#but i was willing to tolerate a soul split
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It's weird to say there's too many dolls in the killer doll franchise, but like at some point, a line needs to be drawn.
#not all the characters need dollsonas#really only two of them should be#chucky#and tiffany#i dont even think glen and glenda should go back to the doll#but i was willing to tolerate a soul split#chucky series spoilers
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Epic the musical soulmate au
Where nothing changes but all the words make you a lot sadder
I’ve been on a soulmates AU kick recently and thinking about the Ithaca Saga so imagine a first words tattooed on your body trope with young Odysseus and Penelope and he’s a little intuitive having heard of Penelope and thinking she’s so cool then he sees her and gets this feeling she’s the one
Maybe it’s an Athena’s pupil thing maybe they’re such a perfect match for each other that he can feel it in his bones but he has this almost tangible cord pulling him towards her
But he’s there tryna wingman for Menelaus, talks to Tyndareus abt the oath idea and when the king responds well he maybe quietly implies he’s set his sights on Penelope, and maybe Helen and Penelope are somewhere nearby just close enough to hear Odysseus’ pitch but not so close they hear his goals(I can’t find a solid source online for their first meeting so I’m making stuff up) and after, penelope is intrigued by him and he’s somewhere close and she comments something like “he chooses his words well” to Helen. and he’s like stupid smart, trying to impress her, even his subconscious is focused on her and he hears and says something like “it’d take a fool to be insolent in your presence” to her
and it clicks in her head immediately that those are her words and without any shock or question she just says “you’re mine”
And they’re so sickeningly in love, they call back to their words often, he’ll say “I’d be a fool to___” and she’ll repeat “you’re mine” and almost never call him his name favoring lovey nicknames like “my love” and “my dear”
And when he goes off to war she says “you’ll come home to me, you’re mine” and he says “It’d take a fool not to return to your presence”
Then things go south, but through his journey it’s all he thinks, that he has a promise to keep. When he loses his crew, when he faces and befriends Circe, hears his fallen brethren and family in the underworld, the sirens song having an almost “I’m yours” tone as opposed to “you’re mine”, he evades Scylla, he makes Zeus’ choice, all thinking “it would take a fool not to return to your presence”
And calypso, she doesn’t have the words of a soulmate. it’s a fate confined to humanity, from when Zeus split mortals in two and forced their souls to be forever reaching to connect the puzzle til they finally unite. But she knows what they are. And just like her using his sleep-spoken trauma against him, calling back to his dead friends and family, she repeats “you’re mine” in love in paradise even dipping into “my dear” and “my love” despite his unending denial of her affections. It puts even more emphasis on his already rightful aggression and pain at what should only be said by Penelope
Then “I plan to put an end to all the foolishness” in dangerous he already wasn’t going to let anything stop him but now he’s willing to do straight up anything (and he does) to get home. He has a firm belief. he would rather be savage and merciless than be foolish because in his eyes there is nothing worse.
And when he becomes monstrous, how will he sleep at night??? “NEXT TO HIS WIFE” we all say in unison.
That’s not even mentioning Penelope, she spent 10 years pushing back the suitors, because Odysseus is coming home, she knows her husband, he is no fool. He will come back to her. She will not let anything go, and she will keep what is hers. The suitors all having an approach of having her turning their already flat chances into the negatives, especially Antinous’ threats in hold them down all having a message of taking from her where to be with Penelope is to give her all of yourself so she can do the same in turn.
And he absolutely fucks shit up, the suitors and their threats, the harm they’ve dealt to his family, the way they continue to try nothing but take what’s Penelope’s, what’s his. Their foolishness will not be tolerated. The actions they’ve taken to his wife, to his son, the greatest creation their love has ever made, they didn’t stand a chance against the guy who just fought god and won.
And then what everyone has been waiting on for the entire musical the absolute masterpiece that is would you fall in love with me again will never not be heart wrenching. He’s not just asking her if she could look past all he did, fall in love with the man he’s become. He doesn’t know if he still deserves her, if he’s too far gone to be worthy, He’s asking “am I still yours”
And she’s as cunning as ever, even after every year they spent apart she will always know exactly how to push his buttons, how to set him off, how to force him to convey his desperation for her, and hell she’s from Sparta of course she’s gonna be into him after all that. The second he turns his back in shame she’s probably twirling her hair and fanning her face knowing what he did all to keep his promise and return to her. And she gives him the reassurance that he needs, tricks him into proving that no measure of distance and time could ever take away or change what they have, and for the first time in 20 years he hears her say “you’re mine” and it shatters any apprehensions and self doubt because he’s still Penelopes.
And overall it changes literally nothing about the plot or the storyline and only serves to make things a hundred percent more sad and angsty
and I’ve had this eating away at my brain all through a piercing appointment and shopping with my mom and sibling all day I can finally rest now that it’s escaped my head
#epic the musical#epic odysseus#epic the ithaca saga#epic the vengeance saga#epic penelope#odypen#odysseus#odysseus and penelope#odysseus x penelope#penelope of ithaca#penelope of sparta#I’ve never read the oddessey I’m too poor to buy books#all my info comes from looking stuff up on the internet and listening to the songs religiously#Penelope the woman that you are#I love odypen I wish straight people were real#epic the musical soulmate au#soulmate au#Greek mythology#feel free to yoink this idea and make it a fic or make art of it#in fact I’m begging you to do so and pls @ me so I can see it#odypen setting standards for their son#at this point they’ve got 90% of the Greek pantheon rooting for them#all the olympians have a new OTP and as long as they have any say in it neither the ocean or the skies will sink their ship#haha Zeus WISHES he had this kind of love#so does Hera but in a different way#she can live vicariously through her mortal ships tho
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Afterdust Character Info!!
This post is for appearances (outfits), personalities, and other basic info about the characters in Afterdust! Remember, if you do have any questions or are curious about certain things, send an ask! I'll happily answer. Fanart is always welcome!
The info slowly gets shorter... I'll update swap when I come up with his outfit lmao
Nekros -
Appearance: Nekros looks almost identical to the typical Geno. With a few changes of course. He wears a white jacket with a grey hood, a dark grey turtle neck, the typical red scarf, the classic sans shorts, and some grey boots. His left eye is covered by white glitches as per usual. He has the bloody slash going diagonally across his chest, with the top on the right. He has the usual Dust eyelight for his visible eyelight. (Art post will come later)
Nekros is standoffish, cautious of others. He's paranoid, often snapping at others despite them not having done anything. He experiences auditorial and visual hallucinations which increases his paranoia. Even without the paranoia, he's constantly on edge. The DT and LV mixing together to give him a hell of an adrenaline boost. He's also lowkey insane due to how many resets he's been through and how many times he's had to kill his loved ones. He's also not doing so great from watching his loved ones live through pacifist timelines without him (still deciding whether to have the whole soul splitting and making a new Sans thing happen or not..). When he gets out of the save screen, he often gets sensory overload due to how used to the save screen he is. No noise other than himself (and Reaper), no colors other than the few included in the save screen.
Flare -
Appearance: Flare looks like your typical Error sans, with a few changes of course. He has patches (colored mostly dark purple and dark grey) all over his clothes, along with stitches of various shades of purple. Instead of the blue markings, he has purple markings (you can probably guess that his strings are also purple). The yellow of his left eyelight is instead purple. He wears his scarf as a sort of hood. (His appearance is also linked in the pinned post!)
Flare, unlike Nekros, is highkey insane! He has lots of LV and it affects him very negatively. His hallucinations and paranoia are increased by tenfold. His haphephobia is also worse, leading him to attack long range. He crashes immediately upon someone touching him. He has a whole bunch of trust issues, he refuses to work with anyone unless he absolutely has to (this is also the reason he's not working with Nightmare). He is protective of the more violent and darker AUs, feeling a sort of kinship with them, though he doesn't know why. He'll occasionally have some moments where he's more calm and he's more willing to be around people. But those are very rare. He only really tolerates being around a few people, such as Outer and Swap. He despises both Ink and Fresh.
Nightmare -
Appearance: Nightmare wears a dark teal high neck shirt. The stomach area of the shirt has a corset esque design, with a flower pattern embroidered into it. The sleeves of the shirt are loose and somewhat baggy, only to tighten at the wrist and flare out at the end. He wears a long dark purple cloak with a moon clasp. The inside of the cloak has gold star patterns (constellations is probably the right word to use). He wears black pants that have many pockets sewn into them and black combat boots.
Nightmare is very awkward around people, and very blunt. He doesn't like to sugarcoat things, even if it does make people upset. Despite being an empath, he often struggles to comprehend emotions. He cares a lot for his gang and makes sure they all get therapy and take care of themselves. He feela regret for being too late to save someone from their fate. He hopes to one day be able to help Flare out, though he knows it will not happen anytime soon. He enjoys reading ofc, but also likes participating in everyone else's hobbies, even if he isn't the best at them.
Killer -
Appearance: Basic Killer appearance, HOWEVER!! This man has pins all over his jacket, he likes to collect them. He also has some of those little iron on patches. Like you get in girl scouts. His hood has cat ears on it :). He wears high top tennis shoes, like vans or smth, and refuses to unite them to put them on. He will just slip them on
Killer is a menace to the multiverse, he messes with anyone and everyone. He also is still learning what the concept of personal space is (... He got too close to Flare a couple times). He was the first one Nightmare picked up and after a lot of therapy he became a certified gremlin. He can actually be quite calm when he wants to. He'll often be seen just following the other members of the gang around or just hanging out with them. He likes to make pottery :). When on missions, he typically is the one who causes the most mayhem and property damage, often having to be dragged away by the others. He is the middle child
Cross -
Appearance: Cross wears a black turtleneck and a white slightly oversized jacket. He is typically seen with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The inside of his jacket is a dark purple. He has various flowers embroidered onto it in different colors. He wears dark grey cargo pants and black boots with sewn in vine details. He also wears a dull purple scarf with his heart locket under it.
Cross doesn't tend to emote much, you can tell what he's feeling by small twitches in his expression. Like his eyes narrowing or widening slightly, the corners of his mouth moving up or down slightly, etc. This man can't show his emotions properly. He's also pretty quiet most of the time, he tends to scare the other members of the gang by accident. Like Killer, he can be seen following people around from time to time, making sure they're safe. It's a habit from his days in the royal guard. He enjoys gardening a lot, he finds it relaxing to tend to the flowers he's planted. He's pretty protective of those he cares about, often anxious about losing them like he lost those in Xtale. He can often be seen taking with XChara, who is of course invisible to others. During missions he often tends to go straight for the target, wanting to get it done as fast as possible.
Horror -
Appearance: Horror wears a thick dark grey jacket that has fur on the hood. Like Killer, he has various patches on his jacket. He wears a black knitted turtleneck. He has maroon fingerless gloves that have violet accents. He wears black cargo pants and dark brown hiking boots.
Horror is usually pretty calm most of the time. He often gets distracted when doing tasks and forgets what he's doing. He doesn't like speaking all too much due to the trouble he has, so he uses sign language most of the time. He enjoys making dark jokes and seeing the reactions he gets. He cares for the other members of the gang a lot and makes sure they care for themselves. During missions, he usually is the one keeping an eye on Killer so he doesn't cause too much trouble. He enjoys cooking and baking and also likes taking photos. He was the second one to picked up by nightmare and is the oldest child. He has his own section of the garden for growing various crops so he can use them in food and takes care of it with the help of Cross.
Ink -
Appearance: Ink typically wears various colorful sweaters that are covered by light brown overalls that have paint covering them, they also have a pocket filled with various pens. His vials are in a belt instead of a sash and each one has unique caps so Ink doesn't forget what they are used for. He wears artist gloves that have colorful patterns on them. He wears simple black slip on shoes and has rainbow socks. He wears a cream colored scarf that has many notes on it.
Ink doesn't understand emotions at all. He understands the basics of them but also doesn't understand things like tears of joy. He struggled a lot to figure out what emotions the vials gave him, he often uses situational cues or facial expressions to know which vial to take. He will sometimes hurt other people's feelings and not realize until they tell him. He is very hyper most of the time, having a hard time doing one task for a long period of time. He is very good at multitasking despite his memory issues. He will often avoid some of the more negative AUs because he believes that it is just their story playing out, though he will occasionally visit Fell universes. He has a tiny bit of hope that he could help Flare change for the good (... It gets tinier with every destroyed au. This man is NOT committed to this). He's very annoyed with Nightmare for messing with AU storylines and just messing with AUs in general.
Dream -
Appearance: Dream wears a short golden cloak with a sun clasp, the inside being darker and having silver vine patterns. He has the same type of shirt as Nightmare, but in white. He wears a golden brown vest with yellow accents. He wears black pants and grey boots with light blue accents. He still wears his circlet.
Dream is a very positive individual. He does his best to keep everyone happy. He doesn't like the idea of negativity in the multiverse unless for specific things, like grief. Otherwise he'll do his best to keep people from experiencing negative emotions. He overworks himself a lot, with Swap often making him take breaks. He wants to go back to how things used to be with Nightmare. He knows that's his brother, and not some evil parasite or whatever, but he still wants the brother he knew back. He wishes Nightmare would give up on spreading negativity so they could stop fighting. He is often put off by Ink's emotions due to how artificial they feel. He does his best to avoid Flare, knowing how dangerous he is. He does his best to visit aus, but can't do it often without interfering with the story.
Swap -
Appearance: .... I'll update this later he's being stubborn...
Swap is pretty neutral in regards to things. He isn't on any particular side most of the time, though when he is it is usually with the Stars. If he sees nightmare or any of his gang in an au, he won't step in or interfere with what they're doing unless people are getting hurt. He's managed to form a very shaky friendship with Flare, and refuses to fight him during battles because of it. He tries to help out whenever he can with whoever he can. He likes taking care of his friends, making sure they eat, sleep, and just relax. He doesn't tend to travel the multiverse much unless necessary, preferring to stay in his own AU with his brother. He can get hyper at times, but surprisingly he is pretty calm most of the time.
