#but i was willing to tolerate a soul split

[silvershewolf247]

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.

[ririianaa1]

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

[demonscantgothere]

“ '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.

[yan-twst]

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.”

[allisondraste]

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.”

[homeformyheart]

*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;

[asktheheirofslytherin]

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.

[mr-entj]

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.

[classic80sand90smovieloves2]

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.

[quiveringdeer]

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. 

[fortheloveoffanfic]

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

[tllthesundies]

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.

[nalgenewhore]

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

[brasskier]

Here’s some random yennskier fluff pt 2, featuring some insecure Yen and sleepy Jaskier :)

Yennefer liked watching him perform, was even willing to admit it now, and as she rested her chin in her palm and watched in enraptured silence she'd occasionally catch herself wondering what Geralt thought when he sat and watched. (That was, if he bothered to stick around. She knew better than to ask, and settled for the assumption that he had to, at least occasionally, if for no reason other than to keep him out of trouble.)

They used to keep up this game at first, months ago, wherein she'd pretend she wasn't listening, Jaskier would pretend she wasn't there, and they'd carry on almost like strangers. The way he slid so easily into the routine gave her some clue as to how those evenings went with Geralt. She tried to tell herself she didn't care. 

The first time she heard Her Sweet Kiss, she couldn't help but focus in, her head perking up, leaning further forward on her elbows as if closer proximity would grant her some kind of intimate access to the lyrics. He caught her staring, and was equally powerless to stop the bittersweet grin that tugged at the corner of his lips. That night on, she stopped pretending not to listen, and he'd stop pretending to ignore her, and they shifted from strangers to some odd sort of friends.

He liked watching her work too, which she never quite understood. What she did wasn't made for entertainment, nor was it particularly spectacular and capital-R Romantic like Geralt's line of work. But even for the most mundane of tasks, like brewing her potions, he'd sprawl himself across the lumpy inn mattress, drop his chin into folded hands, and watch in the kind of reverent silence he reserved exclusively for moments like these. And, considering he was at the very least quiet, she let him. 

It was late, but not terribly so, when Jaskier finished his set and sauntered back to their booth. She smiled into her tankard as he slid in next to her, fitted himself against her side, and tucked his head to her chest. He was pleasantly warm, glowing with the excitement of performance, and reeked of ale.

"Aren't there enough pretty women for you to impress?" She prodded, shifting herself into a more comfortable position, snaking an arm around his shoulders. This was a new development, and she didn't need to ask to know Geralt would've never tolerated this. A month ago she never would've. 

"Yes," he mumbled into her collarbone on the tail end of a yawn. "But you're the prettiest." She pressed her knuckles to her lips in an attempt to bite back the chuckle threatening in the back of her throat. This was definitely new. 

"You've definitely had enough," she remarked after a moment of contemplation, wrapping her fingers around his and carefully prying the tankard from his hands. He doesn't protest more than a tepid whine half-buried in her neck. The scared, irrational, human little part of her told her she should be concerned. That she should brush a hand across his forehead, as if fever or drunkenness were the only feasible explanations for why he might want to spend his evening with her instead of a tavern of beautiful women with decidedly less baggage. Rationally, she knew Jaskier was just like this, openly and unabashedly affectionate, and at times a little bit odd.

"I'm just tired," he whispered, pressing further into the fabric of her dress, as if he could read her thoughts. He tilted his head back, their eyes meeting for a split second before he reached up and pressed a light kiss on her jaw, the best he could muster from his current position. When he pulled back again he was grinning, teeth showing and all, naked and unperformative. "How many times do I have to kiss you to convince you I care?" She wondered, not for the first time, how he always managed his most profound and heartfelt words drunk and half-asleep.

"I know." She brought her hand down to ruffle through his hair, dropping a peck on his forehead. It was cathartic, in a sense, his wordless understanding, having someone around to lay the depths of her soul bare before, someone who knew her as intimately as she knew him. For a quiet moment in which she assumed he'd fallen asleep she allowed herself to stroke his cheek and simply enjoy his presence in the dull chatter of the tavern that surrounded them. 

"I can… do that some more, you know. Upstairs," he murmured eventually, and though she couldn't see enough of his face she knew, invariably, he had to be winking. 

"As much as I'd love that," she replied, shifting and tugging him upright with her. "You need to get some sleep." He nodded gingerly, scooting over and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"In the morning?" He shot her a pleading smirk, and this time she couldn't stop the laugh that escaped her as he dipped a hand down to scoop up his lute.

"In the morning." She motioned for him to get up, interlacing her fingers with his as they made their way to the stairs. He huffed something between a laugh and affirmation. Draped in moonlight and curled up together in the too-small bed, she silently admitted to herself that she was definitely looking forward to morning. Being cared for, as herself and not for what she could do, and without the emotional constipation of a witcher, was strange to her, but decidedly pleasant. She could get used to this, she thought as she finally drifted to sleep. She could definitely get used to this.

