#but. the pain. does NOT lessen. no matter what i do

[queercatboyrights]

does it still count as chronic pain if it's from health issues or broken bones that just. hurt. for months on end. or is that just normal pain

[snail-migraine]

Yandere Tartaglia

This man is like a dog when it comes to his darling.

Sweet and caring to you but to everyone else he is a dangerous maniac who will attack anyone who dares to take a step too close.

I imagine that he probably found his darling when they were just wondering the streets.

No food, no water, no mora to their name. Nothing.

Not even a home or a family to go back to. Absolutely nothing.

Looking at your malnourished body, he felt both pity and anger.

How could someone, anyone for that matter, just walk by and let you slowly decay like this?

Certainly not him.

He decided in that moment he was going to take care of you.

"Shh, it's okay. Don't be scared. You're going be okay, everything is going to get better I promise."

He basically just picked you up, put up on his shoulder, and said "This is mine now."

In the beginning he tries his best to keep his distance, especially since he doesn't fully know what you went through on the streets.

And also you don't know that he's just trying to make sure you're okay.

It pains him to see you flinch away from all of his touches, when you refuse to eat for fear of being poisoned.

He doesn't know who made you so paranoid but all he knows is that he'll try to make your life as comfortable as possible.

And if that means he has to keep at an arms length, then so be it.

But everytime he sees you cuddle up close with the mountain of pillows and blankets on your bed, he can't help the burning jealousy he feels.

Why can't you cuddle him like that?

Once you start showing signs of getting better, your temper tantrums lessen in numbers, and you no longer flinch quite as hard when he pats your head. That's when he decides that now is the time to let loose.

"Sweetheart! Where's my sweetie? Where are you baby? Come here and give me some smooches."

The man is so smitten for you.

You have one of the most powerful men in teyvat wrapped around your delicate little pinky and you didn't even realize it.

He showers you with all of his love, from gift-giving, to quality time, to snuggling up together at all hours of the day.

You and him are practically attached at the hip.

However once you start getting better he has to go back to being a Harbinger.

Most of his job just includes him moving around a lot and not being able to come back home to Snezhnaya all too often.

Which means he either has to take you with him or leave you back at home.

As much as it pains him to do so he chooses to let you stay back home in Snezhnaya.

You've only just got use to being home in Snezhnaya, it would be cruel to make you start hopping place to place just to be with him.

It tears his soul apart that he has to leave you, but as a member of the Fatui, he does what he has to do.

He decides it's best not to introduce you to his family just yet, and instead allow you to be guarded by Fatui members when he's not around.

What he doesn't know however is that you plan on escaping when both he and the guards are not looking.

You're not much of a hassle to begin with so the guards have a tendency to slack off whenever they feel like it.

Which usually means taking short naps during their long working hours.

All you had to do was figure out when they usually fall asleep and prepare.

When the hour comes your more than ready, every fiber in your body is practically jumping with joy at being away from Tartaglia.

You wade through the thick snow of your Homeland, with a giant fur coat engulfing your body as you figure out which way to go.

In your excitement you don't think to cover your tracks. Which is how, when Tartaglia came home to an empty house with nothing but sleeping a guard to comfort him, he knew exactly where you went.

"Stop fighting it.", Ajax's tone drips with his barely contained rage. If his iron-grip on you wasn't a sign of his anger, then his voice for sure was.

Words couldn't describe how enraged you made him. He'd thought you been getting better, that you'd grown past wanting to run away. Turns out the moment he let his guard down is the moment you decided to sprint.

How dare you?

How dare you play with the strings of his heart like this. He trusted you with his heart and you just rip it all to shreds like it never even mattered.

His footsteps crunch in the crisp snow. His face no longer looks like that sweet, smitten, puppy dog that you knew. No this Ajax is cold, dangerous. The Ajax you knew was gone the moment he figured out you decided to run away from the sweet domestic home life you were so graciously blessed with. The Ajax you knew was replaced with Tartaglia the cold eleventh Harbinger of the Fatui.

The one who served the Tsaritsa with nothing but blind loyalty and bloodied blades.

You should've known that this plan would've failed. You should've known that Ajax would've done anything to get you back into his arms. Oh but how hope can blind the weak.

Hope prays on our dreams and tells us that no matter what we will prevail. No matter how many times we stumble and fall. Hope will guide the way. What a load of shit.

Hope is what got into this mess, carried like a princess, your arms held together tight behind you, your 'Lover' stalks his way back to the mansion hidden deep within the dense Snezhnayan forest. The very same mansion that has held you prisoner.

Hope has done nothing but lead you blindly into situations that progressively get worse and worse. You know that so far Ajax has been gentle with for fear that you'd get scared and try to run away. Now that you have, you tremble at what he might do to you now.

With every passing moment your mind fills with worse and worse images of torture you'd havr to endure at Ajax's hands. All because you allowed yourself to believe in some shitty hopefulness. With every new image, your lungs tighten even more. Your heart pounds in your chest, and your legs twitch. Every bone in your body screams at you to run.

But again, that's what got you here in the first place. Didn't it?

Ajax darts his eyes down at you, taking in your shakey form. Your uneven breathe and beating heart all tell-tale signs of how scared you are. How scared you are of him. Your terror must've taken over all of logical thinking.

No matter how angry you make him he'd never lay a so much as a finger on you.

Never.

He sighs before kissing your forehead, the kiss is soft and loving. Reminding you of the Ajax you knew. His face falls from the once tight expression to one more somber and melancholy.

Stress and disappointment etched onto his features. He loves you so much, and he hates that he'll have to punish you. But he can't just let you get away with this.

He brings you up higher, digging his face deep into the crook of your neck. Taking in a whiff of the sweet citrus perfume he gave you. You don't move, your body turned frigid the moment he kissed your head. You don't understand what's going on.

He lifts his head up, looking you in the eye. His eyes mimic a raging sea, waves of blue and teal swirl together to make a his powerful gaze. The look in his eyes is enough to bring tears to your eyes.

You've never seen him look at you like that. With such sorrow and sizzling frustration.

He brings a hand up to your face, wiping away all the tears falling from your watery eyes as he coos in your ears.

"Oh baby, don't cry, there's no need to be scared. I'd never hurt you. I only want what's best for you. But I can't just let stunts like this go unpunished. I promise you, it'll be over before you know it. Okay baby?"

[kaeyas-beloved]

It’s The Way He… || #2

Characters: Alhaitham, Cyno, Dainsleif, Heizou, Itto, Kaveh, Xiao, Wanderer

Summary: Just cute/heartwarming/breath-taking things he does <3

Genre: Fluff + Snippets

CWs: gn!reader (you/your), injuries (Cyno), petnames (my love; Kaveh),

a/n: did a pt. 2 because the last one got lots of love and I though they were really cute so I wanted to do some others <3

|| Pt. 1 ||

Alhaitham

It’s the way Alhaitham props his chin on you - your head, shoulder, just whatever is easiest at that moment - as you read. His eyes, a beautiful mix of green and orange, will skim the page you're on. It's no quantum physics or retelling of historic events, but if you like it then he'll give it a chance. Just, don't be too upset when he asks you to read faster, he wants to know what happens next is all.

"Are you almost done? I've finished the page. What? What's that look for?"

Cyno

It’s the way Cyno is so serious as he dresses your wounds, a stark contrast to the genlteness of his touch. It doesn’t matter if it’s a paper cut, a rash, burn or a gash from battle, it’ll receive the same level of attention and care from the general. If he had it his way he’d get Tighnari to fix you right up, because at least Cyno knows you’re in good hands, but that can’t always happen, so he’s your next best. In a way that’s alright, at least this way he can personally see to it that you’re looked after.

“This will sting a little, sorry, but it has to be cleaned. I’ll try to lessen the pain as much as I can and finish quickly. If you’d like, I can tell you some jokes to take your mind off of it?”

Dainsleif

It’s the way Dainsleif never forgets the little details about yourself. You could mention it once and he’s already committed it to memory, he's committed you to his memory. For 500 years he's walked alone, maybe not always physically, but it still felt like there hasn't been anyone with him. You are the first connection he's had in so long, and even if he's doomed to live long past you, the image of everything that creates you, he’ll will himself to remember for as long as he can, because just the thought of you makes him feel like he's alive once more.

“You told me once that the stars brought you peace. I thought it’d be nice to look out at them tonight, for they too do the same for me. However, if I was to be truthful, you, without a shadow of a doubt, bring me the most peace.”

Heizou

It’s the way Heizou leaves a riddle on the kitchen counter for you every so often before he leaves for work or errands. There’ll be clues scattered around the house for you to find as well, each one becoming more cryptic than the last. Of course, he knows you well enough to not make them so tough you can’t figure it out. He wants you to receive your prize after all~

“Did you figure out today’s riddle?” … “Heh, that’s correct, I knew you’d get it! Now, come and claim your reward. I think you’ll really enjoy it this time~”

Itto

It’s the way Itto runs up to you the instant he sees you in the streets of Inazuma, arms ready to grab hold and lift you as high as he can or as high as you allow. He'll even do a little spin with you he's that happy to see you. It doesn't matter if you’re alone or with someone, he is a loud and proud oni who shows off the person that owns his heart!!

"There you are my partner-in-crime, my beetle battle buddy, my number one! Say, if you're not busy how about you tag along with me? I just found this awesome raman place that's pretty cool if I do say so myself. How about we check it out?"

Kaveh

It’s the way Kaveh readily helps you with your outfit and any bells and whistles that go with it. As a renowned architect there are times where he’s invited to formal events, and you are his first go to for a plus one. And where there’s formal events there’s formal attire, and the hassle of making sure everything is perfect. Be it a tie or some piece of jewelry, Kaveh and his keen eye for detail are there to help attain that perfection.

���Ah, here, let me help. Sometimes, it takes another pair of eyes to catch if something’s off. Of course, you look stunning regardless my love. There, shall we head off?”

Wanderer

It’s the way Wanderer stumbles to match your pace. For as long as he's lived he's moved at his own pace, never once slowing or playing catch-up for others. For you though, he'll stop to admire the things he's overlooked due to his immortality, he'll race to make sure you don't run too far from him that he can't raech you. No longer does he run away from those he loves, now he runs alongside them.

"What? You stopped for a flower? It's pretty? Please, I can think of many more things that are prettier than some flower, but I suppose we have some time. Who am I to stop you from doing what your little heart desires."

Xiao

It’s the way Xiao carries with him the little gifts you give. May it be a flower, a picture, a letter or another object of some kind, the yaksha will have it tucked into the safest pocket he has. To you it may have just been something you picked up or made while thinking of him, but for Xiao, it’s his good fortune charm. Something that has a tangible weight to it, his constant reminder that someone is waiting for him back home. However, he can never bring himself to tell you this, covering up the why he brings it everywhere with some barely strung together excuses or redirections.

“Of course I’d take it with me, why would I not? Huh? You think I’d have no real use for it? Tsk, you still don’t know the ways of the adepti, do you?”

Tag list: @spoopy-fish-writes // @that-enby-alien // @xenuuu // @mariposa666haruka // @quackquackmfs // @kaerui-kaisen // @ajaxstar // @genshin-impact-writings // @stage-lucida // @ventisweetheart // @lordbugs // @leena-shi // @lemontum // @akiria12167 // @ari-the-wr1ter // @dontmindmebeing // @xiaos-wife // @irethepotato

. . .

Wanna be tagged in future works? Consider filling out this form! And if you want to be removed just DM or send an ask into my inbox!

[heartfullofleeches]

Fletchers reaction to foxboy willingly kissing him for the first time

Yan Farmer Rabbit + Fox Hybrid Reader

[Reader has no mentioned gender but they are referred to as wife]

-

"Damn it!"

The knife clatters to the kitchen floor with a dull thud. Chest heaving with each pain breath, you fall to your knees - shirt clutched painfully tight in your claws as wetness drips down your cheeks.