Reaper -
Appearance: Reaper wears a long black hooded cloak that has silver swirls embroidered on the bottom, it also has sleeves. The clasp of the cloak is a small gaster blaster with blue gems for eyes. Under the cloak he wears a dark grey turtleneck and black pants. He wears dark brown gladiator sandals
Reaper is pretty chill compared to the other gods, he doesn't like to interfere with the others' problems as long as they don't interfere with his job. He'll sometimes go around scaring people just by following them around only to go "not your time, see you when it is!" and disappear. He tends to bug Nekros whenever he has free time, making sure he doesn't go even more crazy. He'll often bring him small gifts, like rocks or jewelry or food. His humor is dark humor, especially death related stuff. He finds it funny how uncomfortable it makes people.
#afterdust multiverse#undertale au#undertale multiverse#utmv#afterdust#aftertale#dust sans#dusttale#sans aus#ink sans#nightmare sans#horror sans#cross sans#error sans#dream sans#killer sans#reaper sans#long post...
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2 and 3 for Miquella!
2 Favorite canon thing about this character?
His character even his pre sote arc
He is (was) genuinely one of the kindest demigods around and did factually care about making a safe haven for other races because he did see in their plight what he and malenia went through. He cares so much about malenia to literally split off from his main faith and go live outside the continent.
And yet even then even at what might have been his possible kindest he was still willing to sacrifice people or manipulate them. The haligtree suicide bombers (i do not think they were mind controlled, but i do think their willingness to blow themselves up to begin with shows how the behavior was at least tolerated in elphael), the charm (which tbh in cases like leda aren't that egregious since it significantly makes them less dangerous, but in cases like ansbach, and mohg it is. Uh well. You Know).
He was someone who had a savior complex (which by itself wasn't even born out of arrogance but trauma) and put too many expectations onto himself, which combined with his empyrean status and his possibility to become a god created this... absolute monster of a mentality that ended up in him becoming more and more ruthless because he is the only one who can help those people, you see?
He is so sweetly tragic in the hero-of-a-greek-tragedy way. His fate was fucked from the start by being an empyrean and cursed, but his obsession to cure himself (and malenia) from his afflictions is what truly brought him to his end
3 Least favorite thing about this character?
I will be a PCR hater until i die. I hate it way less than i did when it was revealed canon (i remember fucking. Coping oh so hard in an unrelated discord server's voice chat LMAO) but i just think it's very. Shitty of a plottwist and a blatant retcon that ends up being the wish-ordered version of the twin princes from dark souls 3. Just... uuuugh. The thing is that i can *see* an interesting dynamic born out of this thing but the blatant add in just spoils everything for me
(And yes yadda yadda miquella/radahn paralleling marika/godfrey but sometimes parallelisms just aren't enough to make a story choice better, and while i am a huge parallelism fan myself i think its too heavy handed for me to enjoy lol)
Also not really a big fan of him apparently being at aeonia because its just a huge ??? timeline and logistic headache that might as well be called a plot hole
Thanks for the ask!
#elden ring#miquella the unalloyed#i do not see him as acting out of hybris tho. more out of despair and this is what doomed him
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Sometimes i dont wanna die. I just wanna eat watermelon with cheese in the middle of july. And I just wanna read a good book with my head laid on my lover’s shoulder while her plump lips softly press against my forehead, forming a quiet “I love you” right afterwards. And maybe, just maybe, I don’t wanna die, but I just wanna sit on a chair outside, sipping a cold drink, while the setting sun shines through my glasses and brings out the honey that drips from my eyes every time I glance at her. And I just want her to see it. I want her to notice it. I want her to feel the need to have it, to own it, for just a split second at least. Then, maybe I will just wish for a kiss in the nearest bathroom, in the dirty toilets that do not smell like they have been cleaned in ages, at all. But I want her to not care. To not smell anything but my perfume that I have sprayed gently on my collarbones, hoping that this moment would come. I want it to come. I have wanted it for a year and a half now. I have wanted to be this desired for a year and a half now. Therefore her eyes look at me, but she sees through me. She sees all the beautiful trees with hungry pigeons on them, but she does not see me. And she sees all the buildings she wishes she could build, but she does not notice me. She does not wish to build anything that beautiful beneath my skin, or into my thinking at least. Her lips do not seem to crave mine as much as mine crave hers with their whole being. Her body does not shiver one bit when my hand touches her. These feelings are gone. Long long gone. The desire, the determination that I am what her soul longs for. She was so sure of that once upon a time, back to when I used to believe that she could see that honey dripping from both my eyes and mouth. She wishes I could shut it up, she wishes it was not necessary for our eyes to meet every day- and when they don’t, for one reason or another, she does not seem to need me.
Maybe after all, sometimes I do just wanna die. As simple as that. Maybe I do not care about the watermelon with cheese enough, and maybe her shoulder is not the one willing to let my head rest on it.
Maybe maybe maybe.
Maybe this life won’t ever make me tolerable for anyone to thirst for constantly, just from time to time, just when I most of all wanna die. Just for them to convince me to stay. Then again, prove to me that I should have not.
I, to the greatest extent, should have not.
- Marinela
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“ 'If [the Ring] is destroyed, then [Sauron] will fall; and his fall will be so low that none can foresee his arising ever again. For he will lose the best part of the strength that was native to him in his beginning, and all that was made or begun with that power will crumble, and he will be maimed for ever, becoming a mere spirit of malice that gnaws itself in the shadows, but cannot again grow or take shape. And so a great evil of this world will be removed.’”
Yes, but this is Gandalf speaking, and this is his opinion. Gandalf has never made a One Ring, nor split his soul and placed so much of it within a powerful but ultimately material object. He is only a Maia like Sauron. He doesn't know everything, only Eru Ilúvatar knows everything.
In Tolkien's Letter #200, he said,
It was because of this pre-occupation with the Children of God that the spirits so often took the form and likeness of the Children, especially after their appearance. It was thus that Sauron appeared in this shape. It is mythologically supposed that when this shape was ‘real’, that is a physical actuality in the physical world and not a vision transferred from mind to mind, it took some time to build up. It was then destructible like other physical organisms. But that of course did not destroy the spirit, nor dismiss it from the world to which it was bound until the end. After the battle with Gilgalad and Elendil, Sauron took a long while to re-build, longer than he had done after the Downfall of Númenor (I suppose because each building-up used up some of the inherent energy of the spirit, which might be called the ‘will’ or the effective link between the indestructible mind and being and the realization of its imagination). The impossibility of re-building after the destruction of the Ring, is sufficiently clear ‘mythologically’ in the present book.
Then, in Letter #211, he wrote:
Sauron was first defeated by a ‘miracle’: a direct action of God the Creator, changing the fashion of the world, when appealed to by Manwë: see III p. 317. Though reduced to ‘a spirit of hatred borne on a dark wind’, I do not think one need boggle at this spirit carrying off the One Ring, upon which his power of dominating minds now largely depended. That Sauron was not himself destroyed in the anger of the One is not my fault: the problem of evil, and its apparent toleration, is a permanent one for all who concern themselves with our world. The indestructibility of spirits with free wills, even by the Creator of them, is also an inevitable feature, if one either believes in their existence, or feigns it in a story…
So, it is likely he still exists in some form, but there is no way he maintains the same amount of power or strength or even awareness of himself as he did before. I have, on occasion, entertained the idea that it obliterated him completely, but that's only because I find it an intriguing and ultimately tragic idea.
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Idk if I made it in time for requests so I'll send it in anyway feel free to delete if too late but headcannons of Yandere Malleus, Kalim and Leona with a darling who loves them back but is scared of being tied to royalty?
a/n: just a quick heads up- kalim isn’t royalty (i used to think he was like, the son of the sultan when i got into twst) like in the sense his family isn’t connected to the crown, however he is the heir to an incredibly powerful and influential family! it still works for the effects of being incredibly stressed to being connected to such important family- think of it as old money rich families- but just thought i’d give a heads up bc i don’t refer to him as royalty in this one. also i’m working off the assumption that the relationship is already like, happening because i don’t want to make these way longer than needed
warnings: general yandere themes, implied violence
❥ leona kingscholar
it all comes off as... almost mockery, really. it leaves a sour taste on his mouth- he can see how his darling tenses at his presence whenever his title is mentioned, how they seem to stress whenever leona’s brother writes about how he should bring his lover to the palace to meet him
it’s not them trying to make leona feel unappreciated or feared, but that’s what they do. he’s spent too long being compared to his brother, being whispered about by servants- it wouldn’t be too far off to say that he almost feels betrayed by his significant other because of this, even if their reluctance isn’t necessarily aimed at him
he isn’t above using pressure to keep them right by his side. royalty might be annoying, but it’s also pressuring and crushing. he knows better than anyone that his darling can easily crumple under it all, and he uses it for his own advantage before they can slink away from him
their face shown to the entire afterglow savannah. being presented to farena and his wife. cheka’s constant cheering and asking “when they’re gonna marry uncle leona”. he has no trouble taking his darling back home by telling them how excited farena is to see them- surely they aren’t about to disappoint the king, are they? and once there, it’s all in his ballcourt.
court manners, keeping up appearance, smile for the citizens, wave as leona puts his arm around their shoulder, try not to go pale and fall when farena introduces them as leona’s partner- this isn’t a marriage announcement, but it might as well be. after all, is it even possible to split off now...? now that everyone seems to think leona’s found his genuine love, that it’s a sweet love story of the ill tempered second prince falling in love with a no-name commoner and tossing aside traditions of royalty marrying royalty to bring them to his kingdom... it’s such a sweet story for everyone, except perhaps for the poor soul that’s trapped in the relationship with no exits
and oh, if pressure isn’t enough, then pain and threats surely will be. leona seems to easily pick his own desires over his darling’s comfort; after all, he so easily chose to shackle them to the relationship just because he feared their insecurities would cause them to leave. now that they’re effectively trapped to him by everyone’s gazes being in them, he just has to keep them docile and obedient, keep them from causing a scene.
he’s careful enough not to bruise anywhere visible if he thinks punishment is needed; long gone are the days when he’d perhaps tolerate his darling not doing as he pleased, replaced by his seemingly unwavering intent to train them into absolute submission. it’s more so mortifying when he decides to drag their loved ones into the ordeal: perhaps they’re willing to withstand pain themselves, but would they want anything bad to happen to their beloved friends back at nrc, hm?
“are you being cold to me? you should know better by now.” he isn’t necessarily angry, per se, but annoyed- by now they do know it’s already bad to have him in that mood. there’s an added danger of being back at nrc now that break is over; there’s no longer guards stationed outside the room, no longer the danger of cheka bursting in- which means leona has little to no reason to not be as horrible as he wants, provided he makes sure they can’t scream too loud beforehand. the bruises on their arms still hurt from being gripped too tightly last time he considered they weren’t behaving as affectionately as they should, and the memory immediately makes them tense. without even asking why he’s accusing them of being cold now, they apologize- meek, docile, spineless- and the grin on his face grows. perhaps they’d been to scared at the thought of being connected to royalty before and failed to realize it wasn’t leona’s connection to royalty what made a relationship with him dangerous: how many red flags had they missed before? how many of those quirks and things they chalked off to leona being a bit too possessive or territorial had been warning signs to this eventual outcome? dwelling on the past did nothing to soothe the pains of the present, though. “hmph, i don’t think i’m buying that apology. if you really want to get off without a punishment, put me in a good mood first. you can do that much, can’t you, herbivore?”
❥ kalim al-asim
sweet, innocent and cheerful kalim would seem like the sort of person who wouldn’t understand anxieties over being connected to a powerful family. he gives off such a bubbly and happy impression that such things would simply slip his mind
oh, but they don’t. he himself has suffered at being tied to his family- he’s been through enough attempted assassinations and kidnappings and poisonings that he’s almost de-sensitized to it all. he’s sunny, yes, but it’s almost surprising how cheery he is considering all he’s been through
perhaps that’s why he’s almost... sympathetic to his darling when he finally understands their plight. it’s a relief, really- it’s not that they don’t love him! he’s fine, they’re fine- it’s just a little bit of anxieties!
he understands, really... it’s so scary to have people wanting to get rid of you. well, it’s different for him, because he’s lived this way all his life, but his darling hasn’t... it must be scary for them... kalim’s affection and his simple mind, combined with his love that runs a bit too deeply mix
good intentions or not, the result is nothing more than glorified imprisonment, really. it begins with him happily saying that he asked crowley for permission to get some guards from back home to come to nrc to make sure nobody tries to break into his darling’s dorm, to then kalim insisting they spend their nights in scarabia for added safety- it snowballs from there
don’t eat the cafeteria food if it hasn’t been poison tested! actually, don’t eat in the cafeteria at all, he’ll provide the food. they don’t have someone like jamil by their side, so try not to wander outside alone! in fact, always have him close if they go out, ok?
... and of course, it ends up with maybe don’t leave the dorm, since it could be dangerous, and by then? it’s too late. kalim interpreted their anxiety as fear of dangers, because he’s put in danger because of his position, and so he seems to tell himself that as long as he keeps them safe everything is fine
even if they don’t want to do as he says, he’s just... keeping them safe. it’s his duty, as a good boyfriend, right? even if it’s painful to hear them cry from their room as he locks the door, even after he has to keep a chain on their ankle to keep them from trying to pick the lock... kalim doesn’t enjoy their pain, doesn’t relish in the sadism most nrc students seem to inherently have. but he still thinks he’s doing what he must to keep them safe: after all, wasn’t it them who were scared before...?
“i got you this, it reminded me of you! please, won’t you try it on? i’m sure it’ll look amazing on you, and it matches with me... oh, if you don’t like the colour of the gems i could get you another one, too!” kalim opens the box to present a bracelet. it’s objectively a fine piece of art- surely it’s pure gold and carved jewels, a priceless piece that most could merely dream of even looking at through a glass display, and yet to kalim, there isn’t really a price too high for his lover. they’re his most beloved treasure; and he seems to protect them as such, too, if the chain connecting the cushined cuff on their ankle to the wall says anything. it’s covered in gold and long enough they can wander around the room, but a golden chain still remains a chain. it’s almost silly to think back on how this hell began, with them being anxious over being connected to such an affluent family as the asim family was- in fact, the threats of poisonings or kidnappings hadn’t even crossed their mind until kalim began to protect them from it. and now this was life- kalim seemed to willingly ignore every single time they tried to lash out, acting as if everything was fine, showering them with gifts as if new and expensive belongings could somehow soothe the loss of their freedoms. and maybe it was partly their fault too- after all, they let him put the bracelet on their wrist, let him cheer about how pretty they looked. it was so hard to lash out against him, despite him doing all of this- knowing that he genuinely had no bad intentions, that it was all born out of love and desire to protect, but they were still prisoners with no escape.
