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hiragikiss · 4 months ago

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𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆, 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆！

₊˚ෆ── tags : fluff, slight hurt/comfort, married life, husband & wife, fiancé & fiancee, mentions of kaiser's past (spoiler ig?), mentions of pregnancy, mentions of nudity(no smut), pro athlete!au

₊˚ෆ── including : fiancé!michael kaiser, husband!mikage reo (ft. wife/fiancee! reader)

₊˚ෆ── sum. : hey, where's your ring? why is it off your finger?(should i do part 2. . . ? )

⊹ ִֶָ𓏲࣪𖹭 𝐌𝐈𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐄𝐋 𝐊𝐀𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐑

when it comes to choosing partner, a person that he wishes to spend the rest of his life with, michael kaiser is very careful about it. he has witnessed the darkness behind a failed marriage for so long and decided to never make a mistake in his own, as to not bear the consequences of poor decision. thus, kaiser has always been so full of love and patience when it comes to you. he has always been as gentle as possible whenever he speaks or touches you.

but, everyone has a limit and seems to react negatively to it in the most non suitable moment ever. you knew he might have been so upset and emotionally disturbed with all of the pent up stress, building up from the pressure of the media, his team and more. however, it does not act as an excuse for him to let it all out on you. that night, he was obviously irritated to the point of snapping at you.

he laid on the sofa, sighing heavily as he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to calm himself down from the sudden bubbling anger rushing through his veins at this very moment. he had just return from an interview regarding to his career updates and happened to be rudely bombarded by nosy paparazzis, causing his phone charm to be lost in that moment. the crowd was too much, he can't reach nor search for the charm, not when the guards were shoving him into the van with protective manner. to the others, it might have been a cheap phone charm that he could purchase any time yet to michael kaiser, it holds so much memories, it meant a lot to him. and you.

you heard your fiancé while you were cleaning up the kitchen. excited to see him, you toss your apron onto the marble kitchen island, making your way towards him. perhaps you were too excited to see him that you didn't notice the still wet floor that you mopped minutes ago, ending with you falling onto the floor with a loud thud, sound of picture frame crashing could be heard as you tried to hold onto a surface to balance yourself but grabbed the wrong thing instead. the loud noise startled kaiser, his anger is pumping rapidly in his veins again, rising up from the sofa and make his way toward the noise.

"love— "

"why can't you be quiet for once? you always had to do something to get on my nerve, don't you?"

your eyebrows furrowed upon his taunting words that are hinted with anger. you knew that he's overstimulated by frustration but it still stir the annoyance in you. who is he to snap at you just because he is feeling negatively?

"wow, my bad i guess. didn't know it'd be a crime to be excited to see my fiancé."

kaiser frowned at your words.

"i don't like your tone."

"right, says the one who started being such a bitch."

"watch your mouth— "

"watch yours first, michael kaiser. look, i don't know what had happen during your interview but can you not take it out on me? i'm not a tool for you to release your stress on. you know what? go cool yourself off, until then we'll talk."

you ignored him as he stood there silently. you fetch your cleaning tools and carefully deal with the broken pieces, placing the picture back on its place while gathering the ruined pieces of broken picture frame into the dust pan. michael only watch your movements, not even a word spoken. he knew you're right and listened to your words as he remove himself from the spot, heading out for a walk.

kaiser spent quite a long moment as he sit by the lazy chair perched up in the garden where you've planted various flowers. the warm white light shining onto each petals and leaves of the flowers, making it appearing more romantic to look at. kaiser's fingers fiddle with his engagement ring hugging his ring finger as he zone out. his mind is clouded with hazy thoughts that are rapidly messing up his mind at this moment, be it from his past or present. he rethink of his behaviour toward you moments ago and sighed heavily. such violent behaviour his, it almost resemble to his abusive male parent back in his childhood.

growing up in violent atmosphere, pain is all he ever learn about. he yearn for love ; to love and to be loved. he spent his childhood imagining what a love would feel like ; is it true that motherly love feels like heaven? is it true that fatherly love feels like you're in the safest universe ever? they said, parents are the hero of every children, yet, why does his abused him and neglected him?

was it because his parent's love were meant to be painful as you yearn more for it? was it because love was never real? or worse, was it because he is just an unlovable child? if love truly exist, why does he need to suffer in order to get a taste of it? they said love is sweet, yet why was it bitter to him? they said love is warm, yet why was he lying on the cold floor as warm fist pounding his fragile body? they said love is soft, yet why was it full of thorns as he held it in his palms?

that was what he was taught about love from the unhealthy surroundings he was locked in. when he met you, he discover what true love is like. he learned that love is when you let out quirky laughs that tingle his ears yet warms up his chest as he laughs along with you ; he learned that love is when you learn about soccer trick online to impress him just for you to clumsily trip, telling him that you'd love to learn more of his passion ; he learned that love is when you hold him tightly as his vulnerable side was exposed when he had failed his own expectation, validating his emotions and never resort to violence to make him quit from feeling low. love with you is what he has always read about on the fairytales storybook that he secretly kept in his room when he was a kid.

you came to him and show him that love isn't always a hard gain yet he hurt you with his action. the thought of you walking away from him suffocate him. he knew he is only imagining about it yet to not see your smile, to not hear your laughter, to not smell your heavenly fragance, to not touches your skin and to not share your warmth is something he could never want to lose.

"god, i fucked up." he cussed under his breathe as he runs into the house, looking for you.

he entered the shared bedroom, heart drop at the sight of your engagment ring placed upon your vanity table. you're not in the room, which adds up to his overthinking. when he heard the soft patterings of shower waters hitting the floor, that's when he knew you're in there. it confirmed his guess when he heard soft sniffles coming from there as he leaned his ear against the door. he was quick to undo his garments and grab your ring, entering the bathroom as quietly as possible.

"darling?"

his heart soften yet saddened at the sight of your crying nude form, standing under the shower head as you try your best to not let out too much sniffles. thank god you're still with him. he makes his way toward you, engulfing you into his chest, holding onto you as his lips raining kisses unto your wet skin.

"please forgive me, my love. i'm sorry for hurting you." he apologised, rubbing your back softly to comfort you.

"must've hurt your ego to apologise to me, huh? serve you right." you countered his words with a hint of sadness in it.

"it hurts even more if i lose you, love. i never want to lose you."

he whispered, lowering his lips to capture yours, apologising to you silently. you closed your eyes, savoring his kiss, letting his lips stiches apology unto yours, a promise to never hurt you again. he parted his lips from you, eyes looking into yours as his palm make its way to caress your cheeks. his hands then moves itself to grab yours, kissing each knuckles before he slides your ring back to its place. he sealed it with another kiss on the ring.

"please, don't leave me, love."

"i won't, darling. i'm here, forever and always."

⊹ ִֶָ𓏲࣪𖹭 𝐌𝐈𝐊𝐀𝐆𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐎

mikage reo, a man who was born with a silver spoon in his mouth along with a face blessed by the heaven. he has always knew that his life is well promising and had nothing to worry about. he has always been so generous of his money, be it to use on himself or use it on his friends. just as when he was with his toys when he was a toddler, always sharing it with his play dates or childhood friends. when he reached the age of entering teenager life, he is still so kind when it comes to money matters until it was when he met his friend, nagi seishiro. for once in his life, he dislike sharing, nagi is his friend and nobody could have him.

that goes on until the day he met you. when it comes to you, not even his beloved close friend could have a touch. for the very first time in his life, he is not kind with nagi when it comes to you. nagi wants to play games with you because he heard you're good at it? no need, reo is hiring a famour gamer to play with nagi. nagi would like to hear about your plant pet? no need, reo is buying him a whole nursery of cactus that varies from different species of cactus. nagi was suspicious of reo but he couldn't complaint because at least he is getting something better to ease his boredom.

reo even make it obvious to the other girls that he is yours the moment both of you made it official. reo is well known for using aesthetic hard covers for his phone but when he started dating you, he changed it to clear case, polaroid of you that's his favourite will be placed in it, displaying to others and showing off his lovely lover.

what about you? how do they know that you are mikage reo's lover? it's easy, it's those luxury branded items that you're wearing. he always make sure that most of it are custom made and limited item. it may cause him to spend a little bit extra but hey, if it's you, he'll even sacrifice the world to make sure you're always pretty and well taken care of. he knew how you love to care for yourself from the way you do your skincare, haircare, daily exercises, makeup and dressing up. he loves it as well and enjoys to indulge into it. as long as you're happy, he is happy as well.

that was until today, when he saw a frown on your pretty face. it wasn't common for you to get upset so easily, he wonder what could've cause such discomfort for you. is it the month of your menstrual cycle begin? no way, that'll be on another 2 weeks, he keep tracks on them. is it because your boss was being harsh on you? no way, he started up a business for you to run and support your cute cafe that sell fresh pastries, sweet flowers and refreshing coffee. is it because your favourite show was postponed because of the billing? no way, he made sure to purchase a year worth of membership with the highest graphic quality for you every year. so, what is it that bother you? he makes his way toward you and holds your hand only for you to pulls it away from him quickly, panic eyes staring at his. he noticed how you hide your hand behind you.

"hubby! hi!" you stuttered a little, trying your best to hide whatever you'd like to hide from him.

"you good, dearest? why won't you let me hold your hand?" he asked, his hand moving to grab yours again.

"my skin is too dry, it'd be unpleasant for you to hold them." you told him, removing your hands from his again.

"what a nonsense, you've always been perfect, dear." he praised, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your forehead.

"my, thank you. aren't you praising me too much, reo?"

"mm, never, dear."

he kisses your lips this time, distracting you from his hand caressing yours, pulling away when he finally caught unto the reason of you hiding your hands from him. he looks into your eyes, scrunching up his nose when he noticed you're getting a bit shy from his full attention and affection.

"what?" you pouted.

"you're so cute and silly too, dear." reo teased, giggling when you playfully frowned at him.

he fish out a velvet box from his back pocket, showing it to you as he opens them. inside, is your wedding ring, the one that you thought you had lost it. you gasp and look at him.

"how?! i thought i lost it!"

"i took them for a cleaning, remember? how could you be so forgetful, dear."

reo smiles as he gets onto one knee, holding your hand gently as he slips it back onto your ring finger. standing up, he kisses the back of your hand. he is so amused with your expression at the moment, all flustered just like how he proposed to you before.

"why were you not telling the truth while ago, hm?" reo questioned.

"knowing you, you'd buy new ones if i truly lost it— "

"why, of course. i'll buy you as many rings as possible, as long as you're happy."

of course he would, how could you doubt him? he is your husband who love to spoil you a little too much.

"thank you, but i'd love to lower the usage of our money, you know?"

"why? is your cafe's billing getting higher? i'll— "

"reo hubby, no. little mikage is on the way, of course we should be spending wisely, right?"

"oh, right, yea— wait. what?!"

you laughed at his reaction. my, your husband is so entertaining.

"yes, dear. we're having a baby!"

reo laughs happily as he hugs you, carefully yet tightly.

"i'm calling nagi, he needs to know that he is an uncle now!"

and you know you did the right thing when you accepted his ring of promises and afraid of losing it. he promised to make you the happiest person ever and he did fulfilled his promises. or should you say, he has always been fulfilling his promises and sealed his promise to eternity.

masterlist . pinned post

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reality-detective · 2 months ago

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EXPOSED: The Hidden Network of 10,000 Deep Underground Military Bases (D.U.M.B.s) – A Global Conspiracy Unveiled

Beneath our feet lies a world shrouded in darkness and secrecy—a network of over 10,000 Deep Underground Military Bases (D.U.M.B.s) that stretch across the globe. These aren’t just military bunkers; they’re part of a sinister plan by the global elite to maintain control over humanity, operating far beyond the reach of any government oversight.

The Dark Underworld: 10,000 D.U.M.B.s Across the Planet Imagine a vast labyrinth of underground bases, hidden from the public eye, where the most horrific activities take place. Over 10,000 of these bases exist worldwide, with 1,800 in the United States alone. These facilities aren’t just military outposts; they are massive underground cities connected by high-speed trains, built for purposes that defy the imagination.

Unthinkable Atrocities: Human Captivity and Bio-Experiments Within these bases, unspeakable horrors are said to occur. Reports of human experimentation, especially on children, are whispered among those who dare to investigate. These facilities allegedly host bio-research labs developing weapons designed to target specific DNA, viruses meant to decimate populations, and other forms of biological warfare. These aren’t just theories—they’re terrifying realities hidden from the world.

The Elite's Secret Army: Engineered Super Soldiers One of the most disturbing revelations is the existence of engineered super soldiers, bred and conditioned within these D.U.M.B.s. These soldiers, created through a twisted combination of genetic engineering and cybernetics, are designed to be the ultimate weapons—loyal, fearless, and nearly invincible. Their purpose? To protect the secrets of these underground bases and to enforce the will of the global elite.

The Vatican-Jerusalem Tunnel: A Sinister Connection Adding to this web of deceit is the recent discovery of a 1,500-mile tunnel connecting the Vatican to Jerusalem, reportedly filled with a staggering hoard of gold. This treasure trove, transported by an armada of 650 planes, is rumored to be part of the Vatican’s secret wealth, hidden away for centuries and now uncovered as part of this global conspiracy.

A Global Web of Control: The Super Elites At the heart of this conspiracy are the so-called "Super Elites"—a tiny fraction of the global population who pull the strings from the shadows. These are the same elites who control the military-industrial complex, the media, and even the highest levels of government. Their reach is so vast that over 800 million individuals within the global military and intelligence complex answer to them, ensuring that their grip on power remains unchallenged.

The Puppet Masters: Rothschilds, Rockefellers, and Khazarian Bloodlines Behind the scenes, powerful families like the Rothschilds and Rockefellers, along with ancient Khazarian bloodlines, have been orchestrating this control for centuries. Their influence spans continents, manipulating world events to maintain their dominance. Their goal is not just to amass wealth but to control humanity itself.

The White Hats: A Glimmer of Hope But not all hope is lost. A group of brave individuals within the military, known as the White Hats, are fighting back. These warriors operate in the shadows, working tirelessly to expose the truth and dismantle the structures of oppression. They are the last line of defense against this global conspiracy, dedicated to restoring justice and freedom to humanity.

The Final Hour: A Call to Action We stand on the brink of a new era, where the truth will finally be revealed. The age of ignorance is over. The forces of darkness will be exposed, and the world will see the light of truth. But we must be vigilant and ready to act. The future of humanity depends on our willingness to confront the darkness and reclaim our freedom. The time for revelation is now—will you be ready when the final battle begins? 🤔

- Julian Assange

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 1 year ago

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Shameless

Sequel to Graceless

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon, manipulation, dejection, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: The reader attempts to move past her ruination, but is reminded of her tarnish conscience at every turn. (Regency AU, tall!reader)

Character: Steve Rogers, Thor Odinson

Note: Here we are. The sequel but not the end.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you like I love coffee and that’s a lot and probably unhealthy. Take care. 💖

The string of the glove’s seam trails loosely from the thumb. You twist the thread, playing with it, but doing little to mend it. Even with a needle in hand, you have no whim to darn. There are many things in life that cannot be repaired no matter how you try. Occurrences which cannot be taken back.

You pull at the seam until a hole forms in it. You poke your finger through with no heed for the glove’s integrity. You detest that pair anyhow. The very same you wore… that day.

Albina lays at the foot of the bed, her head bent back over the edge as she peruses one of her novellas. Hannah and Cora disappeared ages ago and you only just heard them through the windows. They are likely causing chaos in the gardens. You hope your mother finds them and issues a reprimand for their immaturity.

The autumn thins the air as it creeps in around the window frame and you smell that discerning scent of dirt and leaves. Only a week and it feels as if the whole world has changed seasons. Your world has transformed irrevocably.

There’s a clatter and you glance over as Albina rolls onto her side. She’s always hated to be disturbed amid her stories. She huffs and falls onto her back to begin again, but the door bursts open, your two other sisters tromping through with excitement.

Albina shuts her book loudly and sighs as she sits up. You go back to your exploration of the glove, watching the thread stretch along the seam as you tug. If only that were Cora. If only you could rent her pretty hair from her pretty head. Or in the least, swat the smug grin from her lips.

You can’t even look at her. It just makes you think of him. Of how stupid you’d been. You believed his promises were meant for you but it’s only as you relive that haunting episode every night that you realise, he never proclaimed his intent for you, only alluded to a vague offer. Another mean trick.

“Lord Rogers has sent a gift,” Cora trills as she stands at the vanity, shuffling something unseen before her. Hannah stands at her side, bouncing with anticipation.

“Oh, what do you think it is?” Hannah chimes.

“Could you not unveil it in the sunroom, where there is no one reading?” Albina says as she drags herself to the edge of the bed, resting her book on her skirts.

“Could you not get your head out of those ridiculous fancies,” Cora retorts over her shoulder, “if you ever do for long enough, you might just find a husband too.”

You don’t look up. You refuse to give her the satisfaction. You haven’t missed her wandering glances, how she taunts you without even a word. She turns back to her gift and rustles beneath the thick paper.

“Oh, heavens,” she swoons and spins, “isn’t it beautiful?”

“Are those rubies?” Hannah preens.

“I think.”

“Garnet?” Albina suggests.

“No, no, surely they are rubies,” Cora insists. “Do you see?” She swirls around the room closer to you, “I must find the perfect gown to wear with this. Oh, he would fawn to see me in his ribbon, wouldn’t he, sister?”

You grip the glove tight as her figure looms over you. With your other hand, you clutch the needle, letting it jab into your palm until your eyes prick. You nod, “very beautiful.”

You stand the moment you get the words free of your dry throat. You try to smile but can only muster a strained grimace. You try to step past Cora but she moves with you.

“You’ve not even looked,” she says, “how would know how beautiful it is?”

“Cora, please.”

“No, no, have a look. It’s so elegant, isn’t it?”

You clamp your lips together. Your insides tangle painfully. Even as the tenderness leaves the bruises in your thighs, you swear they hurt just as much as the day after. You sniff.

“Please, move out of my way,” you beg.

“Oh, sister, why must you be so dour? Is that jealousy I sense?”

“No,” you snarl. Jealousy. Oh, something much deeper, something agonizing. “I said move.”

“Move? Well, it looks like I am the first to wear a title so it is me who should be issuing the orders, don’t you think?”

“Oh, Cor, you are not duchess yet,” Albina reproaches, “let her pass.”

The heat rises up your back and crawls onto your neck. You feel like you’re suffocating. You feel like the walls are closer together, as if the world is hewn in fire. It is all burning down around you.

“She is being a sour little brat about it, Al,” Cora snaps, “it isn’t fair of her to ruin my engagement. I don’t know where she ever got the idea that Lord Rogers had any mind for h–”

You don’t think. You need to get out of here. You shove Cora out of your way and stomp past her as she gasps. You drop the glove as the needle sinks further into your palm. You sweep out of the door and hurry down the corridor. You hear her, whining pitifully as you flee.

“She shoved me! She–”

“Oh, you did goad her,” Albina’s quiet scolding follows you to the stairs, “put that ribbon away, you’ll only ruin it.”

Ruin…

The word clings to you as you barrel down the stairs, as if running from your own shame and anger. You love your sister, you would never wish anything horrid on her, but you can’t help that small whisper in your mind that suggests that Lord Rogers may just treat her as cruelly as he has done you.

💙

The autumn continues its slow advance, nipping in the air and at the foliage alike. You smell the crispness as it wafts through the open window of the carriage, cooling the cluster of bodies within. Your father rides with the driver, guffawing loudly with the clop of hooves. Your mother fans herself as she needles away with her relentless critique.

…Albina, push your shoulders back; Hannah, keep your lips shut tight, you don’t need horseflies wandering in; You, fix your bonnet, it is dipping at the front; Oh, Cora, isn’t that a lovely ribbon…

You try not to mope. The more you do, the more pleasure Cora takes in her victory. You will forget it, you will go on as you’ve ever done. Dejected. You fold one hand around the other, your palm tender from the bite of the needle still wrought into your flesh.

You look up as the carriage slows. The lush green of the promenade tinges with edges of russet and patches of goldenrod. Lords and ladies stroll along the brickwork walkway, skirts swishing around languid steps, arms hooked in one another, others perched upon benches or huddled around the grand fountain at the center.

Your father climbs down as the driver unlatches the door. Your mother emerges first, her fan clapping shut sharply and knocking against the frame. Cora is second, then Albina, Hannah, and yourself. You come out behind them and feel your height all the more. You hunch and grip your wrist tight.

“Do not slouch,” your mother looks back and raps your arm with her fan, “no lord wants to walk alongside a hobbling giant.”

“Yes, mother,” you correct yourself and let your vision drift off into a vacant blur.

“Ladies,” a familiar timbre approaches with a pair of footsteps, “you’ve arrived.”

You refuse to look at Lord Rogers as he stands just along your peripheral. He greets your mother with a cordial bow of his head and shakes your father’s hand. At last, he addresses his betrothed as she wiggles in her skirts and nearly squeaks.

“Lord Rogers,” she drawls, “I wore the rubies.”

“Beautiful,” he praises, “my lady, might I request a stroll upon the promenade?”

“Aye, you may,” your father answers, volunteering himself as escort.

“Sir,” Rogers accepts elegantly and offers his arm to Cora, “and perhaps a few more daughters might care to join us?”

“They will remain with me,” your mother insists, “we would like to see the roses.”

You wait until they’ve departed to dare a peek at them. Lord Rogers struts away confidently with his arm through Cora’s. Your father trails them with his brass-tipped cane. Your ribs rack as if they might collapse in on themselves.

“Come girls, the autumn will wilt away the roses,” your mother declares, “let us make our rounds, perhaps we might have two engagements this season, hm?”

You linger behind the others. You keep your head down as you watch the toes of your boots poke out from beneath your skirts with each step. Your led by the hem of your sisters ahead of you.

As you approach the hoop of rose bushes, there is an unexpected furor. Voices trill and flutter, a booming laugh that rolls like thunder. You raise your eyes and see a blond head above a cluster of hats. You don't recognise the lord amid the clan of amused men.

"How rowdy," your mother remarks in her curmudgeon way.

She ignores the pluck of glee for the thorny tangles. Hannah and Albina give longing looks to the uproar but dutifully accompany your mother to the hedges. The eldest of your quartet pets the paling pink petals and grieves the browning at the edges.

The dullness of that moment feels like a promise. This is how life will always be for someone like you. You will never know excitement, you will only ever be a witness, a scrap of collateral left to squander.

You pretend to admire the greenery. The colours are faded and worn. Just like everything since that night. As you are.

You smell the leaves and the pollen and you're taken back to that moonlit moment. The cool air on your skin, the friction of his figure, his weight trapping you on the stone.

The leaves mesh together in a tapestry of swirling hues. You quickly dab your eyes before your tears can spill over. Those bouts come suddenly and dry up just as soon. You cannot let it take you here.

An emptiness enshrines you and you peer over to find yourself all alone. Your sisters and your mother have left you, forgotten you. Not such an unexpected plight but painful nonetheless. You turn in search of them and nearly collide with another.