Three weeks... Three weeks you've lived with the farmer and he hasn't asked you to lift a finger. This is it.... isn't it? It's finally happening. You were a such an idiot to think it wouldn't. He's testing you... A trial to see how useful you'll be to him in the long run.

"Hey, Sweetness. Something came up down at the general store. Shouldn't be gone long, but- think you can cut up the potatoes for dinner while I'm out? It's not hard. I'll show you how to do it."

He made it look so easy. Each slice against the cutting board so neat, precise - perfect. Just like him. What does he want from you? Does he actually think you'll make for a good partner? You can't even cut up vegetables to save your own tail- Just what the hell does he want from you?!

"Hun? That you?"

Shit. "Fuck, fuck, fuck-"

You wipe at your eyes with the backs of your palms, scrambling to pick yourself off the floor before he sees you. He can't see you like this- The thunder of his footsteps fills you with a kind of terror you haven't felt since you got locked in that kitchen coop.

"Y/n?"

Your back hits the cupboard wall. Fletcher's large, imposing figure hovers at the door frame. Two steps into the kitchen is all it takes for him to march up to the table. To see your mistakes. Too thick. Too thin. Sliced indiead of cubed like he asked. The farmer takes a breath. He kneels down in front of you, hand perched on the tile a hairline away from your shivering legs.

"Hon-"

"Don't-" You bite. "Just don't..... I missed up. I always do. Why do you even want me here? I can't do anything right... I'm a terrible wife."

"Hey!-" Fletcher grips your shoulder, tugging you against his chest. "Don't you ever, ever talk about yourself like that. You're fine. It's okay. All you need is a little practice. Just calm down."

Liar- He's a fucking liar. "What if I don't get better with practice?! What if all I ever am to you is dead weight?"

Fletcher kisses the top of your head, voice small - crushed by the sounds of your sobs against his chest. "That's fine with me too, Sweetheart.... That's fine with me too. I didn't bring you here because I wanted a maid. I just wanted you. That's all I have ever wanted since I laid eyes on you. I love you- Always have, always will."

His hold on you lessens as your whines and sniffles crawl to a still. Your puffy eyes cross his as you lift your head from his chest. He tries to smile - delicately raising his enormous paw to the fuzzy flesh of your cheek. He rests his nose against yours - just like he always did when he was trying to comfort you or feel a connection, lips inches from yours.

"Whether you can dice up a thousand potatoes or not at all. Even if you make a mess of everything you touch. I'll always be here for you no matter what. I'll always love you - no matter what."

Your arms creep up to his neck, the space between you null as your lips ghost over his. Fletcher stiffens, unsure - fearful of scaring you off now if he takes the dive for you. And so you take it-

The kiss is hesitant. Gentle as the hand stroking at your back, washing away any doubts left of his conviction towards you. Tear drops fall at your skin, but you have none more to cry. Is he?... You pull away as the droplets drip from Fletcher's chin into his already stained tee.

"My bad." The farmer barks out a dry chuckle, pinching the bridge of his nose in an attempt to stop the flow. "Now's not the time to get emotional, but I just- I'm so glad to have you here. With me."

"I know... I'm glad to be here too now, but um... Fetch?"

"Yeah?"

Your ears lay flat against your skull as your stomach whines in hunger. "Can we... finish up with dinner now?"

The laugh Fletcher bellows is far less restrained. "Sure. What kind of man would I be if I let my wife starve? I'll tell you some more tricks will we're at it. You'll be a head chef in no time, sweetheart.... And even if you aren't - I'll cherish you all the same."

[thomas-jefferson-miku-binder]

I hate Mel Medarda discourse because she’s an insanely well-written character with a lot of depth, but people almost always have only two things to say about her: 1) evil girlboss or 2) never did anything wrong. both make me want to krill myself 🦐

In front of you, there’s a female character born of war who rejects the physical brutality of her family’s name and the regime she was born under. except said violence never really goes away because if it ever does leave, nothing else would remain

This character can and will reproduce the hatred she has always known, just in more palpable ways, ways where she’s allowed to look away — or even better, ways where she’s so distanced from the action itself that where she “looks” doesn’t even matter

It’s also so interesting to think that maybe Mel doesn’t dislike physical violence because it’s “bad” but simply because she does not excel at it The thought that if Mel was maybe stronger or a more skilled fighter, she would be just like her mother tickles my brain. yaaaas Although, to me, that's a more "what-if" scenario than the actual characterization Arcane deceipts

By the way, I do not think Mel is a monster. She clearly does try to be what she considers a "good" person, but the violence she’s always known sometimes escapes (just like in the Viktor scene above — she does not like to be disagreed with).

Sooo insane that she’s a diplomat/politician because yes. what other job in the world would allow her to exercise that repressed violence while also giving her the sense of duty—of goodness.

Mel is stuck at the scene of the execution form her childhood. All she does is repeat the same scenario in her head with different outcomes: sometimes one where she saves the prisoner, another where she doesn’t hesitate (that being the keyword here) to kill her

This reverberation of the violence she suffered is just her manner of coping with that traumatic scene. a way of lessening the pain without actually confronting its cause.

I feel like I need to clarify that no, I do not think Mel is “evil”. I don’t even think she is intentionally manipulative (most of the time), I think she handles people the only way she knows how to, which is probably one of the only reasons she survived Noxus at all (as, to how I see it, there's only a certain extent your House will guarantee your protection in Noxus).

I know the fandom talks a lot about Viktor and Jayce being idealistic, but I rarely see people mention how Mel is just as romantic. Jesus- that’s literally a huge source of conflict with her mother: Ambessa thinks Mel is naive, which to her means weakness, which to her is unacceptable.

I hate that Mel Medarda is forced to be subjected to fandom spaces, because, no, she is not a small bean. no, she’s not an evil girlboss.

Do I believe she is a good person? I think she tries to be (even if her notion of goodness is so heavily aligned with honor, too), and that tells me a lot more about her character than how successful she is at it

[yet-another-heathen]

I saw ur really informative post on conditioning and said with whumpers uts about using pain again and again

Any advice about caretakers deconditioning?

[ Referring to this post. ]

The first and most important thing is that the caretaker cannot decondition the whumpee. It's not possible. That progress is entirely internal, and requires a massive amount of introspection, self-motivation, and practice from the whumpee themself. No one else can do it for them.

But what the caretaker can do is be there for them while the whumpee fights toward their own recovery. They can be the stability that whumpee needs in order to work through these massive problems on their own.

Deconditioning is awful. It involves repeated failure, over and over and over, working toward lessening the response. And it is incredibly frustrating, painful, heartbreaking, and at times it feels completely hopeless.

Progress is so non-linear that they can spend months improving and then backslide nearly back to the beginning if they get caught off guard. At times it'll feel like they're stuck at the same point and can't get any further. Like a future where they will be free of it may simply not exist.

At many points, your whumpee is going to feel heartbroken. They're going to spiral into, "Why can't I do this? Why can't I make it stop?" and, "I thought I was past this." and, "Will I ever be able to undo what whumper made me?"

A good caretaker can be there to comfort them when things go wrong. They can hold them while they cry. They can listen to them when they go into a sobbing, breathless rant about how much this hurts. They can make sure that whumpee knows they have someone who doesn't think of them as broken or lesser because of what they've gone through.

Depending on if whumpee feels it would help, they might help them brainstorm a reward system. If there's a situation where they're around other people and the caretaker spots the trigger coming, they can try to redirect conversation away from it before it hits. Preferably without anyone realizing they're doing it for whumpee's sake. When whumpee has just been triggered and wants nothing more than to be alone, the caretaker can make sure their boundaries are respected. To make sure they have somewhere safe to go.

Even more importantly, they can also help by highlighting the moments of whumpee's progress. Pointing out their successes, no matter how small. Pointing out how far they've come. Reminding them that the ups and downs are supposed to happen. That trauma recovery is a rollercoaster, not a straight line.

As a whumpee in that state, it's very easy to feel like they're making no progress. That even when they succeed, the tiny bits of success are hollow, because 'they shouldn't be like this in the first place'. Have your caretaker help them see their own victories. Help them actually see the healing as it grows.

A realistically conditioned whumpee does not need someone to fix them. They need someone to be there for them while they save themselves.

---

This was such a good ask, thank you for sending it my way!

[azsazz]

Sanctum

Azriel x Cassian x Rhysand x Reader

Summary: Anon Req: Okay so for the a/b/o. What if a bad guy (Illyrian camp lord, Beron, Hybern, etc) takes the reader/omega of one of the bat boys while the reader is in heat to bring the bat boys to them or something and they have to get them back but also fuck their brains out 😂

Warnings: SMUT, Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, anal, fingering, breeding kink.

Word Count: 4,376

Notes: I think my mind just went "why have one when you can have three" cuz lately i've been down bad for all of them

_________________________________________

“Az,” you whimper, writhing in his hold. You’re sweating and shaking in his arms, and the cooler autumn breeze tells him that winter is coming. Your nails dig sharply into the muscles of his back because you’re so uncomfortable, even though he’s holding you so closely. “It hurts too much.”

His heart pounds in his chest as he angles his wings to keep you in the current. He hates that you’re feeling so poorly right now, but they have to get you away from Autumn, and fast. Azriel winces, tightening his grip around you as you squirm. Your nose buried into his neck does nothing to ease your heat, the close proximity only makes your cunt throb and you wish he were holding you differently so you can rut up against him.

“I know, my mate,” he murmurs, but it's strained. His own body wants to react to you, your mating bond calling to his, and he’s never held his body so taut while flying before. His pupils keep dilating as your scent swarms around you both, your slick intoxicating. He knows how needy you are, how painful this must be for you, but he’s incredibly thankful that he and his brothers had found you in time before Eris or one of the other alphas in Beron’s court came to your aid. 

His jaw tightens as he thinks about what could’ve happened to you, his precious little omega stolen away from her home to use against them.

He’ll kill them all.

The brassy tone of Azriel’s voice soaks through your skin to settle in your bones. It only makes you cry harder, utterly helpless and knowing that there’s nothing that you can do to make the unbearable heat dim. Even though you’re desperate to be home, where you can be safe and really sink into your omegaspace while your big, bad alphas protect you, your body is craving a knot, now.

Azriel casts a hopeless look to his brothers, flanking the both of you as he carries you. The smell of your heat and the desperate gnashing of your bond is affecting them too. Cassian’s face is red, thick brows pulled tight in a furrow as he watches Azriel struggle to keep you still. Rhys frowns deeply, hardly able to take his eyes off of you to scout the areas ahead.

“We won’t make it.” Rhys swoops as close as he can while avoiding Azriel’s shifting wings. His voice carries over the wind. You’re still hours from the house and he and Azriel are both too drained to winnow, but Cauldron be damned they’ll get you to safety, no matter how much their wings ache. “We need to stop.”

Azriel cuts him a look, jaw set. “There’s nowhere to stop.”

“She’s clearly in pain, Az,” Cassin nearly growls at the sound of another mewl of agony. He tries to flush soothing feelings down the bond to you but it does nothing to lessen the spasms of your heat. 

“I know,” he bites back, “Fuck—I know.” 

But he’s not wrong. Night has settled, and while you’re still hours away from the House of Wind, there’s no lodging in the mountains nearby. The Hewn City hadn’t ever been an option. 

“Az,” you cry out. Their bickering isn’t helping. If anything, it’s making everything ache even more, the throbbing between your legs incessant no matter how tightly you clench your thighs together. 

Knock her out, Cassian sends to Rhys through their mind connection, and the High Lord opens the path for Azriel to communicate through as well. It’s better this way, for your safety.

Azriel’s grip around you tightens, his lips finding your forehead, a comforting motion for the shadowsinger. You’re burning hot, sweat beading your hairline, even though you’re vibrating in his arms. Your tight grip has slackened already as the pain of your heat consumes you, and the rattling of your breathing worries him more than he’d ever admit.

We can’t do that, he sends back, but the look Rhysand wears is the same one he does when he has to make a tough call involving his court. It’s the last thing he wants to do, and his own power drain is palpable, but to get you to safety, he’ll tap himself out. They all will.

