… please…”

And out of all the possible things she could say, she utters those words and smashes your glass heart with a sledgehammer into a trillion pieces. The shards cut into you and it hurts—

You pause at the door. The corners of your vision have started to blur.

And then the world snaps, sharply, back into focus when her tone changes;

“…Alexia…?”

Your eyes lock, hazel to amber-grey, for a split second.

You run.

-

-

You don’t think you have ever ran this fast in your entire life. But it’s different now that it is about your life.

Adrenaline rushes throughout your bloodstream. You’re not thinking, just acting. Just fleeing.

Death, in the form of a black swarm, closes in on you with every rapid heartbeat. Cassandra is faster –she can fly and you’re only human—and at this rate you won’t even escape the corridor, much less the castle.

Flies break ahead of the rest and attach themselves to you. The sting of their bite at your nape and arms nearly has you howling in agony. She meant it when she said she would kill you herself. Not that you doubted it. Not for a second.

Because if Cassandra can’t have you, she will make sure nobody will.

You didn’t want to hurt her back the first time, but the stakes are too high now. You grab the nearest solid antiquity in your panic and throw it with all your might against the nearest window.

Glass shatters and the temperature plummets with it. Over your shoulder, you hear her scream. More out of rage than pain.

The flies biting at you drop to the floor, grey and paralyzed. You hear her shout pierce through your eardrums like a gunshot as you dash towards the turn—

“You won’t ever get to that door, Alexia!”

From the corner of your eye, you notice a blur coming towards you and instinctively drop down. A heavy thump later, your frantic eyes fly to the wall to see her sickle embedded halfway through a painting. If you hadn’t reacted in time, that would have been you.

Still, she can’t cross the hallway now, so you scramble to your feet and run while she takes the long way around. Question is, will you make it to the front door before she does?

It becomes a race where the winner takes all.

You practically jump down entire sets of stairs in your struggle for survival and you have no clue how you do it. You just know you can’t slow down for even a second.

The castle feels ten times as large as it actually is. By the time you descend the last staircase and the sound of buzzing insects grows in volume, the entrance is within sight.

You reach for another decoration and smash another window. Cassandra slows down, forced to materialize out of the swarm before she can’t will her body back together at all.

You shove the key into the lock and turn it.

Cassandra fights through the rush of frozen air, taking step after weighted step towards you—

“I won’t…let you leave here…alive.” she hisses, her teeth bared at you, skin growing too pale yet eyes blazing.

“I’m done being your prisoner.” you say back, voice hoarse and raw…

And you open the door. Steps taken backwards carry you away from her faster than she can make it to you. You can see her pain and her frustration, but they cannot compare to your own.

Your wounds ache from the frost.

Cassandra seems just about ready to leap at you even if it will certainly mean something very bad for her—

Until a black blur shoves her a dozen meters back. Bela’s back stands between you and Cassandra’s cracking form. Daniela soon lands off to the side, looking between the two of them.

“Get out of the way, Bela!” Cassandra snaps.

“It’s over.” Bela replies, a grave finality to her voice.

Your breaths are coming out in harsh puffs of smoke. You still have trouble believing that you did it. That they can’t follow anymore. You did it.

“Nothing’s over!” Cassandra snarls and lunges for her elder sister.

The blonde, deadly calm, grabs her by the neck in a choke-hold and drags her closer to the nearly-extinguished warmth of the fireplace. The way Cassandra thrashes in her arms is downright heartbreaking.

Daniela looks at you, almost saddened, then back at her sisters.

“Shh. Calm down, Cassandra. Let go. Mother will be here soon. Don’t let her see you like this.” Bela says. “If you’ve any parting words to say to Alexia, say them now.”

You’re shivering. The cold nips through every layer of clothes you’re wearing to bite straight at your flushed skin. But you don’t move further away. You wait. Why am I even waiting, though?

Realization slowly sinks in, you can tell from Cassandra’s expression. Beyond the wounded pride of the apex predator losing a fight to a rabbit… she understands that she will never see you again.

Bela releases her and steps away, adjacent to Daniela.

“You’ve earned your freedom, Alexia.” Bela speaks under her hood. “Nobody’s ever managed to escape, before. Respect.” In another life, maybe her and you could have been friends. Maybe.

“So you’re really… leaving?” Daniela’s lower lip is slightly jutted into a little pout. “I… who will I use to get on Cassandra’s nerves, now?”

“I’d say it’s been nice, but.” you speak up between pants, birthing forth puffs of smoke. “I was taken from my home and sent here as a slave, so.” You can’t help the bitter grimace.

Cassandra’s chest is heaving, yet she isn’t looking at you. It doesn’t look like she has anything to say to you, either. But you have words for her, because you need to get this out at last, you need to be free of this weight or you will never really have escaped this nightmare.

“Even as your captive, you know what I fucking thought? You three can be so beautiful when you toy with the idea of basic human empathy. I don’t know what you saw our time as, Cassandra, but I was genuinely attracted to you. I wanted to be together with you. At some point, I was even happy!”