You press yourself to the bushes behind you and swallow a gasp, creaking out an apology.

"Apologies, my lord, I did not see you–"

"Lady," the man greets with a courteous dip of his chin, looking down at you. Down! He is even taller than you.

The same lord with the blond hair who had a crowd raucous. You do not know him. He is rather older than any courtly debut.

"You mustn't catch yourself," he reaches around you delicately and untangles a fold of your skirt from the thorny vines, "it is too fine a dress to tarnish."

"Thank you, sir, it seems I am a bit obtuse at the moment," you force a smile.

He is very handsome. He eyes a brighter shade than even Lord Rogers and his hair even more golden. That comparison urges you back to the ground. You are still you and you cannot be so foolish as to let yourself believe contrary ever again.

"Might I–"

"I spy–"

You speak at the same time and both correct yourself. You defer and touch your lips in embarrassment, "apologies, once more, I keep treading on your toes."

"I have tough toes," he japes, "I meant to ask if I might have your name."

"Oh, yes, sir," you give him your name, "I admit I am ignorant of your own identity."

"Ah, yes, I have come from far," he grins, "Lord Thor Odinson, of Asgard."

"Asgard, why that is very far," you comment, "well, sir, it was a delight to meet you. Welcome to our homeland."

"A privilege," he returns, "if I might be so forward, as I am a stranger to this land, I would extend to you an invitation to dinner as I acquaint myself with your country. Would that be too improper?"

"Sir," you flutter your fingers at your side as you stand awkwardly before him, "I would needs ask my father."

"Yes, certainly you would, as you are unwed," he says as if untwining a riddle, "I do hope you will be permitted."

"My lord," you bow your head, "my mother…"

You look past him to your mother's fan as she beckons to you with it. Lord Odinson steps aside and extends his arm in gallant dismissal. You shift to move past him.

"Thank you, my lord."

"Allow me to thank you, lady, for entertaining my tedious conversation," he counters and you quickly flit away.

You near your mother as your other sisters crowd her. She is jibbering behind her fan, "...an ambassador," she says and snaps together the folds, "I hope you did not spoil our welcome."

"Mother?" You look at her in confusion, your cheek hot and tingling still.

"With that Lord, he did invite us to a dinner," she explains, "it would be very important for your father."

You shake your head. You don't argue. Ah, but the invitation was extended to all. Are you so foolish to think otherwise? You must shield yourself in the harsh lesson you've been taught. You are not and can never be special.

💙

The night of Lord Odinson's dinner arrives. You wear a gown of black patterned with deep green vines. Plain attire in contrast to Cora's shining scarlet silk, Alvina's buoyant blue bodice, and Hannah's deep rose sleeves. You add a simple beaded ribbon around your head, and a string of pearls around your neck.

"Dour," your mother remarks as she emerges in a tangerine satin, "ah, Cora, my darling, you look splendid. And to think, now that your engagement is public, you will be a pretty ornament on Lord Rogers' arm."

"Mother," she preens, averting her eyes in feigned modesty.

You clutch your reticule tight and glance over as you hear the approach of hooves. It is Lord Rogers' coach. The vehicle bustles towards the gates, open in expectation of him, and you look away. You can hardly bear the sight of red paint that decorates the doors.

His driver slows and breaks in the dirt. He greets your father as ever, gallant and proper. You put your teeth over your lower lip and peek up, catching the glint of Rogers' sapphire irises. His cheek dimples as his brows twitch. You swiftly rescind your gaze, favouring the dust on your slippers to him. He is as handsome as ever but to you, he is a vile cad. A demon clothed in cravat and vest.

He helps your mother first into the coach, then Cora, Hannah, Alvina, and finally yourself. He extends his gloved hand to you and you stare at his palm with disgust. You put your hand in his and step up into the vehicle. He squeezes before he lets go, a subtle tug on your skirt as you duck inside.

You sit on the bench between Albina and Hannah. You play with the strap of your reticule, focusing on it as you coil it like a snake. You only need to survive the journey to lord's manor. You've survived worse, and all at his hand.

💙

The manor is called The Nine Pillars, a rather strange name for a house, but referenced by the columns set into the stone walls. Each is topped with the facsimile of a different beast's head; a lion, a boar, a bear, a wolf, a falcon, a stallion, a bull, a viper, and an elephant. You lean over Albina to take it in, only to be nudged back to the middle.

You sigh and trail the part from the court. Attendants await your arrival at the broad steps of the manor house, the style much unlike that of the other courtly homes. The peak of the house resembles a warship overturned and the walls are without the typical white wash. It is very antiquated yet refined.

You enter the glowing hall, the glass lamps hung from the walls lit in an illuminating speckle. Voices carry from the drawing room where other guests gather and the bustle of the house staff flutters around the corridors and clamours from the kitchen. Your stole is taken by a groom and you nod in acknowledgement at his diligence. Your stomach swirls nervously.

The drawing room is a cluster of swishing skirts, flapping fans, and waggling coat tails. Your mother and father greet another older couple as your sisters disperse; Cora to show off her betrothed, Albina to whisper to Maria about her novels, and Hannah to gossip about the newest debuts. You find yourself lost before the sea of elegant figures.

You wade towards them, weaving between the bodies, looking around for any sense of welcome. Those who do see you, turn away quickly, as others pretend not to notice your towering form. You will find a place on the wall as you ever do.

"Lady," a deep voice calls but you don't bother to hear it. It cannot possibly be directed at you. It calls again, several times, before pronouncing your name. You spin to face Lord Odinson before you can retreat to your setinel against the wallpaper.

"My Lord," you greet him, "pardon me, there is much going on, I mustn't have heard you calling."

"Ah, but forgive me, it is rather uncouth to be shouting," he stops before you, "my mother always said I did blow in like a storm."

"Oh," you nod politely. You're not used to someone looking you in the eye, not without having to awkwardly contort your posture.

"She would like you, very much, I think."

"Why would you think that, my lord? You hardly know me."

"But I see you, a strong woman, built like a valkyrie. You are resilient and might I so forwardly say, resplendent."

"Sir?" You peer around, looking for an audience, for someone in collusion taking amusement from his false interest. It is always a trick.

"Again, I am the tempest, I cannot be subtle, not with a lady so stunning. Awe-inspiring. If I am the storm, you must be the sky," he remarks boldly.

You face him, a frown.

"Lady, it is a compliment," his face turns sober, "I hope I didn't overstep--"

"It is a joke. Who do you make laugh? For who am I the farce tonight?"

"Joke? Not at all. Never," he glances around the room. He is quiet as he takes in those around him. As he sees their elusive eyes and cold shoulders. "They cannot see what is right in front of them. A goddess--"

"No," you nearly sob, "no. I am not goddess." You bow your head, as you hear that same word from enough, a memory; Athena. "No sir," you put your chin up defiantly, "I will not be fooled by you."

"Fooled, my lady--"

"Excuse me," you shuffle away from him, "I need air..."

"Lady," he calls again but you elude him, delving into the crowd, marching away with head and shoulders down.

As you near the door, you hear a familiar laugh. You look to find Lord Rogers with Cora on his arm, his golden hair shining, her locks perfectly spiraled and set. He tilts his head towards her, "I call her my Athena," he says loudly, as if he knows you are listening, "for I worship her."

His eyes flick up and meet yours. You recoil and spin on your heel. Scalded, you flee into the hall and huddle into an alcove. No one would notice if you stayed out here all night.

💙

You sit among the guests at the table. The women chatter as the men speak in low voices about their business or some writ tabled in session that morning. You do neither as you're isolated in the fervor. As sherry and wine flows generously, you partake only of lemon water and loneliness.

You peer down the table and find yourself drawn to a pair of eyes. Lord Odinson. Where you expect tension or disappointment, you find only an amiable smile. He is almost dreamy as he watches you. You turn in your seat and look at Albina next to you, she's bent so far toward Hannah in her whispering that he likely cannot even see you.

You keep your gaze on the table. You will not encourage him. Lord Rogers taught you caution, he taught you your worth and not to think yourself above it. You feel suddenly sick, as if you could spew onto the table.

There is the clink of glass and someone clears their throat. The buzz around you hushes and all turn to the head of the table. You look over reluctantly. It is Lord Odinson, the host, about to make his toast. He stands, a crystal glass in hand.

"Welcome and thank you all for attending. You've all made me feel rather at home," he raises his glass and the guests mirror him. You lift yours a few seconds too late. He sets down the flute and continues, "and while you've all ingratiated me so kindly, I hope you might tolerate a little piece of my homeland."

He pauses and gestures to someone you can't see. A servant comes forward, holding a wooden box carved with symbols you don't recognise. Runes, perhaps.

"In my faith, there are the Valkyrie. They are the embodiment of female power and prestige and thus they are the keeper of our culture, of our ways. They are fertile and beautiful. So it is that each season, one lady is crowned as Valkyrie. I understand that I've come late but I am honoured to spend the season here, in your society. Thus, tonight has been more than a dinner..."

He stops as the servant opens the box. He takes out a crown of daisies wrought in gold and silver. He presents it to the room with a smile.

Cora leans forward as her eyes round in greed and the other women sit up, admiring the piece of jewelry and peeking at each other. You don't move, you stare at the wall and wait. You wonder who it will be. Maybe Cora or Maybelle and her doe eyes.

There is another lull, swollen with anticipation and intrigue. Lord Odinson gives a soft chuckle before he declares his valkyrie. No one speaks, none says a word. You blink. He speaks again.

You feel a nudge on your elbow as Albina leans towards you and whispers, "it's you."

You glance at her, then along the table. Cora's eyes are narrowed at you and Lord Rogers looks like he's chewing his own tongue. You turn your attention to Lord Odinson, trapped in surprise and disbelief.

"Yes, lady, please, come and claim your crown."

You grasp the arms of the chair and push it out as you rise. You walk stiffly, keenly aware of those watching you. You stride down the long table and near Lord Odinson. He faces you and hovers the crown over your head. You bow and he lowers it on, wiggling it to be sure it's firmly in place.

"It is I who shoulder defer to you, sweet lady," he lowers himself to a knee and bows his head, "our valkyrie."

The silence looms. You refuse to look back. You feel the stare, the disapproval, and disappointment. There's a clap and you flinch. Then another, and slowly the applause build.

Lord Odinson stands again and takes your hand, placing a kiss on your fingers. You meet his eyes, so intense you could melt.

"As I said," he keeps his timbre low, "it was not a joke."

💙

"Can I see it?" Albina asks as you go to set the crown on the narrow table.

"Oh, certainly," you turn to her. You're still burning with excitement. It's only one night, it doesn't mean anything, but it is a good night.

You hand her the crown and she takes it, admiring the craftwork with aw and showing it to Hannah as she nears. She places it on her head and rocks her shoulders.

"I am the valkyrie," she japes.

"No, I am the valkyrie," Hannah snatches the crown and dawns it.

"You are both children," Cora sneers as she shoves her ribbon of rubies into her jewelry box, "please, that lord is only here to pander to our king on his family's behalf. Nothing else."

"You're only jealous," Hannah rebukes.

"Am not," Cora stomps up and swipes the crown of daisies, "what would I need with a meaningless thing like this. Queen of what? The chimera? You don't even know what a valkyrie is."

"Nor do you," Hannah retorts.

"I do," Albina asserts, "they are an army of female warriors who lead the dead--"

"I do not give a fig," Cora flings the crown so it hits the bedframe and bounces off, "we don't believe in them here. That man is a fool."

"Oh, I saw you fawning over him, Cor," Albina goads, "don't lie. Rogers himself looked concerned."

"Fawning? Don't be silly."

You don't say a word as you go to fetch the crown from where it's fallen. You notice that one of the petals is bent out of shape. Oh, no.

"It's fine. She's right, it's just a silly crown."

"You all need to grow up," Cora insists, "as a woman soon to be married, I can see now how juvenile you lot are."

"Not married yet," Hannah snaps, "sooner the better if it means you're off."

"Charming, Hannah, I wonder why you've not had a proposal yet?"

Hannah waves her off with her hand and goes to Albina, "I'm tired. Help me out of my dress."

You turn away and set the crown on top of your own jewelry box. You take your time undoing the ribbon on your head and unclasping your pearls. You peel off your gloves and as you face the bed, you see Cora's hot glare.

"You'll see. That Lord Odinson will leave you behind and next season, you'll be on your way to a convent."

You swallow down her bitter words. Deep down, you don't doubt it. She is likely right but less than clairvoyant. You know better than any what your fate will be.

💙

You watch from the window as Cora walks in the gardens with Lord Rogers. Albina is in bed, moaning and rubbing her pelvis, as Hannah is downstairs with your mother stitching at her frame. The winds of autumn rattle the window frame and you back away, nervous to be caught observing.

You sit on the mattress and lean back against the pillow. Albina curls up on her side and faces you. You offer your hand and she latches on, squeezing. Her cramps have struck and she's already stained several shifts. Her blood has her in agony.

You don't mind keeping her company. Your own was due a week ago. You know because you've not stopped counting the days since... since Lord Rogers' proposal.

"I should hate to miss the promenade..." she mourns.

"You shouldn't miss very much," you assure her.

"Yes, but it will be cold soon. Too cold and it will snow and I will hate to go," she utters, "will you go?"

"Perhaps," you answer.

"And walk with Lord Odinson again?"

"If he wishes."

"I am certain he does. He is very friendly. Last night, when he told us of his families stronghold. About the mountains and the crossing rivers..."

"He has many stories," you agree, "and he tells them well."

"Oh, he does. He tells them for you."

"Pardon?" You nearly laugh.

"Sister, don't act clueless. He gave you his crown--"

"It was only a game."

"I do not think he plays."

"Why..."

"He always finds us on the promenade, doesn't he?"

"He is polite."

"Oh, you are stubborn."

You puff but don't argue further. She's wrong but she can't realise she is. She doesn't know what's happened, how you know for certain that he has no true intentions. That he cannot be any different than Lord Rogers.

💙

The hedges along the promenade are thinning. The roses have wilted away and the greenery curls and recedes. You wear a pair of lambskin gloves and an unlined cloak. It isn’t cold enough yet for fur.

As he does most days, Lord Rogers approaches to greet your family. Your mother and father bow to him briefly and bid their best before strolling off to meet with their peers. The betrothed couple will lead the way, as you walk behind with Hannah. Albina remains abed at home, her presence sorely missed as Hannah yawns and makes faces at the duke and his engaged.

You resist the urge to look around, to search for the man who crowned you valkyrie, the same who appeared at your side nearly every day. You restrained yourself from depending on his presence, from longing for it. He is a fleeting acquaintance, destined to return to Asgard one day. You shouldn't think so much of him.

“I wish we could have a summer wedding,” Lord Rogers declares, his voice raised loud enough for you to hear.

“But, my lord, that is so far away,” Cora protests, “so long as we wed before the snows, I will be content.”

“You, content. I am not mistaken, I know the sort of wife I’ve chosen,” he chides, “you only relish in that you might wear velvet.”

“Not at all my lord. I relish that I should marry you,” she preens, her arm hooked in his firmly.

You stare at the linking of their bodies. You remember the way he held you down, the way he cooed and coaxed, how he so softly coerced you. You should fear for your own sister, yet their misconceptions may be mutual.

“My ladies,” Lord Odinson’s voice precedes him and he steps up beside you, “and my lord. You are ashen, does the cold not agree with you?”

Lord Rogers glances over his shoulder, an edge in his jaw, “I handle it finely.”

You don’t mention he was only just longing for the summer. It isn’t any of your concern and you don’t very much care. Or you try not to.

“In Asgard, the winters, ah, they are splendid,” Odinson begins vibrantly, “there are days when the snow builds walls on its own and the next, they blow over to rippling oceans of frost. Endless and powdery.”

“Oh, we do not get so much snow here,” Hannah comments, “I don’t think I would survive such winters.”

You nod, listening intently as you picture the swirling snow and white dunes. It reminds you of a fairytale or a scene from one of Albina’s novels. Otherworldly and fantastical. Something entirely new and wonderful, but terrifying.

“And you, my valkyrie, would you face the blizzards?” Odinson challenges.

You hum thoughtfully. You know he is looking at you but you are too shy, too wary to return his gaze.

“I suppose with the proper cloak and a thick pair of boots, I might make it through, sir.”

“A coach and a horse, and any lady would say the same,” Rogers scoffs back at you, “girls hardly know the truth in matters of spirit. They can be overly presumptuous upon their own abilities.”

Odinson pushes his jacket back, hooking his finger in the pocket of his vest, “women are strong in ways men can never be. They carry lives, they bear the burden of the world, they maintain a grace lost on most men.”

“And the demure to the strength of men, to the wisdom they can never possess,” Rogers snaps back, laughing cruelly, “it is in the vows they take, is it not?”

“Only the strongest man can see the strength of women,” Odinson dismisses calmly, “my own mother keeps a pack of snow wolves. She goes out in the winter storms and reins her own sleigh. All while my father sits warm before his hearth. Her victories are not his losses.”

“Sounds rather quaint, Lord Odinson,” Rogers clucks, “your country strikes me as lacking civility.”

“Uncivil is a boring way of saying lively, and I promise, my home is much and more,” Odinson affirms, “but I think that fate has a way of placing us all where we belong, wouldn’t you agree?”

Rogers is quiet for a moment, his steps heavy as he strides on. He turns his head, his eye flicking between Odinson and yourself. He snorts and turns forward again.

“We must all take as we earn, accept what we do and do not get,” he says tritely, speaking animatedly with his hand in the air, “more often than not, we have only ourselves to thank… or blame.”

As cryptic as his words are, they are plain to you. That night with him was not unearned. Your foolishness bought your destruction. You must now live out your sentence of watching him walk arm in arm with another woman, your sister, everyday. You must accept that what he took can never be reclaimed.

💙

You sit in the garden, wrapped in a shawl as autumn breezes around the table. Your mother has a fur on her shoulders and your sisters chatter their teeth as they sip their tea. You rub your hands together, your gloves doing little against the crisp air. You suspect the days of dining without are close to done.

As you watch a leaf drift down from a branch, the hinges whine, and your father emerges from within. He gives an emphatic shiver as he claps his hands together. He seems rather pleases as he has his shoulders pushed back and his hat on a tilt.

"Daughters, my lovely wife, it is a beautiful day, is it not?"

You wonder at his uncharacteristic glee. Your father is ever practical and serious, on all matters. More so, he confounds as through the mutter of responses, he looks to you. You nod and agree with his sentiment softly.

"My daughter, my eldest, you... have a visitor."

You blink and withhold a grimace. He hates when you make faces. You force a smile and your voice crackles as you muster your voice.

"A visitor, father?"

"He is inside, he cannot have his tea alone," he says as if you should know who he alludes to.

You stand as Cora rolls her eyes, "who could be here for her?"

You notice how Albina and Hannah share a look. You cannot determine whether it is at your expense or Cora's.

"Daughter," your father drawls, "do not be sour that your betrothed eludes you."

"He does not--"

"So be happy for your sister and enjoy your tea."

She huffs and reaches for her cup. You step around her chair and approach your father. He smiles and as you near, he puts his hands on your arms. He is smiling. Genuinely.

"He has my blessing, of course, I will need accompany you to maintain propriety," he speaks quietly, "come."

You dip your chin down and meekly follow him inside. A servant pulls the door closed behind you. Your steps echo down the corridor as your father leads you to the sunroom. As you enter, there is some rustling and a subtle creak.

You peek up to find Lord Odinson standing with a hand on his vest. He bows to you and your father. You stop in the archway.

Your father proceeds, unaffected, and sits in the cushioned chair nearest the fireplace. He slaps his thighs as he splays his legs and grunts.

"Well, then, get on with it," your father grumbles.

Lord Odinson straightens his posture and gulps. He reaches up and toys with his cravat, the starch fabric already askew. He smiles, his cheeks reddening. He sways and looks between your father and yourself.

"I thought it very difficult to put this in ink but now I am here, I find the same is true of words," he says, laughing at his own joke, "so, lady, I trust this isn't very surprising to you. I've made my intentions clear and I've made your father a proposal, which he has graciously approved. Thus I put to you the question..." he twists his cravat, stops himself, then grips his jacket lapel, "would I be a fair husband to you? Er, or rather, would you... would you... honour me as a wife?"

The air stills and the chill that trailed you in dissipates. You blink dumbly and let your mouth fall open. You glance at your father. You understand his happiness now and yet you cannot believe it.

Your stomach churns and you clamp your mouth shut. The silence turns unbearable. You notice how Lord Odinson's cheek spasms and his complexion drains.

"Yes, sir, I... suppose... rather, I would..." you feel as if you're choking, "is it true? A marriage?"

"You wouldn't have to leave your homeland forever. I have some months ahead of me and my holdings here. We could visit--"

"Yes, yes, I will marry you," you murmur.

You hold your breath. Waiting. For one of them to break. For a peel of laughter between them. For it all to be another trick.

"Glory," Odinson exclaims as he proffers his hand, "shall we sit for tea, then, my valkyrie?"

You nod, unable to speak for fear of croaking. It is real. This man is real but you worry, his attention may yet prove false.

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kitorin · 11 months ago

Text

sweet dreams.

in which, nanami kento finally goes on a long overdue vacation

contents. nanami kento x gn!reader, 2.965k words, fluff but then heavy angst (mcd and hurt no comfort), mentions of murder (true crime stuff) but no detail of it, reader is a coward and really can't handle horror (sorry that's just me projecting)

"What did you do?"

Guilt makes your lips purse, tongue swiping over them out of habit. You didn't want to call him, to interrupt him during the night shift he ever so loathes, contributing to the things he has to do.

But with demons lurking in the dark and the sense of impending doom beginning to latch onto you, it felt necessary, especially when fear decided to be quite clingy.

"I got scared."

A tired sigh comes from the phone. "How many times do I have to tell you not to watch anything disturbing at night?"

"This documentary got really interesting. I wanted to know what happened next..." Explicit content was fine, with Kento there to cling onto and his never-ending reassurance. Your husband watched these intense shows and documentaries without so much of a flinch, unfazed by quite literally everything displayed on the screen.

You, on the other hand, was a completely different case.

The slightest raise in volume managed to steal a scream from you, and jump scares had you flinching just a bit too hard. The mere build up and suspense of the music had your heart racing, even if nothing happened and it served as a little trick.

"I'm so sorry Ken, I'll hang up so you can focus on work." You're an adult, you shouldn't be so cowardly towards a mere genre of entertainment, and you should know better not to consume it.

Your thumb reaches for the red button, and your emotions hold you back, while rationality argues not to.

"No. Neither of us are going to be hanging up."

One part of you celebrates quietly, while another insists. "But you're working. Overtime nonetheless, and I know you hate those shifts. It's best to get everything done as soon as possible and get out of there."

His voice is raspy, garnished by a sultry tone. "Love, I belong to you, not my job. I do appreciate your thoughts, but you're more important than a mere paycheck."

Fuck. There it is, his eloquent, smooth way with words.

"Still. I can wait." That was a lie, though one you were willing to utter if it meant he'd prioritise his job. "Besides, what about that higher up you mentioned? The irritating one that's childish and overtalkative?"