We can’t leave her like this, Cassian bites back in his alpha voice. It makes the hair on his brother’s necks rise. He’s more frustrated than them, being the first one to bond with you will do that to a male. And with his own rut nearing, he’s been on edge as of late.

Azriel ignores the both of them, taking a deep breath before he flaps his wings harder, picking up more speed. He’s losing steam quickly, days without sleep while searching for you and fighting off anyone who dared get in their way was not easy. They could feel your fear and distress through the bond, the way that you hardly touched the food they’d given you and kept yourself awake, fighting your captors even as your heat began to sink in. 

“I need you to touch yourself for me, love.” He sounds so gentle, like you’re some fragile thing in his arms that’ll break at the next bank of wind. “Can you do that for me?”

You shake your head no, afraid to even speak, knowing that your voice will break. 

“Please, love,” he begs, “It’ll help.”

“It’ll hurt worse,” you croak, blinking tears from your eyes as your desperation rises, “I need it, Az. I need your knot.”

He groans, smothering his face in your scent glands to get a whiff of your drug-like aroma. He teeths over the bond mark on your neck, a brand of his own, set between by both of his brothers' indentions, proof that they are your alphas and you, their omega.

And the last thing your alphas want is for you to hurt.

He lets his instincts take over, drawing his wings into his back as he nosedives. He lets his spymaster mind take over, eyes scanning for the best area to stop and rest. The wind whips at his face and the fabric of your skirts slaps against his body as you freefall.

With a stroke of luck he spots a cave. It’s not nearly as hidden as he’d like, but there are no other options right now. It will have to do.

Azriel sends his plans to your other pack members, who immediately follow the spymaster’s silent instructions. Cassian stalks ahead when you land on the ground with a jolt, scoping out the area while Rhys moves closer to help settle the raging bond in your chest.

“Just a few more moments, darling, I promise you,” he speaks softly, brushing the hair from your wet cheeks before running a soothing hand across your soft skin. His power thrums through you but does nothing to stave away the gnawing, uncomfortable feeling gnashing in your gut.

“All clear,” Cassian calls, voice echoing loudly throughout the darkening night. It makes the other two wince, Azriel tucking you closer to his chest as he goes on high alert. Ater a brief pause where he scans the area, straining to hear for potential threats over the rushed sound of your heart in your chest, he makes their way deeper into the cave while Rhys sets off in search of firewood.

Cassian’s already stripped himself of his thick coat and shirt, laying it out on the cold, stony ground as a bed of sorts for you. His muscular, tanned chest on display has more slick dripping from your cunt, undergarments soaked through. The light dusting of hair across his large pectorals makes you flare up, and you so desperately want to reach out for him, to touch the soft hairs beckoning to you like a beacon, but you’re too weak to unclench your fist from Azriel’s shirt.

You whimper and the warlord scrambles, reaching out to relieve Azriel of his duties. He looks bone tired, dark circles around his eyes and mouth set in a permanent frown. He’d been hard as a rock the entire time he’d been carrying you, his body reacting to your heat, ready to give you everything that you could ever need, but your protection will always come first.

He presses in close, his bare body touching yours and you huff out a sigh as the thrumming in your chest becomes more bearable from his warm skin pressed up against you. Cassian is gentle with you, setting you down onto his jacket to help you with your own clothes.

You rake your nails across any skin you can find as he works, body writhing on top of the warm threads beneath you. The throbbing between your legs is driving you insane, and you need him, you need him like the sun needs the sky, like the moon needs darkness.

“Almost there, sweetheart,” he reassures, but there’s still too much clothing between the two of you. Azriel’s made himself scarce, off to help Rhysand prepare for the long night in the cave with their omega in heat. They’ll need all of the protection they can get. He only hopes they’ll be able to sate you enough before you’re needing to go for another round so they can finally transport you the rest of the way home in the morning.

You shiver as he drags the lace covering your needy cunt down, tossing them over his shoulder without care. His nostrils flare as the scent of your slick hits his nose and his cock strains against the leathers he’d only gotten so far as to untying. He bends to kiss and lick at your wet thighs but there’s no time for foreplay, you need his knot and you need it now.

But you don’t need to speak a word, the bond you share with Cassian lets him know exactly how much you’re in need of relief. He lets your hands slide up the hills and valleys of his back as he shifts away to rid himself of the confining leathers, but your fingers slip up into his hair and tug him to a stop.

The alpha growls and you keen in response, nipples tightening and thighs spreading as you submit to the noise. He huffs, shoving his pants down and kicking them away into the pile with his boots before he’s leaning over you and molding his body to yours, pressing a kiss of apology over the red indentations of the bite mark of his you wear proudly.

Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling his body even tighter to yours. His cock slides against your soaking cunt and you need to scream but his mouth is on yours, swallowing the noises trying to escape your throat as he shoves into you with a predatory groan.

Stars burst behind your closed eyelids, body vibrating at the sensation of finally being claimed by your alpha. You’d never staved off your heat like this before. Either your alphas were there to take care of you or you had your plethora of toys to help relieve some of the pain, but as you’d sat in one of the suites in the burrows of the Woodland House, the thought of getting off to help the pain subside was met with the fear that one of the men there would try something with you.

“Cassian,” you moan as he licks across your bond mark again. You swear that you can feel his soul tangling with yours at every thrust, feverish and rushed, your alpha wanting to help you through your prolonged heat. He doesn’t like seeing you in pain like this, and he’s proving it by fucking into you the way you crave, not loving and teasing like he normally is. No, this is hungry and raw, the need to take care of what’s his outweighing his own need to be gentle.

You’re already getting near. A single touch from them could get you off in the throes of your heat, but after having forced yourself back for so long, it’s taken him longer than he’d like to admit to get you to this point. Cassian licks his way down your neck and to your nipple, swirling his tongue before nipping at it with sharp teeth, and your body arches into his as you whine while your orgasm rips through you.

Some of the haze clears from your mind when you come back to, but you’re just as desperate for him to follow you. You can feel Cassian’s knot swelling already and you wait with a baited breath until he releases with possessive snarl, locking him into you as hot spurts of his seed fills your needy cunt.

You feel as though you can finally breathe again, even with the warm weight of your biggest alpha pinning you to the ground. You feel safe in his arms but the itch comes back quickly, consuming you as you catch the scent of your other alphas on the autumn breeze.

“More,” you cry desperately, swirling your hips but it does nothing to move the cock that’s locked deeply into you. “I need more.”

Hurry up, Cassian snaps through their mental shields as he drags his hands down your sides and across your hind. He scoops some of the slickness from between your legs, grunting as his cock throbs again, releasing even more cum into your tight cunt. It’ll go on like this for a long moment, but that doesn’t mean he can’t get you prepared.

You shudder through a moan as he circles a finger around your pucker, a gentle tease before he presses it inside. You sigh against his lips, giving him a thankful kiss as he helps fill your needs.

Azriel strides into the cave by the time Cassian’s worked you up to three fingers, his face set and mouth downturned as always. You know him better than that, understand that the hard look in his gold-flecked eyes isn’t because of you or even the alpha knotting you, it’s because he feels as if this isn’t a safe enough place to mount you and claim you as his. 

Overprotective alpha.

Cassian is careful to shuffle you around, tucking you close to his body as he maneuvers himself under you so that your ass is on display for the scowling alpha. You mewl as his knot is jostled, but he stays tucked tightly into your cunt. They’re good about giving each other space at home, but with how long you’ve been needing them, your bond calls out to all of them like a siren song.

There’s a pile of wood in Azriel’s arms but Rhys hasn’t made his way back to the cave yet, scouting the surroundings and preparing himself for the night ahead. He’s still collecting firewood, and Azriel drops his own carelessly at his feet, his hands already dragging his shirt up the toned planes of his chest, responding to his omegas call. 

He settles onto his knees behind you, letting his shadows drape themselves in lone lines down your back. You shiver, their cool claws brushing your heated skin in a way the makes your cunt flutter and you beg.

Azriel hushes you softly, admiring the sight of you stretched out on Cassian’s fingers, his cock. His lips part to taste the scent of your arousal in the air and he so desperately wants a taste of his delectable omega, but your wild cries for him to fuck you have him ripping Cassian’s fingers from you to replace with his rock hard length.

Your broken moan echoes throughout the cabin and into the autumn winds outside, calling Rhysand home to you with every sound. There’s nothing he can do except glamor the mouth of the cave. He has to concentrate harder than he’s had to since he was young and learning the skill, but the pleasurable sounds you’re making are very distracting. Sweat lines his brow as he forces his powers out, shoving away the weariness he feels from exuding too much of it in the search for you.

He drags himself inside and all but collapses into a heap next to you and the other alphas. He’d love nothing more but to shut his eyes and rest for a moment, but he can’t look away from you, mouth hanging open and eyes rolled into the back of your skull as Azriel fucks you frevorently from behind.

“Fuck, Az,” Cassian hisses, fingers digging into your hips. His chest is heaving under you, pressing you up and down, rubbing you between your alphas chests. Your hardened nipples brush over his tanned skin and they’re so sensitive that it makes you cum again. The feeling of Az’s cock through your walls is astounding, and everytime he shares you this way he’s just as surprised by the feeling, especially when he feels his own sensitive cock preen as the shadowsinger’s knot expands. “I’m going to cum again.”

“Do it,” you beg, clutching onto his arms. Azriel’s hands snake around your shoulders to tug you up, and the change of the angle he's pressing into you has you seeing stars. With a hand gripping your chin, he tilts your head so that he can finally kiss you.

Cassian cums again with a roar that shakes the mountain and makes the other two alphas growl in alert. He doesn’t care, baring his teeth at them as he tries to pry you out of Azriel’s arms, to no avail.

You meet the eyes of your third alpha, the High Lord who’s lounging like the playboy he is, beside you with a glare that melts into a tired smirk when he catches you staring. 

You reach out to him, pleading him to join in because you need him, it still hurts even though two of your alphas are fulfilling your needs right now. 

But you need them all.

“Please, please, please, please, please!” Your plea for him twists into chants for Azriel, his knot growing deeply inside of you as he cums, lapping at his mark on your neck. He wishes it were the one on the meat of your thigh, his other favorite place to pleasure you. For now, this will do.

Rhys scoots closer when you collapse on Cassian’s chest, soft noises of approval drifting from your mouth. Your eyes flutter from how incredible you feel, but you’re still hot all over and you know that you won’t be feeling like yourself until you’ve had all three of your alphas multiple times.

“You know I can’t help you right now, darling,” he drawls, tucking a strand of hair back behind your ear. Your fingers dart up to catch his wrist before he’s able to pull away, so he settles on brushing the smooth skin of your cheek instead.

“You can,” you whimper back, but he’s already shaking his head.

“I don’t like to do that, my sweet,” but there’s no High Lord demands in the tone of his voice, so you know that you can push him.

“Rhys,” you swallow harshly, trying to focus on him for a second instead of on the hot seed filling you to the brim from your other alphas. “I wouldn’t ask you if I wasn’t sure. I need you too.”

He sighs, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment and you bite back a whimper because you think you’ve gone too far, that Rhys won’t help you at all.

“Alright,” he says softly and you breathe a sigh of relief.

His eyes glow brighter as he enters your mind.

Rhys doesn’t like meddling in your mind, but sometimes when your heat is too much, it’s all he can do. Your body thrives on having all three of your alphas inside of you, and he’d be willing to fuck your throat, but knowing just how bad this heat is for you, he doesn’t want to risk it.

Instead, he caresses your inner being. You can feel him in your head, the images he’s showing you, you bent over the counter in the kitchen, taking his cock like the good little omega you are for him. There’s one of him slurping the slick from between your thighs like a starved male, until your legs could no longer hold you up and his tongue was buzzing from the amount of times he’d gotten you off.

And there’s one of the future flooding your vision as you whine for more. One of his favorite thoughts, you chasing around after a little boy who howls with laughter and looks just like him.