You’ve inhaled so much icy air your lungs probably won’t be doing great for very much longer but God, this is so cathartic. And so enraging that she’s not meeting your eyes now, at the very end of it all.

“Look at me! I care for you, deeply, but I can’t do this anymore! I don’t want to live in a cage as a pretty sacrifice, with you as my jailer. I can’t. You don’t know how psychologically destructive it is. You don’t know what it feels like!” you end with a hitched shout.

You hear the ominous sound of heavy heels hurriedly descending the staircase. “By Miranda! What is going on— Cassandra?!”

All three daughters freeze up for a moment.

Then Daniela touches her head as though she’s having a migraine and Bela shuts her eyes tightly, shoulders tensed. And Cassandra… drops on her knees to the floor, gasping for oxygen, clutching at her temples.

Bela shakes her head to snap out of it. Daniela still looks dazed and afraid… but Cassandra is nearly crying—

And then, in her panic attack, she whispers; “Don’t abandon me like they did, Alexia.”

You don’t know who she means or what you’re doing, until you’ve dashed back inside and gathered her chilled form into your arms, tight. You keep her there like you wish someone had held you during your storms. It doesn’t matter that you’re so much weaker than Cassandra, when what haunts her is too powerful even for her to face.

Alcina extends her claws as she advances on you.

You could probably still get away if you make a run for it, but where will you even go, when your heart is right here with the woman in your arms? The world beyond the village died for you a long time ago. The village died in a literal sense.

You wanted to be free. But freedom and being with her aren’t mutually exclusive. Why did it take me this long to figure it out…?

Alcina is too close now. You turn to kiss Cassandra’s hair for what may be the last time. You do not let go.

Bela and Daniela step in front of you.

Alcina gives them a warning, narrowed look.

“Uh— you know what, I just stepped forward because I saw Bela move. Haha, nevermind.” The redhead retreats once more. Maybe you’d roll your eyes at her if you weren’t bracing for your execution.

“Bela… step aside.” Lady Dimitrescu’s tone leaves no room for disobedience.

The eldest daughter lowers her head and hesitantly opens the path, as well.

Alcina casts a deep shadow over you in her massive height and giant claws. You lock eyes with her briefly, with the last, flickering cinders of your courage. Then you shift your face down into Cassandra’s shoulder and prepare to be skewered through. Her fingers clutch you almost painfully close to her.

“As for you…” there’s a growl in Alcina’s voice that makes you cower in terror.

Except...

The horrible pain you expected takes a little too long to come.

“…you have backbone, little human, I will admit.” Is that… is that a smirk you hear in her tone? “And my daughters do seem to want you around…”

…What?

Cassandra slowly pulls away from you to look up at her in disbelief and you dare to open your eyes. The claws are still uncomfortably close to your face.

“I will take responsibility for the damage, mother. Just, please, let her stay with me.” Cassandra says.

“…Hm. Very well. I expect the windows repaired by dinner.” Alcina gracefully pivots and just like that, takes her leave.

You and the sisters are left there, unbreathing, unmoving, wondering what just happened.

“Too cold. See you at dinner.” Daniela is the first to speak up. She rapidly waves and disappears like she’s being hunted by an army.

Bela glances at you, then at her middle sister. “We need to talk. But later. For now, defrost.” She, too, disperses in a swarm of flies.

Cassandra, uncharacteristically vulnerable, looks into your eyes and brings a crystalline hand to your cheek. The soft way she does it, it may as well be the apology she is too proud to voice. You both lean towards each other, resting your foreheads together.

You have a lot to talk about. But there is time.

[iliveiloveiwrite]

an artist’s eye // Benedict Bridgerton

Summary: Benedict Bridgerton was an artist, even if his inspiration had no idea of what he feels.

A/N: I promise to slow down with the fics! I go back to work in a couple of days anyway so I’ll definitely slow down. I hope you all like! It’s shorter than my last few fics so I’m sorry for that!! My taglist is open so if you’d like to be on it, let me know and I am considering opening my requests for Bridgerton fics... considering.

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x Fem!Reader

Warnings: mentions of food and drink, pining, mutual pining, sketching, art, drawing (I am not an artist, I cannot draw a stick man so I apologise in advance), kissing.

Word count: 1.8k

The graphite point sits heavy in his hand as Benedict struggles to remember the lines he needs. With only his memory to aid him, Benedict struggled more with the portraits he preferred to draw than the landscapes that were growing increasingly popular among the highest of London society.

Sighing, Benedict presses his fingers to his eyes as if it will help jumpstart his memory to bring forward the correct image he needs. He regrets the action as quick as he had done it when he thinks of the mixture of graphite and charcoal coating his fingers.  

Rubbing his face with the sleeve of his shirt, he feels a moment of pity for the servants who would no doubt grumble and complain at the state of it. However, as he glances down at the sketch – the arch of his subject’s smile, the depths of their eyes – he cannot bring himself to care too much.