Kento chuckles. "He's here, but he takes his job seriously and is highly capable. I'm on break anyways. Talk to me. If you can."

"I read about the Sapporo murder case. I still feel like the culprits from the case is going to sneak up on me. Or one of the zombies from Happiness." You adored the show and its cast, but god forbid you sit through another one of its jump scares.

"That's fine, it's normal. The point of this type of media is so scare. A lot of effort is put into making sure they elicit emotion." You cling onto every word he speaks, the world around you still there, only a bit blurry now. "Breathe in through your nose for four second, pause for two. Then breathe out through your mout for another eight."

Have you brushed your teeth?"

Kento hums as a response when you answer yes.

"Where are you right now?"

"In bed, but I need to clean up and turn off some lights before I sleep."

"Ignore it. I'll do it when I'm home."

"Are you sure?" There was no point in asking that, not when you'd rather not move away from the security of the doona. "You're going to be exhausted by the time you're home."

"Doesn't matter to me." Genuine indifference to the matter displays itself in Kento's tone. "I took a nap earlier, had a coffee or two as well. I'm going to be alright—" Something in the background echoes, though you could barely decipher what you were hearing, the furious tone of the voice concerned you.

"Who was that...? Is your boss mad at you? Wait but it doesn't make sense for a boss to give you a nickname—"

For a moment or two, Kento remained silent. "No, just an enthusiastic intern. He's talkative and sometimes loud but he's a good kid."

Your former worry dissipates, so quick that it almost seemed like it was never there in the first place. "Nanamin, was it?"

He sighs, the two of you know damn well that you'll refuse to forget that one.

"It's cute! Nanamin. I like how it sounds."

Voice softening, he replies with a chuckle. "I feel like you'd get along well."

"You should invite him over then. He must adore you if he's calling out to you that much."

"If that's true then I'd say the feeling is quite mutual." All you have is his voice, yet you can say without a doubt that he's beaming, a subtlety only you'll ever know— one of the many which compose the love between the two of you.

"Keep working." You whisper as a yawn claws out of your throat.

"Are you sure? Are you okay now?"

You nod, though he can't see it. "I am. Just listening to you helps a lot."

"I'm glad."

"Do your best at work, okay? And make sure you stay safe on the way home?" You hold back a grin, even though you're alone in your shared bedroom. "I have a surprise for you when you get home."

Kento piques with curiosity. "Really?"

"Yup, I think you'll love it." You stare at your bedside table, where tickets to Malaysia were stored. "I hope you do, at least."

"If it's coming from you of course I'll love it sweetheart." It's miraculous really, how you've been together for so long yet you have to suppress the urge to squeal over his sweet words. "My boss is going to start making me work again, good night darling. Sweet dreams, love."

You fall asleep with ease that night, this time with welcomed thoughts of spending time with Kento on the shore of Kuantan, running around whilst cherishing the cold, salty water licking at your ankles; rather than the intrusive thoughts from earlier.

"You could've kept talking to them. I wouldn't've told anyone even if it took a lot of time."

Fushiguro Megumi is examining the sharpness of his blade when he reassures his teacher Nanami Kento, not looking up from his weapon, seated by the railing of the bridge.

"I appreciate that, but it'd be wrong of you." He moves his shoulders in circles, loosening his tie to wrap it around his knuckles. "I can teach you other methods."

"Pardon?"

Nanami crouches in front of Megumi. "Your breathing changed when I told them how to." The student doesn't respond. "It varies from person to person, I've tested out a lot."

Megumi still doesn't answer, averting his gaze towards the weapon that he held down.

"Fushiguro - kun. Are you scared?"

The younger finally speaks once more. "... I guess." Hesitation presents itself in his words, barely stable and his reluctance to maintain eye contact. "I won't let that stop me from completing my tasks—"

"It's okay. You're merely sixteen, you're not even old enough to drink, nor get your driver's licence."

Megumi returns to silence.

"Look at me." And so Megumi does. "To be a child is not a sin. I'm perfectly fine with withdrawing you from this operation if it's too much."

"Wouldn't that get you in trouble?"

Indeed he would. He'd tolerate plenty of discipline and anger from the higher ups. But Nanami Kento knows too well what it's like to risk you and your peers for a 'greater good', at nonetheless a ridiculously young age too—an age where you're supposed to go to regular school and be regular, stupid kids figuring themselves out; not witnessing the death of the ones dear to your heart with the sight of their corpses forever imprinted into your mind, nor have the stench of blood memorised meticulously instead of historical dates or mathematical formulas.

If it were up to him, he'd prohibit such exploitation of children. None should be performing such tasks, even if born with an advantageous cursed technique.

If the higher ups adopted the same philosophy as him, Haibara would be alive and well, and Nanami wouldn't feel his stomach lurch whenever he sees a bowl of rice, nor flinch whenever he hears the mention of Geto Suguru.

'I don't mind if it means you'll be at ease. Gojo can protect me, and if I'm unable to extract you from this operation then I'll handle everything."

Megumi takes a deep breath. "I shouldn't run away. I'll do my best. I have Tsumiki I need to return to. We should go find Itadori now."

“If you say so then, but it’s still my duty to protect you.” With a final, strong tug he tightens his tie around his knuckles. “I can't guarantee any results, not in this instable world and career. What I can promise, is that I will protect you with my life."

A determined nod from Megumi is all he needs.

Quick and efficient; that's the plan. Shibuya was already a mess, and all he wanted was the security of your arms within the four walls he calls 'home'.

"Thank you for having us."

Megumi, the one with the messy, black hair speaks coldly, though very politely, his manners were courteous and so was Yuuji. They'd come to your door and introduced themselves as interns at Kento's company. Now, they were seated in your living room, on your couch.

"Don't mention it, Ken's always been fond of the interns." You already miss him, he must've stayed overnight at the company again. "Are you okay with first names?"

Both nod.

You smile. "So, Yuuji, Megumi, what have you come here for?"

Yuuji speaks first. "It's about Nanamin, I mean Nanami—"

Without malicious attempt you cut him off. "Nanamin is fine, I overheard you calling him that last night. He was fond of it, it was quite cute after all." You chuckle to yourself at it.

The boy swallows, appearing apprehensive. He sounded so enthusiastic last night, perhaps he was the type who needed to warm up towards people first.

"Well, um."

You don't say anything, giving him time to respond comfortably.

"Nanami sensei passed away last night." Megumi finishes what Yuuji couldn't.

Your heart drops.

Temptation to make an accusation of a prank attempts to claw out of your throat, but with how their expressions scream nausea and discomfort, it'd be rude to do so.

That explained why he never kept his promise of finishing up on chores, knowing Kento he would’ve done everything to make sure he made it home to do as he said he would.

"What happened?" It doesn't feel right— and it isn't at all, but you have to figure out the truth, even if this all doesn't seem real.

"There was a fire." Yuuji whispers, barely loud enough and coherent with the tremble of his voice. "And he didn't make it out in time."

You remain silent, so does Megumi. Yuuji bites his lip, suppressing what seemed to be a sob.

"I see."

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. If only—" It drowns out in his bawling. "It was my fault. He—"

He completely lacked incoherency now, hiccuping as tears rolled down his cheeks.

"He helped us first." Megumi once again continues Yuuji's words. "But they recovered his body, we brought you his ashes."

He pulls out a package from his shoulder bag, wrapping it to reveal a pale blue funerary urn. Megumi places it onto the table.

"I'm sorry. If I had been capable of protecting myself he wouldn't've died saving me."

Your gaze meets Megumi’s, you're too afraid to properly acknowledge the urn, where your boyfriend was supposedly resting.

Silence permeates the air, Yuuji bites his sleeve to suppress his crying and Megumi breathes shakily.

"Don't apologise. You have no reason to. Neither of you." You've barely known the two, but the way Yuuji was sobbing broke your heart, and how both seemed to genuinely believe they caused Kento's passing. "It's not your fault. I don't think it is, and he would agree with him. He made the choice to help you, because he cared deeply for both of you. You can cry freely, I won't stop you." You muster a smile, hoping it'll be comforting in some sort of way. They're only kids, they can't be blaming themselves for the death of another they didn't cause.

Yuuji's teeth release the sleeve of his hoodie, hiccuping out what sounded like a thank you. You push a tissue box towards him, to which he accepts the offer.

"You idiot…” Megumi sniffles a bit.

“It’s okay, you’re going to be fine.” You pat him on the back, rubbing it too. You give him your phone, opening a new contact. “I’d like to invite you two to the funeral, can I have your contact details? In the meantime I’ll make some tea.”

You earn a nod, and are quick to retreat into the kitchen, hand holding your mouth shut as you slowly cry, pleading for Yuuji and Megumi to be unable to hear.

"Kento! We're here, at Kuantan!"

After a long flight and travel, you finally arrived at your destination, you had dropped your luggage off at the accommodation, the urn Megumi had given you was held up against your chest.

I've always wanted to go to Kuantan, in Malaysia. One day I'd like to build a house on a secluded beach and live there. Of course with you, if you were okay with it.

You take off your sandals, tossing them away as you approach the shoreline, the coolness of the water catching you off guard. You continue walking, until it reaches halfway up your calves.

Off goes the lid of the urn, and you toss the ashes into the beach, watching the waves swallow Kento whole. It's not long before the urn is empty, you've never had to scatter someone's ashes, yet it felt like something was missing.

In all honesty, you have no idea if Kento wanted to be cremated, you've never touched on the subject of death, probably because the two of you were so young.

But something tells you this is the right decision. Kuantan's beautiful, and he wanted to go when work and money permitted him to do so. He'd loved to read a book under the shade of that large tree over there, and would've wanted to try fishing at the rock ledge nearby. It was just the two of you here, even better.

Fuck.

As you watch him swim into the ocean, you notice the tears threatening to spill. You don't bother trying to avoid it, not that you would've been able to.

"It's not fair!" You yell, out into the ocean. You don't blame Yuuji, or Megumi, or anyone, but you're still livid. "I miss you, I miss you so much that it gets hard to breathe."

The ring box feels heavy in your pocket.

"If you had to leave this world early you could've done it later." Your cry becomes a sob. "Just one month, then I could've fucking proposed. I don't need a honeymoon or marriage, I just want your fucking answer."

In an ideal world, you'd like to think that he would've accepted without hesitation, but that fantasy doesn't compare to the pain of remaining oblivious to his answer forever.

"Who's going to comfort me now? Who am I going to spend the rest of my life with? Who am I going to cook dinner with? What about Yuuji and Megumi? They had to finish their internships without you. Do you know how hard Yuuji cried when he came to tell me you passed away?"

By no means are you mad at Kento, you could never. But anger that slowly accumulated in your heart for the past few months, and had erupted. The empty coldness of your bed stings, and the amount of cutlery required being halved overwhelms you with misery. You can’t even laugh at his high school photos anymore, the amusement from his ridiculous haircut can’t triumph over the fact that he had passed away a mere ten years later.

You’d much rather store it all away, each and every possession and photo of the man. The sight of his favourite mug serves as a harsh reminder that morning coffee with him will never happen. Listening to old voice mails seemed reassuring and almost lulled you to sleep, until you had to come to terms that he was truly gone once more.

But at least sound can be captured.

What about his scent? Eventually his clothes would lose their scent, they probably were already on that course, even with your refusal to wash them. Touch can’t be preserved, you can cling onto the memory of your skin against his for as long as you want, but you’ll never truly experience it again.

“Goodbye Kento!” Despite your miserable state you pull yourself together just enough so you can see him off with a smile. “I love you, so so much. More than anything in the world, I always will! Thank you, for being there. Th-thank you for loving me.”

You've lost the energy to yell, throat now hoarse. You venture deeper into the shore, not caring about your clothes getting wet, as your face gets soaked with your own tears.

Who's fault is it? Was it the culprit of the fire (if there was one)? Or perhaps yours, for not proposing earlier. Maybe then he would've been safe and sound in Kuantan, after taking leave. Perchance it was the heavens deciding they’d rather just not authorise him to spend the rest of his name.

Whoever it was, it doesn't matter. Nothing could bring back the warmth of Nanami Kento.

taglist (send ask to be added) : @yuzurins, @pokkomi, @chigirizzz

#nanami my beloved #nanami kento #jjk nanami #nanami x reader #jujutsu nanami #kento nanami #jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #nanami kento x reader #jjk #nanamin #jujustu kaisen #fluff #angst #nanami angst #nanami fluff #kento nanami x reader #nanami x you #nanami kento fluff

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wildestdreamsblog · 2 years ago

Text

Nothing was gonna stop me

Pairing: Jeon Jungkook x Reader

Summary: Trying to break up with the Jeon Jungkook was no walk in the park.

Warnings: Yandere behavior, Obsessiveness, Possessiveness, Manipulative behavior, Sexual themes, If you’re not 18+ please, PLEASE, do not interact. Be mindful of the warnings. Let me know if I miss anything.

You wish you could say being with Jungkook was like a walk in the park, like a dream come true, like everyday was full of butterflies… but it wasn’t. His love was, for the lack of better word, obsessive. Behind his angelic face and childlike smile lurked someone dark.

You met him during work, or more accurately after work. It was yet another late night when you decided to go home. Your company was busy with the new campaign including the famous group, BTS. Your normal eight-hour work stretched to a fifteen-hour workday just to meet the deadline. Your eyes were almost dropping when you entered the elevator. Your floor was on top of the meeting area strategically to avoid disturbing the employees. Whenever campaigns happened, famous actors, singers, and groups go in and out of the building for endless meetings. Your eyes were closed when you heard the elevator door opened. You paid it no attention and instead, looked down on your phone. The door closed once again. Seconds passed when there was a sudden lurched on the elevator. The lift suddenly stopped. It was not the ground floor yet, and the lights flickered.

In a state of increasing panic, you repeatedly clicked the emergency button and asked the operator what happened. Apparently, there was a problem with the lift, yet he assured you that they would soon resolve it. With nothing better to do, you sighed and looked up in exasperation. It was just your luck, you thought. Just when you wanted nothing better to do than to sleep and this happened.

A crinkling sound of bag of biscuits opening woke you from your thoughts. You had forgotten someone was stuck with you in the elevator. You turned to look behind you and saw a man munching on his food, around his neck was a headphone. He was wearing all black, his long hair falling freely on his face. He was wearing a matching black backpack. He looked like he was enjoying his food, too, by the looks of it.

You probably stared too long because the young man looked up at you with his doe, dark eyes, all while chewing. The piercing on his lip glimmered from the overhead light. Slowly, he extended his muscular arm to offer you the food. It must have been your exhaustion and the fact that it was past midnight and yet, you still haven’t had dinner that made you accept the food from a stranger. The two of you found yourselves sitting on the floor, munching on the endless food the man had on his bag.

“Seriously, how many food do you have in there?” You asked as he passed you a fruit this time.

He smiled cheekily before showing you the contents of his bag. Apparently, all he had in there were food.

When the maintenance said that it was going to be resolved soon, what he meant was it would be over an hour and you and the man all but finished the snacks he had. That was how they found you, sitting on the floor, eating and exchanging corny jokes.

That was how you met Jungkook.

The beginning of your relationship was peculiar, yet it was a breath of fresh air. He was amazing, he was a caring boyfriend and he was so smart. He was so intelligent that there was never a boring moment whenever you two talked. His love language was act of service, which meant picking you up on your work every night, cooking you food, and driving you anywhere you needed to go. He took pride in taking care of you. He was full of surprises, loving, and he was proud of you. Perhaps, extremely too proud that within a month of dating, he announced subtly thru his social media that he was now in a relationship. His hyungs couldn’t be more proud of him. They thought he was matured now. Everything happened so fast.

And maybe, that was why you didn’t have time to think the relationship thorough.

Maybe that was why you didn’t know him better before entering into a relationship with him.

Being with Jungkook was like a breath of fresh air, yet that air caused you suffocation. He was an idol, you knew that. But the way he demanded your attention made it seemed like he had a lot of free time when he didn’t. Suddenly, you couldn’t go out without telling him even if it was to meet with your friends. You did that one time, missed a call from Jungkook, and you went home to your apartment and saw him sitting on his motorcycle outside the apartment with his head hanging low. You worriedly went to him, and when you did you saw his doe eyes were filled with tears. Once you wrapped your arms around him, his shoulders began shaking as he cried. You said you were sorry, and when he didn’t say anything, you promised that you would never go out without telling him, that you were sorry you met with your friends.

That night was the first time Jungkook emotionally manipulated you.

Your world started to feel smaller. You haven’t seen your friends in months. Whenever Jungkook had his free time, he always went to you. He was somehow expecting that you’d spend all your days with him, becoming quite closed off and emotional whenever you said you had other schedule that day. And you did try, at first. You figured he was way busier than you and even he could make time for you. So why shouldn’t you?

But it was exhausting. It was taxing to you.

And so you started refusing to see him because you still had your life outside him and you couldn’t and shouldn’t turn your back on it just because you loved him.

You loved him…right? This was more than just a crush…right?

This was the Jungkook, for heaven’s sake. The third time you cited work as to why you couldn’t make time for him, he finally snapped. You opened your twitter the next day, idly scrolling down when you saw your boyfriend trending. This was not a surprise to you, he was always trending for whatever reason. However, this was not what you expected. Fans were speculating about Jungkook’s state, retweeting pictures and videos of him during the group’s appearance on a show where he was clearly not himself. He was not the smiling, lively golden maknae everyone knew. During the appearance, he was reserved, he was quiet despite the energy that the other members had.

Was it because of you? It couldn’t be…right?

But it was because of you. A week went by with you barely replying to his messages. Now that you had more time away from him, you were starting to see that this was not the life for you. You were an independent woman before you met him, yet now you needed to ask for his permission to go out with your friends otherwise he would be an emotional mess. One night after work, you were shocked to see none other than the leader of the group, RM himself. He was waiting for you outside your work, sporting a cap that made him not stand out. He smiled at you once he saw you, his expression friendly when he said you two needed to talk.

He said he was worried about Jungkook, said that he had known him for almost a decade and yet this was the lowest he had ever seen the man. This was so unlike Jungkook, the leader claimed. He said that they were all concerned because for more than a week, Jungkook had barely talked nor smiled. RM said that only you could pull him out of his misery.

And so, with guilt hanging on your shoulder, you knew what you had to do.

RM drove you to your boyfriend’s place, even went up with you to his fancy apartment. He thanked you profusely for coming with him, and your smile must have been strained because RM nodded and bid you goodbye after he knocked on Jungkook’s door repeatedly and the man opened the door. “Fix this,” RM said, looking intently at Jungkook.

RM hadn’t even left yet when Jungkook pulled you in his muscular arms, his head buried on the crook of your neck.

“We have to talk,” you said quietly.

He merely blinked at you after you explained your side, stating that this was no longer healthy for the both of you, that your lives were too different to survive together. That you were thankful for the time you two spent together, but this was no longer something that served the two of you. He bit his lip, his posture rigid, his legs spread. You were seated in front of him. It pained you to do this, but this had to be done. As soon as you said your piece, you felt like you could breathe again. Minutes passed by and he still didn’t say anything, it was becoming uncomfortable that you unconsciously looked at the door.

“Stop looking at the door. I don’t want to feel like you’re desperately wanting to run away from me,” he finally said in a monotonous voice. He stood up calmly and walked to the back of the sofa you were sitting on. “No one makes me feel this way. I refuse to lose this. I refuse to lose you.”

You didn’t see him turned his camera on behind you, his little something that he could hold over your head should you decide to still leave him after this. “This is just a drawback in our relationship, Y/N. Surely, we’re better than that, right?” He leaned to you, his mouth almost touching you ear, “Surely, you love me, right? You want me…right?”

And when you turned your head to look at him, he kissed you with so much passion, with too much passion. His hand snaked on your waist, pushing you on the sofa as he settled himself on top of you. That night, you didn’t leave his apartment. Jungkook looked satisfied as he watched you sleep, your neck marked from his kisses. He grabbed your hand gently and kissed your palm. He smirked, now more than ever assured that you were never going to leave him. He had to be the bigger man, right? He had to make sure that the two of you would have the happy ending you and him deserved. He did this out of love, after all.

You didn’t have to know that he staged everything- from your company winning the contract to you being stuck in the elevator with him. You didn’t have to know that he saw you before you saw him, that he was already so enamored by you. You didn’t have to know.

#jungkook x reader #bts jungkook fic #jungkook fic #jungkook x you #jungkook x y/n #yandere jungkook

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tellmewhosthatfunkydude · 2 months ago

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RANT i’ve been thinking about

ZD is such a thought provoking and self reflecting film and it sucks that most people view it from only one perspective or preconceived bias of what is taboo / “morally incorrect” in media. it has significantly larger meaning than just the “school shooter” movie. it’s hypocritical of people who are interested in, for example, slashers to criticize a fictional movie and or it fans because of the content material. lots of people find comfort or interest probably because of the deeper messages and emotions behind it, and relating to cal or andre because of (in my opinion) well representation of REALISTIC mental illness instead of “socially correct” mental illness isn’t bad. self-destructive and harmful behavior, even though it is negative, is unfortunately a major part of struggling with mental illness. OBVIOUSLY what they did is wrong; in no way does the movie try to make them out to be guilt free and their mental illness is not an excuse. however i dont think its crazy whatsoever for people to enjoy it because a significantly large amount of people in this fanbase are mentally unstable (no offense guys…) and i don’t think anyone should be painted as a bad person because you vent or even just cope with violent/dark media instead of harming yourself and or others irl. “art is meant to comfort the disturbed 🤓” OR WHATEVER.. putting emotion towards fiction in general helps me personally and methinks it is a great movie besides its cinematography and whateva… ok DONE

#zero day #cal gabriel #andre kriegman #zero day 2003 #caldre #is this a hot take?#i don’t know and don’t care

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drysaladandketchup · 9 months ago

Note

for the "things you said" writing meme -- matthew/leon, 12 :)

Thank you for the request <3 I realised very quickly I have no idea what constitutes a 'mini' fic. I struggle to write 'mini' anything lol. Hopefully this still satisfies :)

12. things you said when you thought i was asleep

It takes all of Matthew's willpower not to reach over and smash his phone just to shut off the alarm. All that saves his wallet and an awkward trip to the Apple store is the split-second realisation that the shrieking in his ear isn't his usual alarm.

It's a ringtone. Not his own, either.

He pries his eyes open to find the world through the window is still dark. One of the balcony doors is still ajar, letting in a cool night breeze. He's lying on his side in his own bed, the end of the all-star weekend memorialized by several aches and bruises.

His hips and ass are a little sore too, but that's unrelated. Technically.

The ringing stops. Someone huffs behind him.

Someone. Yeah, no, Matthew knows who it is. They may have met up at the bar once the media was done swarming, but Matthew was far from drunk. Painfully sober, in fact. If he's being honest with himself, he was hoping things would turn out this way.

One more time. One more moment. Because it's been a long time since they were them. Longer still since the sex was just sex, since hate became want. Matthew is strong in a lot of ways, but not against this.