That’s the one that makes you cum harder than you ever have before, your vision whiting out as your body slackens on top of Cassian, sliding into your omegaspace.

They hold you like that for a long time. Azriel draped over your back and Cassian under you, keeping you warm as the chill of the night sets in and even after their knots go down. Rhys runs his hand in a soothing pattern against any skin he can find, even as he shuts his eyes to rest. 

You’re sated and happy, surrounded by your alphas, until you’re not.

You wake with a start, writhing in the space between Cassian and Rhys. Your hairline is damp with sweat and the ache between your legs is back. You whimper into the darkness of the cave, hoping to rouse one of your sleeping alphas, preferably the one you haven’t been filled with yet.

Azriel is nowhere to be seen, on patrol no doubt.

Rhys wakes to a stiff cock and you rutting against him, begging him for relief. He blinks away the sleep in his eyes only for his pupils to dilate as he zeroes in on the scent of your slick.

He’s quick to roll on top of you, caging you in with his forearms pressed to the pile of coats and clothes they’d set you upon to sleep. The undergarments that he’d been reluctant to put back on for this reason are gone with a snap, his hips tilting down to dip into your wetness. You both groan at the feeling and you cling to him like a bat.

You’ve been waiting for him, your alpha and High Lord alike. His touch is demanding, wanting all of your attention on him as he sheaths himself inside of you in one fell swoop. He doesn’t want to share, and right now, with Cassian snoring softly beside you and Azriel taking rounds in the woods, he doesn't have to.

Rhys doesn’t waste any time. He can feel how badly you’re craving him, squirming on his cock like the good girl you are. Your fingers leave crescent shaped marks on his shoulders and he leaves behind bruises where his fingertips hold your hips still to pound into you.

Even in the darkness, you can see that there’s no violet in his eyes. They’re a reflection of the night sky, looking at you like you’re the moon, heavenly in the way that you move, sound in response to him. He loves you, through and through.

The bond thrums in your chest as he ruts into you, swirling his hips as he lowers himself flush to you. He slips into your mind, letting you feel everything that you’re doing to him, and it’s nearly too much, to be able to feel his heart pounding in your chest against yours, the blistering arousal coursing through his veins.

“I’m going to put an heir in you to rule the court, darling, will you give me that?” Rhys’ voice is dark, more alpha than Illyrian right now but it’s exactly what you need. You need his roughened hands manhandling you into positions best for breeding, you need those dark eyes pinned to yours, knowing that his words are nothing but truth, you need his knot to fill you with his seed to give him exactly what he wants. 

Your body arches into his on instinct and you bare your throat to him. He lets out a predatory growl and noses along your scent gland, devouring the familiar sweetness he’s been craving. The urge to mark you again is strong, his body vibrating as he tries to hold himself back. But then you answer.

“I’ll give you a whole litter, alpha,” you moan, and he bites.

The sensation explodes throughout your body. You cry out in pleasure as you cum on his cock, walls flexing around him in a motion that only makes his hips move faster and his teeth clamp tighter.

You’re pulling at his hair, clawing down his sides trying to drag him closer, as if somehow you’ll be able to manage to absorb your alpha into your very being. Your mating bond vibrates and you can feel the warm, golden tendrils as they meet his, twisting and twining around each other in tight knots that will never be able to become undone.

“I can’t wait to see it,” his voice sounds like he’s swallowed sand, rough like it hasn’t been used in ages. “Your belly swollen with my pups. I bet it will drive your other alphas wild.”

His voice holds a breathy falter, and the visions of you heavily pregnant flit through his mind. It makes him release a desperate sound and his ships stutter, knot swelling as he shares the images with you.

He cums with a sound that brings courts to their knees and sends shivers up your spine, knot locking into place deep in your cunt. He swears that this will be the time that his seed takes, Cauldron willing. 

“Let’s find out,” you pant, brushing some of the hair from his face. Rhys stares down at you, noting how the cloudy look from your heat has subsided now that you’re being knotted, and he can see nothing but the truth glimmering in your soft gaze.

Rhys swallows roughly, leaning down to breathe in your scent deeply. It’s always calmed him, even in the worst scenarios. You are his rock, his home. “You’re ready for pups?” he asks like he’s afraid of your answer.

You can’t bite back the grin splitting your lips. 

“Yes, Rhys, it’s time to grow the pack.”

[loganhowlettshousewife]

logan howlett x disabled!reader with chronic pain (not specified)

series masterlist - my masterlist

you should have known better than to go on the mission yesterday, but there’s nothing you hate more than feeling weak and patronised. charles had told you to sit it out if you were in pain, and you’d snapped back that you could handle missions just as well as any other x-man which, while true, doesn’t mean you should push yourself past your limits.

you can’t even get out of bed, every small movement making you whimper and groan as pain shoots through you, unforgiving. after so long dealing with chronic pain, you sometimes think you should be used to it, but no matter how many years go by and how many flares you experience, it never gets any easier.

logan’s upset with you, huffy and fussing, repeating over and over how you should have listened to charles, how the professor only wants what’s best for you, and telling you that it’s idiotic to let your pride take over. he’s being hypocritical, but you know it’s only because he hates to see you this way, hates to see you vulnerable, worries that one day something will happen and the x-mansion will be attacked and you’ll be in too much pain to effectively defend yourself.

so you let him take care of you, because you know it makes him feel better. it allows him a modicum of control over an uncontrollable situation. he, unlike you, has not yet given up on the idea of finding methods to lessen your chronic pain.

he helps you take your medication, brings you food and water, goes so far as to feed you so that you don’t even have to shift your body in case it’s too much. he waits by your side until the drugs kick in, refusing to leave until you tell him to go.

he asks jean to check in on you, asks if there’s anything she can do with all of her medical knowledge - the answer is no, there is no cure to a condition like yours, only techniques to lessen the pain temporarily. he searches for the few mutants in the mansion with healing abilities and practically begs them for help; it’s the only time he lets anyone see him vulnerable, because he hates to see you in pain and would do anything to bring your usual smile back to your face.

you groan in annoyance when he returns to your room with a slightly scared-looking teenager that you vaguely remember teaching last year, but she takes some of your pain away and so you thank the kid. she blushes and whispers “you’re welcome” before skittering out the room, and you’re now able to move enough to turn towards logan with your arms crossed over your chest, an unimpressed stare leveled at his face.

“she asked to help!” he protests, “he overheard me talking to jean about your pain and she offered. i didn’t force her to do anything.”

you sigh. chronic pain can’t be healed even with mutant abilities, you’ve tried it all before. it can take away the worst of it in the same way that some medication can, help with the inflammation that comes with a flare up, bring it down to manageable levels. but you’ll never be free of this burden.

“come here,” you say, and he does, nearly tripping over himself in his haste to give you anything and everything you desire. it’s ridiculous and you laugh, the first real smile you’ve shown all day, now that every breath no longer feels like a battle not to cry out in pain.

you stay in bed the rest of the day. it’s better to take it easy for a while than to risk anything. and logan stays with you, massaging at your muscles until they relax under his strong grip, leaving only to bring you more meals and your medication. he kisses you every time you complain that he surely has better things to be doing, covering your mouth with his large palm as he reminds you that you’re the most important thing to him now.

main taglist: @raeinyourdreams @meetmypointlessaddiction @chubbyhedgehog @yxtkiwiyxt @isepod @dis-plus-fanfic-reblog-writes @deaky-with-a-c

[cozymoko]

Tw EATING DISORDER

what would the sakamakis+tsukanamis do when they realize their s/o is developing an eating disorder?

:3

S/O WITH EATING DISORDER — SAKAMAKI

Note: I can only put a certain amount of pictures in per request so if you still want the Tsukinamis' please feel free to request again once my ask box is open!

Pairing: Sakamaki Brothers x gn! reader

Format: Headcanons

WARNING(S): eating disorder, force feeding, insensitive comments

Want more Diabolik lovers? → Masterlist! ★

SHU SAKAMAKI

Though not the most well-informed, he's far from being an idiot. He was already suspicious when you either faked eating during dinner or attempted to force the food down your throat. It was painfully evident. And when he found you bent over a toilet, retching out the remains, that was all the proof he needed.

Shu can't force you to do anything and he's aware of that, but he will still encourage you to do so. Frankly, he'd rather not have you starve to death due to your own stubbornness. Shu will follow you to hell and then bring you right back. He'll even try to play therapist and listen to what kick-started your god-awful eating habits.

“Haah, what a piece of work. You must really want to give me a heart attack, hm? Learn to rely on me, don't make me worry so much next time.”

REIJI SAKAMAKI

Out of all his brothers, Reiji will be the most understanding. Most of the Sakamaki has very limited knowledge involving the human body but he does not. After plunging his head in many books on the matter, that much should be clear. Thus it's likely you won't have too much trouble confining in him because of that.

There's no need for you to go hungry in any way while living in the manor. Despite how annoyed he may come off, Reiji is willing to go through all the potential solutions to lessen this burden on you. However, he does still remain the same in some aspects, threatening to punish you if you don't put forth some effort to eat.

“I've noticed your eating habits have become rather strange. Very well, I will create a new diet for you to regain your strength. It would be best that you follow it.”

AYATO SAKAMAKI

Unfortunately, he's pretty insensitive to things like this. He has no knowledge of mental health (though having plenty of his own) so Ayato won't try to act as he does. He'll probably say something terribly ignorant or even try to shove food down your throat, then turn around and wonder why you're so pissed at him.

It will take someone to smack some sense into him so he understands the severity of it. Even then he lacks the sentiments to truly comprehend what you're going through. But realistically, he'll probably push it off onto Reiji in the end. Of course, he cares, but such a "detailed" condition isn't his forte.

“Geez, just how long were you planning on keeping this from me? You belong to 'yours truly', and it'd be such a pain if you get any weaker. So rely on me, got it!”

KANATO SAKAMAKI

This is the last person I'd want to be stuck with in a situation like this. He's an absolute idiot on things like this, hands down. (I hate Kanato) In his mind, dolls don't have to eat so you must be perfectly fine, right? Expect you aren't a doll, nor a vampire at that so, of course, you need to eat.

As the days go by you grow noticbly weaker with no desire to do anything but wallow in your despair. Only then did he begin to take things seriously. The triplet has the most insufficient approach ever, it's not even comforting. Kanato will attempt to feed you and then get mad when you reject it. Despite his apparent concern, I highly doubt it'd make up for his thoughtlessness.

“You've grown so weak...Uu...why won't you talk to me? Uu...Don't you care for my feelings? I won't allow you to die on me; you can't leave me! I'll make sure of it!”

LAITO SAKAMAKI

He knows what an eating disorder is as Laito's been with his fair share of women. But that doesn't mean he's educated on the matter. Laito notices your standoffish demeanor right away, carefully eyeing you as he immediately puts two and two together. Yet, he won't act on it until he can find the root of your eating disorder. After all, we must start from the source~!

It'd be a shame if his favorite toy grew terribly ill so he offers to help you. Spending several hours arranging a new diet for you, feeding you small portions, and certainly boosting your confidence in the late hours of the night. Though he doesn't show it, Laito truly cares for your well-being and will do just about anything to ensure your recovery.

“You've been looking at your reflection for quite some time, little bitch. Have I not been tending to you enough~? Fufu, that won't do! Shall I fix that for you~?”

SUBARU SAKAMAKI

Once he found out about your eating disorder, Subaru loses it. His anger is in some way directed at you for not telling him; but also at himself for being so clueless about it. As you'd expect, his first course of action is intimidating you into eating, but a quiet whimper will stop him dead in his tracks. This calls for a different approach.

Subaru looks to Reiji for guidance, which comes as no shock. The vampire is in no place to be taking care of a human in any mental aspect, regardless of them being his lover. Even with this newfound information, it will do very little to decrease his snappiness towards you. But he's just worried and sure as hell doesn't wanna lose you!

“Don't push yourself too much, alright? Tch, 'worried?', it's not like that so shut up, damnit! I just...don't want you to leave me in the dark anymore...”