[yandere-wishes]

//Yandere Magi//

This is a collections of a number of Magi charcters written in the yanderevers. I’ve excluded Sinbad and his eight generals inorder to write them their own fic later this month. I would aslo like to say thanks to @yandere-romanticaa​ for all her help with this story, thanks so much love, You’re a life savoir!Feedback and comments always appriciated! ENJOY my beloveds!

Alibaba Saluja

Alibaba is a very soft and obsessive yandere, one that has fallen so deep in a maniacal love, with an independent yet innocent darling. One that he believes must be kept concealed from this harsh, cold world. 

He'll desperately strive to learn every possible little thing about you. He wants to know your favorite color, food, animal, etc. And at first, this may come across as indearing, he takes the time to sit with you, hear your endeavors and triumphs. It's refreshing at first until he becomes too clingy. 

Alibaba slowly starts prying you away from your friends, going quite with a heartbroken look in his eyes when you tell him you have plans for the night. Sometimes the looks he gives you, are too much to bear and you cave canceling whatever you previous engagement you had to rest by his side. 

"(Y/N) you're my whole world, I never want to lose you!"

At some point in your relationship, Alibaba becomes fed up with others constantly possessing your affection. It's around this point that he'll decide that its better for both of you if you where kept locked up somewhere only he would have access to. This will -obviously- not sit well with his darling and yet what choice are they given. The Wonder Man can be quite forceful when it comes to his interpretation of his lover's being. 

"So I'm going to tie you to my heart, so ill never lose you"

Addition Details

Alibaba wouldn't mind taking you outside as long as you have chains around your ankles and wrists. As a simple diversion to those around you, they will pay you no mind if they think you are merely a slave walking around with her master. This will also prevent people from believing anything you say if you were to ever run away and attempt to seek aid. After all who will believe the tales of a desperate slave girl. 

He will also permit you to mingle with Alladin, Morgiana, and Kassim. That is if they keep a respective boundary and don't get too touchy.

When it comes to outfits, Alibaba isn't too picky about what you wear, however other than the shackles you are to wear one of Kassim's red earings at all times. His reasoning for this? Simply that he'll be able to look at one of his loved ones and be reminded of two.

Aladdin

Aladdin is a bit of an odd yandere, he isn't particularly violent unless pushed, he gives his darling more freedom than other yanderes and he possesses both qualities of possessives and obsessives. He's most likely to fall for a darling based on two things, their kindness and their large appearances (Magi fans will understand what that means) they will also have to possess a knowledge of cooking and house chores. To be frank, Aladdin desperately wants a normal family. One with a warm welcoming wife and sweet children, food on the table and someone to cuddle with at night. That's why with the help of Ugo he decided that it'll be best to kidnap his love and keep her in the Sacred Place. 

"I love you all so much (Y/N)!"

He'll treat his darling with the utmost respect and heed to their every need and want. His punishments are rather childish and normally consist of the silent treatment or simply leaving their darling alone for a couple of days. At the end of the day you just end up accepting your current role as Aladdin's little "wife" really it isn't so bad, soon you'll even start to reciprocate his feelings to the point of almost matching his obsessive tendencies. 

"Don't you love me back?"

Addition Details

He makes sure that you and Ugo become good friends, he will also attempt to make befriend Alibaba and Morgiana. 

As previously mentioned Aladdin is not very violent but he will not tolerate anyone other than himself touching you. He will also not hesitate to fight anyone who dares disrespect. 

He loves it when you wear slightly revealing tops and asymmetrical skirts, all in shades of blue and white.

Morgiana

Morgiana is a very considerate yandere that could be best described as a delusional/ obsessive mix. She knows what it's like to be stripped of your freedom and lose all-purpose but to serve your "Master". It's a fate she doesn't wish for anyone body else let alone her one true love. She will never chain you up, never lock you in a room or deprive you of food and water. Everything will appear to be a normal relationship, except if you look underneath the surface it isn't. People around you start to go missing or wind up dead. You mortified fearing that you'll be next, so you start seeking security from Morg who gladly provides you with love and comfort. Non the wiser that she is the one being the homicides. 

"Don't worry (Y/N) I'll protect you"

When the two of you start living together, she starts to become a little more possessive. She'll accompany you where ever you decide to go, insistent that you stay by her side at all times even when in the safety of your shared home. In truth, Morgiana doesn't know why she loves you and needs to protect you to such an extent. Maybe because she's never had anyone to protect her, maybe it's cause she's seen the grim reality of this world and wants to shelter you from it. Whatever it is it doesn't matter, all that matter and will ever matter is her love and admiration for you. The punishments that she does dole out are based on humiliation, most of which are sexual. She may start to rub you in public or pinch the right area between your thighs. She'll have no problem with forcing herself on you in front of a crowd if only to show just who you belong to. 