"Davo." Leon's voice is low, and still gruff from sleep when he answers his phone. He sits up on his side of the bed, trying not to disturb Matthew, pulling the covers back up over Matthew's shoulder like he thinks he'll freeze to death in this balmy Florida winter.

Usually Matthew's a heavy sleeper. But never when Leon's around. He makes it impossible for Matthew to completely relax, to let time slip by. Leon's just too big of a presence, almost too much to bear. It was more important that everything linger, to bask in the strange comfort of their relationship, whatever it was. They had so little time. Even less, now.

"I know it's late. No, no, I'm not at the hotel. I'm... I'm with Tkachuk."

Leon says his last name like it's wrong, like it's rotting on his tongue.

When he corrects himself, says, "Matthew", it's better, lighter. Like it's ambrosia.

Matthew remembers when Leon Draisaitl saying his name wouldn't have meant a damn thing to him. When that simple act didn't fill him with fondness.

In the silence, Matthew can hear McDavid talking on the other end, but can't quite make out what he's saying. Matthew tucks up under the duvet, breathing quiet and even, trying to focus instead on the distant sound of waves and the ticking clock on his wall.

Ticking. Always ticking. Time bleeds out when they're together.

He doesn't even remember falling asleep last night, but he wishes he hadn't now. He wishes he'd stayed awake longer, just to... just to see him. To look Leon in the eye, to talk about everything and nothing until dawn, to feel big, too-warm hands on his body more and more and more. He wants to make sure he'll remember how Leon feels, sounds, tastes.

"Connor," Leon says, a warning, followed by a sigh. "I know. I know, okay? It was stupid, but..."

Maybe it was. Matthew has a good thing here in Florida. Better than ever. He was happy to leave Alberta behind and start over. So why did leaving make him feel like a coward?

Because leaving was about Calgary, and the Flames. About his career and his future. It wasn't about Leon. Leon was the wrench in the gears; the one thing he didn't expect to have to say goodbye to, the kind of hurt he never could have accounted for.

"I needed to see him." Leon sounds helpless. He's not the only one.

The only time he's heard Leon so lost was after his team was knocked out of the playoffs last season. The Oilers meant nothing--Matthew was pretty fucking glad considering they'd beat out the Flames--but he never wanted to hear Leon like that again.

He definitely never wanted to be the cause of it. Not like this.

Leon is still mumbling into his phone. "Yeah, I'm fine. He's... we're good. He's happy."

A hand settles on Matthew's head. Fingers play with his curls, nails scratch his scalp. A thumb presses just behind Matthew's ear, stroking the soft skin where only hours before Leon had put his lips, whispering sweetness and filth in equal measure.

It takes everything for Matthew not to groan, to whimper and surrender, roll over and climb on top of Leon and take all over again. Beg him to take something--everything--from Matthew.

"I don't know," Leon says then.

It's easy to guess what McDavid asked.

He's happy. But are you?

"I can't even tell him I still love him."

Still. Matthew didn't even know there was a before, let alone a still. Leon never said anything. Fuck, if Matthew wasn't busy trying to remember how to breathe, he'd roll over and punch him.

Then again, what did Matthew ever say? They never talked about it. Never let those closet hook-ups and slipping out back doors and little drinks and dinners and overnights excused as practical necessity be anything more than that. A bunch of chirps and half-truths and aborted discussions because it was all becoming too much. There was too much uncertainty. Too many ways it could go wrong.

It did go wrong. It became something. It became real.

Maybe that would have changed something. Maybe it wouldn't have changed anything at all. It doesn't matter now. Matthew left, and neither of them said a word about things like love, because it was easier to hope it would shrivel and die with distance and time.

"I know I'm being stupid." Leon pauses when McDavid interrupts, then huffs. "No, I am. Fuck, I really thought I'd get over it. Maybe I will. Eventually."

Don't you fucking dare, you piece of shit, Matthew wants to scream.

"Not sure I can, though." Leon swallows so loud Matthew can hear it. Then quieter, like he's not sure he's even allowed to admit it, he says, "I don't really want to."

He's still playing with Matthew's hair, occasionally dragging a finger over his bare shoulder or down his back, tracing imaginary lines across Matthew's flesh. Like he's something to be memorized and cherished.

They're both so fucking stupid. Matthew bites his lip and tries not to choke on the lump in his throat. Could be his heart, climbing right up and out of his mouth. He clings to the sheets with shaking hands.

"I'm not going to fuck up what he's got here," Leon says tiredly, voice thick with tension and pathetic resignation.

Leon's not here to drag him back. He wouldn't do that. So why is he here? Just to torture them both? Being with him doesn't feel like torture. It feels like winning. It feels like defiance and decadence and too much and not enough. It feels like what could have been and what could still be.

He didn't find Leon at that bar and bring him home out of pity, or nostalgia, one last fuck for old times sake. It was... it just was. Not an ending. Not some final goodbye. Proof maybe there could still be something. Getting over it was never an option, Matthew knew that well before he stepped onto the ice as a Panther and found himself staring Leon down all over again.

Matthew's vision is blurring. His eyes sting, warm and wet. There's blood pounding in his ears, and a hand clutching his heart, a vice around his lungs. He hardly remembers how to breathe.

He doesn't catch the rest of Leon's conversation, except something about meeting Connor back at the hotel tomorrow. Meaning he's staying the night, at least. He's staying.

When Leon hangs up the phone, Matthew finally comes up for air. He relaxes his shoulders, listening to the soft thump as Leon taps his phone against his forehead over and over. Then it clatters on the side table. Leon sighs, sniffs, and sinks back under the covers. He tucks right up against Matthew's back, still burning like a furnace, soft muscle and skin brushing Matthew's spine in all the right ways.

He throws an arm around Matthew and finds one of his hands, worming his fingers through the gaps to hold it. His palm is sweaty, not that it matters at all to Matthew. He can't help squeezing Leon's hand a little, but if Leon notices, he doesn't say a word.

Not until he's wrapped tight around Matthew, near suffocating, like any part of them that isn't touching is a sin.

"Love you," Leon mumbles, barely more than a whisper, pressing his lips right to the base of Matthew's neck. Matthew's body can't seem to decide whether to shiver or melt under the heat.

Leon says it like it's inevitable. Painful. Pitiful.

What he's saying is, I'm sorry I love you. I'm sorry I couldn't say it before. I'm sorry I don't know how to say it now. I'm sorry it's too late, it's the wrong place, the wrong time.

Like he doesn't think Matthew could ever understand. And that's the worst part of it all. They're still not on the same page. Tearing down what they never built.

If Leon's only brave enough to say it when Matthew's asleep, then Matthew will just have to be brave enough to say it in the light of day. He doesn't run, and he won't now that he knows he doesn't have to.

He stares into the night outside his window, listening to Leon breathe, feeling his heart beat through Matthew's chest like that's where it longs to be.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow maybe they can stop chasing time long enough to make the most of what they have. To make up for what they've wasted. And whatever happens after, well, maybe they can stop being afraid of that, too.

#hockey #mattdrai #matthew tkachuk #leon draisaitl #my writing #asks #i can take any prompt and shove angst into it just watch me #'mutual pining dumbasses who can't communicate' my beloved trope #i hope it's obvious this is happening during/right after the 2023 asg #i know 2020 was the sacred texts but I feel like we don't use 2023 for mattdrai purposes enough #poor connor always suffering through mattdrai bullshit #leon has a scrapbook full of pictures of matthew and will be like 'remember when my bf left me ;_;' and connor wants to jump off a bridge #'mini' fic they said. i don't think 1.6k is mini. it got away from me. but i have never been concise in my life why start now

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kneelingshadowsalome · 2 years ago

Text

Man-Sized

3/9 Hope is a Dangerous Thing

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!OC

Tags: Explicit content, +18 audiences only. Smut, romantic angst, fluff. An unapologetic LOVE STORY. Sexual tension, mutual pining, banter, flirting, developing relationship, strangers to lovers. Simon Riley has a dark past (partly inspired by Modern Warfare 2: Ghost comics).

CW/TW: References to PTSD, depression, past torture and abuse in later chapters.

Summary: A uni student who pole dances at a strip club to pay her rent encounters a mysterious giant of a soldier seemingly incapable of falling in love.

She googled the name Simon Riley and found close to nothing. He wasn't on Facebook or any other social media platform, and she was pretty sure he had given her a false name until a short news article popped up. It was in some Manchester local paper, and from almost 20 years ago. He had won medals in local school olympics, and even with the black and white raster image and a 20 year younger, estimated 90 pounds skinnier Simon Riley, she could recognize that jaw and those eyes.

Days passed by, and he sent her a message every night. They communicated only through text – he never called. It felt like she was living in the turn of the century, the way he refused to use social media or any messaging app. He asked her how her school was, what classes she was taking at the moment, and if work was good. She sent her a photo every night before going to sleep; it simply became a habit. Some were cuter, some were naughtier, but he always expressed his gratitude with a sly, sexy comeback that made her think she might actually be the only girl Simon was texting with.

He rarely disclosed anything about his work, and never sent another picture even when she tried to request one in a roundabout way. She soon stopped fishing for more details of his work because he always redirected the conversation elsewhere. All she knew was that he was used in some special operations of a private, international company. And from what she could deduce from that one single picture he had sent her, the company he worked for had a lot of money.

The headset, the tactical gear, the weapon she distinguished with another profound googling session to be some sort of an assault rifle… All that shit spoke the language of international investors with certain political interests. Simon was doing something that most likely included hybrid warfare, clandestine operations, dealing with nuclear threats and bio-weapons and whatnot.

She wondered why he had been so trusting; after all, she knew his whole name now and knew it wasn't an alias but his real, actual childhood name. Not that she was any kind of threat. Perhaps that was why…

But what made her a bit depressed was that he also didn't seem to regard her as someone he needed to protect. By staying in contact with him, she supposed she was taking at least some kind of a risk. But Simon didn't seem to care. It was both exciting and infuriating to keep in touch with a man like him.

After six days of excited, heated messaging, he sent a text "Off to work." It wasn't that cryptic; she figured it meant that he wasn't to be disturbed or that he wouldn't be able to talk for a while.

A while… that turned into a week.

She found herself zoning out in dull classes, thinking about what Simon was doing right now. Was he infiltrating some foreign military base, or going on a mission to prevent a hijacking, or storming a terrorist compound, or… whatever the fuck soldiers like himself did.

She began her day with a caffeine overdose and then went to listen to some professor talk about medieval manuscripts or Dante Gabriel Rossetti or curse tablets of ancient Rome, only to realize she was thinking about Simon firing his assault rifle in another continent with a skull mask on. She kept thinking about whether he was in danger, whether he would come back, whether she would ever see him again.

The while turned into another week, and she began to get anxious. Should she text him and ask how he was doing? Ask “You still at work?” or “What about that date?”

The last message she had sent was a reply to his work announcement. Have fun! — from 17 days ago.

17 days.

Was he dead?

His message It's your fault if I get killed now seemed more like a gloomy prediction of a future without Simon Riley.

But at the beginning of the third week of silence, she realized she had just been an idiot. Simon wasn't dead or injured or taken prisoner or anything like that.

He had simply forgotten about her.

He had realized she was not a Bond girl after all, but just another boring chick. He had found someone better. Something like that. A man like him could have pretty much any woman on this planet if he wanted to.

That was just the way the world was built.

She wouldn't say that she was depressed. She wouldn’t admit that she was devastated. She just needed a little time to clear her head.

It was difficult to sleep, and school felt more boring than ever. Work just reminded her of him. One day, she nearly fell from the pole while doing a simple straddle because she saw a man looking like Simon walk in the club.

He had given her an exorcism, only to replace the demons that haunted her with himself. Now she needed an exorcism from Simon, but no one knew how to do that.

She just needed to give it time, sleep it away, study it away… Distractions filled her day, and still, she refreshed their conversation every night before going to sleep, as if it was a fault in her phone that prevented his messages from reaching her. And felt like a stupid bitch, a lovesick fool while doing so.

And then, one Tuesday afternoon, after almost four weeks, he appeared at her uni.

She was arriving from a class that had just ended when she hurried past a man she had been pining for for 25 days.

"You working tonight?"

Hearing that voice in a place she had least expected to hear it made her shoulders shoot up and her breath get caught in her throat as she stopped and turned around.

"Jesus…- You scared me."

He laughed and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Boo."

"When did you… What are you doing here?"

She didn't say I'm happy to see you. I missed you. That would've sounded too desperate. Right? Even after 25 days.

He looked her up and down, and her knees felt like pudding.

"I like to stalk school girls."

She tried to suppress her smile. God, she had missed that cheeky humour.

"Pervert. No, I don't have a shift tonight."

"Then I can finally take you out on that date."

It was like her dreams had suddenly come true in one single minute. She went from a bird with a broken wing to Icarus flying toward the sun.

"What do you have in mind?"

"You'll see."

He was even taller than she remembered, broader, even when he was wearing all black. People were staring at them, staring at him, because he certainly didn’t look like someone who studied in the Art and Culture Department.

"How did you even know I was here right now?"

"Doesn't really need a rocket scientist to find that out, luv."

Right. But the fact that he had made the effort to dig up what classes she took, when and where, and then come and surprise her like this, made her heart ache. He gave her another once-over, and she squeezed her bag against her chest like that could shield her from the searing gaze.

"You look hot."

And that definitely made her blush… She was an umptieth year student and didn't bother to take pains anymore when she dragged herself in the class. She had her comfiest ballerinas on, her hair was tied to a simple ponytail, and she had no foundation, no mascara, only a bit of her favourite lipstick on. She was wearing a huge, flowy skirt the color of a Halloween pumpkin and a black, simple turtleneck — while perhaps neat and cute in this environment, to him, she would've thought she looked more like a librarian. Far from a hot Bond girl who danced at a strip club with curled hair and cat eye makeup.

"Um.."

"Such a diligent little student."

It seemed he did have an actual thing for school girls, even if they were almost 30 years old. She would never have guessed that this would send him itching. If Simon preferred the girl next door look to her being half-naked on a stage with a pole, then perhaps she did have a chance after all.

"I knew you were a good girl but I didn't know- "

"Stop it, people can hear you," she hissed while, in truth, feeling quite exalted by that good girl talk. She grabbed him by the arm, and he allowed her to guide him out of the building while looking perfectly content with himself and what he was doing to her.

They began the walk to her place so she could shower and get changed for whatever he had in mind for that date. The complete turnaround in her mood, the shot of hormones and giddy feelings and butterflies in the stomach left her feeling shaky. Even the colors seemed more vivid all of a sudden. It was a bit frightening how one single person could change the whole world in a second, have a remedy for all the shit she had been rolling in for the past week. Or two weeks. Or three.

"Sorry that it took so long. Work was... a bit of a challenge."

"It's okay."

Well, it really was not, but she would rather die than tell him that.

"It's better if you don't know where I am and when. I hope you understand that."

Safety measures for her sake after all. Now she felt almost flattered that he hadn't told her he was coming. Jesus...

"Yeah. Sure," she tried to sound neutral about it, but the sudden shyness that had taken over made it sound like she was being passive-aggressive. "I mean, I didn't expect you to entertain me every night."

Well, that sounded even more sour and pathetic… She snapped her mouth shut and tried to calm her heart that was racing from his presence, his scent which had been only a memory until now.

"So, what will you become when you graduate? A historian?”

"I’ve always wanted to work in a gallery. You know, as an art curator or something like that."

"Hm. Ambitious."

She wasn’t entirely sure if he was mocking her, but she laughed. In the culture business, it was a sought-after position, but of course it wouldn't seem like much to someone who wasn’t familiar with the art world.

"What about you? What do you wanna be when you grow up?"

"Alive."

Simon's humour was dark, but after seeing that picture of him, she knew he meant what he said. And she realized that it wasn't perhaps one of her most brilliant ideas to get attached to a man who could actually be killed.

When they got to her place, she went straight to the shower and left the door open, secretly wishing that he would be the one to sneak in this time. But he never showed up, and when she stepped into her small living room, she found Simon had dozed off on her sofa. He barely fit her neat little couch and was lying on his stomach, with one hand dangling out and brushing the floor. The soft snore made it clear that he was very tired and not just chilling in a very relaxed position.

It was a cute sight, downright adorable.

But it also hurt her heart. What made him so exhausted, time after time, month after month? He wouldn’t tell her, and it was futile to ask. The man was overloaded with stress and things ordinary civilians had no clue about. She had no clue about.

He must think of her as a harmless little mouse who knew nothing of the world's darkness. And she didn't. She had her own demons and traumas, but didn't everybody? Simon, on the other hand, seemed to have the combined lives of a gladiator, spy, and war veteran. He had access to a reality that was out of sight and mind for the rest of the civilized world.

Was Simon a good guy or a bad guy? Was he a hero that saved people, or a soldier who executed orders of rape, torture, and kill?

These were questions she had never thought she would need to find answers to. The guys she had dated had been equally as harmless as her. If not even more harmless. And that was saying something.

When she had dressed, she walked to him and heard how the snoring stopped immediately.

Simon was awake and listening. He had woken just from a few soft steps, from her tiptoeing and kneeling beside the sofa, and she wondered if he had been trained for this; to wake up when someone was sneaking up on him. The thought was both gruesome and spine-tingling.

But she hadn’t meant to steal his precious sleep. And if he was so exhausted, he should sleep and not take her out…

Now that he was supposedly awake, she dared to raise a hand and caress his back, remembering what he had said in the shower when she had stroked him. His upper back was tense, even when he was lying relaxed like this, and she felt pity: someone should give this man a back rub, a whole body massage to get those muscles loose. Get some blood flowing. She caressed him with the back of her palm, then slowly traced every little vertebra of his spinal column with two fingers.

He was using both one of the cushions and her sweater as a pillow. Something in the sight of him pressed against her old, snug woolen shirt made her hand come to a halt somewhere on his lower back.

“Don’t stop,” he muttered, sleepy against the softness of her home and hand. She had to fight back the reflexive flinch: his voice was always so rough, even when he whispered and the words were muffled by the support his head was resting on.

“You have tension in your back,” she told him, not knowing why she was whispering too. It wasn’t like he was about to dart off from a sudden noise.

He merely purred for an answer, still sounding drowsy and half-asleep. How disarmed and defenseless he seemed now… On that little couch, under her gentle touch.

“I need to buy you a massage gift card for Christmas,” she blurted and regretted it immediately.

Buy him a Christmas present? As if they were some kind of a couple already… As if this wasn’t barely the second time they were spending time together.

At first, Simon didn’t show any signs of wanting to escape that hopeful suggestion of them becoming something more than just fuck buddies someday. But then he suddenly turned, and she took her hand away.

“I’d rather have you massage me,” he offered with a soft smile and a dreamy stare.

Good. Good, everything was good..

She hadn’t ruined it, hadn’t lost another poker game to this man. She still had cards to play.

She noticed the obvious signs of his arousal and felt wild in the breeze of the moment. Or perhaps she wanted to brush away what she had just said — and make him forget it too.

She reached for his pants to take them off, and he helped her with them, clearly having no objections to what she was about to do. Which was giving him a blowjob that would erase the traces of him thinking he had an obligation to buy her a present for this Christmas.

When she took him in her mouth, he grabbed the edge of the sofa as if the situation was a little too much for him.

"Didn't see that coming…"

His voice had an edge of trepidation to it. Uneasiness, almost worry. But he must've liked it, for he eased into it shortly after, slumped back onto the couch, and spread his legs in relaxation. She guided her frustration and doubts into the blowjob, tried to turn into someone else — to that girl from the stage. The Bond girl he had met, the woman of his dreams: just anything but a meek little woman who rarely left her house except for class or work.

She was fully present, not sloppy at all, almost felt like a magician as she forced groans out of him and felt his balls pull taut under her touch. He would never fit inside her mouth completely, but she tried her best.

She sure as hell made an effort.

"You must've really missed m- ah… Fuck.."

It was pretty evident that he enjoyed it. After those weeks at work, perhaps this was what he had wanted all along? To come somewhere safe, some place completely different, and throw himself on a soft couch for a quick nap before some homely girl came to give him a few caresses and a blowjob.

She swirled her tongue around the tip, gave him a little suck, then took him in as far as she could and felt him all the way at the back of her throat.

"Bloody hell Sarah..."

It couldn't be that good…

But he was all but melting under her tongue and touch. Was it just that it had been so long, or was this a rarity in his life? She'd thought that women touched him often, but apparently, they didn't. Or then he didn't allow them to.

Perhaps Simon didn't allow himself to be touched by women. He made love to them and fucked them against a wall in the shower, but he didn't get attention and caresses and blowjobs.

Well, this was news.

It didn't take too long before he came with a hoarse grunt that nearly made her shrink from him. It sounded both sublime and painful, and sent ripples of gold in her stomach and a pang of wet heat between her legs. The load was generous, but she didn't pull away, briefly wondering how awkward it would be to choke on his cum the second time they met. It had been a while for him, then, and she felt disappointed. It wasn't anything special after all, merely the cause of him not having had the opportunity, desire, or time to fap.

His chest was heaving, and she had made a mess in her attempt to swallow it all while keeping everything under control. With Simon, she wasn’t in control, and she had no choice but to accept it.

He reached a hand to absentmindedly caress her hair, and she rested her head on his thigh — but they didn't stay that way for long, for he stirred, and she had to draw back.

"Your turn," he suddenly rose from the couch while still looking like someone who was about to pass out. He got out of his pants, pulled his shirt over his head, threw it somewhere on the floor, and hauled her up in a bridal carry. He literally swept her off her feet and carried her to the bedroom, and she must’ve looked like a deer in headlights.

Because Simon was and wasn't safe.

He had strength, charisma, and forearms to die for, but he didn't feel like someone she would choose to tell her every secret, someone who she would call if she needed help. He came into her world and walked out of it like there was a swinging door between the two of them.

He didn't commit. Which meant that she couldn't commit. Which furthermore meant that she had trouble getting wet.

As infuriating as it was, dark and dangerous didn't exactly turn her on. This wasn't dating; this was more like an adventure or a roller coaster ride. She didn't know what phase they were in because the usual dating-related stuff was off the board. There was nothing to hold on to.

He laid her on the bed, crawled next to her, then reached a hand under another skirt she had chosen for going out with him.

"Perhaps later," she whispered as his hand was already traveling up her thigh. She almost took those words right back when she saw the obvious hurt flash in his eyes. She didn't know if she had de a chip to his pride or if it was something else, but he clearly hadn't expected her to say no to him again.

"Why won't you let me touch you?"

"I…"

She didn't know what to tell him.

What could she say? That she felt unsafe with him? That wasn't even entirely true.

She couldn't tell him that she needed trust and commitment while knowing he couldn't give them to her. Her shy silence stretched on, and the frightened state she was in only worsened when he stared at her, tilted his head, and wouldn't remove his hand.

Then he kissed her — unhurriedly, languidly, and the hand just stayed there under the skirt, pressed against her thigh, firm and broad. Only after she answered his kiss with a shy hunger did he move it further up, up — until it came to rest on her sex.