[calaisreno]

Sixth Sense

885 Words / Prompt: Intuition

Molly notices. 

She’s not really a friend of John’s. They're friendly, but she never has much to say to him. He’s kind to her, and probably aware of how she felt about Sherlock. 

As one of the few who knows Sherlock is alive, she has a terrible advantage over John Watson. Not the one she used to wish for. 

They met in her lab, when Mike Stamford came looking for Sherlock, to introduce him to John. Well, nobody introduced her. Sherlock was fixated on her lipstick for some reason. She remembers John’s eyes on her, then turning to focus on Sherlock. That was the day she finally figured out that Sherlock wasn’t interested in her. In time, her crushing disappointment was lessened by the realisation that he was gay. It wouldn’t have mattered what shade of lipstick she wore or however many coffees she brought him; he would never look at her the way he looked at John.

At first she thought John was straight. After her blunder with Jim from IT (who turned out to be not only gay, but also a criminal) she consulted her friend Jasper, another gay man. “How can you tell?”

Asking this, she wasn’t thinking about Sherlock, or even Jim. What she was wondering about was John, who sometimes looked at Sherlock as if he’d hung the moon, but still dated ridiculous women. 

Of course men have different taste in women, just as women prefer certain types of men. She was attracted to men like Sherlock— tall, pale, Byronic hair, blindingly intelligent. Men who entered rooms with a swirl, who spoke with voices that made her shiver. They were hard to find, and to expect such a man also to be kind, romantic, and not gay was apparently too much. 

John dated women who were a bit out of reach. Taller women, confident women, the kind who didn’t need the right lipstick to be noticed. The kind who didn’t own three cats and spend the holidays with their ageing mother. These unobtainable women never lasted more than two dates. And he never seemed to mind.

John is not Molly’s type. She appreciates his abilities as a doctor. He has the right manner with Sherlock, a bit snarky, but not mean. He’s not tall, not gracefully slender. He has a temper. He’s blond and a bit sweary, good-looking in an average way, an ordinary bloke who goes out for pints with people like Greg Lestrade and Mike Stamford. 

She’d barely noticed him that day in the lab. He’s a man who doesn’t stand out, who completely disappears in the shadow of a man like Sherlock.

John and she are that awkward thing: friends of friends. He would never introduce her as, my friend, Molly. It would be Sherlock’s friend, Molly. If he asked a favour of her, she would do it because Sherlock would appreciate it, not because she feels any obligation to John.

She doesn’t hate him, or wish anything bad on him. She might have felt jealous for a few days, simply because Sherlock never forgets John the way he forgets about her the minute she’s out of his sight. 

She noticed him watching John, usually when he wasn’t looking. He looked sad. And she thought, I know what that feels like.

The memory of that look weighs on her, weeks after Sherlock’s funeral. A hard day, that was, sitting in a pew trying to fake sadness as she watched others grieve.

As she watched John grieve. 

What does it mean that John Watson looks like he’s lost everything? She sees him at the hospital sometimes, his hooded gaze avoiding the eyes of others, his psychosomatic limp making him wince with pain. 

She can’t say what it is that tells her. Maybe she’s just practiced for so long on other men that she’s developed a sixth sense about it. 

John loved Sherlock— not just as a friend. And he’s probably just now realising that. She supposes that quite a few men dismiss those feelings of attraction. Jasper says, all men are gay, potentially. It’s just easier to stay in the closet.

There are various reasons for that, and she doesn’t want to speculate what John’s are, but she observes his grief, and knows regret is a large part of that. 

Sherlock will be back, someday. He wasn’t very clear about when. Six months, maybe a year. But she thinks he’s being optimistic; he wants to come home to John, not leave him to grieve for years. 

And by the time he does make it back, John will have found another woman. Blonde and pretty. Nothing like the dark beauties he used to date. But still, clever like Sherlock, a bit imperious and demanding. He will look at her the way Sherlock always looked at him, when he didn’t notice. 

She could tell him. There’s only her promise to stop her from doing that. Could John keep the secret? Sherlock told her not knowing will keep him alive, that knowing would put him in danger.

She’s not in danger. Nobody thinks she mattered that much to Sherlock. Her feigned grief is taken as real, but everybody knows she’ll get over it. Just a crush.

As for John Watson, this might just kill him. 

That’s a problem she could solve. 

[angxlofvenus]

A Shoulder To Cry On

Requested By: @saturnsapothecary Genre: Hurt/comfort Ship: The brothers x reader TW: Mentions of crying, distressed reader, physical contact, Undisclosed stressful situation, soft characters, angst tbh Word count: 1,107 An: Hi! What you are about to read is probably the most angsty thing I have written thus far. I joke a lot in my other writings but in this one I went with a more somber approach, mostly bc I listened to Mitski while writing this entire thing, Anyway, Heed the TW, and Happy reading ♥️

Pt. 2 can be found here (Dateables+Luke edition!)

It had been a rough week, 'Thankfully it's Friday' You thought, Climbing up The HoL staircase as you felt yourself start to break, By the time you had reached your room- all you could do was walk in, close the door, and start crying, collapsing onto the floor, Not hearing the door reopen and a certain demon pop his head inside...

Lucifer

Immediate concern, What has happened? 

He makes a bee-line toward you, kneeling infront of you.

Will rub soft and slow circles into your back as you start to calm down

Once he knows nothing is currently threatening you in any way, He would lead you to his bedroom (Not like that, get your head out of the gutter)

Will offer you a beverage as you sit on his bed, You don’t have to talk to him but…He is here for you and he needs you to know that.

If you want physical comfort, He will sit on his bed, gather you up into his arms and start to rock the two of you, His body crashed against yours like gentle waves, Pulling you in and then pushing you back out.

If you don’t wish to be touched, He absolutely understands either way. He hopes his soft-spoken words of comfort will help you.

He gets it, He feels nonstop worry and exhaustion from his many duties, He strives to make the Devildom a happy place for you but he knows he can not always insure that, But let him try to fix what has plagued you.

Mammon

When he finds you crying he feels horrendous and angry, Not at you of course! Just-

He’s supposed to be your first man, The guy you can find solace in no matter what! But looking at your tear-stained face he can’t help but feel like he’s failed you in a way 

He will do everything in his power to help you though, He may have not been there to stop this all from happening but that doesn’t mean you have to go through this alone!

Ask and you shall receive, No complaints! Anything you want that will make your grief lessen, He’d do it for you.

He isn’t the best speaker but he’ll start shooting off at the mouth about how much he cares about you and how he hates seeing you like this- Please let him help, In any way he can. 

Levi

Panic, He can barely handle himself- Let alone another person!

With shaky hands he will put a hand on your shoulder before looking at your reaction, 

If you want Physical comfort, he will slot himself beside you, not outwardly touching you, just kind of leaning onto you

If not, His hand retracts rapidly as he instead sits across from you

Either way, He’ll quietly ask if you want to talk about it, After your done talking/You tell him no- He will invite you to his room where you all spend the rest of the night watching your favorite animes/series

He knows he can’t take away all of your pain, But he hopes he can atleast put some nicer things in your mind

Satan

Brows furrowed, He takes quick but cautious steps toward you, almost like he would a cat.

The first thing that comes to his mind is anger, “Are you okay? Who did this?” He will ask you as softly as he could.

When he finds out what has happened, He will feel the surge of anger come back to him, Not at you- never at you, But at the world. He hates how powerless he feels in these moments, knowing there is nothing for him to solve.

So instead he does what he knows how to do, He takes you through breathing exercises and ways to help you calm down, He has spent centuries managing his anger so he has learned a thing or two-

Will talk you through your worries if you wanted before walking off, Only to then bring back your favorite book with him. He reads to you in the same soft voice you have grown to love, He knows he is only one demon but that doesn’t mean he won’t try to take the weight off your shoulders.

Asmo

His first thought is to swarm you, Asking questions, giving hugs, wiping away your tears- the whole nine yards

But he won’t. He knows how to respect boundaries no matter what, So he pushes down the feeling, instead dropping to his knees infront of you and asking what’s wrong.

If you want a hug or a shoulder to cry on he is their the second it comes out of your mouth, You don’t have to pretend with him, not ever- He won’t think badly of you for anything you vent to him about- He is there for you no matter what, Through thick and thin.

Only if your feeling up to it ofcourse, He’ll lead you to his room and bring out his ‘self care box’ The ice mask he lays across your face washes away the remnants of your tears as his hand cards through your hair

Beel

Drops all of his snacks in a flurry to get to you.

Unlike the others, He is looking for injuries- So your personal bubble is feeling a little violated

Once you tell him you are physically fine, His shoulders relax some and he takes a step away from you and says that he’s sorry for running up on you like that.

Gentle giant mode activated, Is gonna talk to you like he does Belphie, Asking what’s wrong and how he can help.

He feels so much responsibility for you, As he does all of his family, And is so crushed that he can’t go back in time and help you

He starts to think about what makes him cheer up and asks if you’d want to go to Madame Screams with him, If yes then he would put in all of his effort to making you forget all of your troubles

If no, He get’s it! Sometimes he doesn’t wanna go out either, He’ll just offer to go and pick up whatever you like from anywhere, No matter what! 

He wishes he could do more but sharing a dessert with you sounds like a good start.

Belphie

Blinks twice, Trying to see if he was seeing things right

Will make his way over to you in confusion, “Hey what’s wrong?” 

You decide whether you actually tell him or not, he’s chill either way- He understands why you would and wouldn’t want to talk to him about it

He isn’t the best at comforting but he does what he can, He’ll move y’all to your bed and will even give you his special cow pillow

Will start talking about random things, anything and everything- Letting his voice will you to sleep, Making sure that all of your dreams are nothing but happy days, Days he’d hope to make a reality soon.

Hey! Fancy seeing you here, I get that this post was a little heavy on the feelings, I just wanted everyone out there to know that You are not alone- No matter what you are going through and that my Dms and inbox are always open if you need to vent or just to talk in general, My blog is a safe space to anybody who needs it 🖤

[eri-pl]

Another ficlet. Finrod, Feanor, a natural history lesson in the Halls of Mandos. Not a part of the calendar, this ficlet just happened.

Warnings: nature-documentary-levels of violence (insects dying in awful ways, it may be triggering), discussion of animal reproduction, discussion of death and suffering. Not graphical, but still evocative. And idk how to phrase it, but: don't read if you have triggers around pregnancy. Seriously.

Also, fig trees are weird. Like, really weird. They are irl. If the idea of a cool, metaphorical tree from the Bible (or: a cool tree with fruit that you do eat) being somewhat eldritch triggers you, don't read (and don't google the detailed biology of anything form the genus Ficus)

“And you're showing me all this, because…?”

Finrod saw himself in Feanor's old studio, the host impatiently paced back and forth as he used to. The image was much more detailed than his own memories: the smell of wax and ink, the rustling of papers moved by the warm wind that entered through the window, even the slight aftertaste of coffee.

He missed being alive, more than ever. And yet…

“Lord Námo said it may be helpful,” he replied.

“Helpful for them, to convince me to forfeit my heart, which I don't even have anymore?” Feanor scoffed at him, and a wave of bitterness washed over Finrod. “Or helpful to you, to have someone congratulate you for all your dubious philosophical speculations? Or maybe for helping a Man steal what is not his?”

“This he did not say, but I came to you, uncle—”

“Half-uncle.”

It did not matter much and Finrod didn't hide this feeling. “—to help you lessen your pain, even if only by a little.”

“How graceful. Truely, a son of Arafinwë. Speaking of which, why didn't you crawl back to the Valar with him?” Even in a dream of the dead, Feanor's voice was full of melody and emotion. How was his memory and imagination so detailed?

“I'm not sure. I thought that I could change something, that I could — and have to — protect my father's people. And I was curious about Middle Earth. This too.”

“I see that you have grown up somewhat. Good. So, tell me, Findaráto, has your curiosity been satisfied?”

“Partially. Mostly— no, not mostly. But as much as it could be, I suppose.”