❥ malleus draconia
there’s nothing that malleus dreads more than being feared by his darling. that’s what sets them apart from others, what makes him so obsessed, to finally have found someone to show even an inkling of kindness to him, to show him a glimmer of warmth after a life of being feared, of being shunned
he... can’t understand. why are they scared of being tied into royalty? as he sees it, it’s a step up from their current life- power, riches, comfort, those are all things that people dream of, things men have gone to war over, things he can give them. malleus doesn’t seem to comprehend the pressure of it all to someone who’s simply never been involved with the crown- he’s never truly had friends outside of his parental figure or guards, always surrounded by those who work for the crown or are part of the court.
his frustration makes him turn to his instincts. he isn’t willing to lose his darling, not over something like this- even if in reality, he’d be unwilling to let go no matter the reason. what good is power and status if he can’t at least keep the one person he loves the most...? why would he not use said power to keep them by his side?
he seems to think that if he just pushes them headfirst into it, they’ll adjust. a sort of “rip the bandaid” method; they’re anxious over being tied to fae royalty, so why can’t he just show them it’s truly nothing to stress over? they don’t need to worry about ruling or about duties- their title as royalty in the future wouldn’t mean much. they’re malleus’ lover first and foremost, their only true duties would be to stay by his side as they’ve been doing
malleus makes his decision almost worryingly quickly. it’s perhaps because this obsessive attitude has been in him all along, simply brought up by the slight bump in the relationship. maybe his draconic instincts to hoard could be blamed, or maybe his lack of real relationships, or maybe he simply was never meant to love in the regular sense
it... really doesn’t help that most fae don’t think too highly of humans. when malleus drags a clearly terrified and unwilling little human back home and declares them to be his future spouse, the fae court really seems to think of them more as the prince’s pet rather than a lover, leave alone an unwilling victim. if anything, there’s more pressure added to them, the fact that in the castle there isn’t really any ally for them
he’s persistent. malleus doesn’t want to hurt his darling much, but his temper isn’t quite stable. test him too much and he’ll snap, electricity and magic humming in the air. the faster his darling learns that the best path for them is to just do as he says, to hold him and kiss him and try and hide how their body tenses and hands shake when he enters the room, the better it’ll be for them. it’s not like they’re going to be getting any other life soon- upon returning to nrc, malleus doesn’t see the need for them to attend classes. after all, their future is already decided as a docile spouse to a king, they aren’t going to be needing much of an education, as much as they simply have to learn to be a doting and gentle spouse to him.
“i don’t understand why you’re so stressed over this.” malleus sounds genuinely confused, arms crossed as he stares at his darling. the poor thing flinches at his voice, quickly composing themselves, as if trying to hide said moment of vulnerability from him- the last thing they want is for malleus to grow more upset because he once again is forced to realize his own lover is terrified of him. still, he steps closer, close enough to cup their cheek with one of his cold hands. it takes all of their willpower to not stiffen under his touch. they’re extra jumpy today, mainly because lilia dropped by to begin court etiquette lessons. the fae’s ways are much different from humans, but from what they hear, malleus doesn’t plan on having them discuss many affairs with the court to warrant more than some infrequent reminders by lilia on how to behave. still, that does little to calm their nerves, especially because they know the reason why despite the fact they’ll soon be royalty that they’ll still have little duties. malleus caresses their cheek, thumb moving to gently swipe over their lower lip (the urge to lunge and bite seems to still scream from a corner of their brain. the urge to rebel against this, to try and claw back at their old life- urges they ignore and suppress. it’s useless- it’s all useless now, and they know trying to stand for themselves is just asking for malleus to lose it again and hurt them beyond belief in his anger). he seems satisfied with their response; that is, with the lack of response, minimal flinching and tensing, things he’s slowly become keenly aware of, are good, and speaks again what weighs heavily on their mind. “you won’t have to deal with the court much. you’ll be my spouse- your title doesn’t mean anything to worry about. you’ll simply have to continue to love me as i love you; your only job is to stay by my side forever.”
#yandere twst#yandere twisted wonderland#leona kingscholar#kalim al asim#malleus draconia#yandere tw#violence tw
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Cockroaches and Other Things That Just Keep On Living
Fandom: Mass Effect
Ship: Female Shepard/Garrus Vakarian
Word Count: 4019
Summary: It's only been two weeks since the Reaper War ended, and the Alliance is already trying to bury Shepard.
[Click Here for A03]
Two weeks. It had only been two weeks since the war ended, since that devastating flash of red light burst from the Citadel and bounced off every active relay in the galaxy, since the Reapers fell dead in space and the Normandy crash landed on some tropical little human colony world just on the edge of the Terminus Systems. It had just been two weeks, but the Alliance and the rest of the whole damn galaxy were already willing to declare Shepard dead. And to add insult to injury, they’d given Garrus the great honor and privilege of hanging her name up on a memorial wall in some trite ceremony to make the crew feel better.
“There isn’t anyone who could’ve been at the epicenter of that blast and survived,” Hackett had explained, far too matter-of-factly. “It’s time for us to move forward.”
“Shepard isn’t just anyone,” Garrus had replied, and then promptly told the admiral where to shove his plaque. It was not his finest moment.
Now, he sat in the mess hall, alone and staring down at the dextro-amino rations he’d barely touched. The bastardized version of some overly seasoned human dish would have been unappetizing even if he had an appetite. But he didn’t. Something about the person he loved being declared dead left a sour taste in his mouth. He’d only even tried to eat because Liara insisted, and he wasn’t in the mood for another well meant lecture about taking care of himself.
No longer willing to bother, he shoved the plate away from him with the back of his hand, and looked up in just enough time to catch Williams walk past him. She stopped, performed a proper about-face and marched up to his table.
“Hey,” Ash greeted him like she’d never spoken to him before in her life.
“Hey,” Garrus replied and watched as she shifted uncomfortably and darted her eyes around the entire room before meeting his gaze.
She motioned to an empty seat across the table from him. “Can I— I mean, do you want some company? You just look—”
“Like I’m one news vid about the ‘late’ Commander Shepard away from going postal?” He let out a derisive snort. “Yeah.”
Williams smirked and eased herself down onto the bench without waiting for him to agree to her company. “I was going to say ‘like shit,’ but that works too.”
He answered her dryly. “Gee. Thanks.”
There was a pause in conversation, then Ash tilted her head in that sympathetic way every human who knew him seemed to do since Earth. “Seriously though… how are you holding up?”
I’m not , Garrus thought, but the words didn’t make it to his mouth, just sarcasm.. “Didn’t realize you cared… or is this just one of those human things where you pretend to care for my benefit?”
She leaned back and raised an eyebrow. “Do I seem like the kind of person who pretends to do anything for anyone’s benefit, especially yours?”
He laughed. “Fair.”
“Listen, this is off the record but… Hackett had that mouthful coming.” She laughed and shook her head. “I’m just glad it was you that said it and not me because, well, I like my job.”
If anyone had told Garrus that one day, he’d have a heart-to-heart with the human woman who’d spent their entire first mission together shooting daggers at him from across Normandy’s shuttle bay, he’d have said they were crazy. But there they were, raw from the absence of someone who meant so much to the both of them.
“It’s been two weeks,” he muttered, looking down at his hands. “ Two. They haven’t even found her bod—“ he tried and failed to choke back the lump in his throat, but continued talking anyway, glancing up at her— “It’s too damn soon, Ash.”
“I know,” came her firm reply as she reached across the table. She hesitated for a split second, but then let her hand fall on top of his. Deep brown eyes welled up with tears that she tried to blink away. She let out a frustrated huff as one rolled down her cheek anyway, then cleared her throat. “ Damn. Pretend this isn’t happening.” “Pretend what isn’t happening, Williams?”
“Perfect,” she remarked, wiping her face with the heel of her free hand and laughing. “Kind of hard to believe it’s only been three years since we tracked down Saren. Feels like a lifetime ago.”
“And look at us now, being mostly civil,” he said with a sigh, staring down at Ash’s hand. Alien as it was, it reminded him of Shepard’s, strong to be as small as it was, with too many fingers. He recalled the many times those fingers had traced the hard edges of his face, how that hand had fit so comfortably into his (after a few clumsy attempts, of course). He’d take another missile to the face to hold it again.
“You know, Shepard worked her ass off to convince me it’d be fine having aliens on board an Alliance vessel,” Ash observed playfully, pulling him from his thoughts.
“You? Paranoid over a handful of non-humans? I’m shocked .”
“Nothing personal,” she explained,“Just didn’t feel comfortable sharing a station with a guy whose grandpa probably shot at mine during the War.”
“Hate to break it to you but—” he leaned back in his seat— “My grandfather was just a run of the mill C-Sec officer. All he would have done was write your grandfather a nasty citation. ‘Being human in Citadel space,’ used to be a finable offense.”
“God,” she said with another laugh, “Back then, I rolled my eyes and told Shepard I’d do whatever she wanted me to do. ‘You tell me to jump, I ask how high. You tell me to kiss a turian, I’ll ask which cheek.’”
“We don’t really have cheeks,” Garrus corrected, laughing when Ash shot him a pointed look, “But that’s beside the point. I’m guessing Shepard never followed through with that order.”
“No, she told me, and I quote, ‘Nobody’s going to be kissing any turians on this mission, Ash,’” she said in her best Shepard impression, then muttered, “Fucking liar.”
“Well, to her credit, I don’t think she planned on me being so… irresistable.”
Ash snorted and rolled her eyes. “Okay, ladykiller .”
There was another pause in conversation, and her expression fell. She looked down to where her hand still lay on his. “Back then, I just assumed you’d jump ship as soon as things got rocky, as soon as we— as Shepard — really needed you, but…” She trailed off, grip tightening around his hand. “You never let her down, not once. Not even when I—”
“You didn’t let her down, Ash,” he argued, sensing where she was headed, “She never thought that.”
“Yeah, well I do,” she snapped, words clipped, “I should have seen the signs that Cerberus had her pinned down, but I let my ego get in the way. I’m surprised she wanted anything to do with me after that.”
“You’re not the only one who has ever screwed up trying to do the right thing,” he reassured her, “Shepard, of all people, understood that.”
“That’s… you’re probably right,” she nodded and looked up at him, “Thanks. And for whatever it’s worth, I’m sorry.”
“Uh, sorry for what?”
“For ever believing you weren’t an important part of the crew,” she stated seriously, then smiled, “And for calling you birdbrain behind your back.”
Garrus’ mandibles flared in amusement, and he gave her hand a few friendly pats. “No harm done,” he said, then paused for a beat, “Besides, you didn’t hear what I said behind your back.”
One of her eyebrows shot up. “You talked shit about me?”
“So much.”
“Whoa, whoa, wait a minute,” shouted a familiar voice from across the mess, causing them both to snap their heads toward the sound. “Somebody get this heartwarming moment on camera.”
Ash stiffened, retracting her hand quickly and stuffing it under the table. “Joker.”
“Hey, Joker.” Garrus waved. “How are you doing?”
“Fine,” he answered, words pointed. “You know, aside from the soul-crushing agony of my girlfriend dying. ”
Garrus had spent enough time around humans to know that the Flight Lieutenant looked rough, even for someone who’d never cared about keeping up appearances. His eyes were red, the skin underneath dark enough that even the shadow cast from his hat couldn’t disguise the lack of sleep. He made his way unsteadily to the table and sat down next to Williams.
Garrus opened his mouth, preparing to speak, to express sympathy, but Joker cut him off. “And before you start with any of that ‘I understand how you feel’ crap— no you don’t. Everyone knows you can’t say Shepard’s dead until we’ve ID’d the body. Maybe not even then. She just keeps living… like a cockroach. ”
“You know you could just say, ‘I’m not doing so hot,” right?” Ash scolded him, but there was still a softness to her voice. “You don’t have to be an ass about it.”
“Yeah, but see… being an ass is way more my style.”
The table went completely quiet as Joker crossed his arms over his chest and scowled, tension palpable enough it might as well have had mass. Not one for tolerating awkward silences, Garrus ventured a question. “What the hell is a cockroach?”
Ash smiled, clearly thankful for the change in subject, and began to explain. “They’re these—“
“ Beetles ,” Joker cut her off, “Big, disgusting ones that are supposed to be able to survive extreme conditions other organics can’t.”
“Sounds about right,” Garrus admitted with a shrug.
The pilot flinched and glared at him. “Wait. I called Shepard a disgusting beetle and you’re just okay with that?”
“Are you kidding? Why wouldn’t I be,” he asked sarcastically, “It actually explains why she kept molting. ”
“You’re having fun. Stop it,” Joker whined, scowl deepening, “Stop having fun!”
Garrus laughed and threw his hands up in surrender. “This isn’t exactly my idea of fun. My cockroach is missing.”
Joking though he was, his words were honest, something Joker must have detected. His expression softened even as he puffed his chest out. He deflated immediately as another familiar voice called out, likely interrupting whatever barrage of barbs he’d prepared to hurl at Garrus. This time, it was Vega who strutted over to the table carrying an entire fifth of some sort of human liquor. Cortez trailed solemnly behind him, examining the rectangular objects in his hands.
“Yo, don’t tell me the party started without us,” shouted Vega, setting the alcohol down on the table with a loud clank , pointing a thumb back at Cortez, “Esteban here took forever polishing the name plaques.”
Garrus stiffened at the mention of the plaques, knowing full and well there had been one commissioned with Shepard’s name on it despite all his protests. Turned out, the Alliance brass didn’t give a damn about some loud mouth former C-Sec officer or his feelings after all. He just hoped none of the humans were able to read the pain in his expression— a hope that was in vain if the sympathetic glance Cortez gave him was any indication.