It wouldn’t see the light of day. Once complete, the sketchbook would be tucked away in the drawer in his desk. If it was to fall into the wrong hands, then as much as he is confident of his artistic talent, he would not recover from the fallout. Benedict worries for the day that the look in your eyes changes; once you realise the extent of his feelings for you.

He hadn’t meant to fall in love with you, but he had. There were a lot of things in Benedict’s life that he hadn’t meant to do and has regretted completing such an action once done. However, he cannot find it in himself to feel bad about falling in love with you even when he had not meant to.

As much as he puts on airs and graces, he would not approach you with his feelings. He wasn’t ready though you made his heart sing like no other.

One day, he tells himself as he finally remembers the swoop of your neckline. One day he will tell you as he picks up his graphite point and charcoal once more.

Not yet, however.

------------

The drawing room remains quiet as Benedict silently adds to his sketch collection. His mother sits across the room, content with a stitching pattern for the arrival of Daphne’s new baby. Eloise lounges on the couch, a book in her hand and a box of chocolates on her stomach, eyes pouring over the pages hungrily.

The only sound in the room is the roughness of his pencil on the paper. It didn’t matter what angle he approached this drawing at, he could not get it to look right. It was going to vex him until he had bested it.

“Miss (Y/N) (Y/L/N) has arrived,” The Butler announces to which Benedict suddenly sits up straighter, closing his sketchbook, leaving it on the table.

“Wonderful,” Violet Bridgerton smiles, “Show them up, please.”

“I didn’t know (Y/N) was calling today,” Benedict comments lightly as the Butler disappears from the room, trying to sound as if his heart isn’t currently pounding in his chest.

“(Y/N) always calls on a Thursday,” Eloise states, voice puzzled. She shares a look of confusion with her mother when Benedict suddenly stands, announcing to them both, “I shall clean myself up a bit, make myself look presentable for our guest.”

The look of confusion soon turns into one of understanding as both women watch their son and brother dash from the room. As if at the same time, a smile crosses both their faces when they realise that their beloved son and brother has fallen in love and with a dear friend of the family too.

They do not get to discuss the topic, however, for you are shown to the drawing room, greeting both women with a large smile and buoyant conversation.

“Help yourself to tea and biscuits, dear,” Violet invites, gesturing to the tea service now being laid on the table. Your stomach rumbles at the sight of the biscuits, unable to turn down the buttery goodness.

“Thank you,” You reply, taking a seat at the table, reaching for a biscuit and the teapot.

It’s then that you see it. A leatherbound book left on the other side of the table, barely hidden by the cake stand of treats.

Curiosity being your besetting sin, you reach for the leatherbound book on the table and begin to flick through the pages. A sketch of a pair of hands at the beginning; they hold a single flower – a rose, though what colour is impossible to tell since the sketch remains firmly in shades of greys and blacks. Enraptured, you turn the page to find a detailed image of a parasol, still sketched in the same greys and blacks as the previous picture. The artist has captured the lace trimming perfectly. The longer you stare at it, you come to realise that the parasol is being held by someone, but it isn’t clear who.

It isn’t until you reach a sketch of your side portrait that you come to realise that the previous sketches – the hands, the parasol with just a hint of a shadow under it – they’re of you.

They’re all of you. Each stunning sketch is of you.

Your breath quickens in your chest when you see who the sketchbook belongs to; when you spy the initials written on the inside sleeve of the front cover. ‘B.B.’ written in his elegant script – an artist in every aspect of his life. Whilst you had observed that Benedict sometimes appeared with smudges to his fingers and paint stains on the cuffs of his tailored white shirt, you had never seen a sketch or a painting until now. He truly had a gift; a talent worthy of being displayed in Somerset House.

You hadn’t been aware of his feelings for you though, but you would not be the first to admit that you found yourself attracted to the Bridgerton. Taught at a young age, you knew it was not wise to share such feelings with others. Instead, you dampened them down, hiding them away where they grew unattended – they rooted in your heart, making it very difficult to find another love worthy.

Bringing a hand to your mouth, you hide your smile, not wanting to give too much away to ever observant Bridgerton matriarch. You turn page after page, letting yourself fall deeper into your feelings for Benedict now that you find there is hope of them being requited.

------------

Benedict’s breath leaves his body in one fell swoop when he returns to the drawing room and he realises exactly what you hold in your hand. He hadn’t moved it upon your announcement; he thought he had, but instead, like a fool, he left it sitting there on the table.

A fool. He was a fool. How quick, Benedict thinks to himself, how quick a life can change – mere minutes he had been gone and now he was to have his love for you outed.

You haven’t noticed his presence yet, and for that Benedict is thankful. It gives him time to come up with something – anything – to explain the numerous sketches of you. His mind is running too fast; he cannot come up with a thought good enough to excuse the sketches in his book. His heart continues to pound in his chest; it had not slowed down since your announcement though at this point it reminds him that is, indeed, alive and not suffering from a night terror.