There was a long silence, broken only by the rustling of the leaves outside, and an occasional bird call. Feanor was shielded, almost unpresent, hiding behind the image. He didn't even bother to make the vision of him breathe.

Eventually, he returned and gestured at the alabaster vase, filled with fig branches, which hadn't been there before. “Tell me, do you know how those bear fruit?”

What did it have to do with anything? But Finrod knew better than to argue with his uncle.

“Half-uncle. And no: I don't care that you did not show me yourself saying this. As long as you keep it open, I consider it said. But back to my question.”

Just like Lord Námo, but quicker to get upset. Of course, from his uncle— half-uncle — Finrod could close part of his thoughts. But there had been enough distance between them already, and that would only increase it.

How did fig trees bear fruit? They grew hidden flowers, enclosed in growths that looked like smaller figs and matured into them. The Men believed that those plants, unlike all others, didn't produce flowers or need pollination, but this was of course false.

“And what does pollinate them?” Feanor spoke like a teacher, and Finrod realized that in the vision they shared he was now a child. Should he try to contest it? But he had come to his half-uncle to console him, not to argue. If Feanor would have him as a child, so be it.

He came closer to the branches. Some of them had mature fruit, some young, and some had the small figs that goats ate. “I don't know, I have never thought of that before. I suppose they pollinate themselves— but no, it would make no sense if they had no other tree to mate with. And they do need those small figs nearby… So I would assume those are sources of the pollen and some kind of small creature — an insect or arachnid — pollinates them.”

Feanor nodded and poked one of the maturing small figs with his finger. A group of tiny flies emerged from it — no, not flies, their bodies were built like very small wasps. Some had wings, some crawled on their bellies — and those were dying.

“Look at the females closely,” said Feanor, pulling Finrod’s attention to the winged wasps. Each of them had tiny specks of pollen on her body. They took flight, and landed on the immature figs — some on the small ones, and one on the big that looked like it could mature into an edible fruit.

“They will each crawl inside an enclosed flower — more like a garden actually. Inside each of those goat figs there are many flowers, now the male ones aren't mature yet, but the female ones will be pollinated by what the wasps brought. And in some of them the insect will lay her eggs, preventing growth of the fruit — the tiny actual fruit, not what the ignorants call a fruit — the others shall grow. And when the eggs mature, the new wasps will emerge into the inside of the fig, and mate, and take the pollen from the now-ready male flowers. Then the male wasps will dig a tunnel out and die. And the females will fly out, and enter more unripe figs, tearing off their antennae and wings in the agonizing process, pollinate, lay eggs and die soon after.”

Finrod looked up at his half-uncle's face. “And what do they do here, in Aman? I suppose—”

Feanor smiled and his eyes glistened with fire, but there was no mirth in it. “Where do you think I studied them?”

They stood in silence and pain. No death in the Undying Lands, except when there is. But for the Fruit-Giver the trees had always been more important than things that moved, weren't they?

Finrod shook it off — those weren't his thoughts — but didn't close himself out. He looked at the dying insects and at Feanor. “Once, I would try to comfort you by saying that the figs are beautiful, or that the new wasps are born and fly… But it hurts. Dying. It hurts so much. I'm sorry.”

“You have grown somewhat, indeed. Yes, the new wasps grow… but it's not even the whole of it. We haven't talked about the sweet figs yet.”

Finrod listened.

Feanor poked the ripe sweet fig, but no insect came out. “When a wasp enters the sweet fig,” he said slowly, “she has no place to lay her eggs. The flowers are shaped differently. She pollinates them, and dies — broken, useless, discarded — and the plant digests her until there's nothing left. Just the sweet fruit, for the joy of the Eldar and more glory of the Valar. Tell me, my little philosopher, what do you think: do figs pity wasps? Do they even think about them?”

Finrod forced himself to stay open despite the pain and anger pouring onto him. “They don't know the pain of death, so how could they pity it?”

“Yet, how could they not? How can they expect— and not even care —” Feanor's voice shook, the wasps quivered in agony, the room trembled. Words and feelings roared around like a storm. Slowly, it calmed down and Feanor resumed: “And yet, they do expect. They gave nothing to me, and yet I'm supposed to give everything, and why? Because only I can do that? Because I'm the biggest wasp that they have in their cage? Nobody else is asked for something like this.

“I'm supposed to tear out my heart, and get nothing out of it, and everyone else shall be happy, and I shall be — gone, not even a trace left, digested into the sweetness of a fig. Yes, I know this would be noble of me. I do not care. I do not want to be noble, I've tried being noble already and it didn't work. I want, for a change, to be happy. And I won't take anything less than that.”

The vision blurred, they were in the room, and they were the wasps crawling into a fig, and they were dead bodies lying under the brilliant light that they had helped recover… Finrod took control, dreaming then into his studio, back in Nargothrond. The figs were still there, but now in a simpler, Man-made vase.

“What's this?” Feanor pointed to an empty, unimagined place where a door should be.

Oh. This. Finrod would rather not delve into the whole Celegorm and Curufin situation. “Not very relevant. Two of your sons learned that I was planning to help Beren and, well, we had a disagreement. They took control of the city for some time, but we did not fight. Just argued.”

“What else would you expect them to do?” Feanor stood behind Finrod’s desk in his regal robes, hands behind back, scanning the studio. It was a messy room, compared to his.

“What else would you expect me to do?”

“Not— Oh, I see. You could have mentioned more clearly that you have also been bound by an oath. At least now you understand.” It should have been a question, but wasn't.

“I didn't kill anyone for it.”

“Not with your own hands, no. I appreciate you not murdering my sons for protecting our property. It was more than I would expect with your Telerin heritage.”

Finrod looked him in the eye — now as they were in his imagination, he wasn't a child anymore. “Why are you trying to provoke me? What is this really about? Do you want me to say that we shouldn't have the Trees back if the cost is so high? That we shouldn't have figs or happiness or whatever the metaphor is— I don't know! I trust in the Valar knowing what they're doing, even if they cannot understand how much it takes, but that's just it: trust. And I cannot understand it fully either. Even now. Nobody can, because we aren't you! What do you expect me to say?”

Feanor shrugged lightly. “Honestly? I expected you to say something sanctimonious, a multitude of pretty words about the greater good, sacrifice, and how the wasp dies happy and cheerful, because she knows that it will give joy to everyone else.”

Had Finrod really been like this? Simplistic, blunt, and certain about the things he had no experience with? Maybe. Probably.

“Definitely,” said Feanor, surprised. “You didn't know. How ironic.”

“I apologize. I— I don't think anyone has the right to expect from others something he had not gone through himself. And even now…” The shadows deepened around them, and the air smelled of wolves. Not too much, not out of control anymore, but it was noticeable. “I do not know how I managed to. I'm not who I had thought myself to be; I was terrified, and weak, and lost, and yet… it was enough, somehow. Just enough to do what I had to do. Not to tell anyone else what he should do. To know, yes. But not to claim any authority. Not to try to push you… I'm not making much sense, am I?”

Feanor stepped closer to him, emanating warmth, and the shadows moved back from the light of the fire that was his spirit. The vision was now equally imagined by both of them: a shadowed room blending various memories, unripe figs on the table blazing with light. Pieces of broken marble. Tapestries on the walls. Noticeable lack of blood on the floor. Smell of the sea, or maybe of tears.

“You are both the wasp and the fruit,” Finrod said warmly, looking at the gobelins. They were beautiful.

“I never asked to be a fig! I never—.”

“I know. Nobody asks for it, I suppose. I'm certain Beren didn't either. And yet, if I were to make that choice again, I'd make it all the same.”

Feanor traced the pattern of the tapestry with his finger. “You had a choice.”

“That is true. But does it change much?”

“I don't know.” He started to fade, and with him the tapestry and parts of the room.

“Wait.”

Feanor's presence returned. “There's nothing more to say. You can't convince me—”

“I don't intend to.” Finrod smiled. “Nor do I have anything wise to say to you. But we can simply be here. I miss you.”

“Soon you will go, I can feel life calling to you, your mind longing for its senses. As does mine. The only difference is that you are free to follow. But if you want to dream with me for a while more, I won't forbid you.”

“Thank you, uncle.”

Feanor didn't reply and they sat together, the wasps buzzing around them— or maybe they were moths? Something winged and surprisingly fragile, of that Finrod was certain.

[apparitionism]

Real

Can’t believe tomorrow is a particular Wednesday already; this season has rushed in like the most foolish of fools, and as a result I’m rushing to push out this new holiday story... because I too am a fool. This is set post-series (including the nonexistent season), though not by much, as the first little bit will make clear. It’s kind of all about fallout. And who wants what, and why, and whether they’re willing to work, wait, and do other things that probably start with “w” to get it. Anyway, season’s greetings to all—and to all (including, eventually, Myka and Helena, I promise) a good night.

Real

“She’s back,” Artie announces one autumn night, and before anyone (Myka) can fully register what that might mean...

...she is.

Is, is, is... a distillation of so much of what Myka instantaneously knows again as possibility, as hopes and wishes jolting back to life, as again (still) the only presence that instantly makes Myka aware of herself as a body, one that responds with barely controllable fervor to that presence—that other body.

Artie goes on saying words, “reinstated” and “agent” among them, but the roaring of Myka’s blood drowns them out.

She fears she will spontaneously combust. She would rather spontaneously combust. That would be better than having to consciously keep from spontaneously combusting, in response to Helena existing, to her moving and speaking, in a proximity that Myka should prize but that her body, fervently responding, informs her is completely insufficient.

Myka escapes as soon as she can, to sit in the dark of her room, to sit and process, but her usual, reliable processing processes fail her.

They always have, where Helena is concerned.

All she does is sit, empty but for the replaying of Helena’s entry into the dining room, her stride so sure, her aspect so unlike the dismissive, shrinking shrugs of Boone... that had sent Myka’s soul soaring.

Helena had greeted them all with good humor, her manner and words to everyone so convivial. So convivial, but also: to everyone, and that is what finds clawed purchase in Myka’s heart, here in the dark.

Here in the dark, Myka viciously tells herself that she deserves no special acknowledgment. Why would you?

She also tells herself, This will get easier.

****

In some ways it does. For example, Myka’s shock at, and subsequent need to recover from, each new sight of Helena lessens somewhat. Or maybe it’s that her body becomes accustomed to absorbing the impact.

In others, it profoundly doesn’t.

Case in painful point: one evening when they’re all cleaning up after dinner, Claudia says to Helena, “So can I ask you something?”

“Clearly you can. You just did,” Helena bats back, in play, and envy stabs Myka.

“You’re as bad as Artie,” Claudia groans. “But here goes: are you still seeing that lady?”

Terror appropriates envy’s knife, gashing anew. Myka has not let herself begin to imagine how to get such a question answered, and here Claudia just says it while lowering a stack of dirty plates into the sink.

Helena’s airy reply: “Still the case. Obviously we’re long-distance at the moment.”

Something previously un-knifed in Myka collapses at that “obviously.” Obviously. Obviously. Obviously, the Warehouse return had not entailed a renouncing of Helena’s non-Warehouse connections. As Myka had obviously, she now sees, believed—hoped!—it would.

The depth and breadth of her error sends her to her room again, lightless, wounded, empty, waiting for time to pass until she once again has something to do.

Such as a retrieval with Pete.

The next one of which proceeds well—it’s not a big, dangerous deal, but rather a matter of a sad, not villainous, loner seeking connection via an artifact-compromised comic-book message board. Pete’s his enthusiastic self about the comics of it all, and Myka lets it lull her into a near-trance of this is how it used to be, before everything.

Until they’re on the plane home, when Pete says, “So H.G.’s back.”

“Thanks for the update,” she says, bracing herself, because of course that won’t be all, because that would be too easy.

“And what about that girlfriend?”

“What about her?” Well, that was stupid: asking some reflex question she doesn’t want answered. She braces herself again.

“You think she’s her one?”