 Her other methods of keeping you in line consist of making you believe that you'll never be able to live without her and that you need her to do everything for you  

"I'll never leave your side!" 

Addition Details

She doesn't want to develop a friendship with anyone including her closest friends. Viewing them as potential threats to your safety. 

She will, however, intrust Masrur with looking after you when she gets caught up in something. 

She very dominates in bed and is very specific about the acts that you two commit. Knowing her strength she doesn't want to hurt you yet she does enjoy seeing you squirming under her. 

Kassim

Kassim is a possessive yandere, he views his darling as his property, she's an atonement from the universe for all the cruelty he's been through! He quickly becomes infatuated with the notion that someone's sole purpose on this earth is to please him. that's all his love is meant to do. To be there for him, to greet him with a smile and kisses when he returns to his current hideout. She shouldn't think of anything but him, shouldn't want anyone or thing but him. 

His darling likely resembles Anise in someway. Be it their kindness towards the members of the slums and fog troupe or their smile or the purity they radiate off of her in colossal waves.  

It's something and it's addicting, it's what caused him to steal her away one night under the cloak of darkness. To chain her to his worn-out bed, blindfolded and shivering. 

"You're mine (Y/N)..."

He never takes the blame for his actions, always saying it's her fault, she made him do this. It's his only response when he forces himself onto her practice each day, littering her body with sweet tender kisses and rough sharp bites that draw pallets of blood. 

When the poor darling tries to pull back or cower in a corner, he'll burn her with the tip of his cigars. If the unfortunate dear ever attempts to escape the punishment will be much harsher. He'll lock her away in some underground tunnel or broken down-home. Leave her there for days antagonist the filth any disease. It always works, whenever Kassim comes to collect her, she's always putty in his hands. Willing to be the sweet little darling he wants her to be.

"Don't you forget it!"

Judar 

Judar is a sadistic and cruel yandere with possessive tendencies. He's the type to see his beloved as his toy and plaything rather than a human being a unique though prosses. In his eyes, her only goal in life is to amuse and serve him.

Judar lacks care for....pretty much everything He's constantly bored and seeking some wicked way to quench his boredom. When he first met his beloved he would only see them as a temporary amusement, something he can get a chuckle out of and then slaughter for kicks. But then he notices something about the girl, she's modest, innocent wrapped in a child-like personality. She's his reciprocal, she's what he might have been (keyword might) if Al-Thamen hadn't abducted him and twisted his soul until he became a stygian monster. 

The pitiable darling will have no warning as to what's to come, one minute they're in the bazaar and the next, their in Judar's chambers, chained to the wall by a cold metal collar. 

"You're supposed to be my pet!"

That's when the real fun begins! Judar's favorite pass time soon becomes tormenting his new toy. He'll beat you to a bloody mess leaving you with broken bones, black eyes, split lips, bloody noses, and too many bruises to count. He'll get off to cutting you, smearing your blood over the both of you. You soon realize just how kinky and uncivil the fallen magi can be. Oh and let's not forget about his ice magic! For punishments he'll freeze the room and have you strip, leaving you in the cold for hours on end. Sometimes he may cuff your wrists and ankles in blocks of ice as he cuts you open with his wand and uses some ice pallets to sterilize the wounds. 

However, do note that Judar does try to make you happy from time to time. Buying you the prettiest dresses, making sure you are well fed and entertained. He always kisses you, of course, they are followed by harsh bites. It's just the only way he knows to show his affection, the cruelty and pain are only out of his sick and twisted love. By keeping you locked up and occupied he'll always be in full possession of your undived attention, at the end that's all he truly wants...well sorta. 

"So act like one before I kill you" 

To Judar this love is Ludus to you it's mania. 

Addition Details

Judar rarely ever calls you by your name, he usually has some degrading nickname up his sleeve. 

Examples are pet, toy, my bitch, peach, plaything, whore 

He always makes you dress in black and gold clothes that are somewhat too tight and revealing. With this being said he does enjoy the occasional Rococo dress.

Hakuei Ren

Hakuei doesn't believe that she's a yandere at first. She just knows that she finds you enticing and exquisite, so she'll stare at you, follow you around from time to time. It isn't until she witnesses you laughing and smiling at some other girl, that rage begins to bubble up inside of her. Visions of wrapping her slender fingers around the other parties' neck plague her mind. She thinks she might be feeling ill, maybe it's from all the stress she's been under lately. 

Paimon will likely have to take her aside and explain to her that's she's in love, a dark and twisted one at that! The reason why she's outraged when she sees you with someone else is that she wants you all to herself. These emotions will not cease until she has truly posses you solely to herself.  