As if finally sensing the extra person in the room, you glance up. Your eyes meeting the deep blue of Benedict’s, and you freeze in your spot. Violet and Eloise glance between the two of you. Violet, not one to usually ignore tradition, hurries her daughter from the room – knowing the conversation that was about to take place.

“I’m sorry,” You whisper at the click of the door shutting. You close the sketchbook, placing it on the table as far away from you as possible to keep your temptation at bay.

“I think I should be the one apologising,” Benedict confesses, taking one more step into the room. He tucks his hands behind his back, ever the picture of grace and elegance as he thinks of how long he has left without before your opinion of him changes forever – artistic talent or not.

“I knew you were an artist; I had seen the smudges on your hands, but I didn’t think…”

“What?”

“I didn’t think you were drawing me.”

“Surely you know?” He asks, voice loud in the quiet room. When you remain silent, he continues, “Surely you know of my feelings for you?”

You shake your head, eyes glancing between the taller Bridgerton and the leatherbound sketchbook lying on the table. “I didn’t know,” You whisper, voice breaking as you take in the distraught look on his face.

“Well,” Benedict murmurs, clearing his throat, “You know of them now.”

“I do,” You murmur,

“I hope I haven’t offended you,” Benedict remarks, “Those sketches were not meant to be seen by anyone else.”

“Only if I haven’t offended you by looking through them.”

Benedict shakes his head, “You could never offend me.”

“Then I am not offended either. I’m quite flattered, you’re very talented.”

“Thank you,” Benedict says graciously, nodding his head slightly.

“You need to know that your feelings are returned, Benedict,” You declare suddenly and plainly, displaying your feelings for all to see.

“They are?” Benedict asks, voice awed as if he didn’t take into account this reaction.

“They are,” You state firmly, meeting his gaze proudly as if you could ever be ashamed of your feelings for the brunette.

Benedict stalks across the room; tradition and etiquette be damned as he reaches for your hand to pull you from your chair. His hands settle on your waist as you tilt your head back to look at him. A silent question reflects in his eyes to which you answer with a nod of your head.

His hands move from your waist to cradle your face as he dips down, pressing his lips to yours. It isn’t hurried; it’s perfect as Benedict takes control of the kiss, groaning softly at the feel of your mouth and your body pressed against him. You smile into the kiss as your arms wrap around Benedict’s neck, pulling him ever closer to you.

Benedict’s mouth brushes against yours as he asks, “Would you like to accompany me to Lady Danbury’s ball next week?”

“As in you would court me?”

Benedict chuckles softly, “Yes. I would like to court you, is that okay?”

“More than okay,” You smile before pressing a kiss to the corner of Benedict’s mouth and stepping away.

Turning back to the sketchbook, you open it to image that had kickstarted your heart into an irregular rhythm. Benedict stands by your side as your eyes pour over his sketch; each line and angle, each section of shading. “You truly have an artist’s eye,” You say quietly, tangling your hands together.

“Thank you,” Benedict whispers, bringing your entwined hands up to his mouth whereupon he lays a gentle kiss to the back of your gloved hand.

“Will you show me more?” You ask, turning to face the man that had turned you into a work of art.

“Darling, I’ll show you them all.”

***********

Bridgerton Taglist: @heloisedaphnebrightmore @dreaming-about-fanfictions @now-its-time-for-a-breakdown @janelongxox @aspiringsloth20 @wallwriterstuff​ @magicalxdaydream​

[redrobin-detective]

The 101 Deaths of Danny Phantom

AO3 link

One of the first things people learned about dealing with ghosts, other than not to try and date them, is to never asks about their death or obsessions. That doesn’t mean the citizens of Amity Park aren’t curious though, especially about their resident ghostly hero and the confusing and concerning comments he sometimes makes.

“Are you okay?” Phantom asked Maisie as she shook and tried to hold back tears after that car had almost slammed into her. She sometimes joked about getting hit crossing the street of her college campus to pay her obnoxious loans but it was another thing entirely to almost experience it herself. Maisie was nearly twenty, she shouldn’t be comforted by someone younger than her little step sister but here she was, shaking like a lead and leaning into Phantom’s comforting, chilly touch. 

“Sorry,” she stuttered, “thank you, I’m sorry I’m just-”

“Hey, it’s okay to be upset that was very scary. The thought of dying is very scary.” Through her adrenaline and her tears, she took in the ghost’s unnatural glow, his faded, barely visible appearance and the fact that he was floating a foot off the ground. Maisie knows this ghost, this boy, knows more than she ever could about death. 

“And getting run over by a car sure is a bad way to go,” the ghost kid chuckled awkwardly, taking his cold hand off her shoulder to scratch at the back of his neck. “You should see how my dad drives or my mom or my sister if she’s running late enough,” Phantom paused in thought. “No one in my family should have a license now that I think about it. Anyway,” he dismissed with a wave. 

“My sister and I were getting ready to head out to school and my dad was backing out of driveway too fast and didn’t see us and uh, luckily I got my sister out of the way in time haha,” Phantom trailed off awkwardly. Was it because of the uncomfortable conversation or because he noticed her dawning horror.