“What’s that for?” Ashley pointed to the bottle of amber liquid Vega sat on the table.
“What do you think,” Vega asked, as if his intentions should have been completely clear, “I’m going to pour one out for the commander.”
“All over the Normandy's floor?” She raised her brows at him.
“Nah.” He gave her a dismissive wave. “Just down the sink or somethin’.”
She picked the bottle up and examined the label more closely. “But…this is expensive stuff, James.”
“Don’t care,” came Vega’s indignant response, “It’s for Lola.”
Ashley gave him a solemn nod, seeming to understand whatever peculiar human tradition he was planning to perform. Satisfied, Vega turned his attention to Joker, snagging his cap, flipping it around, and placing it down on his head backwards. Joker cursed and grumbled, calling Vega a bully among other things, but Vega just smiled and walked over to Garrus, giving him a supportive clap on the shoulder.
Slowly, the rest of the crew began to filter in, each with their own expressions of concern. Traynor and Tali arrived together, deep in conversation if the emphatic hand gestures were any indication. They both quieted as they arrived at the table, Traynor frowning and bowing her head, whileTali approached and slid comfortably into the seat next to Garrus.
She looked down at the uneaten food and back up at him, giving him a nudge with her elbow and complaining. “You are wasting all of the good dextro rations.”
“Good? Oh, come on, we both know it’s garbage.”
“Well… yes, but it’s digestible garbage,” she said, holding a finger up to make her point. Her voice softened when she continued. “And you’ve hardly eaten anything the past few days.”
He sighed and looked down at the rations. “Yeah.”
Tali observed him for a second, eyes glowing behind her helmet. She then grabbed his plate and slid it toward him. “Eat up, Vakarian. Or else I will have to feed you myself… with a spoon I am pretending is the Normandy.”
Garrus let out a laugh despite himself. “I don’t think that’ll work, Tali.”
“You don’t know that. You haven’t heard my engine noises.” She laughed along with him for a few seconds, then grew quiet once again and gave him a gentle pat on the back. “The Alliance is going to feel very silly when Shepard gets back and they have to explain why they hung her name up on the wall and sold her hamster.”
“ If she makes it back this time.”
“She will,” Tali asserted, voice cracking, “She has to.”
It was Javik who entered next, voice booming in a debate with Liara, who had taken it upon herself to explain human customs for memorializing the dead. He shook his head and ignored her entirely, stating that if he wished for a history lesson, he would ask for one. He then snapped his many-eyed gaze to Garrus.
“You should not be saddened about Shepard’s fate, Garrus. She died with great honor.”
Liara let out an exasperated sigh, and sat down in one of the empty seats at the next table over, bringing her hand to her face.
“What is it, asari?” Javik snapped, “Honor in death is something turians hold in high regard, is it not? This should be a great comfort to him.”
“Perhaps with time,” Liara explained,”But right now it is… insensitive.”
“It’s nothing my dad hasn’t already told me a dozen times,” Garrus stated flatly, “I appreciate the sentiment.”
Weird that a fifty-thousand year-old Prothean reminded him of his dad. Then again, Castis Vakarian was as about as traditional as turians came, and they butted heads on almost every subject, including but not limited to: Garrus’ disregard for rules, his decision to leave C-Sec—twice, his “risk- and attention-seeking” behavior, and his “absurd infatuation with a human woman”. Their relationship had always been strained, to say the least. Still, he had always been there when Garrus needed him, and listened when it mattered. He was the first call Garrus made from the medbay after the Reapers were destroyed, when he realized Shepard might not be coming back.
He’d been sympathetic, but not even remotely comforting, not unlike Javik was at present. Garrus just didn’t have it in him to explain to either how little he cared about the honorable nature of her sacrifice, the high esteem the galaxy now held her in, or the way history would remember her. None of that mattered when she wasn’t at his side. How could he be proud, when all he felt was empty?
Once all parties arrived and settled in, the group spent time talking and sharing memories. The Alliance crew members all told stories about encounters with Admiral Anderson, how he more often felt like a parent than a commanding officer, and how his reputation was so much larger than his ego. Traynor did most of the talking about EDI, their friendship, and how seamlessly she’d fit into the crew, how easy it had been to forget she was an AI. Joker just pulled the bill of his cap down to cover his eyes. Then, the reminiscence moved to the commander.
Every single person present had a story about Shepard, about how she went above and beyond the call of duty to help them, and to make sure they were taken care of while aboard the Normandy. Shepard had always taken time to check in with the people who worked for her, even when the galaxy was falling apart and herself along with it. She was a good leader, arguably the best, and an even better friend. It was clear that everyone in the room admired her, and that she was missed.
Garrus knew he should say something, tell one of the many stories of the trouble he and Shepard had gotten into together. The others all watched him expectantly as he scrambled for words.
“I—“ he began, but was interrupted by the buzzing of his omni-tool, followed by several bright flashes of light. He cursed and pulled up the interface to silence the damn thing. An urgent message alert flashed on his screen, and he tapped the icon to open it.
From: Dr. Chloe Michel
Subject: Jane Doe
Dear Garrus,
I hope this email reaches you, and that you are still alive to read it. I am on the Citadel working with an emergency medical unit out of what is left of Huerta Memorial. The blast from the Crucible caused some severe structural damage near the epicenter, and we have been searching the area to find and identify survivors and remains.
There is a Jane Doe here, who I believe you might know. Please contact me on a private channel whenever you are able.
Take Care,
Chloe
His heart sank like lead into his gut as he read what could only be a request to come in and identify a corpse. The space around him was suddenly too full, too loud, and the curious eyes of his companions lingered on him for far longer than comfortable. He tapped the display on his omni-tool once again to close it, glancing around the room from one set of eyes to another.
“It’s nothing,” he lied. The truth would only cause unnecessary alarm he wasn’t equipped to handle at the moment. He stood abruptly, a jolt of pain coursing through his leg that was still recovering from a fracture, and excused himself. “Just need to make a quick call.”
“Now,” Liara asked, frowning, “But the memorial ceremony was just about to begin.”
“So start without me,” he snapped and made his way to the main battery. He’d apologize later, when his world wasn’t caving in.
The battery doors shut behind him with a familiar hiss and he sank down into his seat next to the workbench where his favorite rifle lay surrounded by tools and unused thermal clips. It had taken a beating in the battle on Earth, and Garrus had poured over repairing it in the days following its end. He hadn’t touched it since. There were no more enemies to fight, and the gun just reminded him of Shepard.
Bringing up his omni-tool once again, Garrus established a link using the information Michel provided him. He only waited a second or two before a voice on the other end picked up.
“Garrus,” exclaimed the woman, “I am so glad you received my message.”
“About that Jane Doe,” he began, cutting straight to the chase, “I— do you need me to identify the b— her ?”
“No… it is Commander Shepard,” she explained, “I am absolutely certain.”
“ Oh, ” Garrus said with the breath he’d been holding. He was glad he was already sitting down, as the last shreds of hope he’d been clinging to slipped from his grasp leaving him dizzy and sick. It was Shepard. She was dead. There was nothing to be done about it.
He took a minute to collect himself and his thoughts, cleared his throat and told the doctor, “I, uh…I’m not really sure how to— I mean, I guess I should make funeral arrangements. That’d be better than letting the Alliance—“
“Garrus,” Michel interjected firmly, “She’s alive.”
“ What,” he asked, more loudly than he’d intended. Hoping nobody had overheard outside, he lowered his voice and continued, “I mean, how is she? What’s her condition? Is she going to—”
“I won’t lie to you,” the doctor interrupted again, “Her injuries are serious, and she has been comatose since we found her. Still, her vitals are strong and stable at present. She is a fighter.”
“She is.”
The line was silent for a beat then Michel spoke up again. “I had a wonder… Shepard’s body has, ehm… extensive cybernetic modification. More extensive than I have seen. We are not certain how, or if it is even possible to repair all of the damage.”
One name came immediately to mind. “Miranda Lawson.”
“Pardon?”
“You need to contact Miranda Lawson,” Garrus clarified, “She is an ex-Cerberus operative, the scientist responsible for Shepard’s upgrades. And a friend. She will be able to help. I can send you her contact information.”
“Good, yes. I will contact her immediately,” Michel replied, relief noticeable in her voice. She then sighed and said, “I apologize for sending such a vague email. I am realizing now that it was likely… anxiety provoking. I simply did not wish for the wrong people to find out about Shepard’s survival.”
Garrus huffed, “Yeah, if the media caught wind of this, it’d be a circus.”
“That is what I feared,” she agreed with a sigh, “Besides, I thought you should be the first to see her. I know she is important to you.”
“Thank you, doc. For everything.”
“It is the very least I can do. I owe my life to the both of you. Twice over, now it would seem:”
“I’ll get to the Citadel as soon as I can.”
“Talk to you then.”
The call ended with a beep and Garrus shut off his omni-tool display, staring blankly at the wall on the opposite side of the room for several minutes, attempting to recover from the emotional whiplash the last half hour had given him. He took a deep breath, rose to his feet, and headed back out to the mess hall.
All eyes turned to him as he made his way toward the memorial wall just outside the elevator. EDI’s and Anderson’s names had already been placed, tears already shed. Now they looked to Garrus, Cortez approaching with the name plaque meant to commemorate Shepard’s death. He took the polished silver plate and examined it, light glinting off its corners as he stepped up to the wall. For a long moment he traced the letters of a name that had come to mean so much to him, to those crowded in the narrow hallway around him, to the hundreds of thousands who’d cheered from ships in the massive fleet she’d rallied and led to victory, and to the billions of lives she’d saved across the galaxy. Shepard deserved so much more than a name on a wall.
And now, just maybe, she could have it.
Garrus would have preferred to keep Shepard’s survival to himself, to snag her from the hospital and elope to some secluded tropical paradise where nobody could ask anything of either of them again, except “Would you like a refill on that incredibly alcoholic beverage?” But he knew he couldn’t do that. After all, he was not the only one who loved her.
Lowering the plaque, he turned to face the others, all of whom looked at him with a mix of confusion and concern. He glanced down at Shepard’s name again, mandibles flaring out reflexively as relief and excitement swelled in his chest.
“They found her. They found Shepard,” he told them, bringing his eyes to meet their gazes as he spoke. “She’s alive.”
#mass effect#mass effect legendary edition#garrus vakarian#shakarian#ashley williams#tali'zorah#fanfic#my writing
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*cough cough* 40. for the uh the LT route? :)
i am so so so sorry this took so long but inspiration suddenly hit around 10pm and finished it 3 hours later. i hope whichever anon you are gets to see this, since it's been months 🥺.
author’s note: this one hurt and takes place long after the events of the current books (and long after my canon relationship storyline). i hope the switching of tenses isn't too jarring, but it's sort of needed here given the POVs. enjoy! copyright: all characters, except the oc detective, are owned by mishka jenkins @seraphinitegames. series/pairing: the wayhaven chronicles – adam du mortain x f!detective (lyra kingston) x nate sewell (LT route) rating/warnings: 14+; angst based on/prompt: OTP angst prompts // 40. “I’m still not over you.” (in bold) word count: ~1k summary: after months spent trying to bury her feelings for nate and adam, lyra gives in before giving up.
time
nate glanced up from his tome at the large grandfather clock, the antique façade indicating that it wasn’t quite late enough for bed. he held back a sigh – time seemed to move slower these days.
he used to count down the days, when the only way to tell time was to follow the watch schedule and listen for the bells. sometimes it made the endless days at sea a little more tolerable.
other times, it was complete torture.
to know that life was passing by and yet being unable to move forward with it. he had never hoped to experience anything like that again.
and now time is one of the few things he no longer has to worry about.
time in essence, is the quintessential part of human existence that he has no right to claim.
instead, it speeds past him.
pushing the world around him toward newer heights and frightening changes, the awe-inspiring advancements never failing to strike him with renewed hope and fear.
it’s not that time is accelerating the world around him, but that he is no longer able – or perhaps willing – to go with it.
but today – and yesterday, and the day before, and so on, and he’s sure it will be the same tomorrow – he wishes he could fast forward by a decade or a century. maybe more since he’s not sure how much time it will take for the deep-rooted ache in his soul to heal.
maybe it will take nine hundred years.
his longest and dearest friend comes to mind. adam is staring out into the darkness, unmoving in body and in spirit. for a split second, nate wonders if that’s what he needs – the ability to lock away the hurt and let the centuries grow protective ivy over it.
he chases the notion away with a shake of his head, knowing that the hurt was just collateral damage for opening himself up to the possibility of a truly special kind of love with lyra.
adam tenses and nate dutifully returns his gaze to the words in his lap. a brief apology and easy forgiveness said to each other in passing months ago should’ve been enough to mend the rift between them.
but nate knows too well that time doesn’t heal all wounds. he knows the origin of the saying is locked away somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind, but he’d rather not think about how much he’s lost because of time.
it doesn’t heal, but it does provide distance.
a human-sized distance he desperately wishes didn’t exist.