"Swear your love and loyalty to me (Y/N)"

It'll likely be Paimon that will kidnap you due to Hakuei's manipulated request. However, now that she has you she's doesn't know what to do. 

For the first few weeks, she keeps you locked up in her room. Finding it amusing to dress you up and style your hair. Decorating your locks with flowers and pears, slipping on golden tiaras and delicate chains. She makes you look so beautiful that she can't help but to show you to the rest of the royal family. Only this time she makes sure that you won't leave her for one of them. She'll tell you tales about how mean and brutish Emporer Kouen is. How sadistic and cruel the two imperial princes are. She'll manipulate your every step and word to benefit her own. 

It works, soon you sincerely believe that the only person you can trust is Hakuei, she's the only one that cares about you, the only one who won't hurt you. 

"Swear it!"

Addition Details

Hakuei treats you like a doll, you are not to speak unless spoken to, not to move unless told. You do not own yourself only she can ever possess you.

Her punishments are usually whippings or small beatings. She hates punishing you but you have to learn your place even if it's through strict means. 

She enjoys dominating you in bed but while grant any request you have. If you want to try something new she'll be all for it and will make sure that you enjoy it too. 

Hakuryuu Ren

Hakuryuu is an odd yandere, at first he'd be fascinated with your courage and bravery, how independent and strong-willed you are. That fascination will very soon turn into an obsession. He'll soon find himself following his beloved around, trying to steal glimpses into her room, secretly stealing small trinkets of hers.  

In his eyes, you are perfect, a goddess of war with the most beautiful eyes and shimmering skin. You are his everything he'll gladly lay his life down at your feet. Except you don't seem to notice that, you don't even acknowledge his presence. This lights his heart on fire and now he's desperate for your attention. 

"You love me right (Y/N)?"

To Hakuryuu he has to find some way of "winning" you. It takes him the longest time to figure this out, to fully grasp what he has to do. But once he finally decides what to do no one can stop him. When he finally takes you, hiding you away in his private chambers where you will be safe. In his eyes this is the final step, he won you it's game over. 

He doesn't view keeping you captive as wrong or unlawful it's merely his way of protecting you from the awful creatures outside, those who do not appreciate your true beauty and could never love you as he does. 

Hakuryuu does have very strict rules in place one's you are to follow without question. They're for your good after all! He wants to keep you perfect and brave and his. His punishments are harsh but short, he hates hurting you but he has no other choice, you forced his hand! Normally he is very merciful and may even let little things slid. One thing he will never tolerate however is escaping. If you so much as open the door without his permission, he won't hesitate to lock you up in a cell in the palace dungeons leaving you there until you are begging him to let you out. Promising to be a good darling and do anything he says. 

"Say it! Say you love me!"

Addition Details

Hakuryuu adores dressing you in the finest robes and walking around the palace with you. He ravishes the looks that others throw your way, seeing the sparks of envy in their eyes always put him in a lighter mood. 

His favorite person to show you to is Hakuei, he wants his older sister to be proud of the darling he caught. it's a lot like a small child showing their newest artwork to their mother.

Kouen Ren

Kouen is a possessive and controlling yandere, at first, he views his darling as merely a possession, one granted to him because of his role as emperor and also due to his numerous victories on the battlefield. He doesn't always treat his darling as an equal or with much affection and admiration for that matter. Really he simply expects his beloved to sit next to him on her own throne as a glamorous doll of a queen. 

He's rather fixated with the thought of morphing you into the perfect darling, into the most elegant and obedient queen the Kou empire has ever known! His methods for doing so are strict and rather unsavory. He has rules in place for everything, a routine you must abide by throughout the day, he monitors and manipulates every word you say, every step you take. Everything his always under his control! 

"My queen, you weren't supposed to utter those words."

Eventually, you will start to absorb his ideologies, wholly believing that your sole purpose in life is to be Kouen's perfect little queen.

You will do anything to please him, carve the rules and routines into your mind and soul. Only feel truly alive when he kisses you softly sucking ever so slightly at your bottom lip, pulling away to whisper how proud he is of you and how pure you're turning out to be!

"Now I'll have to punish you."

Addition Details

His rather lax when it comes to sexual activities, he likes to be in charge but doesn't mind if you wish to dominate him and usually encourages it. He does, however, reserve requests for when you deserve a phenomenal prize. 

His rewards vary vastly, from new outfits to new privileges, to someone new to talk to or fresh words you are permitted to speak. 

Kouen's punishment methods are usually different forms of bondage, for example, tying you from the ceiling from your wrists. 

Or spreading your limps apart and to a different corner of the bed. 

Koumei Ren

Koumei isn't a very crazed yandere or very demanding. He's an obsessive that desperately want's your company. When he first kidnaps you, that all he wants, someone to talk to hidden away in the safety of his room. You'll spend may days and nights simply chained to an overly decorated and engulfing chair listening to the second imperial prince go on and on about his newest war strategy for conquering a new land or favorite book. 