Her best friend ran the community college’s Phan club so Maisie was a member by default. Phantom’s death was sometimes talked about late at night, everything from wrongful murder to a freak accident. She never in her worst nightmares imagined being him being runover in front of his own house by parental ignorance. It was so normal, a quick mistake and a life lost.

“Oh my god,” he said with an adorable little green blush. “Why am I babbling about that? You almost got hit by a car, I’m probably retraumatizing you or something. I should probably go get the jerk who almost hit you,” he said before disappearing into thin air. 

“Tia is not going to believe this,” she whispered to no one. All she knew is that for the rest of her damned life she was going to look both ways when crossing the street. She’d seen first hand what a single moment of reckless driving could cause.

XxX

Matthew, not Matt or Matty or Hughie, Matthew shivered from the cold. He was only in his boxers with little Pacman on them. It had been fine when he’d gone to bed considering it was mid-August but Phantom and this stupid flaming mecha ghost had tussled outside the summer camp he was working at. He could see some of the kids snickering at his state of undress though he was just extremely glad they were alive enough to disrespect him like this.

“Oh man, I’m sorry,” the ghost kid said with big, sad eyes that looked so human despite the fact that they were literally glowing. He looked around at all the snow and ice left over from his fight. “Jeez you guys must be freezing, I wish I could warm you all up but all I can do is make things colder.”

“S’okay,” Matthew said through his chattering teeth. “Teaching the kids how to start a fire was supposed to be next week but we can get a jump on it.” That got a smile out of the ghost and within a half hour, the other counselors were distributing blankets and hot beverages to the kids clustered around multiple fires. They didn’t seem particularly upset by the potentially fatal attack, Matthew will breakdown about that at a later time when he was alone. For now, he just smiled as the children chattered happily with the ghost while he cleaned up as much of the damage as possible.

“So you spend all day fighting ghosts?” Zoe asked with stars in her eyes.

“A lot of the nights too,” Phantom nodded, “I do other stuff but yeah it seems ghost fighting takes up most of my time.”

“Where’d you learn those cool powers?” Zuri asked, miming a punch.

“Comes with being a ghost,” Phantom shrugged, “my ice powers came in later though so I still struggle a bit with them but I’m getting better every day.”

“Why ice though?” Morris said with his cocked curiously to the side. “I see some ghosts use fire or shadows, why do you have ice?”

“Ah that’s a little personal,” Phantom chuckled but his posture was easy despite the invasive question. “Specialty powers like my ice require special circumstances and a certain uh connection to the ghost. Someone like me couldn’t use fire or electricity or plants, ice is in my soul, it’s who I am.”

Matthew paused in drinking his lukewarm coffee as a horrible thought came to mind. He’s been an outdoorsman all his life, practically from the time he could walk. He’d been a deep woods camping guide for a decade before switching to working at summer camps. But the years working in the relative comfort of a stable camp didn’t erase his knowledge of how unforgiving and deadly the woods in the winter could be. A grown man, much less a young teen, would freeze to death in 20 minutes if it was cold enough. 

It made sense for ghosts to develop powers related to their deaths. Had Phantom been one of the dozens of unfortunate kids he read about every year who ran away in the middle of winter only to found later as a frozen corpse. He eyed the boy’s snow white hair and frigid aura he exuded with mournful trepidation. God, what a horrible way to die. 

“I’d get chilly with ice powers,” Tabby said with a shudder, she held out her cup of cocoa. “You want some of my cocoa to warm you up?”

“No thanks,” Phantom said with a soft smile that was warm despite everything. “The cold hasn’t bothered me for a while.”

XxX

Ghost attacks may be the norm but, if there was one good thing that came out of whole mess it was the fact that violent human crimes went down drastically. So when the rare murder did happen, the shock and fear rippled through the whole town. 

Stanford Newton had only been sheriff of Amity Park for eight months after the last guy had gone gray overnight and moved to Florida the next day. It was a daunting position but one he bore proudly. This wouldn’t be his first murder investigation having initially cut his teeth as a beat cop in Chicago but it would be the first in Amity. And it certainly was the first in which the dead served in an active capacity.

“Amanda Chastain, 27. Officially she was a waitress down at Spengler’s Diner but she’s been picked up for prostitution twice in the last year,” Stan said calmly, ignoring the cold, angry presence over his shoulder. “History of polysubstance abuse as well, not that either of those things mean she deserved this.” Used, beaten to death and then dumped in the trash like yesterday’s paper. 

He wondered if she’d come back a ghost or if she’d finally get some peace this world hadn’t offered her. “We don’t have many leads right now, I’m afraid. Acting illegally as they are, there’s not a lot of resources these poor girls have to turn to.”

“I’ll find them,” The Phantom said with blazing conviction, his voice thick and sharp as ice. “I’ll find and bring them to justice and make sure no one else is hurt again.”