The kissing finally did it: at some point, she could feel the sudden rush of wetness down below. Her lips trembled when he pulled away only an inch and looked into her eyes while their breaths danced in between their lips. His palm moved only a tiny bit; he was soothing her, coaxing her to open for him. Eventually, his fingers met the soaked spot on her panties, and she swallowed. There was a slight twitch at the corner of his lips, just a tiny little hint that he knew he was doing it right.

"Did you like the picture I sent you?"

Oh fuck.

"Um, yeah.."

He pressed a finger against the center of her wetness, covered only by the thin fabric, and she tried to draw breath as inaudibly as she could.

"Did you get wet?"

So fucking cocky…

"Yes, she whispered against his lips, which finally curved into a small smile.

"Come again?"

"Yes."

The smile widened into a smirk as he moved to slip underneath the fabric. Her folds parted without effort as he guided his finger over her, the length and thickness now resting on her entrance and all the wetness that only increased by the second. She was blinking and breathing shallowly against his mouth while he simply continued to drink in every sign of her unease and arousal.

"Is that why you asked for more?"

Oh God…

"Yes. Would you just-"

"Begging already?"

He was so… infuriating. So cocky, so damn self-confident… It drove her crazy.

"No."

Something flickered in his eyes, a twinkle of endearment.

And not just a twinkle. It was bold, blazing mischief. Shit… She was fucked.

"I'll make you beg."

Oh my God…

He moved even lower, then dipped one finger in, so deep that she was left blinking again. Her mouth opened, then closed, and she realized she must be looking like a fish on dry land. He pulled out, and she wanted to protest, but her pride stood in the way. The moisture was spread all over her folds, especially over the tight, sensitive bud that had been left without attention for so long from the sadness and hopelessness, from her having thought Simon wouldn't come back. She couldn't even touch herself because she had already gotten used to thinking about him when she did that.

A shaky little moan finally hit his lips, and he kissed her again while drawing a circle on the bud, sweeping a few strokes across her folds, then driving two fingers in. Slowly, lovingly. The laced fabric that was stretched to give him space must be sodden by now, but he wouldn't pause to take it away. He just continued to fuck her slowly with his fingers while holding that kiss, holding her steady with his mouth only.

He had taken her hesitation as a challenge, and she wondered if she was some kind of a challenge to him overall. If something in her made him want to break her, get to the bottom of her, get a reaction out of her… And he was succeeding splendidly. She was everything but frigid now. He only needed a finger or two to make her like this. And perhaps that voice of his. That stupid cockiness.

He left her mouth and pulled out, only to finally reach for her poor underwear and take it off. She didn't object this time, but when he moved between her legs and she realized he was about to replace those panties with his face, she jerked away from him.

"Hold on…"

"Nah. You hold on."

He wouldn't relent. He simply pressed his mouth against her pussy which, by now, was wet to the point of leaking, and grabbed hold of her hips as if to remind her that she couldn't get away even if she tried. She could only sink back to the bed and let him have his way: to embark on a mission to make her beg.

And she did beg, eventually, when he pressed his tongue flat against her and plunged it inside, and sucked her clit and did it all with such infuriating patience and laid-back attitude that it made her squirm against him. He caressed her with his tongue, those lips, caressed her with his thumb before guiding it inside as well while kissing her thighs, now wide open for him.

She didn't beg with words, but she did coat the air with sighs and moans that must've stroked his ego like nothing else. Even the stubble did its job: it didn’t sting. It only drove her more mad. She could hear him chuckle against her occasionally, could feel him smile in her pussy as he ruined her with that mouth. Even the intrusive thoughts of whether Simon had done this to dozens of women before her and would do it to dozens after her didn't prevent her from approaching the peak in minutes, mere minutes…

Just as she was about to grasp his hair for support, to brace herself for the incoming, he withdrew. The bastard rose to sit and left her shaking and whimpering.

"Wh-… why did you…"

He was licking his lips, smiling, and stroking himself, fully erect again. The fact that he was hard from pleasing her with his mouth, left her feeling even more weak.

"You want it?"

"Fucking hell, Simon." She knew how she must look: dripping wet, with desperation in her eyes and a shaky curse on her lips.

"Is that a beg?"

He placed the thick tip to her entrance, and she throbbed and writhed against him like she was about to come from the slightest touch of that cock.

"Yeah… Yes, please, Simon, just-"

He granted her plea to the full before she had even finished it. The spread, the feeling of being filled with him, was so exquisitely divine that it only took less than five thrusts before she came.

He looked annoyingly pleased while watching her have one of the most powerful, gratifying, leg-shaking orgasms of her life. Perhaps it was only a proper way to greet a man who had been inside her head for so long: who was finally inside her for the first time in four desolate weeks. She didn't feel wild or raw now; she felt like molasses, like puddle of tears, a boneless, limp heap of muscle from all that love and gentle fucking.

After the tension, tremblings, and shaky sighs had left her, and she was merely panting, he finally stopped. Lodged deep inside her to feel the rest of the waves, he was still watching her. The stare of those warm eyes was too much to bear after another implosion that made her even more attached to this man.

"If you call me a good girl, I swear I'll slap you again," she whispered. The body against him shook from silent laughter. He kissed her again, buried his fingers in her hair, gave her another rock of his hips. And then, suddenly stopped just to whisper in her ear…

"That's my good girl."

Fuck….

It was useless. Utterly, completely useless with Simon.

"Ok… Ok." She tried to gather herself while he was still inside her, still filling her and shielding her with his body. "You're asking for it, so I'm not giving it to you."

"Poor me," he answered with that gruff, heart melting voice.

She was laughing again, smiling for the first time in days. Beaming, even…. Probably looking like a brain-dead idiot.

"This was a good date. I had fun."

In her opinion, it was the best date ever, but would she let him know it and stroke that ego further? Hell no.

"This wasn't what I had in mind," he hummed while moving to kiss her neck.

"What if we just stayed here for the rest of the day?"

"Wouldn't mind that."

“You know.. I... really missed you,” she finally confessed with a whisper while he was preoccupied with her neck; safely somewhere else than right there in front of her, staring her in the eyes, gathering evidence of her vulnerability. He huffed a chuckle against her skin in response, sounding close to relieved.

"I missed you too."

#simon riley x oc #ghost x oc #ghost smut #simon riley smut #simon ghost riley x oc #mw2 smut #ghost fanfiction #simon riley fanfic #cod fanfic #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x female oc

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jo-harrington · 1 month ago

Text

As Above, So Below - Chapter 8: Miserere Mei

Previous Chapter: Chapter 7 - Exodus

Summary: You wake up back in Hawkins with a broken spirit and find an unexpected ally in the place you least expected to find it.

Word Count: 11.7k (that's a fun number)

Pairing: Eddie Munson/Fem!Original Character (Written in 2nd Person POV - You/Your - No Use of Names of Physical Descriptors)

Warnings/Themes: Van Helsing Inspired, Kas!Eddie, Religious Themes, Criticism of Religion/Catholicism, Fate vs. Free Will, Death and Injury, Graphic Depictions of Violence, Discussion of the Upside Down, Fluff, Supernatural Encounters, Grief, Major Character Death, Gore, Body Horror, Angst, Disturbing Imagery, Biblical and Other Literary/Media References. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat

Note: OK YALL SERIOUSLY. THIS CHAPTER IS NOT FOR THE FAINT OF HEART AND I NEED YOU TO LOOK AT THE BOLDED WARNINGS HERE BECAUSE JESUS ITS NOT GONNA BE PRETTY.

MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH ESPECIALLY

Ahem. Thanks @pastel-pillows for doing those few little beta reads. Lub you.

This series will not be for the faint of heart, nor is it something that was written with a general audience in mind. Please check the above warnings and ask yourself if you are in the correct headspace to proceed. I am happy to answer any questions via PM or Ask.

You can find my masterlist here.

Please do not interact if you are not 18+.

Enjoy!

“You look as if you thought it tainted you to be loved by me. You cannot avoid it.” - Elizabeth Gaskell, North and South

November 6, 1983

One minute he was there. Holding you, surrounding you, soothing all of your worries. He tried to assuage the fear that had overcome you at the sight of him so broken, but he couldn’t seem to understand it himself.

And the next, he was gone.

You were left in the dark unsettling void alone again.

Until Eddie started screaming. Sobbing.

It was a viciously painful sound that cut deep into the very core of you. Suddenly all the fear and meekness that had overtaken you in the comfort of his presence—the permission you were given to be vulnerable—disappeared, and you were thrown back into the role you'd played for years.

It was almost a relief. Almost.

He required your strength, and you’d always known what it meant to be strong in the face of desperation.

But when you went to Eddie to try and fix him, fix whatever had hurt him, the sight you found was even more horrific than you expected.

He was huddled on the ground, cradling Wayne's broken body as it sputtered on blood and choked for air. Well, they were both broken actually, just in different ways.

The grief was overwhelming; you couldn't tell where yours ended and his began but that was probably because they were one in the same. You almost wanted to let it overtake you. The grief. The guilt.

You hadn't been there. How had you not realized? Had you been so busy cleaving together the fractured pieces of him that you’d neglected—

It was Wayne that stopped those insidious thoughts from getting the best of you.

Even in death, he was holding it all together for you. For Eddie. You didn't even need to cast your consciousness outwards to feel him; he was doing a brilliant job all on his own to convey just how calm he was in this moment.

You felt all of Wayne Munson and aside from the obvious pain that emanated from him, you felt other, very human things. Fear, sadness, serenity. You almost laughed at how foreign they were here--they tickled you--but Wayne’s humanity had never been a question.

Fear, but not for himself. For Eddie. Because he wouldn't be there; what would become of the boy now?

Sadness that he couldn't help anymore, that he would leave his son alone to this fate.

Then serenity. Because it was all serene in the end wasn't it? Given the circumstances, he'd been waiting for this day for a while. He survived for so long because of Eddie, and he'd seen enough to know that Eddie would be fine.

You cast a sense of reassurance towards them both; yes, Eddie would be fine. Between the two of you, he would be taken care of.

You swore Wayne's gasping lips quirked and the corners of his eyes crinkled. Then the serene feeling spread through his limbs, and it happened.

His life force started seeping out of him--his soul--hazy and distorted, like the air on a hot day. It glowed a brilliance that was unknown to the naked eye but easily detectable to someone like you. Something like you. So much of it was Wayne himself, and then there…you could see it...a little bit of Rick, an old man named Benny, other friends he had throughout the years. There were little bits of you, both as you were then and as she was now. And then Eddie. Less than you'd gotten used to but more than anyone else would ever hope to have. Wayne was family after all.

Seeing those last bits of the two of you...something deep inside of you wanted to close the distance and grab them covetously. But they belonged to Wayne. You knew if you tried, they would disappear in your grasp like smoke.

But they were precious commodities and for them to fade away would be devastating. Rather than let them go, you wondered if you could--

"What are you doing just standing there?!" Eddie growled at you, broke you from your thoughts. His tone was sharp, cutting, like broken glass. Understandable, given the circumstances. You shushed him softly and he simply whimpered and turned his head back to Wayne. "I need to fix him. Please."

You watched as he laid his uncle out on the ground and concentrated. His hands, his claws, undeniably gentle as they ran over the wounds and willed them closed again. Just like you'd done to him, just like she'd taught him to do.

Wayne was different from the Brides or Billy. They had been empty and Eddie had to fill them back up again in order to resurrect them. He had grasped what remnants he could piece together from the writhing mass of other in the Upside Down, and when he couldn't get enough, he'd simply shorn a part of himself--a part of you--off to shove into them.

You watched in awe as the brilliant haze seeped back into Wayne's body. As life was slowly restored.

Only for something to snap, something to break, and the wounds tear open again.

Eddie roared, bloody tears and spit spraying over Wayne's form, as despair overcame him. His body bent over Wayne and grasped the torn and blood-saturated flannel of his shirt; his wings stretched into the sky and then folded over the two of them. Protecting them.

"Please help," he wept. "Help us."

You tried to take a few steps, get as close as you could, arm outstretched so you could run a hand along his back. You could offer your strength to him, and yes you could try to heal Wayne; it would be easy. Easier than it had been with Eddie; you didn't have Vecna to contend with now.

But something pinched at the back of you. It held you back. You thought you could feel it, looming above you, and it caused goosebumps to erupt along your skin.

You thought you knew that feeling. The room. The eyes.

You tried to fight the fear that gripped you, shake away the claws that grabbed for you. You should have been able to free yourself and close the distance, free Wayne, free Eddie.

You had the strength; she'd given it to you.

It would be easy...wouldn't it?

Instead, the pinch released and a hand rested on your shoulder, and you turned to glance at the source.

October 28, 1987

Breathe in.

Everything hurt.

Breathe out.

Like...everything hurt.

Well, actually no, your legs felt numb and you'd lost feeling in your arm where it was tucked under your head. Although, numbness was a kind of pain wasn't it.

Numbness. Emptiness. They were your new friends.

The world slowly came to you, piece by piece at first, and then rammed into you like a truck.

Feeling, smells, sounds.

The squishiness of a cushion below you, the tightness of something wrapped around your chest and torso, the smell of coffee and pancakes, and the sounds of...people singing?

"You sad pathetic man, see where you've brought us to. Our ideals die around us, all because of you."

You squeezed your eyes shut--tensor tympani roaring in your ears at the strain--and then you slowly opened them.

You groaned at the brightness first, the sun filtering in through the Harrington's gauzy curtains, and then your eyes rested on the television. At the two men circling each other singing verses back and forth like an argument.

You glanced around to ascertain your whereabouts; track lights overhead, the lightwood entertainment system, shelves full of books and VHS tapes and records, plush carpet.

The cushions by your feet shifted and you turned your head to find Mary Victoria sitting at the end of the sofa, bowl of popcorn on her lap, attention glued to the TV.

"Everytime I look at you I don't understand. Why you let the things you did get so out of hand."

Your heart practically stopped in your chest.

"You'd have managed better if you'd had it planned." The singer began to vocalize a melodic scream of despair and anger, and then the electric guitar punctuated the whole argument.

"What the fuck," you rasped, and Mare jumped beside you with a soft oh shit. "What the fuck are you watching?"

You winced at the sharp dryness of your throat and then gagged at a musty, metallic taste in your mouth. Mare scrambled around you; the popcorn bowl was set on the coffee table, a button pressed on the remote, and then a straw placed against your lips.

You were grateful for the cool water to soothe your throat and wash away the taste of convalescence from your mouth; you were not grateful for the weary eyes of one Mr. Jesus Christ Superstar frozen on screen, staring sanctimoniously right into yours.

When you finally had your fill of water and Mare pulled the straw and cup away, you shut your eyes again and sighed.

"Little on the nose, don't you think?" you asked.

"What? The Jesus thing?" she snorted. "Steve's mom liked musicals, I guess. They had the tape. I couldn't help myself; I've never seen it before. It's frowned upon."

You tried to turn onto your back and winced at the pain that wracked your body and the prickly numbness of your arm; you grit your teeth together and tried to wiggle some feeling in your hand, all the while groaning, "I fucking hate you sometimes."

"Uh, no," Mare shook her head. "You love me, actually, because I've been taking care of you for the last 48 hours round the clock."

"Thanks.”

"You know what was really super duper fun," her tone got sharper. "Was opening the door the other morning, ready to go on a patrol of town, only to find your barely breathing body on the doorstep with a fucking feral cat sitting on top of you that wouldn't let us near you without hissing."

You froze.

Then it all came back to you.

The Upside Down, your escape, Lover's Lake, Lucy, the Brides.

Eddie.

Wayne.

You reacted instinctively, shooting upright, ready to go and save the older man, but your body was quick to put an end to that plan.

There was a sharp eruption of pain in your hip, and all your muscles seized; you suddenly lost your breath and went crashing back down onto the sofa again with a yelp.

"Are you kidding me?" Mare screeched and she moved to your side immediately. Her fingers plucked at the edges of your clothes and she continued tutting, all while you insisted you had to go, the sound of both your voices garbled as your ears rang throughout the pain.

“IneedtogoIneedtosavewayneeddieIneedtohelpthem”

"Weonlyjustgotthebleedingtostopnottoolongagowhathefuck."

"I'm fine," you gasped. "I need to go. I'll be fine."

"The hell you will."

And she was right.

This was indeed Hell.

Hell was the soreness of your body as she shut down any more of your protests and helped you to your feet and walked you to the bathroom down the hall.

Hell was the shock of seeing yourself in the mirror, all thought of the others gone as the damage was revealed; your clothes were ripped and soiled, and you were bandaged and still sticky with dried blood. That person staring back at you was strange and unknown, but she had your face, your body, and your shame.

Hell was the distinct feeling of emptiness inside of you, even worse that it had been in the Upside Down. You almost felt like vomiting at the feeling of it and at the cloying phantom of death that followed you as you stepped from the sink to the toilet, and then back again.

It lagged behind you, arms held out as though it would catch you should you fall and deliver you to the devil with a vicious expedience. It was that feeling that let you know you were still alive, because if it hadn't been there, you would have been sure that you were dead.

Was this what your father had felt in those days, those minutes, before he succumbed to whatever had killed him? A distinct awareness of how alive he was, and then how easily it could slip away from him?

You gripped the edge of the sink tightly, until your fingers went numb, and bared your teeth at your reflection.

You had to stop living in the past, that's what got you into this mess in the first place. Now you had to focus on the present, on the future. How else were you going to fix this...fix everything?

But it was going to be hard to save everyone else when you knew that you couldn't even save yourself.

You were grateful when Mary Victoria knocked on the door.

She led you back to the sofa and scolded you, then eventually doted on you. Pillows fluffed, water refilled, breakfast --though cold--served. She even cut up the pancakes into little bite-sized pieces for you.

"I can do it myself mom," you sassed and shooed her hands away to grab the knife and fork yourself. "It's not like I'm in a full body cast or something."

"Hey what if your hand slips and you cut a finger off."

"With a butter knife?"

You stared at her expectantly and shoved a bit of syrupy pancake and sausage into your mouth.

You tried not to gag; despite the enticing smell, it dissolved into sand on your tongue.

"It's not even like I can punch you in the arm or anything," Mare sighed and rolled her eyes, then reached across and rested a hand lightly on your shoulder, her thumb rubbing back and forth soothingly. "You're too hurt for retaliation."

"I missed you too," you smiled tensely.

It could've been the food, or Mary Victoria herself, but slowly but surely you began to feel invigorated.

You knew it wasn't much, just enough to pull you away from the precipice of death, and for that you were grateful.

"So this is how the life of a knight is," Mare stated, pity heavy in her voice. "Go on to save the world and end up on the brink of death. Because we're two for two when it comes to that. Me with the lighting and now you with..." she gestured at you in a non-committal fashion. "...everything...everything else."

"I don't think martyrdom is exactly on the job application but it's listed under 'other responsibilities as assigned by your supervisor," you deadpanned and speared another bite on your fork.

"Did Eddie do this to you?" You froze and refused to look up at her. "Did he?"

Had he done this to you? No, he didn't. Not really.

So it should've been an easy thing to answer.

Instead you muttered "next question" and forced yourself to choke down another bite of food.

"Why aren't you healing?"

You did look up at her this time, blinking blithely with the inability to answer once again.

"No seriously," she continued. "I know I asked you not to heal me when I got struck by lightning but I also know that you did something to help me anyways. You said you could heal, so why aren't you healed yet."

You debated telling her the truth; shit, aside from Wayne and Eddie...no one knew what was happening to you. You barely knew. You could only guess that you were dying, even though your gut instincts--and, honestly, the current state of you--told you that you were probably right.

And Mary Victoria might've been your friend but she was still a nun; you didn't know how well she would react to you telling her you were now suffering the first in a series of divine punishments that would lead to eternal damnation.

You didn't know how she might react if you told her you lost your powers for breaking your oath to God by consorting with a creature of darkness. And fucking him and letting him feed off you. Even if that creature was your boyfriend and the love of your life.

Maybe Mare was right to think that the lightning struck her because she called God an asshole. You'd been doing it all your life and now look at you.

So what was a sinner like you to do but sin more?

"The Upside Down was draining me," you lied.

"What?!" she exclaimed.

Well, it wasn't all a lie. Maybe a half-truth. Or a quarter. Or less.

You explained what you had been feeling, how you had been feeling, in those days in the Upside Down with Eddie, and that the only time you felt better was when you were back in Hawkins.

You dove into as much detail as you could without spilling all the beans; you couldn't help how many of them spilled on their own though. Especially when you got to your escape--framed as less of an jailbreak and more of a casual departure--and Cerberus's diversion, the Brides and vampires attacking, and finally Wayne and Lucy's appearance.

Mare, of course, had her questions and got progressively more confused and frustrated as you went on:

"I thought Kas...Eddie controlled the Brides?"

"Who's Cerberus? And who's Lucy?"

"Wait, did I miss something? You're here. Eddie's still in the Upside Down. What happened to Wayne?"

You heard the crunch again as that final question fell from her lips; together they intermingled and echoed inside of your skull.

What happened to Wayne? crunch What happened to Wayne? crunch

"I don't know," you finally whispered a choking, croaking response.

"What do you mean you don't know?" she exclaimed and got to her feet to begin pacing in outrage. "Did that dusty old coot seriously just leave you here with the fucking cat and mosey on back to Lover's Lake?"

"Mare--"

"Because I have a few choice words for him if he did. Are you fucking kidding me? Did he think he was absolved of responsibility just because he ferried you across town? His nephews fucking cronies did this to you, and he's living it up on shitty beer and frozen lasagna."

"He isn't."

"And how do you know?" she turned to you, the picture of righteous impatience with her arms crossed over her chest and her eyebrows sky-high.

"Because..." you licked your lips and took a breath to steel yourself.

If you said it, it would be true, but it was already true wasn’t it? If days had passed here, weeks had passed there and if Wayne hadn’t died immediately, he was either dead now or suffering some unending nightmare. Or he was healed and fine and just a prisoner of Eddie and the Upside Down, like you had been. And you didn’t know which of those things was worse.

"Because he's...he might be dead."

She didn't get a chance to respond, because the door opened and Robin's chipper "we're back" echoed through the house.

Mary Victoria's head snapped up towards the hallway, and you did your best to crane your neck, only to see Dustin, Robin, and Steve make their way into the living area of the house.

"You're awake!" Dustin brightened immediately when he saw you. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm sure she's feeling like sh--" Robin tousled his hair, but her words were cut short.

"She's fine," Mare snapped, and then her eyes darted down to you, and back to the others. "We've got bigger fish to fry."

"What are you talking about?" Steve asked.

"Yeah I thought we were gonna have sloppy joes for lunch," Dustin tried to joke and lighten the obvious tension.

"We need to rescue Wayne Munson," Mare announced.

"What?" Dustin, Steve, and Robin spoke in tandem.

"What do you mean rescue Wayne Munson?" Robin asked. "Rescue him from what?"

"From the Upside Down," Mare said matter-of-factly, as if it was the most obvious answer.

"Oh, just the Upside Down,” Steve let out a sarcastic laugh and placed his hands firmly on his hips. “Miss Gutted Fish here wakes up from her coma and we’re supposed to go running into the Danger Zone because she says so?”