That’s worse than she’d imagined. Myka doesn’t want to go anywhere near that Schrödinger-box, for fear that peeking inside would reveal a very dead cat. Would in fact be the deciding factor in that cat’s demise.

After a stretch of silence, Pete says, “Bet she’s not. So what are you gonna do about it?”

What does he mean? Do about the girlfriend not being, or being, Helena’s one? Do about Helena being back in the first place? She would rather avoid nailing that down—another let’s-not-look Schrödinger box.

“I’m going to ignore it,” she says.

“That’s not healthy. I mean, I get it, but it’s not healthy.”

He coughs ostentatiously. Meaningfully? Myka doesn’t know. Can’t tell. Won’t ask. She hates how she feels compelled to leave this cat in limbo too, just so she can shift away from any potential situational consequences.

If only she had resisted the pressure to shift her definition of love.

She tries for resistance now, even though it’s too late: “I’m not going to try to keep her from doing what she wants to do.”

He cocks his head in that exaggerated what-are-you-saying way. “I thought you might though. Try.”

Myka is tempted to demand, “Why would you think that,” but she knows why he would think it, and revisiting that fight is an impossibility. Especially now.

“But you’re not trying,” he says. His tone, though, ratchets down the danger. It’s a relief. “So why not?”

Now Myka’s tempted to give some indignant “I don’t have to justify my behavior to you” answer... and yet. She does owe him more than that. Especially now, having misled him so severely before, she owes him some decent measure of honesty. So she says it as plain as she can: “Because people should do what they want to do.”

“Huh.” He puts on his “thinking” face—the real one, not the cartoon. “But you’re not doing what you want to do.”

“What?” Myka says, playing dismissively dumb. Hoping he’ll give some dumb response.

“You want to stop her doing what she’s doing.” Myka shakes her head at that, trying to pretend it’s dumb, but Pete rolls his eyes. He sees the weakness. How can he be getting her so right in this when he got her so so so wrong before? But then again she’d got herself wrong... “So why wouldn’t you do what you want to do?” he finishes.

Want, want, want. Myka wishes he would quit using the word.

Yes it’s her fault for using it first. Yes she should have shut him down forcefully to begin with. Yes that applies to situations preceding this one.

In any case, wanting is pointless. It literally does not matter: its only product is empty space, a horrific gaping sink, a vacuum as vast as space itself.

So she says, as pedantically as she can, “Because if one person’s wants affect another person’s wants, that’s a different category of... you know what? Never mind.”

“You only ever say ‘never mind’ when you know I’m right.”

“What? I say ‘never mind’ a lot.”

“Which means...” He taps his temple.

“No. No it does not.” But she does smile.

Pete bobs his head as if she’s actually agreed with him, and so they end on a familiar, jokey note. It’s far better than they could have managed some months ago, in the immediate aftermath of their... mistake? Misunderstanding? Mismanagement? Misadventure? Misapprehension?

Stop dictionarying, she tells herself. Despite its being one of her default ways of trying to process confusion, it rarely delivers the clarity she seeks. At any rate, their short-lived whatever-it-was was a mis-everything.

She takes out the book she’s brought with her, H Is for Hawk, so as to fill her head with Heather MacDonald’s solitude rather than her own. She has lately found that overlaying her own thoughts with someone else’s ruminations is quieting, so she’s reading even more than usual... it beats sitting in darkness, waiting. Which she supposes means she should thank Helena (thank her) for her extensive new knowledge: of, here, grief and falconry, but also, the Wright brothers, Joan of Arc, India’s partition, séances in the 1920s, Salem’s witch hunts, various aspects of the Supreme Court...

Erudition must surely outweigh emotionalism Extremity. Enthrallment? Embitterment.

Stop dictionarying.

****

Relentlessly, the holidays approach. Myka tries to ignore them too, particularly their invitation to soften. Unhealthy, Pete’s accusation echoes.

But in speaking to Pete, Myka had lied: she isn’t really ignoring anything Helena-related. In a folder of significant size in her mind, she stores a cascade of spreadsheets in which she tallies and tracks as many of Helena’s movements, statements, interactions as she can, in as much detail as possible: e.g., it wasn’t enough for Myka to get Steve to tell her about his retrievals with Helena—those accounts, while captivating, were incomplete, secondhand—so she has made perverse use of her hard-earned Warehouse database access to read Helena’s actual mission reports, like some pathetic online stalker. They’re literarily significant, she tries to use as additional justification, ignoring the fact that no one other than Warehousers will ever know how or why.

It’s not that she’s hoping to gain insight from any of this; the activity is simply itself. A flat gather of data. For those spreadsheets.

Which she uses, of course, to torture herself, not least for her damning inability to gain insight. Thus proving Pete wrong: it isn’t ignoring things that’s unhealthy. No, it’s paying them attention—stupid, pointless attention—that causes disease.

That’s true, but Myka genuinely does not know how much longer she can suffer making herself sick.

Lovesick, she sometimes thinks... but that makes “love” too prominent in the mix. No, the “sick” is what matters, and it is chronic, not acute. Which means it must be managed rather than cured, and she will manage it, because she has to: because she is an agent and Helena is an agent and they live in the same house and say the same mutually polite “good morning” to each other each day.

Sometimes Myka wisps a wish, in the wake of one of those morningtides whose undertow she cannot reveal, that she could begin to shift her thinking, to try floating above rather than falling under, the better work her way to commencing the actual ignoring.

But then Helena will talk to Steve about the particulars of his Buddhist practice, or to Claudia about a joint invention project’s feasibility, or to Artie about a disputed wrinkle of history, or even to Pete about, bizarrely yet bizarrely frequently, which menu items should be avoided at fast-food chains... and Myka enters each new datum into the spreadsheets out of avid habit, all while ferally wishing everything different—even, some days, heretically, Helena gone. And while castigating herself for having wished, before, so stupidly inchoately, pleading with the universe to let Helena come back. More: to send Helena back.

How very monkey’s-paw of you, she jeers, to leave out specifics. In particular, to leave out “to me.” Send Helena back to me.

Before Helena came back, Myka was lost; now she’s still lost, but differently. And if there is one thing Myka has never liked—in fact, has always feared—it’s change.

So in truth she can probably suffer making herself sick for quite some time. As long as nothing about the making—or the sickness—changes.

****

The days leading up to Christmas itself are blessedly busy. On the 22nd, Myka and Steve head to West Virginia to bag a problematic coal-miner’s lamp; the work keeps them away until Christmas Eve, and if Myka happens to linger a bit longer at the Warehouse after Steve goes back to the B&B once they’ve deposited the artifact... well, that’s because she’s very conscientious about filing reports in a timely fashion.

In fact, she lingers a lot longer, and she’s happy to arrive home to a mostly silent B&B... however, she is instantly deposited into precisely the sort of situation she’d hoped to avoid: she must walk past Helena, who is in the living room, alone, with the television on. Impossible to slink past undetected, and thus rude to try—particularly once Helena says, “Welcome home.”

How disorienting, for Helena to be here and to say that. Worse, the articulation seems to ring of... before. When Myka was special.

But she is imagining that. She must be.

“What are you watching?” she asks, though she doesn’t need to. Helena is watching the Yule Log.

You strike me. Myka’s thought stops there, true as can be. Aloud, she says, “You know what it is, right?”

“A strangely mesmerizing facsimile of a fire,” Helena says, without looking up. “Do I strike you as hypnotized?”

Now Helena looks up. She blinks at Myka and nods, oddly soft, childlike. “I consulted Google.”

Helena is absurdly fond of Google. Myka struggles to keep from finding this absurdly charming. She struggles similarly with the way in which Helena articulates the word itself—every witnessed occurrence of which is represented in the spreadsheets. so Myka is painfully aware of the way Helena puts a slight formal emphasis on both syllables, such that it sounds, in a capping absurdity, as if she’s saying she consulted Gogol.

Not that acquiring input from a dead Russian writer would necessarily be all that different, absurdity-wise, from having instant access to a towering percentage of the world’s collective knowledge. And Helena probably understands that congruence, if that’s what it is, better than Myka ever could.

Myka knows she’s thinking herself down treacherous paths; she should say goodnight and walk away. But it’s Christmas Eve, and she gives herself a present she shouldn’t want but feels she has earned, earned by ignoring—or, to the contrary, recording—so strenuously. She has done such hard work. So she lets herself ask, “Why are you so focused?”

“Pete gave me a choice: watch the Yule Log or talk to Myka. I believe he thought I would reject the former as unworthy of my attention. Yet here I watch, mesmerized.”

“Since when do you do what Pete tells you?” But thanks, I guess, for letting me know where I stand. She can’t then hold back a jab: “Anyway, shouldn’t you be spending the holiday with the famous Giselle?”

Helena blinks again. This time it’s not at all childlike. “That’s why he wanted me to talk to you. But to answer your previous question: since he told me he’s in love with you.”

He... what? “What?”

“You asked me since when do I do what Pete tells me. I’m answering.”

Keep up, Myka; keep up. “When did he tell you that?”

“This evening. As part of what I fear—or hope?—was intended as a Christmas gift.”

“For you?” That’s not keeping up.

“No.”

“Then for who?” That’s not either.

“Whom.”

“Well, excuse my grammar, but I’m a little weirded out.” This is the most extended conversation she and Helena have had since... before. That’s destabilizing enough to her ability to concentrate on words. but what, exactly, is she supposed to do with these words?

“Weirded out,” Helena says, an unexpected affirmation. “As was I. I wasn’t aware.” She makes a small “huh” noise, as if she has to bridge her way to what’s next. “That the two of you had been involved.”

Oh. Hence the bridge—but this is a shifting surprise. “I thought someone—Claudia—would have told you. Must have told you.” Must have, and that in turn must have contributed, Myka had been sure, to Helena’s lack of engagement. She’s always known your judgment was abysmal, she’d lashed herself, based on those must haves, and this is certainly fuel for that fire.

“Our discussions have been more focused on her future. And my past. And technology, of course.”

“Of course,” Myka says. And then, quick, before she loses her nerve: “It didn’t take.”

“Technology?”

“The involvement.”

“I gathered that from its current status.”

“Right.” The conversation, such as it is, should probably end here... but something is off. “Wait. You said he said he is in love with me.”

“Yes.”

Myka had believed it was over. All over. The idea of having to deal with it, with any aspect of it, in perpetuity, or at least with no clear sundown, preemptively exhausts her. And it rekindles her anger at the entire situation, at its utter pointlessness. “I don’t know what to do with that,” she says. She immediately regrets the admission.

“He said he’ll get over it.”

“Well, that’s something. I guess.” It comes out grudging, and that’s another admission Helena shouldn’t be privy to.

“He said you won’t.”

“What? Get over it? No, the problem was that I wasn’t ever in love. With him.” She’s saying far too much. She supposes it’s fortunate that she’s looking at this repetitively flickery video loop, rather than into Helena’s eyes. She supposes also that said loop is a reasonable metaphor for how her life has been proceeding. Lately. Before, and lately.

“He said that too.”

“I’m sorry, but you’re losing me.”

“Interestingly, he said a version of that as well.”

“That you were losing him?” Not hard to believe; sometimes Pete can barely follow a laser pointer.

Helena focuses her gaze on Myka again, adamantine. “That I was losing you.”

And just like that, Myka is through the looking glass. Trapped like Alice, trying to get out. “Why would you care?” she chokes.

Helena lowers her brow, a stern schoolmarm confronting an intransigent pupil. “Because as I mentioned, he said—and seemed quite certain—that you won’t get over being in love.”

Myka knows now what’s next. Helena is about to say, “With me.” Because once again: that fight.

Oh yes I will. That’s what the ignoring is for. When I work my way around to it, that’s what it’s for.

“I didn’t know,” is what Helena actually says, clearly taking Myka’s silence as affirmation of those unuttered words.

“Oh please. Like I could have been any more obvious.” Obviously. She says it with contempt at herself, past and present: what a pathetic moonstruck puppy.

“At which point?” Helena asks.