“I believe you,” Stan nodded, shutting his notebook as he finally turned to face the teenage superhero haunting his town. He can’t say he liked what he saw. The Phantom looked even less human than usual, his aura flaring and flickering like the foggy mist before a heavy snowstorm. His unnatural green eyes glowered, painting his too young face in a terrifying light. 

The kid looked furious, clearly taking this death to heart. He’d read the Fenton’s memos about obsessions and such but this seemed beyond that. “But don’t hurt anyone to do it, or yourself while you’re at it.”

“I won’t, I’ll make sure they’ll face human justice and don’t worry,” Phantom gave a snarling smile. “No mortal can hurt me, not like this,” he growled causing the hairs on Stan’s arms and neck to stand on end. He flew off after that, presumably to track down Amanda’s killer.

“Not like this,” Stan mumbled to him, pulling out his handkerchief and wiping his brow where a cold sweat had broken out. “Jesus Christ that poor kid.” Stan had seen plenty of murdered and mutilated bodies in his lifetime, some of them even kids. He just never got to talk to them after they’d had their life forcibly snatched away. It would explain the ghost’s near fanatical determination to save others, why he took a stranger’s murder so personally. 

“I hope your own murderer is behind bars,” Stan said as he tucked his handkerchief back into his coat pocket. “Or even six feet under, for killing a good kid like you.” Stan made his way back to his squad car so he could head back to the station and move forward with the official investigation. But he’d eat his hat if there wasn’t a stammering lowlife there by tomorrow ready to turn themselves in.

 Maybe after all this was settled down, he’d delve into some of the cold cases stacked in the cellar. Maybe in there he’ll find a picture of a smiling, carefree teen who’d disappeared and returned with the power now to ensure no one else suffered as he had.

XxX

“Yes, I know about the Phantom,” Luis Oliveira will say to anyone who so much as brings up the ghost kid. Locals know better by now but the tourists eat it up every time. He twists his finely combed mustache and gestures to the floor where his audience is standing. “He died right there oh ten or eleven years ago.”

Luis has worked his way all across the the United States since he emigrated from Brazil in the 70s. He finally settled in Amity Park about twelve years ago. He’d never intended to stay in the small Midwest town but the fatal shooting of a young customer kept his little corner market open.

“He was a nice kid, always said hi to me and paid in exact change. Was big fan of the snacks I made, would stop by after school and take half my inventory. He had big brown eyes and a crooked nose,” Luis would smile at the memory before closing his eyes and frowning sadly. “One day, he came late. His teacher made him stay after to go over a failed test, I remember he complained. He was pulling out his money when robber burst in, demanding my money. I fumbled for the register key, dropped it. I bent down to grab it and I hear shots going off. Two over my head, another right into the boy’s throat.”

Luis will hear the sound of that sweet boy’s guttural choking sounds as he drowned in his own blood until the day he himself died. The robber left after the shot, Luis called the police and held the young man’s hand as he died. The would be thief were never found and Luis never did learn anything about the boy who’d died on his floor for getting hungry after school.

“As soon as I saw Phantom on the TV,” Luis would say, perking up after his moment of somber grief, “I knew it was that boy come back. Those kind eyes, I’d recognize them anywhere. He’s never come here but one day he will and I will be able to pass on my regret on not being able to save his life that day.”

XxX

“I think he killed himself,” Mikey whispered to Lester during lunch period, angling his voice low. “The jocks may love Phantom for his powers but I just know he was one of us, an unwanted nerd. I’ve seen him chatting up a ghost I’m pretty sure is Poindexter, Casper’s suicide kid. They’re probably bonding over their similar deaths and the circumstances that led to it.”

“That’s pretty dark,” Lester whispered back. “I also get unpopular vibes from him but I don’t think he’s the time do uh do that to himself; he’s too stubborn and protective. But I bet he was the victim of a prank gone wrong. Dash locked Fenton in the Janitor’s closet last Wednesday, he got out okay somehow but maybe something like that happened to Phantom. He always looks kind of annoyed at the A-listers, maybe they remind him of old bullies.”

“Nuh-uh,” Clara said, pushing up her glasses with her middle finger. “The ghost kid totally got electrocuted or something. He was fighting that weather ghost and he sent lightning bolts his way and Phantom flinched. He fought the Ghost King and yet a little electricity scares him? It might not’ve even been a lightning strike but something manmade like a machine backfiring or something.”

“Get real,” Mikey scoffed, sipping his milk with an eyeroll. “I’m sure we’d have heard about some poor kid getting zapped to death; this town isn’t that big.”

“We’d have heard about a suicide too,” Lester noted with a wry grin.

“Shut up Mr. I base my theories around Fenton who’s a known weirdo”.

XxX

“I’m telling you, the ghost kid died of some debilitating illness,” Abbie McMillian, retired school teacher and three year reigning champ at the Tristate area’s Daylily Competition. She sipped her tea and spoke with as much confidence as she had back in the day wrangling Amity’s impressionable youths. “The superhero thing is clear wish childhood fulfillment, a chance to live and be free like he never got to in life. You see how happy and carefree that young man looks while flying? Clearly he spent his formative years sick and weak.”