However nothing lasts forever, soon Koumei will expect you to start doing chores such as organizing his books and scrolls, filing his military tactics, cleaning and dusting the room. All the things a good housewife should do. He is obsessed with you, this is a fact but he's also convinced himself that you're already his wife that you already love him and that to an extent you don't really want to leave him. 

"My gorgeous, stunning (Y/N)..." 

Every time you attempt to escape, you end up coming face to face with your captor, a knowing smirk decorating his features and a triumphant glint in his magenta eyes. You're always brought back, yet never punished Koumei just claimes that you're either bored and looking for a source of entertainment or were attempting to gain his attention because you missed him direly. 

Koumei also slowly begins to get more touchy the longer you reside with him. He'll embrace you more often, with his hands running along your back, nails scratching lightly at your tender flesh. He constantly has you sit on his lap or hold entwine your fingers with his. It doesn't matter how it is, he simply has to feel you in some manner or another. 

After some time you slowly begin to adapt to his hermit-like ways. Becoming to scared of the outside world yourself. A form of apathy grows within you, it becomes to much trouble to escape too much effort to beg the servents and staff for help. Life is much easier and simpler to just remain in Koumei's room. Being his little housewife is just a life that seems to suit you more than whatever you did with your existence before your lover captured you. 

"Kiss me"

Addition Details

Koumei is rather shy during sex, your first few times. He slowly begins to adapt more to your body as time progresses. He quickly learns that he really really enjoys blow jobs. He loves how you feel around him, it's pure ecstasy to him. 

He does want his darling to feel comfortable around his brothers and sister along with their respective darlings. His family means a lot to him and thus he wants his darling to feel included in it. So he humors Kouha and Hakuryuu's little darling competitions even making you and himself the judges. 

Kouha Ren 

Kouha is a bit of a complex yandere, his tendencies border on possessive and sadistic, yet at times he is sickly sweet. Kouha will kidnap you, will force you to become his doll, his toy and his lover. 

He keeps you chained in a personal room he had customized solely for beloved. The room itself is luxurious, with an enormous closet filled to the dream with a multitude of clothes. Shimmering ball dresses, silky hanfus, delicate dresses both short and long imported from all over the Kou empire, even graceful linger that shows off more skin then it should. And that's just a minuscule portion of your wardrobe. You're given every piece of jewelry imaginable, every style of shoes and accessories. There isn't a thing that Kouha wouldn't give you! 

"My sweet doll..."

However, there is a price to pay for all these lavish gifts. Kouha expects you to be at his beck and call, to pleasure him in any manner he so desires. This can lead to certain unsavory events... Kouha is very rough and commanding in bed, the things he wishes to do to you are very painful and extremely taboo. He will mark you and cut you, tearing at you delicate flesh, decorating it with kisses, bruises and little cuts in shapes of hearts. 

Kouha's favorite thing is to dress you up all elegant and porcelain-like and than to just cuddle you. Nuzzel your neck and breath in you sweet sent, tangle is slim fingers in your silky locks, watch as the light illuminates your dazzling eyes. He'll give you the softest kisses on your sweet spots practically worshipping your body. 

"Behave or I'll have to punish you!"

Addition Details

Kouha does enjoy flaunting you around, making everyone so envious of his adorable and well-behaved darling.

If you've been extra good than Kouha will let you mingle with Kouen, koumei, and Hakuryuu's darlings. Oh, but of course you have to be dressed to outshine them all. 

Actually, Hakuryuu and Kouha constantly compete to see who's darling is better! Not simply by outward appearance and outfits but also in manners and how much love they give their yandere.

Kouha's punishments are the most damaging and painful to endure. they vary from classic torture methods (such as burning her with boiling water, adding salt to fresh cuts, dislocating and/ or breaking bones) to sexual humiliation. Forcing you to set on his lap during a meeting is an extremely skimpy dress with his fingers plunging into your womanhood. Or taking you in front of his servants and whoever else would enter the room. 

Kougyoku Ren

Kougyoku is a manipulative and jealous yandere, she knows that she doesn't own you but she wants all of your actions, wants to be the only person you care about. She doesn't mind what tactics she must use to get you undevoted attention wheater it is clinging to your arm or kissing you in front of the royal court, it doesn't matter!

"You’re so cute (Y/N)!"

She won't outright kidnap you but she (Along with Kouha, Kouen, and Koubun Ka) has made it very clear who you belong to and that you have no say in the matter. She'll constantly request your presence in her room and will get pushy and invasive if you deny her request. 

She can be slightly cruel and sadistic in her punishments. Enjoying how to scream and cower in pain. Sure she feels ever so slightly bad that she is casing to suffer but how else will you learn not to disobey her?

" Cute And mine!"