* * * * * lyra’s done nothing but put unit bravo out of mind for the past few months, working diligently with agency researchers and hoping that space and time would force her feelings to pass.
for the most part, she thought she succeeded. it was easy enough to bury her head with work. in the windowless rooms she practically lived in, it was even easier to lose track of the days that turned into months.
but time still has a way of simultaneously moving too slow and speeding up when she least expects it.
and for brief moments, she thinks she understands her mother a bit better.
shut out an old life and it distracts from the pain.
she supposes there’s no need for the agency facility to track time in human hours, considering most supernaturals don’t need to sleep and everyone generally works around the clock.
truthfully, she enjoys the hourless days, her watches and old personal phone buried in a duffel bag somewhere.
except in those moments where time decides to remind her of its hold over human life and pull her down the road to memories shoved behind a door with loose hinges, creaking in the wind.
time, the friend who never calls except when they need something that takes too much, shoves memory after memory in her face and reminds her of all that she turned her back on – without a word of explanation.
just her leaving behind a couple of two-word sentences hastily scrawled with nate’s favorite pen and all of her things put into storage.
it’s a not-so-gentle reminder that time won’t let her forget and that the memory of a person is not beholden to their material possessions.
she knows this to be true when seeing a thick tome makes her long for those nights spent curled up in the library and walking by the training rooms takes her back to those combat lessons.
lyra presses her eyelids down to ease the stinging in the corners. the tears were supposed to stay behind with her things, that was the deal.
she wipes furiously at her cheeks while walking briskly towards the exit. she lets pure instinct take her down the familiar winding and hidden road through the woods, stepping out of her car just before the turn that would bring the warehouse into her sight.
she can feel their presence as she steps closer to the outside entrance, its dilapidated façade still the same and yet it now mirrors the ache in her chest.
the ache carries her forward until she’s speeding through to the inner doors, desperately seeking an answer to questions she’s still too afraid to ask.
but it isn’t fear that has her throwing the door open and panting to catch her breath, oblivious to the conflicted emotions swirling in front of her.
“i’m still not over you.”
the words ring loud and true in the otherwise quiet living room, both vampires attuned to her rapid heartbeat and pointedly avoiding each other’s gazes with practiced ease.
adam makes to leave, fists clenched tightly at his side and the movement helps nate find his voice.
“who were you speaking to, lyra?”
her name tumbles with hesitation from his lips, the tender familiarity of the sound is one he hopes to remember in its purest form, when he used to punctuate it with darling.
acknowledging the distance between them might begin to taint it but he says it anyway, his heart leaping slightly at the glimmer of hope in her eyes before dread quickly draws it back into place.
nate’s warmth and adam’s steadiness immediately draw her in and lyra grips the doorframe a little tighter in futile resistance. she knows now without a doubt that no amount of distance will lessen the pull.
but maybe time will.
after all, time is a human construct. creating the space to heal, to grow, to learn, and to love.
and vampires have all the time in the world.
* * * * * taglist: @kelseaaa; @anotherbeingsworld; @wayhavenots; @gingerbreton; @gloynporslen; @sosolenoo; @writer-ish; @alyssalauren; @takemyopenheart; @pearlsandsteel; @babycracker; @mevnraels; n sewell: @missameliep;
#twc#the wayhaven chronicles#wayhaven#wayhaven fic#my writing#my prompt fill#my twc prompt fills#twc lt#my detective#detective lyra kingston#adam x nate x detective#adam du mortain x detective#nate x detective#adam x detective#oc: lyra kingston#nate sewell x detective#adam x lyra x nate#adam du mortain x lyra kingston x nate sewell#love triangle#twc fic#twc fics#not choices#i finally finished an old prompttttttttttttttttt#the tenses are all over the place#also realized this is the first true LT thing i've written that wasn't mainly detective pov#in case it wasn't clear i f*cking hate the saying time heals all wounds#bc it f*cking doesnt and is one of the worst things you could say to someone grieving
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A smile graces her lips. One is most certainly not enough. It says all without the need to dechiper what was the hidden meaning behind it.
"Then I shall wait and accept each and every," her fingers caress the Mark on her left forearm, "like the precious art they are." And that would make her a masterpiece. His own masterpiece.
She does as he says, his wish being her command and performs the counter-curse. The boy stops bleeding, his wounds turn into scars. And she then listens, listens to him as every good student listens to their teacher, as every servant listens to their Master.
The words paired with that little thumb movement on her hip drive her mad. He's tormenting her more than Cruciatus curse ever could. Her breath catches. If she only could sneak in his mind, live all the pictures he's been hiding from her - that would bring her pleasure beyond measure - and that's exactly the reason why he keeps them to himself. Flashes of her own thoughts flutter behind her eyelids. She smirks. Maybe he doesn't even need to tell her. She has her own in her mind and could only guess they have similar ones. Oh, she would rather have him show her than tell her, and she is willing to be patient until the moment comes.
She looks at the boy on the ground, absorbing every word from Voldemort's mouth. The difference between the two men was enormous. And it's confirmed, sealed forever in her mind when Voldemort stands before her eyes. Her gaze immediately locks with his. It's like seeing him all over again. Lord Voldemort could have anything and everything if he wanted to. And for a moment she's frightened. What does he see in her?
"Worthy enough..." she murmurs, almost wants to ask him to say it again, words that seemed to be music to her ears and soul, but doesn't get the chance when his knuckles gently brush her cheek. For a split second, her eyes close as she leans in his touch but it's already gone. But then he touches her chin and tilts her head and she can't stop her heart from rushing with excitement and anxiety. His entracing eyes glimmered with certain intensity and held her captive, made her feel like a meal about to be devoured. Drowning, she doesn't see anything but him, doesn't hear the boy groaning with jealousy but blaming it on the pain of his already healed wounds. He is the only coherent thought in her head. There's no way to describe it - explain it, but the fire inside her is tamed yet wilding, subdued yet burning like a wildfire.
"Enjoy many deaths... together," she repeats. Assures herself. It would be foolish to think it's a promise he's making to her, but it poured an odd feeling she couldn't deny. Maybe, just maybe she will live long enough to sweeten her desire for him - or at least get that little crumb of what she wants. "Many, many... even my own."
His thumbs sweeps along her bottom lip. She sighs, almost indulges her desire to taste him on her lips, her tongue. But she doesn't. Not until he stops. Then she lets herself taste it, licks and bites her lip. Lust and sin, mingled with blood. Her own.
Flying in the ecstasy, she looks at him as if she'll succumb to death if she doesn't. "Deaths and more," she whispers. (The Flirting Anon)
[hello overwriting & poetry again smh]
She teases him. Every breath, every word, every glance is another effort to chip away at his armor of control, whether intentional or no. He imagines it is both - oh, how she wants him to fall, but she, too, is falling. And he is prolonging the decent. It must be driving her absolutely mad. Excellent.
He hears the boy on the floor and reaches out with his mind to confirm what he already knew. He smirks, watches her tongue slide across her lower lip, considers her words.
"Your...suitor here will make a halfway decent Death Eater, once trained a bit." He pauses again, looking back at the boy. A fine family, indeed. Their families were already pushing them together, he knew. "Perhaps he would even make a tolerable husband - eventually. I would not accept a proposal just yet. As he is now - well, you could do better." He looks over the young man with disdain for a moment, meeting his eyes - oh, the jealousy, the anger was evident now - and turns back to her, his eyes sweep over her body before resting back on her lips. He reaches out and plays idly with the front tie of her corset, pulling lightly at the dangling thread."Besides," he assures her, "I am not quite done with you yet," his voice is barely more than a whisper as he leans closer, closer... "what he does not know - ah, wait," Voldemort mocks, a cold laugh at the boys expense.
He runs his fingers across her jawline again, but this time does not move his hand away, instead presses his thumb to her lips.
#voldemort#flirting anon#blood tw#slow burn#sorry this ones so short i have a headache today#but its getting so damn hot i couldnt not respond haha
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Hi, Mr-Entj! Have been following your blog since my high school years, and I'm on my final year of university now. I hope you're well. I have a question for you: a few years ago, someone asked if you'd describe falling for your wife as "love at first sight." To which you replied that it was more of "soul recognition." May I ask: how far along into the relationship were you in before you realized that, and do you have any general advice on when it comes to the pacing/speed of relationships, and how to know if you're rushing?
Thank you so much! I hope you and the rest of your loved ones are safe. Your blog's really helped me throughout the past few years, and I find myself coming back here a lot (this is actually my 3rd ask!) :D
I hope you're well too.
To your question: we clicked instantly after the first conversation but I didn't know I wanted to marry her until we finally met in person and I confirmed my intuition. Keep in mind we were both in our late 20s/early 30s when we started our relationship and this accelerated how fast we moved. We both had already graduated from college (and graduate school), both had moved out of our family homes, both were deep in our careers, both were financially stable/independent, and both had significant relationship experience under our belts. We already knew the kind of qualities we wanted in a partner but also the kind of shit we weren’t willing to tolerate. We had a lot of data to make an informed decision about each other.
That's the key for relationship pacing: do I have enough empirical data to make an informed decision about this person's personality, qualities, habits, traits, and values?
Not gut "feelings" or "vibes" but concrete evidence backed by a track record that supports it. If they say they’re ‘great with money’, then let’s open up finances. If they have a ‘strong work ethic’, then let’s see it in action. If they have ‘a lot of ambition’, then let’s see what they’ve attempted and accomplished in life. People often lie and misrepresent themselves to make the best impression so always check their words against their actions. It's less about exact number of days, weeks, or months, and more about the breadth and depth of information.
You’re rushing when you’re entering new phases of the relationship without being equipped with enough information to navigate them. For example, thinking of moving in together? You should ask about:
Financial responsibility: Do you know how the other person manages their money? Do they have good credit? Can they pay rent on time? How will you split the bills?
Lifestyle compatibility: Are they a night owl or an early bird? Are they clean? Are they loud? Will they have people stay over the place? Who will do the cooking? Cleaning? Do they smoke? Are you okay if they do?
Rushing would be signing a lease without knowing the answers to these questions, it’s effectively flying blind.
Beyond the realm of hard facts, always listen to your gut when it’s telling you something’s off. If there’s a mismatch in energy, pace, and boundaries, then pump the brakes and think things over. No one who truly cares for you should push you beyond your comfort level before you’re ready.
Statistically speaking, you’re going to fuck up your first few relationships because you won’t know where those invisible lines are. I’ve been there, my wife has been there, and most everyone else reading this has been there too. You won’t get it perfectly right on the first try so don’t be too hard on yourself, but listen to your inner voice when it speaks to you.
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The lost boys with a sweet and innocent s/o would include~
(Not my gifs)(requested by anonymous)
David~
- David likes innocence, it enthralls him because he’s so far from it himself. He’s drawn to it from the get go so expect that once he sees you he’s already planning a way to hook his claws into you.
- Not to mention your kindness. David; or any of the boys for that matter, is not used to just plain human decency. It’s been a while since he’s been treated with respect instead of just being seen as some delinquent walking amongst the people.
- You would undoubtedly become a motherly figure towards the boys; your caring and kind nature taking over when you’re around them.
- He’s a little touch starved so he’s happy to receive your affection and kindness.
- He always gives guys that knowing look when you come to his side after their attempted flirting or staring. Like he wants them to know he finds it amusingly pathetic, and that you might not realize what had just happened but he did.
- Sometimes he treats you like you’re fragile, like any touch of his could break you into a million pieces. You appear so soft and delicate to him that he couldn’t help but do so.
- He tries to keep you away when “scary” things are happening, not wanting you to be afraid of the boys and run off because you saw a skull being split open.
- If you do manage to see something he didn’t intend for you to see; whether that be a kill or some kind of behavior they take part in, he’ll try to comfort you.
-Although a part of him wants to keep you as a sweet, innocent little girl another part of him wants to completely ravage and corrupt you. He goes back and forth on the issue everytime he sees you.
- He’d love making you admit your not so innocent thoughts, the uncharacteristic feelings that come across you especially in regards to him. Hearing this angelic creature confessing how he makes them feel in a tone of flustered embarrassment, it “keeps him up at night” so to speak.
- All of the boys would kind of take advantage of your kindness and innocence but none of them quite as much as David. Let’s not forget that David is a villain and someone who tricks people into becoming a vampire. Chances are you wouldn’t be spared from this outcome, especially if he really liked you.
- With your innocence and tendency to help people, it would be easy for him to manipulate you into coming with them to the cave and subsequently joining them. And then he’d get to keep you forever.
Paul~
- Baby? Baby him? Please? The two of you alternate between pampering each other.
- He himself is a touchy boy so he likes to be touched in return, he’d make any excuse to have you pet him like a puppy.
- I suppose the boys can kinda get hurt but not a lot? Anyways he probably convinced you he was much more fragile than he actually is and pretended that he was hurt to get your sympathy and care.
- He’s a pretty wild person so you’ll have to try and keep him under wraps at times. You don’t want him ending up in jail for the night no matter how unlikely that outcome may be.
- He would make innuendos just to see your adorable confused face.
- He’d love to tease you about your naivety and innocence, saying things like “Well what a good girl you are” and “I bet you don’t even know what that is” with a grin.
- There has definitely been a few times where he’s mentioned the fact that nearly every source of vampire media thinks that they prefer drinking virgin blood. He teases you that perhaps he should give it a try.
- Hand holding, he likes to swing your hand back and forth.
- He aggressively flirts with you just to see your flustered expressions.
- He’s worried to show you his vampire face, you’re softer than the average person; at least your heart is, and even normal people are afraid of him. And he’s normally the epitome of a pretty boy, what would you think of the grotesque version of himself?
- Like pretty much all of the other boys in the group, he thinks your innocence is hot. While Paul doesn’t normally go for “good girls” there definitely is something intriguing about the thought of, well, deflowering you, and teaching you all the dirty little ins and outs of life.
Dwayne~
- Dwayne has always liked innocent girls, there’s just something about them that appeals to him in ways he can’t understand.
- Even though he dresses like he’s in a rock band, girls get bonus points in his book if their fashion style matches their heart, all lace and silk.
- You definitely make him look far less intimidating, the intensity of his usual glare being lessened by your smile and hand happily clutching his.
- He refuses to let the other boys “taint” you. He’ll glare daggers at them to stop them from explaining something dirty or prevent them from saying innuendos to you in the future.
- He sort of treats you like a child sometimes, wanting to preserve your innocence and sweetness for as long as he can; mostly because he hasn’t had anyone like you around him in such a long time. You balance out the evil that he sometimes feels is buried deep within himself and he doesn’t want to let that go.
- You might be embarrassed by some kind of childish thing you like/own but it makes him think you’re even more endearing than he originally thought you were.
- Protective. You and Laddie are on the same level in his book, both of you must be under his watchful gaze.
- He’d like to hold you close to him at all times, keeping you pressed against his chest or wrapping an arm around your shoulders as you’d walk along the boardwalk together.
- He loves watching you with Laddie, seeing how sweet you are to the little boy and how good you take care of him.