“No way,” Greta von Martin frowned as she aggressively stirred her own tea to show her displeasure. “I worked in a hospital for close to 30 years and I know what chronically sick kids look like and Phantom doesn’t fit the bill. I will agree he’s carefree when he’s not battling spooks but he acts like a stupid teen. I’m telling you, the boy got into his parent’s liquor cabinet or took a few too many of whatever pill was going around his school. Tragic but something that happens every day.”

“Greta, dearie,” Abbie said with a pinched frown. “We’ve been friends since grade school and I love you like a sister but you are wrong and until you admit it, I won’t share anymore of my recipes.”

“You’re just being stubborn because you can’t see what’s right in front of you even after working with kids half of your life, Abbie, love,” Greta sniffed. “And you can kiss my grandson’s help weeding you garden goodbye until you relent.”

XxX

Perhaps one of the most human traits is curiosity, especially about what comes after death. Now the good people of Amity Park know a great deal about the dead so the lives before is what attracts their attention and none so more than the ghost boy. Maybe it’s because he’s their hero or maybe it’s because he’s so young. Or perhaps it’s because Phantom is such a mess of contradictions that it’s very hard to guess how the unfortunate boy met his end. But everyone has their own theories, from the mundane to the fantastic, some with evidence backing them up and others pure poppycock. 

But for all their curiosity, as much as it burns them to know, they’ll never ask. They don’t want to risk the powerful ghost’s wrath but, moreover, it seemed in poor taste. The boy risked his afterlife to keep them safe, they couldn’t ask what traumatic and miserable circumstances had led to this point.

And besides, it was so much more fun to look up at ghostly figure as he sped through the skies and wonder.

[interact-if]

Day 2 of Pride Month interviews! You know them, you love them…. give it up for Ames!

Ames, author of Attollo and Metamorphosis

Pride Month Featured Authors

“…and it was a singular, terrible thought, which burrowed itself into your mind like an engorged maggot. This was not a man nor a monster. This was a concept, an ideology, a terrible myth, which had personified itself to stand before you now.You were, to put it simply, screwed.”

After several years of radio silence, you receive a message from your younger sibling that carries a strange sense of urgency to it. Either out of familial concern or boredom, you embark on a journey from your residence to your sibling’s apartment in New Hampshire to see what’s going on and, hopefully, be home before the weekend.

Too bad it’s never so simple.

Demo: Attollo, Metamorphosis (TBA)

Tags: cybernoir, thriller

(INTERVIEW TRANSCRIPT UNDER THE CUT!)

Q1: Tell us a little bit about your project(s)!

Attollo is a cyber-noir horror set in a walled city off the coast of the Atlantic that’s been a victim of a nuclear disaster. After several years of radio silence, you receive a message from your younger sibling that carries a strange sense of urgency to it. Either out of familial concern or boredom, you embark on a journey from your residence to your sibling’s apartment in New Hampshire to see what’s going on and, hopefully, be home before the weekend. Too bad it’s never so simple. Attollo is a 17+ game that deals with heavy topics and a lot of moral questioning; from cults to corrupt government, it has no shortage of monsters in the dark—both metaphorical and literal.

Metamorphosis is a crime/horror story based in the world of crime scene cleanup, where there are three simple steps: Get the call, clean the scene, and don’t ask too many questions. These are the rules that you live by under the employment of Noctua’s Crime Scene Services, and you credit them for keeping you alive.

However, after a routine house call brings forth nightmares of memories that are not your own, you find yourself pulled deeper into Noctua—a city of both monster and man—in a bid to find out the truth behind the murder of Deirdre Callow, and better yet, how her memories came to be yours. Your job mandates that you don’t dig too deep—but could this finally be the exception?

Metamorphosis is 18+ and will have explicit content; follow the last moments of a stranger to find out not only who took her life, but how this connects to the underbelly that Noctua works so hard to hide.

Q2: Why interactive fiction? What drew you to the medium?

Lmaoo, oh man. I think it really all began last summer when I first found examples of interactive fiction. I don’t even remember how I came across it, it might’ve been that I saw it mentioned in a post or I saw it as a tag on Itch.io, but at some point, last summer I began to investigate it more. I think what really drew me in was the ability for the player to control the narrative; it was like playing an old RPG, but modernized, and the fact that I could see a story unfold that was influenced by my decisions was so fascinating to me. Not to mention that IF allows so much more character depth than regular novels, in my opinion.

I’m 99% sure my first exposure to interactive fiction was through the game Crème de la Crème (a fantastic game, by the way) and I just enjoyed it so much that I went haywire for the genre. Then Temple of the Endless Night came out (another fantastic game that I’m looking forward to!), and that was really the turning point for inspiring me to give it a go. Now, almost a year later, here I am working on my own two games!

Q3: Are your characters influenced by your identity? How?