Addition Details

You always have to be pressed perfectly, in the finest and cleanest clothes. Only pure gold jewels decorating your flesh. Not a single hair out of place. Kougyoku insists on doing this herself each and every day!

She has a pretty high sex drive but finds that she's a big fan of watching as you play with yourself, she might join in or just start playing with herself as she listens to your sweet moans. 

[kingkatara]

Girl Meets Waitress: Opening Up

Disclaimer: I don’t own Waitress. I don’t own Girl Meets World. This is a fanfiction written just funsies.

Looking around, seeing the same things every day brings

          Maya woke up to darkness every morning. Her eyes peeled open after a mere six hours of sleep and were met with nothing. For a split second, there was only darkness in front of her, around her, within her. It was then that she and the world had their daily battle of wills, the war over who would break the stillness first and stir the other into motion. And always it was Maya who surrendered. Her eyes would adjust to the low light and a hot puff of breath would warm her face, still partly under the covers to avoid that first shiver of a New York morning that was always chilly no matter the season. She sat up in bed and surveyed the smoking battlefield of her bedroom, taking in her losses from the night before and wondering which of them would show on her face for the rest of the day. Beside her, the world’s weapon lay dormant, harmless unless she were to challenge the demands for peace. If she came quietly as the world beckoned her, he would slumber on. She didn’t look at him as she swung her legs over the bed and tapped her toes against the smooth hardwood floor beneath her. Her white flag of surrender was the tug on the long curtains that shielded the sunlight from shining into the apartment through the wide window on her side of the bed. This was her cry out into the world that she would not fight. And then the day would begin.

           Wake up, use the toilet, brush the teeth, comb the hair. Put the hair up. Makeup over the dark circles and fading yellow-green lump above the eyebrow. Panties, bra, uniform. Socks, then shoes. Purse. Nametag out of the purse and on the uniform. Every day, the routine was the same. There was ease to it, but it would be a lie not to admit that it was also repetitive. She didn’t know what her life was supposed to be like, but she couldn’t help feeling that it wasn’t supposed to be like this. It was as though there was some missing ingredient that she had long ago forgotten to include in the recipe, which always left the dish edible, but unsatisfying. A ritual she had not shared with anyone in the six years of living in her Lower East Side apartment was that the last thing she did before giving in to the reality of her life was standing at her window and waiting for the first rays of light to peek over the buildings in her neighborhood. She never watched the sun fully rise up into the sky. She simply waited for it to appear and then raced it to work. She never won.

           The ride across town on the subway would have been daunting at best for a tourist, but for a born New Yorker like Maya, the odd little scenes playing out right before her eyes, even as early as six in the morning, were just as natural to the routine as tying her shoelaces. On the way to work, swaying gently along with the subway car, Maya would pull out her sketchbook (which wasn’t a sketchbook at all, but a pathetic server’s pad on which she took down her orders) and mimic the likeness of what she saw and sometimes, on her lowest days, what she felt. Today, there was a particularly amusing picture of an eccentric woman with some sort of hat, though Maya couldn’t quite bring herself to call it that. It was tall, a violent shade of purple, and topped with hot pink feathers. These feathers were of great interest to a small little girl, whose mother, wearing the scrubs of a nurse, was snoozing against the window of the subway car. The little girl was standing up on her seat, using the handrail for balance, and blowing on the feathers of the woman’s hat. The woman gave no indication of noticing this invasion of personal space and was instead muttering to herself about some sort of building with her name on it. The two of them were immediately transcribed into her notepad in short, quick lines of ink.

           From the subway, she made her way through the streets of the Lower East Side, weaving in and out of passerby with an expression that was as equally bored as it was underground. She didn’t look up at anyone and instead chose to keep her eyes down on her white sneakers. The less she looked open to communication or interest, the greater chance she had of making it to work having avoided any unwanted attention—because yes, some men really were in the mood before seven in the morning. Then finally, there was the diner. Where her life played out day by day, where the routine really began and always finished; the diner was more of a home to her than her own apartment, which, of course, wasn’t really hers at all. But the diner? It was the closest thing to belonging that she felt since being held in the arms of her mother so many years ago. She entered through the door in the back of the building that led to the kitchen.

           “Is it a woman thing?”

           “Excuse me?”

           “The being late. Every damn day. Is it a woman thing?”

           “Oh, shove it up your—”

           “Good morning! Who’s ready to start the day?”

           Of course, no home was complete without its inhabitants. Maya supposed she could have had it much worse when it came down to the universe selecting her partners for this life thing. She didn’t hate the people she worked with every day and she guessed that they didn’t hate her either. With that being said, however…These partners were no picnic either.