- Dwayne is a kind soul at heart so the two of you are actually quite similar. The both of you are definitely the nicest out of the group.
- While he thinks of you as something he wants to keep pure some of the looks he gives you makes it look like he wants to devour you whole.
- He’s also said some things that get your blood boiling no matter how innocent you may be. You can’t help the thoughts that run through your head or the way your body reacts when he’s telling you how sweet you are and how he can’t wait to taste your sweetness on his tongue.
- He tends to talk more around you because you just have a way of making him feel at ease and willing.
Marko~
- Marko’s always kind of down to fight so imagine how he’d act if someone tried to take advantage of you. He’s the hard man to your soft girl.
- The boardwalk cop likes you and will occasionally let him and the others off the hook just for you. You tend to keep them out of (big) trouble and it’s less work for him so he doesn’t mind giving in to your pleas.
- Marko would find it cute if you were apprehensive about causing mischief with them. He’d attempt to egg you into going through with it but would secretly be pleased when you’d continue to refuse.
- Always has a tender gaze set on you, he likes watching you just be your sweet little self.
- He tries to impress you with his pigeons because you’re a kind soul and would probably like the little creatures.
- He asks you to help him with his hair, both cutting and styling, he likes how carefully and tenderly you do so.
- Marko kinda craves approval and praise so he’s glad that you’re willing to give it to him.
- He’d like to tease you almost as much as Paul, giving you his signature Cheshire grin while he asks you questions and calls you sweet.
- He’d definitely play tricks on you knowing that you’d forgive him.
- He indulges your different more childlike interests, occasionally snagging little gifts from stores or tolerating a viewing of your favorite movie/show.
#80s movie#the lost boys headcanon#80s imagines#80s movie headcanon#80s movie headcanons#80s movie imagine#the lost boys headcanons#the lost boys x reader#the lost boys imagine#marko the lost boys#dwayne the lost boys headcanons#dwayne the lost boys#paul the lost boys headcanons#paul the lost boys imagine#paul headcanons#dwayne the lost boys x reader#dwayne the lost boys imagine#marko the lost boys imagine#marko headcanon#marko x reader#marko imagine#paul the lost boys#david the lost boys x reader#david the lost boys#david headcanon#david imagine
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I hope the readmore posts right. If not. Sorry non filthy followers. This is my first long more than a dm ramble slasher fic. So please be gentle. Would love feedback if you feel inspired to!
Many thanks to @thesightstoshowyou for encouraging me to turn my original rambling into something more. And to @youtastelikesugar for beta reading for me! Love y'all dearly!!
Warnings: Minor character death, abuse, noncon, sexual themes, asphyxiation, strangling, really really not for the casually thirsty. It hits pretty dark moments that go far and some may not want to read. 18+ Please head these warnings!!
You and Bo are an item. Let's not dwell on the how and just focus on the now, shall we?
He's still got the anger issues but for the most part when it comes to y'all you work them out in the bedroom. Or his truck. Or kitchen. The theater. Hell, even that one time on the roof of the house. Who knew stargazing could make someone so frisky?
When Bo needs to have things rough, which is almost always, it's nothing you can't handle. If it was you wouldn't have made it anywhere close to this point in your relationship.
No. You offer up whatever Bo needs. And for a while you are more than enough.
But there's a deep darkness there. And sometimes his hands around your throat merely rendering you unconscious isn’t enough to ease the tension built up inside him.
So you come to an agreement. If he needs this one thing you can’t provide personally then you’ll let him take it from others.
If you’re topside when new visitors roll in it becomes your own little game betting on which one he’ll choose. And no matter how much the flirting escalates or how many days he keeps them locked away under the station, you’re the one he comes home to. You’re the one providing everything else he desperately needs and desires.
But as with all things there’s always a threshold.
So it comes to pass when a sweet young thing roles into town with a couple friends. Immediately you know which of the prey Bo will zero in on. He’s so predictable at times. Or more accurately he’s predictable to you because you know him so well. Sometimes better than he knows himself with the way he still tries to deny those thoughts and feelings that aren’t so easy for him to accept.
You do your part. Leading persuading the other friends to follow you to the house while Bo works on their car. Certainly some refreshments and home cooked food for their bellies is better than standing around while he fiddles with their car.
A smirk curves your lips at the face you expect him to make at your flippant comment about his work. Then quickly falls when you realize his attention is too enraptured by his chosen quarry. Swallowing down the sour taste of jealousy blooming on your tongue you force an easy smile back to your lips.
“Don’t take too long Bo.” You call out as you usher the other visitors out into the Louisiana heat. You’re proud of how carefree your tone comes off. But he catches the warning, meeting your eyes with one of those patented smirks of his.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Darlin’.”
A small but sweet acknowledgement of claim that easily washes away that bitter tang of jealousy lingering at the back of your mouth. You were his and he was yours. Even if the victim was unaware or ignoring it. All that mattered was that Bo remember that.
Vincent takes care of the other two with ease as they sit at the small dining table outside the kitchen door. Just as you’re bringing out two chilled glasses of lemonade to the table he’s knocked them both unconscious. Blessedly without spilling too much blood.
It’s why you’d moved a table out here to sit the victims. The dark wood of this room easier to remove stains than having to regrout light colored tile in the kitchen. Never again you’d vowed.
Dinner has come and gone. Vincent has already posed and coated the others in wax. Moved onto the smoothing and carving of their new flesh.
You take extra time in the shower. Allowing the warm water to ease the tension you’ve been carrying since serving dinner for three instead of four. You deep condition your hair and breathe in the calming scent of eucalyptus and vanilla infused candles. You take time letting your hair air dry while exfoliating your face and moisturizing every inch of your body.
It’s near 10:30pm and still Bo hasn’t come home. You know he’s fine. His new little toy deftly restrained in his own undertown “workshop.” But usually he has the decency to come home! Is he planning on spending the night there?
That bitterness from earlier is clawing up your throat. You blow out the relaxing candle that was doing a pisspoor job of keeping you relaxed and move into the bedroom. You weren’t going to wait up for him. With any luck you’d be asleep by the time he dragged his ass home.
One. Two. Three. Three fucking days of Bo spending all his free time at the damn gas station.
In those three days you couldn’t pinpoint exactly why THIS particular fixation of his was making you so agitated but enough was enough.
Packing up food from this night’s dinner that he’d forgone, yet again, you make your way into town. The gas station doors aren’t locked. Why would they need to be when no one entered the boundaries of this town without you all knowing.
A heavy bassline thumps through the radio speakers in the lobby. You pay no mind to the words as your ears zero in on the strained screaming of the poor soul who’d become Bo’s current preoccupation.
Inhaling and exhaling deeply you school your expression into a stoic mask then descend into Bo’s DIY Tartarus.
This door is locked. In case the prey finds some way to get loosed you presume.
“ ‘M busy!” You hear Bo growl out over the woman’s reinvigorated pleas for help.
“I advise penciling me in.” You call back in a sickly saccharine voice. You tended to stay away from either of the twins’ workshops. Even with his hydrophobic and soap-phobic tendencies you found Lester’s art more tolerable. If you wanted to watch any of the brothers with their chosen crafts.
You believe you hear Bo say something like “stay there” but the soft volume makes you assume he’s not talking to you. Moments later there’s a click before the door swings open to reveal a sweaty, shirtless Bo. Jeans slung low on his hips and haphazardly zipped with the button at his fly remaining undone. “Hey Suga’. What brings ya by?”
With more force than necessary you press the bag of leftovers into his chest while pinning him with a pleasantly chipper smile before walking around him into the space. “Dinner. Figured you’d need something to refuel from all the activities keeping you away from home.” Your gaze sweeps the dim room, drawn immediately to the lamp light illuminating the mattress right in front of the door.
The poor woman is stretched supine on the dingy sheets. Arms above her head, wrists bound tight with duct tape. Legs spread wide and tethered by the ankles with some thick, garish yellow nylon rope that prevent her from closing.
“Thanks Darlin’.” Bo mentions cautiously. Your temper isn’t volatile and unpredictable like his. It’s piercing and direct, like a bullet. And when he had his wits about him he did well to remain out of the line of fire. Though obviously somehow he’d gotten pulled into your sights. He moves closer to you, leaning in to kiss your cheek. A gesture you allow, leaning your cheek out for him in encouragement.
“Welcome. This is a different setup than I remember.”
“Made a few changes.”
“Hmm..well. I’m not here to interrupt too long. Feel free to continue.”
A smirk balances precariously on his lips as he pins you with a skeptical look. “Ya wan’ta watch?”
“Yeah.” You respond with a casual shrug. “I want to see what’s so captivating about this one to keep you here so much.”
“Alright Darlin’.” Bo kicks the door closed and sets the leftovers to the side before moving back in front of the woman on the bed who’s returned to pitiful sobbing. “Looks like we got an audience sweetheart. Better make it a great show hn?” That patented smirk is fully lodged on his face now as he pushes denim and cotton down over his hips.
You think about remaining standing to the side but something urges you to sit down on the mattress, near the victims mucus and tear stained face.
Bo pumps his cock against his palm, pretty baby blues raking over your form as you reach out to tenderly stroke the woman’s hair. She’s babbling again. Begging you for mercy. Mercy you aren’t in any position to grant at this point. Without warning Bo snaps his hips forward, sheathing himself completely in the warm sloppy mess he’s made of her cunt. The force jolts her body up the mattress as it rips a high pitched yelp from her throat
“Shh...Shhh…” You coo, fingers still tenderly stroking over locks of filthy hair. Dried cum, blood and sweat matting them into clumps you don’t attempt to untangle. Your soothing goes unheaded as Bo wastes no time upping his face. His fingers digging bruises into her hips as he brutally batters her overused hole. The woman’s shrieks ramp up in volume alongside his pace. The pitch ear splitting. You wonder how after three days she hasn’t completely lost her voice. Brows pinching into a scowl you stand from the mattress. The motion raises Bo’s gaze to you but his movements don’t ease up.
You’re not sure what has possessed you to these actions but in moments you’ve kicked off your shoes and pulled off your own jeans and underwear. The discarded jeans land close to the mattress as you step up to place a foot on either side of her head. Carefully you lower yourself until your pussy hovers over her open mouth. “If you’re not gonna be quiet then at least be useful.” Bo’s thrusts have stopped now. Watching you in a slight daze as you straddle the other woman’s face, frowning down at her as you speak. “Now lick. Do a good job and maybe I’ll find you a way out of this mess. Hm?” You lower your hips as her tongue eagerly lifts up to meet your slit. Willing to do anything to escape this hell she’d found herself in.
A deep appreciative moan spills from your lips as you close your eyes and focus on the feel of her tongue lapping over and between your folds. When Bo doesn’t immediately begin his vigorous thrusting you open your gaze to him. “Well? You gonna let me have all the fun now?” Fun? Who were you right now?
A genuine smile you’d almost label sappy blooms on Bo’s handsome face. One of his hands extends up to grip your chin firmly, pulling you forward enough to kiss you deep. All tongue and teeth for a long few moments before pulling back and restarting his punishing pace. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Darlin’”
The phrase does more to light a fire in your belly than the tongue working your sex or his hungry kiss. A smile brightens your own face as you close your eyes and rock your hips against the woman’s face. Reveling in the positive feelings swirling through your body instead of the negative ones trying to launch up to the surface.
In time you reach down and swirl your fingers over her clit. You’re sure Bo has worked her through numerous orgasms in the past few days. He gets off even more manipulating that pleasure from bodies that try hardest to resist. But you want to gift her some pleasure. Surely she’s earned it surviving this long.
Together you pull multiple orgasms from her overloaded body until the fatigue is too much and her body sinks exhausted against the mattress. Barely any energy to keep motion in her tongue. A limp and sleepy doll is no fun for anyone.
A dark idea lances to the front of your mind. It sets off a shudder through your body like a firework exploding in a radiant sphere of lines with each fizzling out along your nerve endings leaving your whole body tingling. Before your rational mind talks you out of it your hands move around the woman’s throat. It’s strange from this angle but you do your best to apply pressure against her carotid artery and vagus nerve with your thumbs. Causing that beautiful build of pressure which makes one feel like they’re floating. Hands overlapping the front of her throat, the sides of your fingers apply enough force to cut her access to new oxygen without smashing her trachea. The loss of oxygen is enough to immediately spark renewed energy throughout her body. Her bound wrists beat against your back weakly as her body begins to jerk and convulse beneath you both. You know it’s one of Bo’s favorite ways to finish and you want to show him that you can be a part of snapping the tension built up inside him.
Your gaze trails from where his hips continue bucking into this latest little doll up to his baby blues. She wouldn’t survive this. But you would. You’d still be here.
“Mine.” You state firmly, leaning forward seeking a kiss which he earnestly provides. His hands cup your face hard while he snaps his hips. Once. Twice. Three times and he’s spilling into her cunt for the last time. Your hands remain closed tight on her throat until the thrashing stills. You can now give him everything. Without your body ending up forever unconscious to be discarded for another. You can give him everything he needs and desires. Only you.
#nat writes#slashers#bo sinclair#bo sinclair x reader#bo sinclair x you#slasher x reader#slasher x you
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And in the end, it wasn’t you
John Wick x reader (A/n- I said I was doing it, so I’m doing it.)
Masterlist
Warnings- Angst.
Lately, every time he saw her, all he could see was that night; flashes of her in that dress of ivory satin, the one which hugged her curves so perfectly, danced around his mind the way she’d danced in his arms past two am. John could see the woman he'd fallen for, the one who he’d found love in and who he’d married because he was convinced that they were made for each other. They had to be, someone like Y/n didn’t just come into your life by accident. There was purpose, in their love and in their life together. The purpose being a lifetime’s worth of forever. She was supposed to be the woman he loved until his final breath and he was supposed to father her children.
But there they were, calling it quits.