My bisexuality doesn’t have much of a major influence on the game, but I do think it contributed to the way that I view and write relationships. I figured out my sexuality around high school (I kissed a girl in high school and found out I liked it just as much as when I kissed a boy) and since then I’ve been very involved in the LGBTQ+ community of both my hometown and uni town.

I think this involvement, like being able to hear about other people’s experiences and share my own, has made me feel a lot more comfortable writing some of the characters in the game. Although Attollo and Metamorphosis both don’t focus heavily on relationships (both have murder in them, which I feel is a bit more pressing), I do keep the option for any RO’s to be romanced by anyone, regardless of gender or preference, because that’s simply what I’ve become so attuned to. In terms of side characters relationships as well, I think my involvement and my own experiences have allowed me to write far more diverse relationships than I might have, and I think that this has also allowed a more fulfilling experience for players when reading through.

I also have incorporated some struggles that I’ve faced before because of my identity into the games. For example, I and a few others have faced issues with religion due to who we are, and I incorporate this into both games. Dreamwalker, Pariah, and Sysba from Attollo all have shadows of this experience in their character origins, and Ilali and Ariston from Metamorphosis has a major point involving identity and beliefs. Both games also have undertows of ostracization and division between groups, which is also something I’ve experienced in the past. Being able to grapple these moments and control them via a narrative has been eye opening for both myself and others involved, and I’m hoping it can be a learning experience for the readers as well.

Q4: What would you like to see more of in LGBT+ fiction?

I think, now, the amount of progress in LGBTQ+ fiction is expanding at a wonderful rate. There are so many interactive fictions with options to select sexuality, select gender, select beliefs, etc. However, despite this expansion, there’s still a good deal of backlash against some aspects of LGBTQ+ fiction.

For example, as a bisexual woman who has dated men, I know there are some individuals who may not consider me a part of the LGBTQ+ because of this aspect. Not only is this incredibly disheartening, but it’s a viewpoint that I think should be educated against, and fiction is a fantastic pathway to do this. Another example I can think of is a friend of mine who identifies as asexual but is sex-neutral rather than sex-repulsed. Most people can’t believe her when she says this, and she often faces backlash for this declaration as well. This is another thing that I think that, with exposure through a medium such as fiction, can be worked on.

What I’m trying to say here is that I think LGBTQ+ fiction can be a brilliantly educational platform—if used right. Although it already teaches so much with what it has, I think having that representation of different subgroups of sexuality, of their experiences and beliefs, so people can become aware and knowledgeable of these options, is something I’d like to see more of.

Q5: What or who are some of your biggest inspirations?

Oh man, I struggled to list off inspirations because I know I have some, but as soon as someone asks me who they are my brain just goes ‘brrrrrr’ LMAO.

In terms of the games that I write and the worlds that I build, I think David Lynch and Robert Chambers are probably the two that I somehow incorporate. Attollo and Metamorphosis both have a lot of surrealist horror, which are what these two really specialized in. Shirley Jackson is also another person who inspired me a lot when it came to the writing and creation of Attollo, especially the intrapersonal relationships between the characters.

In terms of life, this is something else I really struggle to answer. I don’t really have celebrity inspirations or anything like that, but I do get inspired by my close friends and sister a lot. Seeing them go through the struggles that they face and absolutely thrive really drives me to push through my own struggles. They’re the strongest, most brilliant group of people that I know, and I consider myself incredibly fortunate that I can be a part of their lives. Not only that, but we also all collectively encourage each other to push further and to chase our dreams (as cheesy as that is LMAO) and that’s something that I think is another stroke of good fortune. I struck gold when I met them, and they’re some of the biggest inspirations in my life.

Q6: What’s a super vague spoiler for your current project?

For Attollo, I’d say ‘Home is where the heart is.’ For Metamorphosis, to quote John Berendt, ‘Always stick around for one more drink.’

Q7: Lastly, what advice would you give to your readers?

What advice would I give to you all? Oh my, I’m not exactly a wise woman here, but I’ll do my best to give you something lmaooo. I think what I really want you to walk away with, from both my stories and this interview, is that if you’re passionate about something, then share it with the world. Don’t let anyone deter your passion.

I remember listening to this painter once who commented to his friend how he ‘really liked painting’, and his friend’s first response was ‘but are you good at it?’. He then compared this to the scenario of walking; would you say, ‘but are you good at it?’ to someone who said, ‘I really like walking’? No, because it simply wouldn’t make sense, and it doesn’t make sense to say that to anyone who’s doing something out of passion.

To put it simply—if you love something, then don’t let anyone take that passion from you. I began writing these stories because I’m passionate about Attollo and Metamorphosis; I love each character, each bit of lore, and I share it with you because I want you all to enjoy it as well. Am I the best writer? God, no. Does everyone like what I write? Definitely not. But will I let this stop me from writing, from enjoying what I’m doing? Never, and I want you to do the same.

Explore your passions, embrace your passions, and let what makes you happy continue to do so