“She isn’t saying shit, I am,” Mare insisted, crossing the distance and getting in his face. “Something happened and Wayne’s in the Upside Down and hurt.” She looked back at you. “Maybe dead. So we need to go now if he’s gonna survive.”

You all watched as they shared a moment of silent communication, something innate that you didn’t have the care or the energy to decipher. But it was an awe-inducing battle of wills on display for everyone to witness; Mary Victoria, the unstoppable force, versus Steve Harrington, the immovable object.

“Why isn’t Eddie helping him?” Dustin questioned and broke the tension. Steve snapped his fingers and pointed at the younger boy, as if to second that question.

“He can’t,” you tried to say, but Mare talked over you.

“I think there’s been a mutiny on the Bounty,” she explained. “And Captain Eddie isn’t in charge anymore. We might need to save him too.”

“You can’t!” You tried again.

"You just said Wayne might be dead," Mare snapped at you now, "and Eddie can't save him so it sounds like it's a rescue mission to help both of them to me."

"We're not rescuing anyone," Steve threw his hands up in the air and he turned his attention to you as well. "You know, I went along with all of these plans you've had before. They didn't sound too bad either. Your little vampire Kas hunting bit? I had some kind of hope that we could close the gates; that we could save our friends.

"I didn't even bat an eye when you were making your little treks into the Upside Down yourself, because you seemed to be making some sort of progress with Eddie...healing him or fixing him....I can't imagine what it was you were doing.

"But then you showed up dead on my doorstep." Steve spat at you. "Literally. I almost had to give you CPR."

"Do you want me to say thank you?" you asked numbly.

"This is not a joke!"

"I know it isn't."

"See, I don't think you do," he continued harshly and then pointed over at Mary Victoria. "Because I'm hearing two different stories here. We need to go to the Upside Down to save the Munsons. But no, it's impossible to save the Munsons. Which is it? Is this a trick?

"Have you been flayed? We didn't check hard enough to see if a slug crawled inside of your wounds; maybe Kas implanted you with something and is controlling your mind to lure us into a trap."

Steve reached out and poked at your bandaged wounds and even in your weakened, practically powerless state you could see what he saw, memories pushed into you. Images of a screaming Eleven, and a worm that wriggled under the skin of her leg, and a Billy under the control of the Mind Flayer.

If only it were that simple, you thought, as the others all shouted at Steve in shock.

But you knew he had a point, knew that his anger--anger at this situation, anger at you--was warranted.

"We're not sending another person into that hellhole; we've lost enough loved ones and we're struggling to protect everyone that's left as it is," Steve spat at you, ignoring the others. "You're done playing hero. Done. As a matter of fact..."

You were blinded by the pain that radiated through your body as he hauled you to your feet; he continued to ignore the shouts of the others as he dragged you across the living room and down the hall. You stumbled and tripped, your legs stiff and barely functioning, as you struggled to keep up with him.

Keys jingled and a door opened, and suddenly you were pushed into a dark room. You fell to the ground with a pained oomph and curled in on yourself on instinct, seeking some sort of comfort or maybe even the embrace of death.

"I am going to protect my friends," Steve's strained voice called into the darkness over Mary Victoria's shouts of have-you-lost-your-damn-mind.

He slammed the door shut, cutting the room off from what little light spilled in from the hallway, but through the heavy wood you still heard, "Even if I have to protect them from you."

November 6, 1983

Somewhere between life and whatever this existence you now inhabited was, you'd come to expect the unexpected and slowly understand the inexplicable.

The mystery of faith and all that, isn't that what they said?

And you wore the slightest bit of smugness knowing that, although she had seen the world and lived, you would know more than she ever dreamed.

But this was something beyond.

You felt, but you could not see, the presence before you.

Well, actually you could, in a way.

He felt so familiar, with a hand on your shoulder, and a presence larger than life, just like he'd always been. However, to your eye, he was simply...light and goodness and softness. He was darkness and shadow and the rage of a summer storm.

He was ephemeral...just like...

"Help us," Eddie moaned again, pleaded, and the grip on you tightened.

"I have to go," you whispered. "They need me."

It tightened further, almost painfully, and pulled you closer until you fell into the strange form.

He was solid when he touched you. His hands gripped you tightly, lips caressing your forehead and then the shell of your ear, but when you tried to touch him and steady yourself, your hands went right through.

His words were unintelligible, but somehow you still understood. You didn't need to listen to the sounds; still, you heard. He poured a frantic plea right into the very core of you, wove a request and a warning together, and you couldn't help but agree.

When you looked back at Eddie, to make sure that he was still there and that Wayne was still alive, you could barely make out something else...something more...out of the corner of your eye.

And it felt like heaven.

You knew him. Of course you knew him. You were a part of him. It had just been a long time since you'd been together. Your edges didn't quite fit anymore. He'd lost himself, and so had you, but somehow you'd also gained more than you really knew what to do with anymore.

He pulled back and you could practically make out the begging look on a face that you couldn't see, and you didn't hesitate to nod in promise.

The world around you rumbled then, and he vanished, evaporating into thin air without a trace, as if he'd never been there in the first place.

And as the roiling, tumultuous sky above you rolled and woke to convey its displeasure, you ran.

Just like she had.

Away from Eddie, away from his snarling and begging and cursing; you hardened your heart to his desperate pleas and rage-filled threats that echoed after you.

Away from Wayne, who Eddie kept alive by sheer will alone. He would die here if you failed, and then what would become of him?

Away from the languid eyes that slowly creaked open and surveyed the waste; you knew they would hone in on Eddie and Wayne, but you couldn't do anything to shield them anymore.

Away from everything left of the people you loved to, hopefully, get the last chance you might ever have to save them.

Away from damnation...or possibly straight towards it.

October 29, 1987

Silence.

That's what waited for you in your cell.

A tense and unending silence.

Ok...you were being a little dramatic.

It was the garage, not a cell; Steve had tossed you into the garage like a bag of old trash to be dealt with later. So silence wasn't all that waited for you. There was also a lawnmower and dusty lawn chairs--one that you fell into after you caught your second wind--and the ever-present smell of motor oil.

There was also your cellmate, Billy Hargrove.

You'd honestly forgotten about him.

And where you might have usually felt a little bit bad about that, you couldn't find it in yourself to care. Especially as he just sat there, equally as unbothered by your arrival or your presence as you had been by his.

He was no longer tied up like he had been when you first brought him to the Harringtons; now he sat against the wall with one hand cuffed to an exposed pipe.

Billy didn't move much, didn't talk, and didn't look at you. He just kept his head bowed as the thumb of his free hand rubbed along the seam of the dress pants he still wore.

So yeah, it was still a tense and unending silence for as long as they kept you in that garage.

Maybe you weren't so dramatic after all.

Time passed, the sun shifted in the sky and filtered in through the small windows at the top of the garage door, and then it set again and you and Billy truly sat in darkness.

Day then night, then day again and night again.

There were no visitors, no noise coming from inside the house. You’d at least thought you would hear Mary Victoria arguing with Steve. Something. But could you really bring yourself to care? She didn’t owe you anything and this was exactly what you deserved.

It was a trial run for hell, sans torture and screams.

Meals were brought and supervised by Claudia, who also escorted you to the bathroom so you could relieve yourself and she could clean and redress your wounds.

You felt nauseous as she muttered little prayers over the nasty slashes and cuts and bites, and you had to resist every single urge to lash out at her. What good would her prayers do? Would the blessings of a good woman like her help God feel some sort of mercy towards you? You didn’t want it.

But you resisted that dark urge in the end, and she led you back to the garage.

Tonight, with a rumble of thunder outside, she graciously flicked the light and explained that a storm was coming. Dustin always asked to sleep with the lights on; you shouldn’t have to sit in the darkness too.

Too late, lady.

You realized Billy was missing when you returned and you figured they’d taken him on his own bathroom break.

They always coincided with yours but he was always there when you left and when they brought you back.

With the unexpected time alone, your thoughts wandered.

How would you get yourself out of this mess? Did you even want to? Was Wayne alright? Was Eddie? Why hadn’t he sent the Brides to bring you back, if he’d been so desperate to get you to stay? Maybe he had and your friends here in Hawkins had done a good job of fighting them off? A better job than you had.

Maybe Eddie was too busy trying to care for Wayne to even give a shit about you? You cared more about Wayne than you cared about yourself or Eddie, at this point. Shit, why did you even care about Eddie at all when he had caused this, whether it has been on purpose or not?

Had he even been the one to cause it? Hadn’t it been your fault all along? Your headstrong nature, your savior complex, your mission to save yourself and go to heaven, your blind love for Eddie—even now as you tried to convince yourself that you didn’t care—they had all been your undoing, hadn’t they?

What would you do if you could turn back time? Would you make all the same choices again?

“Fuck didn’t I just say I needed to stop living in the past?” You sniffed as tears began to leak from your eyes. You reached up to wipe them away, only for your fingers to come back stained in blood. You scoffed at the sight. “Great. Just great.”

You mashed the heels of your palms into your eyes and took deep breaths to calm yourself and stop the tears from falling. You didn’t need another cryptic sign from God; you just needed…

You didn’t even know what you needed anymore. Silence. That would be the best. Just silence.

Of course, that was the last thing that you got, as the door into the house opened once again and Scott led Billy back to the corner he’d been sitting in. The handcuff clicked shut, and then with a scowl shot towards you, Scott was gone again.

Thankfully, he left the light on.

Or maybe not so thankfully.

Because with the garage illuminated, Billy finally found it in himself to look at you.

And oh, he looked. He stared unblinkingly as you sat there and tried to staunch the flow of your bloody tears.

He muttered something softly, soft enough that you could barely hear. And when you didn’t respond, he cleared his throat awkwardly and spoke up.

“Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth,” he recited, voice gravelly.

At first, you were shocked, then you groaned and closed your eyes. Your thoughts turned, not to the Billy before you that had been resurrected by Eddie…by Kas, but the Billy that you’d met back in ‘84. An empty, cold, douchebag.

“That’s the last thing I expected you to say,” you scoffed and then let your head fall to the side so you could look at him tiredly.

“Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted,” he paused contemplatively and then continued. “I think that line is my favorite.”

An unexpected choice from him.

But what did you know about Billy Hargrove except what little you’d scraped from him and Max, and what Eddie had told you back in ‘84.

Dark, dangerous, beast. Empty.

“Is Mary Victoria conducting Bible study in her spare time or something?” You asked sarcastically to change the mood.

Billy’s brow furrowed and he pursed his lips before he responded, “she tells me stories sometimes.”

You rolled your eyes; of course she did.

“There are better Bible stories than the sermon on the mount,” you argued but then shook your head at how ridiculous this was. “But I guess she is a nun. Devoted to the salvation of all. What else did she tell you about?”

“Frankenstein.”

Another unexpected response.

“Alright Mare,” you straightened in your seat and nodded in approval. “So not just the bible. I’m impressed.”

But you wouldn’t put it past your sexually-repressed friend to remember a story about putting a perfect man together.

“She lets me tell her stories too.”

“What kind?”

“About things I remember,” Billy explained. “My life…in California. The water, the diner, my mother…Max. Harrington still won’t let me see her.”

He yanked his restrained hand forward weakly, then it dropped to the floor again.

“I just want to apologize,” he whispered, only audible due to the otherwise intense quiet in the garage. “To her. To Lucas too. Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called Children of God. Mary said that’s her favorite.”

“You have a crush on Mare or something?”

“No,” he immediately shook his head. “No I…”

He stopped himself and his brow furrowed again, concentration evident on his features. Like he was chasing something.

You watched and waited for him to find whatever thought it was he was looking for, but time passed and it seemed impossible.

Billy was empty though, a shell with the echo of a man’s soul inside. That’s what you had seen when you chased Eddie…chased Kas through his mind. Billy might never find what he thought he knew and it was unfair of you to make him suffer through it, even if you were uncaring of anyone’s suffering but your own at that moment.

You might’ve been an asshole, but you weren’t cruel.

“I have a favorite beatitude too,” you broke the silence and pulled Billy from his thoughts. “I’ll give you…I don’t know. I’ll give you a dollar or something if you can guess which one it is.”

There was a flash in his blue eyes then, and they got brighter and livelier as he straightened. Initially, you dismissed it as some sense of competitive spirit that had overtaken him.

“Blessed are the poor in spirit,” he recited stiffly. “For theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”

You clapped weakly and congratulated him on his guess.

“It’s Nonna’s favorite too,” he continued, and you stopped clapping, your hands frozen in mid-air.

Billy’s expression changed then, softened. He held his hands out—or tried to, the restrained wrist caused the handcuff to clatter against the pipe—and apologized.

At first you were confused, angry. Your initial thought was that he had pulled some sort of memory from you when you’d been in his head; it wouldn’t have been hard.

But then you realized that it wasn’t Billy you were talking to anymore.

And all of the feelings that had been suppressed by the overwhelming sense of failure bubbled to the surface.

“Eddie,” you croaked. “You son of a bitch.”

You would’ve lunged out of your chair and across the garage to grab him and shake him, but a sharp pain lanced through your heart and you sunk back into your seat.

“No, stop,” Billy shook his head frantically. “I had to talk to you. Please.”

“You’re gonna talk to me alright,” you said through gritted teeth. “Y-you’re gonna tell me…why you did all this. Why did you let this happen when you could’ve just let me go?"

He just blinked at you and said, "you look terrible."

"No thanks to you," you spat at him and then you took a breath to try and control the pain. “Is Wayne…” you couldn’t finish the question.

“He’s dying.”

You felt a bitter relief; he wasn't dead...but surely time wasn't on his side. Or yours.

“Then heal him.”

“I can’t.”

"Yes you can, I showed you how."

"No."

"Then let him die and resurrect him like you did to the others, I don't care. You figured it out on your own then; you can figure it out now."

"He needs you." Billy leaned forward, words suddenly desperate as he tugged on the handcuff. Then said, low and barely audible. "They both do."

It was a record scratch moment.

Both?

You stared at Billy, eyes darting between his as you tried to figure out what he...Eddie...

But it wasn't Eddie in there, was it? No, when Eddie had controlled Billy there was something so...well, it was so Eddie when you thought back wasn't it? Even though you'd convinced yourself at that time that he was Kas.

Who was it then?

"You have to come back," Billy pleaded. "You're the only person who can save them. Just like you saved me."

"Saved...you?" you questioned.

You couldn't help it this time, curiosity beat out the pain and the strain on your body; you heaved yourself to your feet and ventured across the garage. You knelt before Billy and looked into his eyes.

"Who are you? P...Patrick? Is that you in there?"

You knew as soon as the words fell from your lips that it couldn't be Patrick. It didn't feel like him, not from what little you had pulled of him. But it wasn't Billy--whoever this was had presence and substance, not the great void that he seemed to be stretched across--and it was definitely not Eddie either.

No, whoever this was felt familiar. They felt warm but not in a way that they themselves emanated that warmth; it was the warmth you left behind when you got out of bed on a cold morning, your residual body heat still there right under the blankets. It called out to you, urging you back in, and you--hurt and hollow--what you wouldn't do to sink back into it.

You'd only ever felt like that with one other person in your life, ready to lean into their being with all of yours.

But if it wasn't Eddie...who was it?

You watched Billy's mouth open and close rapidly, his brow furrowed again, as he searched for an answer that he couldn't seem to grasp.

"You wouldn't understand," he muttered frantically. "I don't understand it half the time...and I didn't realize why until I saw you for myself the first time. I thought I was the only one...I don't..."

He continued to ramble, the frazzled energy coming from whoever resided inside of him infectious, and you felt the residual anxiety begin to seep into you like it belonged in your body instead of Billy's.

Then it happened.

You didn't quite realize it at first, as you reached up to fiddle with the pendant of your necklace.

It had been an old habit when you still had your crucifix, to run your fingers along the delicate flowers when you were nervous. When you'd left Hawkins and took up the Oath of the Holy Order, you'd put on your father's necklace, proudly sporting the seal, but the habit continued. Now, you'd run the pendant back and forth along the chain when you felt the anxiety bubble up.

It was a tell that you'd tried hard to break, so you wouldn't give away your emotions when you were under the scrutiny of an adversary. Still, your body sought comfort in the repetition in times of worry or doubt.

Times such as the moment you found yourself in now.

As your fingers grazed the metal of your necklace, you watched as Billy reached his free hand up to his own neck. His fingers faltered at the hollow of his throat as they brushed bare skin instead of whatever was expected to be there.

You watched as he curled his fingers inwards, clenching them into a fist, as he was unable to mirror your actions.

And it hit you.

A mirror.

You gasped and your eyes darted up to meet his.

His pupils were wide, just like they'd been the last time someone had been inside of his body.

The last time you had been inside of his body.

When you'd forced your way in and given chase to Kas...Eddie...only to unexpectedly find yourself in the labyrinth of the void.

How was that possible? How was this possible?

But you knew how. Didn’t you?

You’d seen the strings. You’d told Mary Victoria. You knew; you always knew.

You and Billy blinked in tandem, and then slowly and simultaneously reached out towards each other.

As your fingertips touched his, you felt a spark of something surge into you, filling up the broken emptiness in the most acute but satisfying way.

You let out a broken wail and tears built in your eyes again as you felt like you could breathe properly for the first time since you woke up back in Hawkins the day prior. Maybe for the first time since you realized the Upside Down was slowly draining you, since you realized God was punishing you for breaking your Oath.

Your body acted on some greedy, desperate instinct, and you tangled your fingers with Billy's hoping to feel more of that spark, feel more of that energy pour into you. You chased it, needed it, begged for it.

Nothing else came through, though; that spark was all that you would get.

"More," you pleaded, tears leaking from your eyes and down your cheeks.

"I can't," Billy whispered.

She whispered.

You whispered.

You closed your eyes, and clasped your other hand around his and squeezed, then you languished in the invigorating feeling of that light inside of you.

Not whole, but still more than you had in the past few days.

And somewhere down in the depths of whatever pit had formed during your time in the Upside Down, it mingled with another spark of light. One that had brought you comfort so many times before.

At the motel, in the graveyard, in a thousand places where you thought you'd meet your end but never did.

You could feel him smile deep within you, that silly crooked smile he gave you the first time he asked if you liked cheese fries.

"Do you understand now?" Billy asked softly, and you nodded silently, not quite ready to return to reality yet. "You had to leave, had to, but now you have to go back. Wayne. Eddie. They need you. We need you."

"Why can't you do it?" you asked after a tense beat.

"I've helped him so many times."

"Help him one more time?"

“There’s only so much I can do before he stops listening to me. He’s stubborn. You know that.”

Billy snorted a dry laugh, just like you would, and it wasn't lost on you that this put a whole new meaning to talking to yourself.

"Besides, I don't exactly have a body."

"What do you call this one?"

"It's not mine to keep." He leveled you with a serious, pleading look. "Wayne will die if we don't go."

There was another beat of silence as you thought about everything that waited outside of the garage. Shit, you thought about everything inside of the garage too. About you and your powers--or lack thereof--and of the tall task that awaited you back in the waste of the Upside Down.

Save Wayne. Save Eddie. Save Hawkins. Save yourself.

Or die trying.

The last one seemed more likely the longer you thought about it.

Billy squeezed your hand.

"I'll be right there with you," he muttered. "For as long as I can."

There was something unspoken there, some kind of danger, some kind of warning. That at some point in this challenge, you might be alone to face the dangers once again.

Wasn’t that always the way though? You’d only had yourself to rely on for most of your life and in some twisted way you might not even be able to rely on yourself.

But with another squeeze of your hand, something new bloomed inside of your chest between the warm glowing light and the deep dark pit. It was something that had been lacking since you’d begun to lose your powers—maybe something you’d lacked forever.

No, that wasn’t right. You’d had it before, but it had always been born of others. Nonna, Mary Victoria, Dustin, Eddie…hell, even your father.

This time it came from you and you alone.

Hope.

"Alright," you croaked and cracked a determined smile. "I'll try."

Existing in the real world again was strange.

Overwhelming.

Having a body was the first challenge.

It had been so long since you had one, and Billy's body was so different than your own had been. So much stronger--especially after what the Upside Down had done to him--vast and complex.

When you'd done this before--pushed your way into Eddie's body to shield his mind and spare him from Vecna's torture--there hadn't been much walking or talking, had there? Just the will not to break from the painful invasion.

And screaming.

You'd guided Eddie through this though, through the control of another's body and mind, so many times. With the Brides, then with Billy. It had been second nature to you then, so it must be second nature now.

Helping him had always been second nature, though. Loving him.

You had always been there when he needed you; even when he didn't want you there, you became the loathsome lurker who pulled the strings just beyond sight, puppeting the puppetmaster.

To suddenly abandon him to help her...help yourself...felt wrong.

But in the end it was all for him, wasn't it? To help him? To save him? You were a part of him, so to do this, it must have been right.

The escape from the garage was the next tedious obstacle.

The handcuffs didn't dare give, no matter how much the two of you tried to get them off: jamming a screwdriver into the little lock, yanking on the chain, wiggling a too-big hand through the cuff itself.

"You can try and melt the metal?" she suggested. "I can't but...maybe you could."

You tried to summon a holy flame, tried to remember the way you had burned through the tunnels that night long ago--the way you had? She had? You both had?--or reach out and feel the heat at the center of the earth.

But it was lost to you.

"What good am I?" you wondered aloud, defeated.

All of your failures came to the forefront of your mind then, and you couldn't help but feel the overwhelming sense of self-loathing. You couldn't save Eddie from Vecna, couldn't shield him from the horrors he enacted himself; even in this stronger state, you couldn't seem to do anything.

You felt rage stir within the walls of the abyss you currently inhabited.

Not your own rage; Billy's.

You felt your control of him slip the slightest bit as his body reacted of its own volition to the familiar stimulus of anger and frustration, and your resolve crumbled further. You felt him shake, felt the world tilt; suddenly, you couldn't see through his eyes, and you tried to shout for help, only to wince as Billy's strained shout deafened you.

There was a bang, and everything stilled, and then you were in control again. Not only in control, but you were free. Through Billy's eyes you saw the pipe had been cracked in two, and you were able to thread the other cuff over the sharp, severed copper edge.

"Ok, that's one way to do it," she huffed a laugh, and you mirrored her on instinct. When was the last time you had laughed? It had been with him; that was his laugh coming through her. You knew it. "Do you want to punch the door open too?"

The flimsy garage door was easy to negotiate though; a quick pull of a string and up the track it went.

Conversation, believe it or not, was the next obstacle you faced.

She was determined to walk to the gate and cross through herself, even though there were cars in the driveway.

"It's not far," she insisted, even though she was already struggling to catch her breath. "They'll hear the car start."

And she talked the whole time you walked.

Eddie hadn't been the most talkative during your eternity with him in the Upside Down. He growled at you, you taunted him. You guided him, he ignored you. It was enough.

So much of your bond was intrinsic and unspoken.

But she couldn't read your mind, so she asked questions.

Read your mind? Read her own mind? Could you read your own mind? It was a headache to try and figure out. In fact, she said those exact words to you, so maybe you were on more of a similar wavelength than either of you realized.

"Do you...remember things?" she asked.