           There was Zay Babineaux, the cook. All Maya knew about him was that he was from a small town in Texas and he came to New York when he was a teenager. He still had a slight drawl to his snarky voice, the stubborn southern streak within him that refused to be beaten down by the hustle and bustle of the north. He never offered any detail into his personal life, like why he chose to be a cook or how he ended up at the diner, and Maya never asked. When he wasn’t flipping pancakes on the griddle, he could be found grumbling to anyone who would listen (and that was exactly no one) about how nothing in his life made sense and why women were the reason for that. Though he was technically her boss, he and Maya had an ongoing feud over who should be giving who orders within the unhallowed walls of their place of employment.

           Riley Lawrence was a young woman of thirty who was made up of sunshine and daisies. She married her high school sweetheart right on the heels of graduation and went to NYU for a degree in political science. A year into law school, she dropped out to start working at the diner in order to care for her husband, Charlie, who had suffered severe brain injuries in a freak bus accident. Though all of her dreams were now wasted, she still smiled like sunshine in the rain and danced like a daisy in the wind. It was for Riley’s sake that squabbles between Maya and Zay were quickly put to bed—neither of them had the gumption to disappoint a soul like Riley’s, who had endured so much already and never uttered a single complaint.

           “Me. Thirty minutes ago. Why are you women always late?”

           “Perhaps it’s because we know you can’t afford to fire us.” The newest addition to their band of misfits was Isadora, who for some reason allowed them all to address her by her ridiculous surname: Smackle. Even her nametag introduced her as such to the customers. She was a twenty-three year old grad student living the dream that Riley had once chased and for that reason, Maya and Zay tolerated her. It wasn’t that she wasn’t likable; she was nice enough. It was just that Maya had never met anyone who was more tightly wound. Smackle had a particular way of doing things and though the diner had never been cleaner, more organized, and more efficient than when Zay took her on, Maya simply didn’t appreciate changing her way of doing things just to fit Smackle’s compulsive need for order.

           “Actually, I can. I don’t own the place. I just run it. I wouldn’t lose anything but the weight of carrying this business if I had it my way and kicked you three to the—"

           “Business? It’s a diner. And it didn’t miss us for the fifteen minutes that we were late. But it will miss us for thirty if you keep us from actually doing our jobs with your whining.”

           “Alright, you know what? Get out of my kitchen. Get out.”

           Snickering, Maya led Riley and Smackle through the swinging door that led into the dining area. Though Riley sighed unhappily as they left Zay to his dramatics, the girls easily fell into their habitual duties for opening up. Riley got to work on the register, counting bills and setting up the front desk. Smackle wiped down each table and sorted the condiments in whatever order made sense to her otherworldly brain. Maya got to work on the pastry display case. The first thing she did every shift was rearrange it so she could display her creation of the day, which was dreamt up sometime before going to bed every night and arriving at work each morning. What made all the elbow grease she put into the job worthwhile was found underneath the diner in its basement: the bakery. Each dessert, particularly the pies, was made from the imagination of her mother. Every dressing coating its recipe, particularly the cakes, was designed from Maya’s. Serving the sacred combination to the diner’s patrons, who had no idea that they were seeing into the very essence of her being with every bite, was the most gratifying thing Maya got to experience in a montage of diner meals that left her secretly hungry for something more. In another life, perhaps Maya would have liked to be an artist. But she was living in this life and if she couldn’t be that, she supposed being a waitress that got to bake the cakes was the next best thing.

           “What’s the special today?”

           Maya’s fingers twitched towards her apron’s pocket where the sketch of her subway ride lived frozen in time between the pages of her server’s pad. She was planning on using it as inspiration for some kind of cake resembling that crazy old woman’s hat, but Riley’s hopeful expression was especially sweet this morning. Her brows lifted in the direction of her hairline ever so slightly, creating the barest traces of wrinkles that were not yet etched into the still youthful skin across her forehead. Her lips parted in a preciously premature smile of delight. Maya never wanted Riley to know the harsh truth that she did, that hope was for suckers, and so she never let Zay put Riley’s pie on the menu even though it was continuously requested by the regulars. As long as it wasn’t on the menu, Riley still got to hope every morning, for just a minute or two, that that would be the day that her pie was the special of the day.

         “Why, Aren’t You a Peach Polka-Dot Peach Pie, of course.” Maya painted on an indulgent smile and admired how Riley beamed sunlight at her.

         “Peaches, you shouldn’t!”

         “Too late, I already did. Today’s a good day to serve everyone a little Riley, I think. I know I could use a little of whatever it is you got.”

         “Well, I’m happy to share.”

         “Go check the stock downstairs and make sure we have enough kosher salt. We were running a little low the last I checked and I don’t think Zay is ordering new stock until tomorrow.” Riley abandoned the hostess station where she was organizing the trio’s sections as if they ever changed and raced downstairs into Maya’s sanctuary.

         “When am I going to get a pie made for me, Maya?” Smackle asked without accusation, just curiosity.