After so many years, through aches and pains, sickness and in health, where he was at his worst and she'd still given him her best, it was over. After he’d stuck by her through the storms and been the velvet in the rough, they had both decided that it was over. There’d been too many fights, roads had split into different paths and he and Y/n had slowly started growing into different leading lives that stopped involving each other. She was no longer the woman that could look past the blood he trailed through the front door and John had evolved into a man that could no longer tolerate a love that sought to change him faster than he could change himself. They’d morphed into different people, maybe they’d always been different people But, at least back then it was easy to hide, be what each other wanted, not just a safe place to land, but also a sunrise after the darkest night and a rain after a drought.
“Where have you gone?” Was what John longed to ask. Where was the woman that found happiness in him, the woman that had given him an incomparable happiness? It was hard to believe that the one sitting downstairs, waiting for him to pack the rest of his things, was the same one he’d itched to marry. Could people really change that much? Had he really changed so much?
“I hate you!” Was what she’d screamed on the night they’d decided that separation was the only way forward, and had come not too long after he’d yelled his biggest regrets; her. They’d been things said with carelessness, when hurting seemed more favorable than healing. John hadn’t meant to say that he felt stuck in their marriage, and he was sure that Y/n didn’t mean it when she said she never loved him. But they’d said those things anyway, and the words had cut so deep that they’d been ripped apart.
But before that night, before those long months where oceans of distance seemed to exist between them, there was an unmatched union. There was nearly a decade’s worth of happiness and an insurmountable amount of love. The kind of love that people dreamed about, the kind that John would have protected with his life, the kind that he’d remember long after he’d left the walls that he used to call home.
Giving the bedroom one last glance as he broached the ajar door, John felt a familiar sting at his eyes, accompanied with a pull in his chest. Part of him was being ebbed away, carved out so it would stay in that house, with her. It was the part of him that they'd caught in pictures still mounted to the cool beige walls; the part of him that would always love her. That little slice of his soul, hopefully, would find its home in the part of Y/n that still loved him. As John pulled the door shut behind himself, hoisting the final duffle bag up on his shoulder, the thought roused the slightest smile. It was nice to think that even if their marriage had been reduced to packed bags and a couple of hefty lawyer fees, there was still something that would remain untouched and untarnished by the pressure of time; their memories.
When he finally reached the bottom of the stairs, John found that Y/n was still stationed right where he left her, on the living room sectional. Except then, she was armed with a glass of red, the bottle discarded on the glass coffee table, while on her lap laid open something familiar; a book he’d made her, to fill with pictures their best moments, “I thought you’d already that boxed up, I know you said you wanted to move some of that stuff to the garage.”
“I was going to,” Y/n looked up at him, eyes rimmed red and with tear streaked cheeks, “But it didn’t feel right, it kind of felt like I was trying to forget.”
Furrowing his brows, John let the bag slide down his arm, falling onto the hardwood floor with a soft thump, “Weren’t you?” He inquired, with no malice or harshness, but with a softness that he hadn’t used with her in a while.
“No,” Y/n shook her head, “Do you want to sit for a while? Have a drink with me?” He could tell she was trying to seem nonchalant, but her tired eyes pleaded with him and John couldn’t resist anyway. After packing himself up, the last thing he wanted to do was go sit in the condo he’d bought, it was empty and lonely.
“Sure, I’ll go get a glass.” As he left for the kitchen, John thought he caught a wistful smile on her part. He was the only person in the world that knew the house as well as she did. It was their home after all. Upon his return, Y/n scooted to give him a spot next to her, proceeding to fill his glass afterwards. “I remember this,” he mused, glancing at the picture, “New Years.”
“Our first one together, yeah,” Y/n’s finger ghosted the corner of the photograph, and John thought that if he closed his eyes, he could still taste the champagne on her tongue and see the breathless smile she’d worn when they broke their lengthy kiss. “That night was the first time you said……”
“That I loved you……I remember,” John smiled fondly. She’d thrown a party on the rooftop of her apartment building, they’d both had so much to drink. Yet, like the kiss, he remembered it perfectly; her laugh, the way she’d shivered when a chilly, winter breeze passed over the city and how she’d leaned into his embrace when he put an arm around her. The words, they’d come so readily, without him having to think of it, it was a random truth, something he’d been feeling for a while before then and saying it, even for the first time, was second nature. He loved her; the way she giggled at the most mundane occurrences, every little quirk and even the tiniest things that others never noticed. He loved the way she felt in his arms, the way his name sounded on her lips, the way she made him happier than he’d ever been.
Sitting there, on that familiar sofa, the one he used to lay on with Y/n curled against his chest while their favorite movies played, John combated their good memories like he would any other enemy. Of course, she’d made him happy, and he’d done the same for her, but he and Y/n were at a road’s end. “I wanted to say it first,” she broke his thoughts, still staring down that picture. He’d made her that book, as an anniversary present after their first year together, it was one of her most prized treasures. Above the jewelry and the expensive trips, she’d always loved that leather bound photo album the most.
“What?” He probed meekly.
“I wanted to say it first,” Y/n repeated. “I’d been thinking about it for weeks before that night, but we’d only been together for a couple months, and I didn’t wanna scare you off.”
Taking a chance, John placed his palm on her knee, rubbing his thumb along the rough fabric of her jeans, “It doesn’t matter who said it first,” his words were soft and her eyes reflected the lost affection that he held in his, “What matters is everything that came after.”
Skipping a couple of pages, Y/n flipped to an achingly fond memory; the two of them, on the roof of the Continental, right after their wedding ceremony. She was wearing the same dress he’d been thinking off earlier, that simple ivory one with lace flowers sewn sparsely about the fine satin, that sported an adorable tea length skirt that opened out like something of a fairytale when John had spun her during their very first dance as husband and wife. “Like this,” he mused, scanning the page filled with other memories from that day. The moment they’d cut the cake and she’d kissed frosting off his cheek, when she’d tossed her bouquet of red and white roses to the small gathered crowd and then one from the end of the evening, when most of the guests had dispersed and they’d taken one final picture, shot from behind, with his suit coat draped over her shoulders and Y/n tucked into side as they looked out at the sky, She’d pulled him in that night and then every other that they’d spent together until their separation.
“You’ll find that again,” Y/n sniffled, laying her hand over his, still stationed on her knee. The comfort that the gesture brought was the same soothing warmth that every other touch of hers had. At least that hadn’t changed. “And she’ll be…..she’ll be amazing, I hope…..” Blinking away tears, Y/n glanced away, “I hope you love her, and she loves you, as much as we loved each other in the beginning. And I hope it lasts forever.”
Was she really willing to let him go that easily? Because John knew that it wasn’t the same for him, and as selfish as it was, he knew that he was dreading the day when Y/n found someone to replace him. “Do you really mean that?” He gasped sharply, restraining the glassy sting in his eyes.
Her lips quivered and all it took was the slightest flutter of her lashes for the first tears to break free. “No,” she broke down, breath catching loudly as Y/n still struggled to contain her sobs, “No, I don’t.” Reaching out, she laid a hand on his hollowed cheek, heaving, heavy breaths dominating her chest, “I’m so sorry.”
Leaning over, letting the book fall haplessly to the rug, John gathered Y/n’s shaking frame in a hug, finally crying with her. Her heart thumped erratically against his chest and her embrace was one he’d missed. “I’m sorry too,” he smoothed his hand over her hair and she burrowed into his neck. John’s lungs burned and he knew for certain that he’d never cried like that. Sure, there were quiet tears on the night they’d decided to separate, then a few sobs muffled with his fists after he’d signed the papers. But that evening, in the dim living room, the tears felt like acid raining down on his cheeks, his throat felt like it had been set ablaze and there weren’t any amount of deep breaths that he could take to remedy the tightness in his chest.
They stayed like that for a while, tears drenching their clothes and when they finally pulled away, still caught in tangled arms, John suspected that his eyes and nose were just as red and as swollen as Y/n’s. Still, she was so beautiful, and because old habits die hard, he leaned in and she let him. Y/n let John get so close that he could smell the wine on her breath and almost feel the air parting her lips.
One last kiss.
It tasted just as he suspected the last one would, like unmatched and indescribable pain. No bullet, bruise or knife could inflict an ache so severe. And in an attempt to quell the hurt, John tried to go in for another, but that time, her arms deserted his broad frame. “We shouldn’t,” she admonished, scooting backwards on the sofa.
Desperate, John reached out, brushing some hair away from her face, “Why not?”
“Because,” she sighed heavily, slumping her shoulders, “Every time I see you, I miss you-"
"But I'm right here," he caressed the side of her face, knowing better than to be hopeful but throwing caution to the wind and doing it anyway, "It doesn't have to end like this."
"It does," her voice broke, and pulling away reluctantly, Y/n stood, taking a deep breath, "I know you might think you haven't, but you've changed, John. And I know when you look at me, you see that I've changed too. We're not the people we used to be. And I still love you, I do, but I'm in love with the man I met all those years ago, and you're still holding onto to the woman I used to be. And that's okay, cause somewhere, in the past, in our memories, they still have each other. But us, we can't do that. We can't expect to hold onto parts of each other that are gone, after we've grown into the people we are now. I know it doesn't make sense, and I hate it," her voice dropped to a sorrowful whisper, "But it won't be fair to either of us if we go on and forget the reason why we decided to split up in the first place."
As he stood letting the coffee table act as a barrier between them, John down casted his head, "You're right," he admitted even if it was eating away at him. Ready to say his final goodbye, John headed towards his bags, still sitting under the threshold of the room. "For what it's worth," he turned to her after he'd collected his things, a fresh set of tears gathering in his eyes, matching the moisture in Y/n's pretty orbs, "I still love you too."
They lingered, eyes locked for a moment, before John turned to leave again, and during his walk to the front door, a pin could drop in the basement and one would hear it from upstairs. It was the eerie quiet before the storm, and as John pulled the front door shut behind himself, the rains came and even from outside, he could hear Y/n's gasped sobs echo around the house, complimenting the stifled ones he'd try to deny himself as he got in his car.
********
Tagging- @harrisongslimited @magnificentclodpiebanana @keandrews @greenmanalishi @rdjloverxxx @danceoftwowolves @planetkt @wheretheriversrunintothesea
#keanu reeves#john wick#john wick x you#john wick x reader#keanu reeves x you#john wick x y/n#keanu reeves x y/n#keanu reeves x reader#john wick fanfic#keanu reeves fanfic#taylor swift#oneshot#fanfic#fanfiction#angst
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ris requested harry's pov in the entertainment for harry's confession, so, here it is!
Harry bangs on Louis' door.
On the drive over, all he could think about was the last few weeks of hell he's been in without Louis by his side. All he could think about is the anger he's held in himself at the fact that as soon as Louis decided to leave him, everything went straight downhill. The biggest problem was the media finding out where he lives; that image lives in his mind forever; it haunts his dreams: Harry opening the door to find tens of paparazzi crowded at his door, camera lights flashing in his face burning his vision, while other cameras were rolling footage to get his reaction and confession. After the shock and disbelief wore off, he called Liam, hysterical, crying and shaking, because the one thing he had vowed to protect was a crushed, vacant dream now. He didn't know who could have tipped them off, and he still doesn't know. He only has a couple of true friends in the industry that know, but they would never betray him.
Everyone else is simply an acquaintance.
But Harry's angry. He's been done crying, and thinking, and feeling. He's just angry now.
The door opens several moments later, after Harry's banged on it countless times with his fist. He tries calming his fueled fingers by curling them and putting it in his leather jacket's pocket; but when his eyes land on Louis's timid, shy appearance–his sleepy, blue eyes–his silk pink lace matching pyjamas–his short, tousled hair–his heart begins stuttering, angry words catching in his throat and constricting his airflow.
Harry almost forgets what he's angry about.
But Louis looks taken aback, like the last thing he expected was Harry.
"Harry," he breathes.
You left me.
"You haven't called me," flies out of his mouth instead. He can't bear his feelings yet.
Harry catches the swallow Louis makes.
"No," Louis agrees gently. "But I called Liam."
"Fuck Liam," Harry spits. Fuck all the people Louis's contacted before him. He knows about the call. Liam called straight after his brief conversation with Louis and filled him in. It didn't make Harry feel any fucking better; it made him feel worse, how ucharacteristically cold he thought Louis was for acting this way. "Calling him doesn't matter to me. I left you messages. I left you voicemails. I just wanted one message from you. Was that so hard?"
Louis stays silent.
Harry takes a silent inhale of breath from deep within his chest, and just observes Louis's face.
"What did I do?"
"Nothing," Louis assures him, features twisting with genuine emotion. "You didn't do anything."
"That's not what Rachel told me," confesses Harry. "Inconsolable differences?"
He wants to scoff.
Louis's eyes bounce away for a brief moment as he quickly licks his bottom lip. "I just said that so she could have something. Why are you taking it so personal, anyway? It's not like you really wanted me there. You said it yourself. You should be happy that you can do everything by yourself now. That's what you wanted."
This sets Harry off.
This fuels his anger.
He takes his hand out of his pocket, fingers shaking with red. All the words that have been trapped in his mind for weeks come forward full force, crowding his fast and blurry mind with every scene he could ever imagine between them. "Do you want to know why I take it so personal?" He doesn't give Louis a chance. There are no more chances. "Because this person I hardly know comes into my life and decides to uproot it. He takes over my agenda, my schedule, my time. Me foolishly and selfishly thinking I could fight back, he surprises me by challenging me. He takes every hit with grace. He doesn't back down. And who, in spite of my narcissistic behaviour and obnoxious demands, is unconditionally kind and patient. He gives me the benefit of the doubt, even when I've proven time and time again that I don't deserve it."
And who, in spite of everything, Harry trusted. He hasn't trusted someone new in so many countless years that when he could first start feeling himself slip, he had to fight it. He didn't want to acknowledge it then, but he's willing to acknowledge it now: he didn't want to trust Louis.
But he couldn't help it.
He found himself slowly unraveling. He did his best to remain so hard and cold; he was set in his forever way of strictly business and a stubborn mindset that Rachel always got annoyed with him about; but then one day, he walked in on Louis ready to challenge him. He threw all the questions at him–did you set up my next photoshoot with Fendi? Did you e-mail Thomas about the re-scheduling? Did you decline the invitation to KISS's after-party event? Have you fed Dolly? Have you bathe her? Where's Finn? How's Maeve?