"Remember what?" you questioned in return.

"Well when did you..." she trailed off and gestured vaguely between you. "When did we..."

And you tried to remember, tried to convey how and when...whatever happened, happened...to both of you...to all of you...but it wasn't straightforward and you meandered through the explanation without really explaining anything at all.

The mysteries of the universe. The mysteries of life. The meanings of life.

"Now I know how people feel when I give them a bullshit answer," she sighed.

"Do you do that a lot?" It was your turn to ask.

She had the good sense to look a little bashful.

"I don't...know much about you," you told her honestly. "We...you and I stopped...and then...Eddie and I started. And he and you...started. On separate paths."

Words and explanations. They were hard. Confusing.

"But we found a way back towards each other," you concluded.

"Guess fate is real then, huh?"

"Bullshit," the two of you swore in tandem and you laughed together.

For nearly an hour, you continued along the dark suburban streets towards the nearest gate as lightning flashed with the passing storm. The rain had stopped but the ground was still wet and it proved challenging to navigate with your clumsy control of Billy's body and the ever-present weakness in hers. You paused as often she needed, and helped her along with an arm around her waist or sometimes even a hand held in hers to keep that spark you shared alight.

Helping her along--helping yourself--felt good. It felt real.

But as she muttered and cursed under her breath about the fucking Upside Down and God and corruption and punishment, you couldn't help but feel some sort of guilt. How could you tell her that your strength came at the expense of her weakness?

How could you tell her that it had been you all along?

That it had been Eddie, whether he realized it or not?

And speaking of Eddie...

The final hurdle you had to cross in order to save the love of your life...was the love of your life.

Lightning flashed overhead and the world around you shook with thunder.

No, not with thunder.

With a roar of outrage.

It ripped through the barren labyrinth of Billy's mind and you felt your control slip through your fingers. You tried to hold onto it for as long as you could--hold onto her for as long as you could--but fear, shock, and despair were powerful weapons and you weren't immune to their effects.

"Where are you?" Eddie wailed through the halls like a vengeful phantom, calling your name desperately. "You thought you could run from me? Hide from me?"

You felt his presence pull at the corners of your being like a magnet; the instinct to go to him and soothe his distress was almost too great, and you knew he knew that. You knew he was betting on it.

"Oh no you don't," you murmured to yourself, to Eddie. "This is for you; I'm doing this for you."

You pushed Billy onward and hauled her along with you. If you could make it a few more blocks, just to the gate, she could cross through and it would all be ok.

Wayne would be saved and you could all figure this out together.

Outside of Billy's body, she must have felt you falter, and you realized that she was holding Billy up more than you were holding her now. Her voice seemed distant as she asked what was wrong and you ignored her to try and push forward.

You prayed for the strength to keep going...but when had prayer ever been on your side?

His claws speared through you and ripped you away.

The world shifted and tilted as you were pulled back through the void, back into Hell, and into the grasp of the devil himself.

Eddie's appearance was jarring, monstrous, wild. The wings, the teeth, the bloody tears running down his cheeks, his sclera red and pupils blown wide in an endless dark abyss.

"Why would you run?" he growled but his lip quivered with emotion. Sadness and anger radiated from him in waves, and you choked on it. "Everyone runs from me. Everyone leaves."

You rested your hands atop his, fingers stroking over talons to try and soothe him, like you always did.

Like you were meant to.

"She left too," he said through gritted teeth. "And Wayne...I...why..."

But the turmoil in him only grew.

You could see what he saw; feel what he felt. The vestiges of Wayne's immortal soul in some repetitive limbo as Eddie failed to heal his uncle but couldn't let him pass through into death either.

"You have to let him go," you said softly, words coming easier to you now. You tried to conjure some kind of image for him; a heaven that waited for Wayne if only Eddie could let him go.

"I can't."

"Let him find peace."

"I can't!" He growled again and clutched you tightly, painfully. "I can't let him go, I need him. I need you. I need...I need..."

And you watched in horror as his focus on you wavered, and he stared through you, a new and terrible idea forming.

The idea--going and taking her and bringing her here--wasn't even the terrible part. It was the method in which he planned to do so.

Moreover, the beast that seemed to facilitate it.

Because although your hands grasped him to give him comfort, other hands began to emerge from around him. One taloned hand on his shoulder, another on his waist, another on his leg. They climbed up his body, piercing his skin, poisoning his mind.

She left you, they left you, they ran. They left you behind. They left you here.

You knew these words, you fought these words before; Vecna's words to try and get him to give up his soul, give up his life.

"Eddie, look at me," you pleaded. "She'll come back. She's already on her way. And she'll help save Wayne."

But he wouldn't listen.

You're alone; bring her back. Keep her here. Keep them all here and you'll never be alone again.

"Eddie no!" you snapped and tried to grip him as hard as you could to get him to stay.

But it was too late.

He vanished, evaporated like dust beneath your touch. The disembodied hands and words vanished too and retreated, up and up and up into the cursed red sky filled with swirling clouds and sharp, dastardly lightning.

And in those clouds you found two eyes staring down at you, with crinkles in the corners of them, as though they taunted you.

I win.

You nearly fell as Billy dropped to his knees, your strength giving with the sheer dead weight of him.

He gasped and then began to sob, gut wrenching sobs from deep down within him.

"Where am I?" he asked and looked up at you, the presence within him gone and his own consciousness snapped back into place. "What happened?"

"Billy," you knelt down to try and help him, soothe him. "It's ok, it'll all be ok. We're just out for a walk."

"No!" He shrank away from your touch as though it burned him. "No...they keep putting me places, they keep locking me up. Why? Why?"

Why, indeed.

Your mind was flooded with questions as you watched him curl in on himself and cry.

Why was the real Billy suddenly back? Why had you lost control of him? Where did you go? Did that mean something happened in the Upside Down? Did something happen to Eddie? To Wayne? That you were needed there instead of here?

Did that mean that you were running out of time? Was it too late?

You looked around and tried to think, tried to pinpoint exactly where you were. Lover's Lake shouldn't have been very far away, if you could just muster up enough strength to get there, you could get to the Upside Down and...and then what?

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" You screamed into the sky and it responded with a flash of lightning. "FUCK!"

The strain that walk had put on you was no joke; you'd never be able to make it there on your own. You'd barely been able to make it as far as you had with Billy's help. Your legs felt like jelly, your lungs ached.

You were so close! So close but so far!

Was this what it was like to be human? Was this what it was like to be normal? Without the power of heaven coursing through you to keep you going?

How had they done it? All of the prophets and all of the disciples? You thought about Moses crossing the desert and...and Jesus crossing the desert...and...shit, a lot of people crossed the desert didn't they? That was a little bit unoriginal.

But they had god on their side, they had hope. So you had to cling to that little bit of hope you still had.

"Fuck," you groaned one more time, rolled your head back, and closed your eyes.

You mustered what strength you could and reached out.

It didn't mean much now. You felt nothing. Not the sky above or the earth below; not the wind rustling through the trees, or the thoughts and feelings of all those souls that surrounded you. You were weary and numb and permanently trapped in an intensely mortal body that was swiftly on its way towards death.

Death.

It was older than anything except for God, wasn't it?

Maybe even older.

Death was a promise. It came for everyone and everything. It had traveled beside you--beside everyone--and by the time you'd reach the end, its presence would be welcome no matter what waited for you on the other side of the veil.

Heaven. Hell. Nothingness. Void. Maybe even a new life and a new death.

It was all true. Or none of it was.

But Death was an old friend, and when you cast yourself into the void that surrounded you and formed inside you, you asked Death to show itself.

Can you show me where Wayne Munson is?

There was no answer.

Can you show me where Eddie is?

There was a warm wink in the void.

The rest of him.

Lightning flashed behind your eyelids and thunder rumbled, then a light drizzle began to fall. You gritted your teeth and dug deep until you felt...something before you...a dark presence...a shadow...

Can you show me something?

"Angel," a voice croaked below you and something grabbed your ankle.

You jumped in shock and opened your eyes, expecting...well you didn't know what you expected, but nothing wasn't it. Nothing, as in, nothing different. Just you and Billy Hargrove, who was knelt on the ground before you, his hand outstretched to touch your calf.

"Are you an angel?" he whispered.

"Unfortunately not."

"That's what he calls you," he continued. "Eddie. He calls you his angel."

"Well I'm not."

"Mary Victoria told me stories about angels. She said that they take you to heaven if you're good."

"Those are just stories," you told him, spite heavy in your voice.

"Or they send you to hell if you're bad."

"Those are just stories, Billy," you spat. "Angels don't do anything. Angels are useless. They're tricksters, they're--"

Lightning flashed nearby and the sound was deafening and you gritted your teeth--bared your teeth--silently daring Gabriel to just show himself so you could give him a piece of your mind.

Billy's hand gripped you tightly and then he let you go and clasped his hands together, begging.

"I'm good," he sobbed. "I'm good. I'm seeking forgiveness, I'm trying to be better but...the others don't believe me."

"Billy," you sighed, but he cut you off.

"I don't want to be damned to hell!"

You groaned.

God damn it Mare, could you be less of a fucking Nun? Scar this shell of a man with the threat of eternal damnation.

"The devil...that's who keeps pushing me out of my mind and taking control," he clutched at his head now. "He tries to tell me to do bad things."

"Billy, it's fine."

"I tried to control it and I couldn't," he cried. "They keep taking me away when I just want to go home; why won't they let me go home."

Back and forth you went--he with his hysterical raving and you trying to calm him as best you could in the middle of a road, in the middle of the rain as the storm got stronger--and you considered the possibility that all the times his body had been controlled had really fucked him up for good.

"He's in there now," he whimpered. "He's clawing his way in, I can feel him."

First vomiting dirt, and now this. God, maybe if you just put him out of his misery he wouldn't have to suffer anymore.

"Eddie! Stop! PLEASE!" Billy shouted.

Bright lights! Then a screech!

BANG!

You jumped at the arrival of a familiar car, wincing a door slammed shut. Several car doors.

You backed away from Billy, almost shielding him behind you as the headlights beamed, as Steve, Dustin, Nancy, and Mary Victoria appeared, weapons in hand.

"There you are!" Steve shouted from several yards away. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"How did you get out of the garage?" Mary Victoria rounded the other side of the car and pushed past Steve to get to you.

You fell against her as soon as she got her arms around you, the strain on your body finally getting the best of you.

"What are you guys doing here?" you asked.

"What do you mean? You stage a jailbreak and you don't expect us to try and find you?" Nancy scoffed.

"Nance, leave her alone!" Dustin defended.

They surrounded you and started asking you questions, Mary Victoria and Dustin checking to make sure you were alright, apologizing for even putting you in the garage in the first place.

"We need to get out of here; the demogorgons hunt at night."

"No, we need answers; what made you leave?"

"Why do you think they left, idiot?"

It was a flurry of voices and thunder and movement around you and all you could focus on was...

"Now that you guys are here," you interrupted them all. "We need to go, there's not much time."

"What?!" Nancy and Steve exclaimed in tandem.

"Not much time for what?"

"To save Wayne Munson," you said matter-of-factly.

"Save Wayne Munson?" Steve snorted and placed his hands on his hips. "I thought you weren't putting ideas in Mare's head."

"I wasn't--"

"She wasn't, you ass," Mare snapped at him.

"--but we need to go. I need to go," you insisted. "Just me. Just get me to Lover's Lake and I'll go alone."

"Fat chance."

"Have you seen yourself?" Nancy's tone got softer now as she looked at you, really looked at you. "You don't look like you should be anywhere, let alone going into the Upside Down."

"I need to go," you tried again.

"No," Steve grabbed your arm and pulled you away from Mary Victoria. He yanked you forward, just as he had the day before. "The only place you need to go is back home, back to the garage, and you need to stay put this time."

"Don't be such a fucking dick--"

"Oh real mature Dustin."

"--dictator, Steve."

"I'll think about it," Steve spat and rounded back towards the car, tugging you along and muttering under his breath all the while.

"Let her go Harrington," came a low growl through the constant din of the rain.

All of your heads turned towards Billy, who stood hunched just a few yards away.

He stood there, stock still--not even breathing--and stared at you and Steve from beneath hooded eyelids.

"Don't think about playing hero now Hargrove," Steve sighed at him. "Besides I don't have room for you in the car unless you wanna be hogtied to the hood, so let this be your get out of jail free card."

"Let her go," Billy growled again.

"What part of no don't you underst--"

Steve didn't get a chance to finish because Billy swiftly closed the distance, hand flying through the air at an impressive speed to try to claw--claw?--at him.

When he let you go to dodge the attack, you lost your balance, tripped, and fell to the ground. You smacked your head against the asphalt and became dazed.

Chaos broke out between Billy and your friends. For every burst of energy he seemed to have, there was an equally long period of sluggishness where he seemed to move in slow motion, and that gave the others a chance to get their own hits in.

Mary Victoria wielded Robin's hockey stick, Nancy taking cheap shots with the butt of her shotgun, Dustin trying to slash at Billy's ankles with his spear.

He growled and spat and lashed out at them as they tried to subdue him, and every time he pushed them away or got free, he turned his sights on you.

Eyes shadowed, pupils blown...wait...

But then there was Steve with his fists.

To be fair, though, he did get a few good hits in: an elbow to Billy's stomach, a swift kick in the ass, and then a punch right across the cheekbone that sent spittle flying and Billy crashing to the ground.

But Steve hadn't been there to witness what you had.

He hadn't witnessed the manner of your escape, or Billy's return to his own body and the fearful breakdown that ensued.

He hadn't watched something unseen put the fear of God into Billy.

No, not the fear of God.

Fear of the Devil.

Fear of Eddie.

As he shouted and cried and clawed at his head, worried that He would force him to do evil deeds on His behalf.

So as you realized what and who had taken control over Billy, Steve--brave, foolish Steve--turned his back to his enemy and started back towards you.

"Alright let's get you h--"

He choked as a body slammed against his back and sent him careening forward then pulled him back, as one hand grabbed him by his hair and the other encircled his throat.

"She is mine," Billy hissed in Steve's ear as Steve tried to scratch at his hands to free himself. "So when I tell you to let her go..."

The hand around Steve's throat got tighter, and he let out a choking cry.

"...you let her go Harrington."

And you don't really know how you could've stopped it from happening even though the world seemingly moved too slow. Like an out of body experience, even though you were so acutely aware that you were in your own body. Trapped in your own body. Unable to do anything.

Maybe you had a concussion, but none of the others were able to stop it from happening either. You were all frozen.

Billy's nails grew long and sharp and he and Steve screamed in harmony as those talons cut through Billy's skin and through the flesh of Steve's throat.

Or maybe it happened too fast to stop instead, some holy or unholy speed that the forces beyond granted.

You couldn't tell for sure with the rain, but you thought you saw tears streaming from Billy's eyes as he gritted his teeth and sawed through layers of sinew and muscle and connective tissue. As he severed bones and crushed Steve's windpipe.

And all you could think of was Billy chanting "I'm good, I'm good" just minutes before.

Or maybe...just maybe...it was Fate that said Steve Harrington had to die.

A fountain of blood rained from Steve's neck, from his head--staining his polo and his jacket and his hands and his whole being--as it was so violently removed from his body.

Maybe he'd avoided death a hundred times before this and now his time had come.

And you swore his eyes got wider as his spine finally snapped in two, and they locked right onto you.

In a final plea for help.

Or simply to ensure you knew the blame resided solely on you.

But Steve shouldn't have died like that...

Steve's body fell away from Billy, who held the head aloft like a trophy, and landed on the road with a thud.

And you just stared, even as Mary Victoria let out a blood-curdling scream.

...and Eddie shouldn't have killed him.

“Oh mother I’m scared to die. Where, where do my good deeds lie?” - Phildel, Funeral Bell

Next Chapter: Deus in Absentia

#aasb #as above so below #eddie munson x oc #eddie munson fic #eddie munson angst #kas!eddie munson #tw: major character death #tw: gore #tw: blood #tw: death #eddie munson x reader

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thegildedbee · 5 months ago

Text

Journey: May 30 Prompt from @calaisreno

This latest chapter and the previous ones are here at ao3.

(I'm a bit distant at this point from May, I know! . . . and there's one more prompt still to go, but then I'll finally be caught up with everyone else :-) ..................................................... As the train moves through the wintered fields, stations shuttered long ago flicker past, punctuated bits of expired time. An hour out from London, they begin to slow on the approach to Swindon, coming to a stop in a four-minute flurry of going and coming. Gathered round the door are a dozen or so lads in football kit with red dragons across their chests, waiting for the woman and the little boy who had been a few seats down from John to step off from the carriage. They scramble aboard, noisily pleased with having won their match, bringing in a blast of cold air that reaches in and chills John underneath his neck. They muck about as they jostle each other, eventually more or less coordinating their sprawls amongst extra rows of seats beyond what's necessary, some of them popping up to take selfies and shoot videos.

A faint smile whispers and shuts in an instant across John’s face at their exuberance, and he plugs his earphones into his mobile. He dithers about what to listen to, finally settling on a playlist that comes up after he types “welsh music” into the search bar, and then closes his eyes and slackens against the back of his seat as the train pulls away from the station and they resume their journey.

He’s vaguely bemused by young people's social media, especially their attachment to filming their lives; quite different from people his age, who've never been much fussed about having a camera to hand. He does regret, though, that he doesn’t have many photos of Sherlock; he always felt he needed to be surreptitious about taking shots, as if doing it in plain view would disturb their balancing act as flatmates. There are two amongst the small number that he likes very much: one of Sherlock facing the window while playing his violin, sunlight bringing out coppery glints in his dark curls; a second of him laid out on the sofa, allegedly in his mind palace, but actually taking a kip like an ordinary mortal. He doesn’t think Sherlock knew that he had a small set of photos – they were transferred to his laptop and sequestered several levels down inside a folder titled “Household Chores”– but since the git seemed to think that whatever was John’s, was his as well, he wouldn’t be surprised if somehow Sherlock had come across them one day when he was poking his nose about where he shouldn’t.

That thought begets another (didSherlockevertakeanypicturesofJohn?) although he decides to duck out from under that one straight off and leave it behind.

As the soft, plaintive reverberations of a pavane-like harp play inside his head, he recalls with chagrin how he jollied Sherlock into attending the media events that occurred in that last span of their time together. Clients had wanted to thank Sherlock for his successful efforts on their behalf: the rub was that they wanted to do so in front of the press. There was an auction house director for whom he’d retrieved a stolen painting worth nearly two million quid, and the big cheese banker who had been kidnapped, and then rescued by the detective.

The amount of interest Sherlock had in attending these: nil.

But he eventually complied, as he usually did when John asked him to do something; that hadn’t meant, however, that he’d play nicely. He had been cuttingly deductive, peevishly stating at the first event that the gift box held out to him contained diamond cufflinks – adding dismissively, “all my cuffs have buttons!” – and offering a similar pronouncement at the second, giving the box a shake and sharing the reveal – “tie pin!" – adding dismissively: “I don’t wear ties.”

John had intervened, correcting and redirecting Sherlock to concede to propriety and conform to convention, saying pointedly to the auction house director: “He means thank you,” to which Sherlock had snarked, “Do I?” to be countered by John pushing back: "Just say it.” In the second event he just gave it up as a bad job, and . . . shushed him.

The regular way of their world, right? Sherlock being an arse, John trying to save his arse.

As time had passed, however, John had begun to think that his attitude had been flirting at condescension, in a way that hadn’t been there at the start of their work together. When had he shifted to focusing on Sherlock as being deficient as a human being in social situations, as opposed to seeing Sherlock’s idiosyncrasies as indicative of degrees of comfort (or not) with those he perceived as outsiders?

To be fair, Sherlock’s disdain for the gifts was defensible: he didn’t sport the posh affectation of cufflinks for every day; nor had he ever been seen to wear a tie. If it was “the thought that counts,” then the thought appeared to be that, beyond his utility, Sherlock-as-individual was a human-as-null-placeholder.

In being thrust into the spotlight, abetted by John, Sherlock had been diverted from his own circumspect path, onto the one controlled by the ravening press, where it was they who decided on the right of way, whether there was safe passage to be had, and, if so, at what cost.

What if, in running interference in a way that placed John close to the side of propriety and conformity, he’d instead put his thumb on the scale for Sherlock?

It might have gone perhaps something like this: [Sherlock speaks] [John: subtle nudge, subtle nudge] [John (sotto voce): “What a wanker, eh?”] [Sherlock smiles at John] [John smiles at Sherlock] [John and Sherlock are pleased with themselves, and each other, two-of-a-kind people who laugh together at crime scenes, without giving a hang about proper decorum] [Sherlock feigns politeness] [Social order is maintained . . . a bit].

And, actually, for whose benefit were these thank-you events? Looking back with a skeptical eye, John sees them now as highlighting the givers: it was the poncy auction house director and the illustrious banker who were preening in front of the cameras – Sherlock was a pretext, surplus to requirements. Neither of the worthies needed to stage a press availability to thank Sherlock: appreciation could have been conveyed privately.

The simp of an art dealer, smarmily posing beside the “masterpiece by Turner,” with Sherlock off to the other side, while the public relations cameraman snapped images suitable for public distribution. Turning that skeptical eye on the whole scenario, the painting would now command likely a doubled sold-at-auction price, given the publicity and the story surrounding it having juiced up the intangibles that make up any artwork’s value on the open market.

The self-important banker, posed on the stairs within the embrace of his loving family – several steps higher than the detective, turfing him out onto the pavement. The journos gossiping that Mr. Something-or-Other-in-the-City was ready to climb the greasy pole, to one day get himself slotted in as Chancellor of the Exchequer, a launching pad for Prime Minister, as Major, Brown, and Sunak had done. Among the side effects of the kidnapping as media spectacle had been the boost it had given to the financier’s perceived significance, valor, and . . . name recognition.

John’s mind is expletive-strewn as he speculates how it was that these Sherlockian triumphs were choreographed by the hand of the consulting criminal, who likely pulled off a doubled win: had he inveigled the auction house to allow its painting to be stolen, and the aspiring government minister to allow himself to be kidnapped? (And therefore pocketed a tidy fee for the planning and execution of these gambits?) These events set in motion by him toward achieving the objective of setting up Sherlock to be sucked into the publicity maelstrom, as the “hero detective” became giddily glorified by the press? The bastard had probably even conspired with the unscrupulous publishing baron, Magnussen, to stage-manage the journalistic hue and cry to his specifications.

The ramping up of the press frenzy was the piece de resistance: all the fawning adulation naming Sherlock as a hero pivoted on using the Met as a foil, painting them as hapless and ineffectual, turning the table upside down by portraying them as the true amateurs, and Sherlock as a professional disguised as an amateur. Sherlock's overnight overnight celebrity ensured that his detractors at Scotland Yard would become ever more enraged at Sherlock’s existence, increasing their seething resentment and desire to take him down. The deerstalker was the Yard’s I.O.U.