         “Maybe it’s not a pie. Maybe it’s a cake. Or a cookie.” The blonde answered thoughtfully, to which Smackle snorted and shot her a grin from across the room.

         “I am at least a brownie by now, thank you very much. How did Riley end up with a peach pie anyway? Because she calls you Peaches?”

         “Nah, she calls me peaches because that’s what the pie is.” Maya explained, “I don’t know, she’s just so nice. It kind of threw me off when we first met, being New Yorkers and all. When she learned about how I make the desserts and dress them up, a peach pie is the first thing I thought of when she asked me what kind of dessert she would be. The polka-dots came later when I thought about how she dresses out of uniform. That’s what makes it Riley.”

         Smackle hummed in understanding. “And what makes it yours, with that kind of personal touch. No one can bake like you can, huh?”

         “No one but my mother. I just try to do it like she would.” Maya answered with a casual shrug and brushed her hands against her apron as she finished up with the display case. Smackle was obviously done with the condiments as she had moved on to adjusting the number of napkins at each table. Maya regarded her for a moment. She wasn’t sure how to say so, but the spectacled girl had unwittingly stirred a feeling of warmth in her chest at the astute (and the very gracious, at that) compliment—the kind of warmth that spread slowly, like a pie crust in the heat of an oven. So she said nothing at all. Maya got through each day by watching the people she saw and jotting her notes down into her art, be it on the dish or on paper. She had never considered that Smackle might do the same. Dimly, she wondered where her coworker took her observations. Perhaps a scholarly notebook; that was presumably what a good NYU student like Smackle would use in her classes at school. Or maybe she just kept it all in that great big brain of hers. It probably was time for Smackle to get her own dessert by now, wasn’t it?

         Without Riley around to peer over her shoulder and ask questions, Maya pulled out the server’s pad from her pocket and flicked through its pages until she found her sketch from the subway ride. Some of her glimpses into inspiration never quite revealed their whole picture and without that, she couldn’t transcribe their stories into a cake. Maya had a gnawing ache deep in her gut that this lady and her crazy hat were one of those torturously brief peeks into something special that she would only ever wonder about for the rest of her life. Sighing, she walked over to the hostess stand, tore the sheet from the pad’s binding, and slid the sketch between the thick cardstock page of a menu and its plastic cover. This was the eulogy of all the subway sketches that never went on to become something more. The idea of one of the diner’s patrons finding it out of the blue and seeing what Maya saw, even if it was only for an instant, was exactly what Crazy Hat deserved. She deserved the chance to connect with a stranger who was not looking for her and make them wonder just like Maya did; if she was lucky, that stranger could do something to tell her story more truthfully than Maya ever could.

         Riley had returned from the bakery downstairs. “I think we should have enough to get through the day!” She announced joyously, waving a carton of the last of the kosher salt they had left over her head just to show them she was sure.

         “Great, but why did you bring it up here?” Maya chuckled, sliding the menu back into the stacks that would be passed around to the customers throughout the day. Riley’s smile faltered for just a second as realization came to her. As quickly as it left, her smile sprung back into place as if it was never gone, albeit the accompaniment of sheepish awkwardness was an endearing new factor in Riley’s sunshine.

         “I…I just…I’ll go put this back.”

         “No need.” Maya offered her a gentle look of reassurance, the expression well-rehearsed for the times that Riley, feeling especially Riley, looked to her for permission to go on exactly as she was. She did this as though Maya would ever want her to change. “I should probably get started anyway before the morning rush gets in. There’s some crust defrosting in the fridge, but I’ll have to make the filling from scratch. I’ll just bring it back down myself.”

         “Well, then get to it! I want my pie!” Riley pitched her the kosher salt that was not even in the same vicinity as her direction, which Maya had to scramble to catch in an almost cat-like maneuver. Smackle made a move to shoo her away in jest, but she was already hurrying along down the narrow spaces between tables to get a move on. She skipped the stairwell leading to the bakery and headed straight for the single bathroom in the back of the building.

         She couldn’t get the door open fast enough and she still had to find the dexterity in fingers that were not so nimble as they were when baking to lock it. The kosher salt was forgotten, carelessly thrown to the floor and forced open upon impact with the ground. Hard flakes of it dug into her bare knees as she dropped and flung her head into the waiting toilet bowl. It was the fourth time this week that Maya had emptied her insides at work. She didn’t think that anyone had noticed this theatrical display of her stomach’s hysterics, but if it went on, it would be impossible to keep hidden. She didn’t want to deal with that intervention, because that’s exactly what it would be with those two goofballs for coworkers, and she certainly didn’t want to have to deal with Zay. She didn’t want to deal with any of this, not at all. She didn’t know how. All she knew was the diner, the customers, the girls and the cook. The desserts. All she knew was being a waitress. If Maya added anything more to her plate, it would not be a matter of whether she would break, but when.