Louis didn't bat a single eye.
Yes; yes; yes; Dolly ate raw chicken and some vegetables; she's still in her robe–he pointed to Dolly in the spot next to himself, licking the one paw that wasn't covered by her robe–Finn's swimming in your bathtub; Maeve is sleeping by the rose bushes.
Then he finally looked at Harry, and gave him a gentle smile that filled his eyes.
He was one hundred percent unbothered, and entirely too prepared, and turned his attention back to his laptop right away to finish whatever task he had.
Harry couldn't say anything else.
Today, that translates into: I don't deserve you.
"Then," continues Harry, tone softening to something entirely indecipherable to his own ears, "I'm caught in between something feral and something soft. He gives me the courage to trust again. He consumes my thoughts. He consumes my whole being, to the point I can't sleep. But I don't know how to handle it, so, I spoil him with presents. But then he leaves me, and it's the worst thing I've ever felt."
It felt like a part of him was being torn apart piece by bloody piece.
Louis takes several steps back, slowly shaking his head as a brief look of devastation overcomes his face.
"Don't say that," he whispers.
But Harry's so desperate to make him understand. He has to say it. The fear is, if he doesn't, then he'll become a worse man; he'll become more of a mad man than he already is. The world can barely tolerate the Harry Styles he is today. What if he has to talk to the face of rejection and be cursed for the rest of his life–condemned to be without the most compassionate soul he's ever met?
The world isn't ready to meet that jaded version of Harry Styles.
"Why not?" he whispers in reply, following Louis forward.
Why can't he be allowed to deserve Louis? Why can't he be allowed to care for Louis in ways he could do far better than anybody else on this planet? Nobody could give him everything he wants like Harry could. My God, if Louis asked him to die for him, he's fucking crazy enough to try.
Louis blinks rapidly.
Harry sees the tears he's trying to hold back.
"Because," he gets out.
Harry won't take that as an answer. He can't accept it. Louis's given him no choice but to close the remaining space between them and grip the sides of his face in his hands. Louis's eyes widen slightly, clearly not expecting it, but he doesn't fight against Harry. And his face is so smooth; soft; it feels much smaller in Harry's hands than it looks, and there's a little pricked feeling against his palms from a freshly shaved face, but it doesn't bother Harry.
"You're not being honest with me," he accuses, keeping his eyes open and unblinking with Louis's. "Tell me the truth."
"I love you," Louis blurts hotly.
It's like he spits it out, out of exasperation for Harry.
And Harry's breath drops to his feet. His personality splits into two: the first part of him takes those words between his sharp teeth and bites it. He breaks those words; chews them; swallows them; he absorbs them into his soul and then spits them back out; the other side of him breathes those words through his nose like a past life's addiction; like fresh, spring morning air.
"Then you won't be mad if I do this."
He wastes no time rushing his lips to Louis's.
He wants to be desperate with his love, he wants to be rough and have his kiss translate his devotion. But the smaller part of his personality–the rational side–slows him. His lips, instead, brush against Louis's; they connect gently; and Harry guides Louis's precious lips quietly. It's electrocuting the deepest parts of him in slow motion, like Louis's soft lips are being zapped to each important part of him and imprinting themselves permanently.
Louis's now left his kiss of death for Harry to cherish forever. Even if this ever ends.
Harry parts when Louis does.
Louis's looks back and forth between Harry's eyes.
"I'm not," he finally says.
Harry's anger parts when he smiles at Louis's confession. He takes one hand up to twist his fingers in Louis's hair, then slide them carefully downwards, caressing Louis's face.
Harry kisses him again.
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dream of me
rowan x lorcan, regency era au, word count: 1963
Rowan is not surprised when a battered, bloodied hand appears on his windowsill.
He calmly stands from his reading chair and puts the leather-bound tome on the small end table. A candle burns steadily in its wrought holder, wax beads melting down it. Rowan picks it up and carries it with him as he walks.
A large body pushes itself up and heaves itself over the ledge. Lorcan’s hair is falling from the sloppy bun he’s shoved it into. The dark strands cling to his temples and the sides of his cheeks, raindrops falling down his face as it splits into a golden type of grin, “Evening, pretty boy.”
“Do you not know how to tell time, Lorcan?” Rowan asks casually. “It’s far past evening.”
A slight groan leaves Lorcan’s lips as he swings his leg over the windowsill and nimbly lands on the spot of hardwood before the thick carpet. Rowan used to have the carpet flush with the wall, but when Lorcan’s midnight drop-ins became frequent, Rowan quickly became tired of him trailing mud on it, so he moved the carpet for Lorcan to have a designated area.
Rowan sees the way Lorcan leans to the side and the way his arm is loosely wrapped around his waist. He sighs through his nose and waves the other boy to his bed, “Sit down. I’ll take care of those ribs.”
“There’s nothing-” Lorcan hisses through his teeth, “-nothing wrong with my ribs, Whitethorn.” He toes his dirty boots off and limps to the messy bed. The old frame creaks under his weight and Lorcan tries to hide his sigh of relief, but Rowan hears it all the same.
“Your clothes are soaking, Lorcan. You should change before you catch a cold,” Rowan says, refusing to look at Lorcan. The young duke abhors the fact that his pale cheeks blush, giving himself away at the thought of a shirtless Lorcan. Rowan busies himself by gathering the necessary medical fixings for Lorcan’s injuries.
It must’ve gone wrong, he thinks. Lorcan spends his nights breaking into the rich’s homes, stealing whatever he can. For a few weeks, he lets the town have its little fit and then, he offers his deductive skills to unearth whichever priceless treasure he’s kept hidden away.
They pay handsomely for his services. It humours Rowan, to keep his mouth shut and laugh quietly at them all. From the moment Lorcan emerged as the city’s up and coming investigator, Rowan knew there was something the young man hadn’t told them. And his suspicions had been confirmed on that fateful night, when Lorcan had mistaken the Whitethorn residence for the Havilliard’s. That night, he pushed Rowan up against the bookcase in the library, a wicked dagger at his throat. His wild eyes searched Rowan’s until they calmed and he stepped back. I know you won’t tell anyone, Master Whitethorn. Keep this between us, will you?
Obviously, Rowan agreed, though he made Lorcan swear to him that the Whitethorn mansion would never be a target. He added that Lorcan would come to him for help, whenever he so needed it, and Lorcan had done so ever since.
“Rowan. Rowan. Rowan,” Lorcan says, waving his hand in Rowan’s face. “Are you alright? Are you tired?”
“Of course I am tired, Lorcan,” Rowan snaps, tersely putting down the gauze and soft cloths. “I am made to wait up for you every night and patch you up, only to have you ruin my work the night after!”
The thief’s dark eyes widen and when he opens his mouth to respond, nothing comes out. Rowan stares at him for a moment, willing his gaze to stay on Lorcan’s face and not notice the way his loose cotton shirt sticks to the chiseled planes of his chest from the rain.
When he still does not speak, Rowan scoffs and picks up the wooden bowl. “I’ve got to fetch some hot water. Do not move.” He stalks into his bathing chamber, where he’s kept a bucket of boiled water. He boiled it earlier in the evening, meaning it was the perfect temperature after it sat for a few hours.
Rowan’s frown does not fade as he fills the bowl and puts the cotton cloths into the steaming water. He carries it back with him and sees Lorcan carefully pulling his shirt off. His entire left side, from hip to shoulder, is covered by dark purple and violent red bruising. Rowan’s breath hitches in his throat and he forgets that he is angry with Lorcan.
He rushes to the bed and puts the water bowl down, his hands light over Lorcan’s tender body. Despite the delicateness with which Rowan treats him, Lorcan still bites his lip to muffle the sound of his groan and his eyes screw shut.
Lorcan pants, “Are you going to help me or continue to prod me, Whitethorn. I’ve- fuck, I’ve broken them.” The skin above his heart tap-taps with its frantic beat.
“If you wish to be rude and uncooperative, you are free to leave,” Rowan says drily. He picks up the strips of gauze, “Lift your arms. Your ribs need wrapping.” Lorcan complies, groaning again when the motion causes him pain. “Would you stand, too?”
Again, Lorcan does as he’s told. He stands between Rowan’s spread legs, probably closer than is necessary or considered appropriate. Rowan doesn’t mind. In fact, he would like Lorcan closer, would like their bodies pressed together, would like to know if they fit as well as he thinks they do.
Neither speaks as Rowan snugly wraps the gauze around Lorcan’s middle. He doesn’t do it too tightly, knowing that if Lorcan cannot breathe normally, his lungs could catch an infection, like pneumonia. “What happened tonight, Lorcan?”
“I learned that the Perringtons had left for a month and broke in for the skull of Erawan,” Lorcan says, his voice low, nearly too quiet to be heard above the soothing pitter-patter of rain. “They came back early, just two days ago. Apparently Adarlan is not agreeable this time of year.”
Rowan snorts and tucks the ends of the bandage away. “What a shame.” He stands and gasps softly when he becomes near nose-to-nose with Lorcan. He’s so close he can differentiate the browns and onyxes in Lorcan’s depthless irises.
They share a breath for a moment, Lorcan’s full lips so close to ghosting over Rowan’s. “You- you should s-sit,” Rowan stammers out, that same damned blush blooming across his cheekbones. “Rest, you have been injured.”
Lorcan nods, silent, and lifts his hand to tuck a curl of Rowan’s light hair behind his ear, “Yes.”
Rowan moves so that Lorcan can sit again. He takes the spot next to Lorcan, and tucks a leg beneath him so he can face Lorcan. They all but refuse to speak as Rowan cleans the wounds on Lorcan’s face, his heart splintering at the long cut, indicative of a knife, slashing down Lorcan’s face. He breathes tremulously, his fingers shaking.
Rowan tenderly takes care of Lorcan's wounds and is powerless to stop the tears from lining his eyes. He hates this, seeing the boy his heart and soul belong to, so battered and bruised. So hurt, he can hardly breathe without pain.
Every night, it becomes more difficult to stand. He wishes every morning that he does not see Lorcan again, that he’s left, run away to the countryside like he once drunkenly admitted to dreaming of, without a note or a farewell. It’s a foolish hope of Rowan’s, really, but he’d rather be foolish than face reality.
“You are crying,” Lorcan notes. Rowan realises his cheeks are wet with tears. “Why are you crying, Rowan?”
Surely he must be joking, Rowan thinks. Surely no one is that dense. Surely Lorcan knows it’s all for him. “You are playing a trick on me,” Rowan says, dumbfounded. “You truly cannot be this stupid, Lorcan.”
The dark boy frowns, pulling back, “I am not stupid. I want to know why you are crying. It is not you that has been injured. What pain are you feeling?”
“You are stupid,” Rowan insists, tossing the cloth to the side. “You are the stupidest boy I’ve ever had the displeasure of knowing, Lorcan Salvaterre.”
Lorcan frowns harder, his temper flaring in those eyes of his, the ones Rowan dreams of. “Stop calling me stupid, Rowan. I cannot help you if I do not know what is the matter!”
Rowan stands, his arms flung out wide, “I hate caring for you! I hate, with a burning passion, caring for you.”
Hurt flashes across Lorcan’s face and it stays there. Normally, anger would be all too quick to follow, but his grave features remain drenched in agony. “How could- then why- what have I- I do not understand,” Lorcan says, his words shaking. “Why are you saying this to me? Why would you say that to me?”
“Because I hate it when you are hurt, Lorcan,” Rowan spits, too far gone in his rage to notice the beginnings of understanding in Lorcan’s gaze. “I hate it when you climb through my window and I hate it when I have to patch you up and I hate it when you return to the gutter, just to repeat this all over again.”
“Ro–”
“You told me you once despised this life. You told me that one day, you would leave and run to the country and never once look back.” Rowan swallows as tears roll down his cheeks. He sits down once more and, with such care and adoration, takes Lorcan’s face in his hands, “I pray for that day to come every night, so I do not have to see the boy I love hurt again.”
Rowan tips his forehead against Lorcan’s and whispers, “I love you, Lorcan. You… have my heart and my soul and whatever it is that makes me whole. And if you keep-” he chokes for a moment, his eyes falling shut, “-if you keep being hurt and showing up at my window, battered halfway to death, I will shatter into a thousand pieces that can never be put back again.”
“You love me?” Lorcan asks, his words light with wonderment and golden, golden hope. “You- you love me?”
“Yes,” Rowan breathes, confessing his most twisted secret. “With all that I am and all that I will ever be, Lorcan.”
“Ro,” Lorcan murmurs, his hand lifting to the curve of Rowan’s neck. “Rowan, open your eyes. Please… look at me, my darling.”
Rowan’s hummingbird heart flutters and trips over itself. He’s never been anyone’s darling and how lucky is he, to be Lorcan’s, the only person he will ever love and the only person he will ever tolerate. He opens his eyes, quietly searching Lorcan’s. “What is it,” he asks, barely above a whisper.
“I have loved you for years,” Lorcan tells him. “There is nothing in this god-forsaken life I want to take with me to the next one, save for you, Rowan. I love you, most ardently.”
The two boys smile softly at each other, twin spots of pink on their cheeks. It is Rowan who closes the distance between them first, pressing his rosy lips against Lorcan’s mouth and stealing his air. Rowan’s hands slip around Lorcan’s neck as Lorcan pulls him closer, mindless of the hurt in his body that pains at every movement.
They kiss slowly, they hold each other so closely, like the other is the most precious thing to them, like the other’s love and touch is the only thing they shall need in life.
And maybe it is. Maybe that’s all they’ve ever needed.
an: they deserve this and i deserve this so i was self indulgent and did what i wanted again <3 enjoy darlings
@mythicaitt @ladyverena @empress-ofbloodshed @ladywitchling @darklesmylove @shyvioletcat @the-regal-warrior @theoverlyenthusiasticwriter @aelinfeyreeleven945tbln @thewayshedreamed @sassyhobbits @tswaney17
#i luv them i luv them i luv them !!#rowcan#rowan x lorcan#rowan whitethorn#lorcan salvaterre#regency era au#isa writes gay shit#nalgenewhore
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