John allows that he may be on the verge of losing himself in the land of the paranoid, but he wonders if Moriarty even stage-managed the thank-you events himself, through a word in the ear of those in charge, ensuring the planting of certain details. To wit, Moriarty, in his Vivienne Westwoods and beyond-bespokes: his shirts were fastened with cufflinks, his always-tied-up self flaunted tie pins. Moriarty knew that eventually Sherlock would wonder if these two data points were taunts that meant Moriarty was lurking just beyond view. And Moriarty would have felt as blissed-out at Sherlock’s sartorial humiliation as his target would have felt beleaguered, cursed as he was forevermore to be crowned by the misbegotten deerstalker in press photos.

He suspects now that Moriarty had drilled down into John’s psychology with a cleverness equal to his emotional profiling of the public, the press, and the Met, and had foreseen that he could steer John into unknowingly working with him, prompting him into facilitating Sherlock being fed into the maw of the beast by providing a platform that tapped into John’s desire to see Sherlock get his due in public.

As twisted as the maggot was, he seemed to know more about John’s and Sherlock’s emotional landscapes than perhaps they did themselves.

What had Moriarty known about John and Sherlock, the each of them? What had Moriarty known about the two of them together? And when? And why had they been blindsided?

............................... p.s. The shooting script at the BBC for S2E3 uses the term "auction house" at one point, and I've used that tiny blip for my between-the-lines jumping off point use of "canon" here, in case anyone wonders :-)

......................................

@calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @friday411 @peanitbear @original-welovethebeekeeper

@helloliriels @a-victorian-girl @keirgreeneyes @starrla89 @naefelldaurk

@topsyturvy-turtely @lisbeth-kk @raina-at @jobooksncoffee @meetinginsamarra

@solarmama-plantsareneat @bluebellofbakerstreet @dragonnan @safedistancefrombeingsmart @jolieblack

@msladysmith @ninasnakie @riversong912 @dapetty

.............................................................................

#mayprompts2024 #calaisreno #sherlock bits and bobs #may prompts 2024 #johnlock

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thesirenwithnovoice · 5 months ago

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Thoughts about how different mediums of a same story may give you different views (and rambling about the Tower of Heaven)//TW: violence

Lately I've been wondering about how manga readers might have very different visions than anime watchers of a same story, because althought the plot remains the same, some little details can change our whole perception of a story.

This reminded me of the first time I read Fairy Tail and how terrified I was at how cruel and dark the Tower of Heaven's arc is.

Jellal's face (that by that time, were only an 11-years-old kid) drippling blood while being tortured shocked me so much as a kid and I still find it one of the most disturbing scenes in the manga, lol.

In the anime, the content itself is the same. We know the kids are slaves that go throught different kinds of abuse, however, I find the manga way gloomier and more graphic. And althought part of it might be just a personal opinion, it's not entirely without basis: Mashima uses different techniques in his art to represent facts whitin the story than the animators, and it leads to a topic I really love: semiotics - how we interpret images, and how detais can be used to convey a certain felling throught art.

Colors and composition helps A LOT creating an atmosphere and causing a feeling on the reader. Proportionally speaking, a manga doesn't have colors, but it has it's own alternatives - the Tower of Heaven arc, in comparison to the rest of the manga, uses a lot more black and hatching.

One can argue some scenes are still "visually darker" in the anime, since it has the advantage of being able to play with shadows and colors in a broader aspect; however, since Fairy Tail is not an anime that changes it's saturation or colour pallete, the loud colors in most scenes end up not helping building the same dreadful atmosphere.

(It doesn't mean you can't make a scary story using bright and colorful tones, tho. A great example is the movie Midsommar. But it's not an easy task!)

Erza's childhood memories in the manga also carry a "dirtier" feeling; the kids are always covered by bruises, and the background is rougher. Also, the anime chooses to represent slavery in a more fanciful way: the kids wear stylized handcuffs and are assaulted with magic attacks, what inevitably softens the scenes by distancing them from real life slavery.

In a story, an act of violence will always be more shocking if your brain is able to automatically make a connection with real life. Seeing blood conveys a feeling of disconfort easier than a character being hit by a wave of magic, even if the author tells you "this is painful"; that's why some people say they started to find difficult to watch horror movies involving kids after becoming parents, because after experenciating something in real life, they connect with fiction harder.

The above scene causes me very different feelings in each media. In the manga, the despair in Jellal's face when seeing they removed Erza's eye is much clearer, and his skinny body, his eyes filling up with tears (he doesn't cry in the anime) shows not only a feeling of worry, but of utter dread and helplessness. All that helps endorsing the fact that, doesn't matter how brave he is, they are still just fragile kids, unable to protect themselves from the cruelty of the world around them.

I want to make it clear, though, that this is not in any way meant to be a critique to the animation team, or an affirmation that one type of media is better than another. We all have our personal preferences, but each media has it's target audience and objective. Fairy Tail's animators certainly do know how to convey the same feelings on the public, they just choose not to, for a variety of reasons. Probably because the anime is aimed for a broader and younger audience, many scenes have been softened or censored somehow. Also, animation consumes more labour than a manga page, so unless you have a lot of time and investment, the art tend to be simpler.

So do you think it affects the plot, Siren?

In my opinion, yes, even if just in a subtle way. In the manga, I think this raw brutality helps Jellal's character to gain a more interesting complexity. To me, he feels less like a hero and more like what he actually is: just a really kind and brave kid trying his best to protect his friends.

Another major change they made in the anime was removing the ambiguity (something that happened more than once in Fairy Tail's adaptation, such as in the famous kiss scene), leaving clear since the beginning that Jellal was a victim of a mind controlling spell; while in the manga, until Urtear's confirmation at the end of the arc, we do not know for sure if he have been brainwashed or just convinced to adore Zeref.

And as much as I can see why some fans might hate it because it leaves room for people to see Jellal as a bad man, I (as someone who is not afraid of loving evil characters, heh), find it interesting and somehow enriching to the plot, because it gives the whole arc a reflection: is extreme suffering, specially at such an young age, capable of changing someone so much?

We are left questioning what did "Zeref" say, or do, that made him change so much. And having so many real life examples where despair has made people easy victims of manipulation throught faith or falling into extremist ideologies, after we seeing Jellal's pain and fragility in a tangible way, it's not that hard at all to understand how he went insane and managed to drag all the other slaves along with him.

Also, I think it makes it easier to understand Erza's empathy towards him. Jellal and Erza are characters connected not only by the affection they nourish for one another, but also for sharing the same pain. She is the only person that fully understands the horrors he lived in the tower, since they were the only kids that have been in the torture chamber. And althought she never tries to justify Jellal's actions, Erza does not only show him compreension, but she feels guilty for not being able to retribute his protection and prevented him from losing his mind.

That doesn't mean, tho, that there weren't many other clues he was not acting on free will: be it his grotesque change of personality, his hysterical laughter out of nowhere or his motivations that doesn't hold (because they were never his to begin with). To me, all that at first glance makes him closer to Batman's Joker, someone that grew insane after so much suffering, than a villain that's genuinely just plain selfish and thirsty for power. And that only makes me find him a creepier villain, since personally, I find sadism and insanity way scarier than ghosts.

So this is just a looong collection of thoughts about how small choices can change a lot the "feeling" we get from a scene or a character. I hope someone can find it interesting too. There are many other examples of adaptations where it happened, and if you remember one you'd like to share, I would love to hear!

Last but not less important, all the love for Mashima's art, the Tower of Heaven arc (that is a personal favorite) and Jellal, a character I deeply love and one that holds for sure the strongest spirit in the manga for being able to become such a kind and mature man despite everything he has been thought. ♡

#Fairy Tail #Jellal fernandes #erza scarlet #jerza #semiotics #manga x anime #anime vs manga #Tower of heaven #Sorry this is too long #Also english is not my main language but I hope this is still understandable sorry #My motivation for writing this was: HOW THE HELL do I see so many people saying Jellal didn't suffer #I tried to understand how people read/watch fairy tail and get this interpretation and this text was born haha #it justifies nothing actually but it's such a fun analysis to do #Bro never had a moment of peace in his head for 27 years and tried to k*ll himself at least 3 times canonically he just needs a hug #siren's thoughts #about stories #plot analysis

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fortunatelygloriousruins · 2 months ago

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Whispers in a Liminal Font

In the quiet pause between moments, where the familiar fades and the unknown looms, lies the essence of liminal spaces—a definition filled with promise, yet laden with unease. A hallway, an airport terminal, a bridge—these spaces whisper of movement, of change, of a destination waiting just beyond sight. They embody the hope that one day, the discomfort will give way to a new rhythm. Yet for me, life has been a relentless carousel of transitions. Each time I step into what feels like a new beginning, it quickly morphs into yet another waiting room, another corridor extending into the dark. A move to a new city brought excitement, but ultimately, it became just another threshold, another place where I felt both lost and oddly familiar. I realized that while liminal spaces are often viewed as temporary, my existence has been marked by a ceaseless series of them—a relentless cycle that doesn’t allow me the comfort of belonging. The unease festers like a shadow, whispering doubts that echo louder than the sounds of possibility. In the quest for an anchor, I grasp at fleeting connections and evolving passions, only to watch them slip through my fingers like sand. I crave a return to firm ground, but the landscape of my life remains fluid, constantly shifting beneath my feet.

As celebrated in countless artistic representations, these spaces evoke a haunting tranquility, but often lack the warmth of genuine human connection, leaving an ache in their absence. In popular culture, liminal spaces evoke not just the idea of a transition, but an unsettling beauty—a strange stillness that speaks volumes without uttering a word. Films imbued with surrealism, such as those crafted by David Lynch, plunge viewers into these uncanny realms, where the absence of human presence heightens a disturbing sense of paranoia, leaving one captivated yet yearning for connection or even just safety of a warm presence, of familiarity. In the realm of the internet, ‘liminal space’ aesthetics flood social media feeds, portraying desolate hallways and empty playgrounds—spaces that exist in a vacuum, devoid of life yet brimming with emotion. While these imagined spaces entice with their aesthetic charm, they also amplify a solitude that reverberates somewhere deep in the bones. I find myself wandering through my own empty hallways, much like the desolate landscapes captured in art, where the allure of solitude clashes painfully with the yearning for human connection. In contrast to the glossy allure of these spaces in film and photography, my reality often feels like a silent scream—an echo without a voice to answer.

There is a strange magnetism to liminal spaces—those unsettling places that exist on the threshold, like deserted parking lots in the dead of night. They’re meant to be temporary, to be passed through quickly without thought or hesitation, yet they pull us in, inviting contemplation of the indefinable discomfort they evoke. The allure of liminal spaces has seeped into pop culture, into the eerie photographs and grainy videos shared on Reddit and TikTok, the empty rooms bathed in fluorescent light, abandoned swimming pools, and back alleys captured by dim, flickering street lamps. They draw us in with the haunting promise that, however unnerving, these spaces are transitory. A temporary pause in the steady march of existence. They specially piqued the interest of the generation-z around late 2019 when the pandemic led to everything shutting down around them. This happened for the first time in a while when everyone was forced to stay inside. The usually busy places were suddenly devoid of human activity. And calling those places "liminal" provided them a much needed comfort—that it's just a transient phase, that would eventually make way for a new normal, no matter how deeply disorienting it may feel in the moment.

For me, however, they are not a pause but a pattern. My time here has been a series of liminal spaces, one after another, an endless succession of thresholds that I can never quite cross. The feeling is visceral—like I’m standing on the edge of something unknown, waiting for a change that never arrives. I am caught in the perpetual dusk between who I was and who I could be, but never who I am. The unease, the disquiet that comes with transitions, has become a permanent resident in my bones. While others move through life as if through rooms—each with a door that closes behind and another that opens before them—I remain stranded in the hallway, never quite belonging anywhere.

The pop culture obsession with these places hints at a shared understanding: the strange comfort of knowing that the eeriness will end. People pause to admire the beauty in the emptiness, to find poetry in the in-between, but then they move on, not before shaking off the chill that runs down their spines. I can’t move on. My tragedy is that I have never been afforded the luxury of belonging. Each moment of my life feels like another entrywa a building with no exits.

It is no wonder that liminal spaces are almost always portrayed devoid of people. The absence is stark, a universal truth in every image—an abandoned gas station under a buzzing neon sign, a swimming pool drained and dry. In these spaces, human presence is always missing, and I’ve come to understand why: true belonging happens only when you have become a part of a story, not when you are standing at its threshold, unsure whether to step in or retreat. In life, you find comfort and purpose when you are woven into the fabric of something meaningful, something that feels whole. But I remain forever on the periphery, trapped in the space between stories.

I think about those images often, how the emptiness of these spaces mimics the solitude of my own experience. Those photos and videos, scrolling endlessly on social media feeds, depict places where people were once present but have since moved on. They have left their mark, their fleeting footprints, and then disappeared, perhaps to find themselves fully within the next moment, the next chapter. They were participants in a story, however brief, and then they exited. But I am the one left behind, the one who does not belong either inside or outside. For them, it is a journey; for me, it is a destination I never intended to arrive at, a destination where nobody ever arrives nor stays.

Maybe that’s why I feel most at home in those photographs of empty spaces—because they are the only places that mirror my own reality. A reality where I have never fully crossed the threshold into a narrative that feels like my own. To be present in a story, to be part of something greater than oneself, is to know where you stand, to know that you are not simply a shadow lingering at the doorway. But I do not stand; I hover. I am not an actor on the stage, but a ghost in the wings, forever waiting for my cue, which never comes.

To truly belong is to be written into the story, to feel the weight and the warmth of other people’s lives pressing up against your own, merging, creating something that feels substantial, that feels real. Instead, I exist in the gaps between those moments, the spaces where no one else lingers long enough to even see me. I find myself most drawn to these places because they reflect my own existence back to me, in all its stark, aching solitude.

And so, I remain here, wandering these empty spaces that stretch endlessly before me. I am the emptiness that haunts them. If these spaces are metaphors for transitions, then perhaps I am the exception that disproves the rule: the one who stays when all others move. A ghost in a world that doesn’t know how to see me.

There is no comfort in knowing that one day, this will end because even endings are a luxury not afforded to everyone. I remain as transient in the spaces between, where the walls breathe, and the lights flicker, endlessly.

The liminal- they exist in the uncanny hours, the moments of transition between what was and what will be. We are drawn to them, to the way they disorient, to the way they feel like the pause before something unspeakable. We linger in their eeriness, the empty hotel corridors that seem to breathe on their own, the swimming pools drained of water, standing like gaping mouths. But there’s comfort, we tell ourselves, because these spaces are not meant to last.

For others, perhaps, that comfort is true. But I know what it is to be trapped in these places. I feel the walls close in, the floors stretch beneath me like old, creaking wood. I am forever waiting, caught in the grip of some invisible force, a heavy hand pressed against my chest, keeping me from moving forward. Each step I take echoes against the hollow emptiness around me, but never reaches a destination. I am the figure in the photograph you can barely see, half-hidden, blurred at the edges like a ghost who can’t decide if it wants to be seen or remain in the dark.

I am haunted by the absence of people in these spaces, not because they never were, but because they left. They crossed the threshold, into rooms with warmth and noise, into stories that welcomed them and wrapped around their existence like familiar sheets. They found themselves inside; they became something more than just the sum of their loneliness. But I am the one who stays behind, the one who cannot cross. The perpetual guest, never the inhabitant. I drift from one room to the next, never lingering long enough to leave a mark, never staying long enough to be remembered. I am the visitor who never finds a seat, the traveller whose bags remain packed by the door. I see the way others sink into the spaces they claim, their bodies folding into the comfort of familiarity, their voices rising like music that fills the air. I watch from the sidelines, my presence like a breeze that stirs the curtains but never enters fully.

Every room I enter feels borrowed, as if I have stepped into someone else’s life and can only tiptoe through it, careful not to touch anything, not to disturb the fragile peace that belongs to others. I leave no footprints on the carpet, no fingerprints on the glass. I have learned to navigate quietly, to slip in and out without being noticed, like a shadow cast by something unseen. I feel the walls around me pulse with the life they contain, a heartbeat that is not my own, a rhythm I can never match.

It’s as if I am always knocking on the door but never crossing the threshold. I stand there, on the cold step outside, feeling the warmth of the inside brush against my face, but I never feel it fully on my skin. I am always outside looking in, peering through windows into rooms aglow with light that never reaches me. I am the outsider, forever on the fringe, watching life unfold from the other side of the glass, never invited in.

To be an inhabitant is to know the smell of the walls, the creak of the floorboards, the way light falls through the windows at different times of day. It is to feel the texture of the air change with the seasons, to hear the hum of the refrigerator at 3 a.m., to know which step on the staircase will always groan underfoot. It is to be known by a place and to know it in return, intimately, deeply, as if it has become a part of you and you, a part of it.

But I am not known by any place. I do not belong to any corner or crevice. I am the one who slips in under the cover of darkness, whose name is written in dust rather than ink. I am the one who drifts between spaces, feeling the way they reject me, spit me back out into the cold air of not belonging. I am forever the guest, moving through rooms that are not mine, beds I will not sleep in, and doors I will never close behind me.

I pass through, my presence barely a whisper, a breath against the skin of a life I can never truly touch. I am left hovering in the doorway, where the air is always colder, where the shadows grow long and the light is always just out of reach. I stand there, hands in my pockets, feeling the weight of the spaces I can never claim pressing down on me, a weight that grows heavier with each passing moment, each step I never take.

I am the perpetual guest, and the world is a house that will never be mine. I remain outside, my fingers grazing the doorframe, my feet never crossing the line between here and there. There is no place I can call my own, no room that knows my name, no door that opens for me willingly. I am forever in transit, forever searching for a space that will let me in, but always finding myself back at the beginning—a stranger to every threshold I meet.

And perhaps that is the cruellest truth of all: that I am destined to wander, never quite belonging, never quite seen, forever the guest in a world that moves on without me. A phantom at the edge of every story, a nameless figure passing through the pages, never finding a place to rest.

The images on social media show this over and over—the empty malls, the deserted offices with chairs left spinning, the playgrounds in twilight where no children ever played. These places resonate with me because they are my own; they speak of an existence where the story never begins. Where I hover like a breath just before it is exhaled, hanging in the air, suspended. They are empty because they do not know how to hold me, because I am not made to be held.

I’ve tried to step inside, to enter the frame fully, to feel the world with its weight, to feel alive in a way that doesn’t echo with hollowness. But every time, I find myself slipping back, back into the doorway, back into the corridor that stretches endlessly into the dark. I’ve never been part of the story, only its interruption. A whisper between chapters, an ink smudge on the page.

In these places, I see myself reflected back, a figure without form, a shadow that never becomes flesh. I am drawn to them because they are the only places that tell the truth. Here, in the endless twilight of empty hallways and cold rooms, is where I belong. Where I am what I have always been—a liminal being, caught forever in the act of becoming but never being—it is a curse I carry like a stone in my chest. I feel the weight of all the almosts and could-have-beens, their presence a reminder of every step I failed to take, every door I left unopened, every room I never dared to enter. There is a deep shame in this, a gnawing regret that chews at my insides, whispering of all the ways I’ve failed to step fully into my own skin. I have been caught in the web of my own making, tangled in threads of hesitation, paralyzed by the fear of what might be on the other side.

I think of all the times I have stood at the threshold, my hand hovering over the doorknob, feeling the heat of life radiating from the other side, yet unable to push through- I have waited for a sign, for some force to pull me forward, but it never came. I was too afraid to make the first move, to take that step and claim my place in the world. And so, I lingered, trapped in the twilight between where I was and where I could have been, suspended in a state of perpetual almost.

I feel the weight of the selves I could have been, versions of myself left behind, quietly slipping away. There's an unease in the comfort I’ve found in the unknown, in the shadows where I’ve lingered, waiting for things to change. I’ve spent so much time waiting, hoping for a shift, for a sign that would guide me toward a different path. Yet, there’s a deep awareness that these moments of hesitation have cost me something—a slow drift through time, a distance from the potential I once carried.

It’s like living on the edge of things, forever in the act of becoming, but never quite arriving. I’ve stretched myself in so many directions, tried on so many faces, yet none have felt like they truly belonged. Sometimes I feel like a ghost in my own life, passing through spaces that don’t quite fit, haunted by roles I’ve tried to inhabit but never truly embraced. I’ve held so many possibilities in my hands, yet none have fully taken root.

The passing years have carved out this space where a more certain self should have stood, leaving behind a quiet ache. The moments I didn’t seize, the chances I let slip away—they linger like whispers, reminding me of the lives I could have lived. There’s a sense that I’ve spent so much time in the doorway, waiting, never fully stepping inside, caught between worlds that never quite merge.

Yet, even in this state of suspension, there’s a quiet recognition that my hesitation wasn’t solely my own. There were forces, subtle yet powerful, shaping me long before I knew myself—expectations I never quite agreed to, destinies that felt like they belonged to someone else. The world taught me caution before it ever taught me courage, planting seeds of doubt that took root deep within. Perhaps I’ve spent more time in the pauses, the quiet spaces between breaths, because it was all I knew.

Still, I’m here, caught in the act of becoming. Not lost, but not yet found. There’s a soft reckoning in knowing that the paths I’ve walked may not have been chosen out of fear alone but also out of circumstance, out of the quiet shaping of a world that held me before I knew how to hold myself.

I wish I could say I was strong enough to break free, to pull myself from the web spun tight around me, but I am not sure I ever had that choice. I have moved through life like a leaf caught in a windstorm, tossed and turned by forces far greater than myself, unable to find a moment of stillness, a place where I could plant my feet and stand firm. I have felt myself pulled in a hundred directions at once, and in the chaos, I could not help but freeze, paralyzed by the impossibility of it all.

How could I have acted differently when the script was written long before I even set foot on the stage? When the path was laid out like a trap, a snare hidden beneath the fallen leaves? I was cast as the wanderer in the spaces between, and in that role, I felt myself shrinking, shrinking until I became almost nothing at all.

And yet, even as I drift, I feel the shame like a brand on my skin, knowing I could not have been any other way, that the world had left me with so few choices, and none of them my own. I wonder if fate is cruel, or if it is simply indifferent—if it laughs as it watches me stumble, or if it doesn’t care enough to even notice. I am left standing here, on the edge of what could have been, holding the fragments of a life that never fully came into being, the broken pieces of a self that never had a chance to be whole.

And so I am left with this aching contradiction: the guilt of my own inaction, and the knowledge that I was helpless to act. Caught in a web not of my making, a prisoner to a fate I never chose. A leaf in the wind, a ghost in the doorway, waiting for a storm to pass that may never end.

And so, I remain here, wandering these hollowed-out spaces that stretch on and on. I am the emptiness that fills them. I am the ghost that can never leave. They say these places are only temporary, that they will end, but I know better. I know that some of us never leave.

The door is always open, the light always flickering. I hear footsteps in the distance that never come closer. I feel the walls closing in like a shroud. And still, I wait, knowing that even an ending is too much to ask for.

Because even in endings, there is some kind of peace, and I have been denied even that. I am the silence that fills the gaps, the breath caught in a throat, forever suspended, forever waiting.

#liminalcore #dreamcore #manic pixie nightmare #liminal spaces #liminal #liminal aesthetic #macabre

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