That’s a surprisingly troubling question. Timelines. Decisions. What did you know and when did you know it? What did you show and when did you show it?

“All I knew was how you responded. Not how you felt.”

Of course the former was all Myka herself had known, certainly at first, and their consonance surprises her. If only she could share that consonance, and her surprise in it, with Helena... but that seems too much like a reward, one that neither she nor Helena deserves. Again exhaustion: at their lack of merit. “I don’t want to play these games,” she says.

“Then don’t.” Was that a shrug? Did Helena really shrug?

“Fine. I won’t.” It’s childish, yet it feels like the best end she can manage tonight. You didn’t seek this out, she assures herself as she takes a first step away.

Before she can seal the escape with her second step, Helena says, “You might at least release me from this view.”

“You talked to me,” Myka says, doing her best to make it all go away. “You’re free.”

Helena turns from the flames too quickly for Myka to dodge being caught by the look. “I am in no way free.”

That is not my problem, Myka would like to maintain, but Helena’s gaze and tone are implicating, which is entirely unfair but still needs to be dealt with. She sits down next to Helena on the sofa. At a judicious distance.

Now they are both watching the Yule Log, which, indifferent to them both, continues its facsimile flicker. “I guess it is kind of mesmerizing,” Myka says after some time.

“We haven’t spoken much,” Helena rejoins.

“There hasn’t been much to speak about.” Without peril, Myka adds, internally, and by that she means, peril to me.

“On the contrary. But I’ve tried to ignore it.”

“So have I. I hear it’s unhealthy.”

“Perhaps. It’s Pete’s strategy as well, according to him,” Helena says. Then, following a throat-clear, “With regard to his feelings for you.”

Myka doesn’t need to clear her throat. “He’s the one who told me it was unhealthy.” Which puts her in mind of his ostentatious cough: it’s meaningful now. Ridiculous, but meaningful.

“Then I suppose we’re ailing, all of us.”

“I suppose we are. An epidemic of ignorance.”

Helena smiles a little at that. Myka can’t help but smile back, and she maintains it as Helena asks, light, “What is the prognosis?”

“Depends on the ignoring’s end result,” Myka temporizes.

“Pete maintains that ignoring something long enough makes it go away.”

Or it kills you, Myka might say, like cancer. But instead she stays light. As light as she can. “Maybe he’s right. No, probably he’s right.” She owes him that.

Now a pause. A wait. What’s next? “So is that where we leave it?” Helena asks.

Maybe it goes away. Maybe that’s what’s next.

Myka can see it, now: see the spreadsheets dissolving into unnecessarity, see herself not responding physically to Helena, see Helena becoming, in essence, like Pete: someone with a past version of whom a past version of herself made a mistake.

She hadn’t imagined, not before this minute, that it was possible. But now a road leads there.

Can she take that road? She looks again into the fire. The not-fire. It mocks her: Everything you really want turns out to be unreal. On the other side of some facsimilating screen. A mirage. She turns away from it, ashamed. She looks at Helena... for the moment, Helena is still real. Still able to render Myka’s resistance from her body, here in this moment by sitting quietly and watching fake flames, in the next by doing nothing more than breathing out, breathing in.

Myka has not yet taken that awful road. Not yet. One more try, she tells herself. But no, that’s not right. She’s never really tried. Never really. She’s waited—longer than she thought she should—and she’s hoped—harder than she thought she could—but that wasn’t trying.

So: one try.

It can’t be the try she might have made in the past, a desperate just-please-touch-me push. Under the circumstances, that’s impossible. So, what?

An olive branch? No, peace isn’t the right aim, even now.

Better, perhaps: something she wouldn’t have said before tonight’s... encounter. Something related to tonight’s encounter, something more real than she’s offered so far: “We fought. Pete and I.”

TBC

[maybe-im-dark]

You know what? Fuck it! I am going to fix X-Men Origins! I love this movie and i'm not ashamed of it! I am gonna write scenes to fill out what was missing in the movie and new scenes to fix the bad ones! Starting with this one! All script style! Maybe some directors will take notice!

---

EXT. WOODS — NIGHT

Logan, much younger, his bone claws freshly discovered, runs through a dense forest alongside Victor. The air is thick with the smell of pine and soil, the sounds of night creatures filling the air. It's after he's learned the truth —that Thomas Logan is his biological father —and the rage from that discovery burns deep in his chest. They are both on the run, outcasts in the wilderness, with only each other to rely on.

But tonight it's not just survival. It's something more —something that makes Logan grit his teeth in pain.

Victor:

(gruff, demanding)

"Again, Jimmy, do it again!"

Logan grits his teeth, his breath ragged. His fists clench at his sides as he braces for the pain. With a snarl, he forces his bone claws to extend from between his knuckles. The jagged bones tear through his skin, breaking through muscle and tendons that have never been used this way before. The pain is excruciating, every movement of the claws sending waves of agony up his arms.

Blood drips from the wounds as the claws fully extend, the pain still fresh in his mind. Logan hunches over, panting, sweat pouring down his face. He tries to push the pain away, but it lingers, throbbing in his every fiber.

Logan:

(growling)

"It hurts, Victor! Every damn time!"

Victor steps closer, towering over his younger brother, his sharp eyes gleaming with something almost predatory.

Victor:

"It's supposed to hurt. It's part of who we are. But you have to get used to it. You need to pop these claws fast —no hesitation."

Logan stares down at his blood-covered hands, the claws still jutting out awkwardly from between his knuckles. The pain hasn't lessened, but there's something else there too —a strange sense of power, of strength. He can feel his instincts, those feral instincts that Victor has talked about, scratching at the surface.

But he isn't ready to let them out. Not yet.

Victor circles him, pushing him harder.

Victor:

"You're holding back, Jimmy. You have to keep practicing until it doesn't matter how much it hurts. Because if you don't, when the time comes, you'll be too slow —and dead!"

Logan clenches his jaw, his muscles tensing. He retracts the claws with a sharp grunt, the sensation of bone pulling back into his flesh equally painful. His skin heals over the wounds quickly, but the memory of the pain lingers. Before he can catch his breath, Victor is at it again, pushing him, forcing him to pop the claws once more.

Victor:

"Again! Faster this time!"

Logan growls, but he obeys, the claws tearing through his skin once more. The pain is unbearable, but each time he does it, the sensation dulls slightly, his body slowly adapting to the unnatural act.

As the night stretches on, they continue. Logan's instincts begin to shift. Each time the claws emerge, it becomes less about pain and more about the hunt. The animal inside him begins to stir, clawing its way to the surface. And as they get older they begin to hunt together —tracking down prey through the forest, moving with a feral grace that neither of them had before.

EXT. FOREST — DAY (YEARS LATER)

Logan, now a young man, taller and broader than before, moves through the woods with Victor. His chest hair has grown in, his mutton chops and weathered skin starting to form the features he's known for. He's no longer the boy who ran from his past. He's a man now, hardened by years of survival, hunting and the painful growth spurts that have reshaped his body.

But it's not just physical. Something inside him has changed. The animal Victor always talked about —the beast in their bloodline —has become more present. Victor, tall and muscular beside him, watches Logan with an almost proud look in his eyes.

Victor:

(approving)

"You're growing into it, Jimmy. That's the animal in you, just like me. Passed down from our father's blood. You've always had it in you."

They've been working hard labor jobs between hunting and fighting for survival. Their bodies have become stronger, more muscular and Logan moves through the world, he feels the weight of his instincts pulling him closer to the beast inside.

But even as Victor encourages it, Logan still holds back. He knows there's a line —a line between the man and the animal and he's not ready to cross it.

Logan:

"I'm not like you, Victor. I'm not gonna give in to it."

Victor laughs, a deep rumbling sound that echoes through the trees.

Victor:

"You're already halfway there, brother. You feel it every time you fight, every time those claws come out. You just don't want to admit it. But one day you'll see it like i do. You'll stop fighting the animal inside you and you'll become who you're meant to be."

Logan turns to face Victor, his expression hard, resolute.

Logan:

"I'm not giving into it! I'm not you!"

Victor's grin fades slightly and something more dangerous flickers in his eyes. He steps closer, his posture aggressive, his voice dropping lower.

Victor:

"You think you're better than me, huh? You think you can keep that part of you locked away? You can't, Jimmy. Sooner or later the animal's gonna come out and when it does...you won't be able to control it."

Logan squares his shoulders, his muscles tense. For the first time, he feels a true challenge from his brother, not just in words, but in the air between them. The tension crackles and before either of them can back down, it explodes into their first fight.

Victor lunges, his nails sharp like claws and Logan recacts instinctively. The bone claws snap out from his hands and he meets Victor's attack with the same ferocity. The forest around them becomes a blur, as the brothers collide, their bodies fueled by the feral strength they both share.

[deathbxnny]

hihi!! scar, jiyan and aalto with a teen reader who is like firefly?

I focused alot more on her illness tbh, as I always thought that that was quite the tragic yet most human part about her. Thank you for the request tho, anon, and I hope you'll like this!<33

Content: heavy angst, platonic relationships, reader is unable to walk well, focus on her chronical illness, talks of potential future death, sfw

Reader has no set pronouns!!

((Not proofread))

》JIYAN

Jiyan knows that you are suffering alot in his absence. He tries to be there as much as he can, especially when he sees your condition becoming worse and worse as time goes on. It upsets him greatly deep down that there is nothing he can do about it either. All he can do is be strong and brave for you out on the frontlines, so you can rest without disturbance and live a somewhat normal teenage life like you deserve. His heart breaks more when he sees how desperately you wished to live and yet stayed so kind and gentle despite everything.

And it all melts away when you're barely able to walk anymore and are clearly heading into a danger zone health wise. It worries him deeply and keeps him rather occupied even on the battlefield. Yet when he's home, he takes care of you and spoils you as much as he can, never voicing his fears. He knows that your end is most likely near and that you'll lose the battle against your sickness. But he'll be right beside you when it's over. He swears it as your caretaker and general.

》AALTO

Aalto tries to keep the mood up despite the inevitable doom you're most likely going to experience. In a way, it's a form of denial where he tries to just push all the troubles away in hopes of you getting better through positivity. Some may say it's foolish... but what else is he supposed to do? There is no cure, and you both know it, including Encore, who was in a similar state as him. You tried to be positive with them, take any small sign of recovery as something big, and hopeful.

But it all came to a stop when you couldn't walk well anymore and it was becoming harder for you to live in general. It forced them to stay somewhere more stable and cozy for once to take care of you to the best of their abilities, but even that didn't feel like it was enough. Aalto can't help how visibly upset he is at times either, especially when the illness progresses much faster than it should. Yet, as long as you're still smiling, no matter how pained or strained it may be, he'll try doing the same to the very end.

》SCAR

Your illness is an unspoken part of you. He's aware of it. He sees it. He experiences what it does to you firsthand. And yet, neither of you speak about it. It's like you hope it will go away if you just ignore it, and in a way, it's true. It does go away when it starts to wither your body until you can't be around him anymore on most days. But this doesn't mean that he'll just let you disappear so easily, either. He'll try and help you out in his own ways, keeping you safe as he tries to find a cure. But when that doesn't work, he simply decides to be there until it's over.

He can't comfort you, nor will he say that things can still get better. There is no point when you can't even go about your duties as a Fractsidus member anymore and are stuck laying in your chambers, practically waiting it out. Yet what gets him the most is how kind and calm you were through all of this. You wished to live. It's all you wanted. But you weren't brutal about it, nor did you scream and cry. He wished you did, however, as the loss he secretly experienced again would maybe lessen at the sight of you fighting until you can't anymore.

[bestworstcase]

rolls over

yeah yeah, the ruby-salem grief weapon parallel, we've all seen it

salem offers up the staff as a votive to the god of darkness after telling him of her story and what she hopes to receive in return. he deems this a fair bargain and grants her wish; salem drops the staff at his feet and rushes to ozma's side. do ut des. this is an act of prayer, of worship. salem knows what she's doing—she's pious—and does everything correctly.

(including making an offering of something she must have put some serious thought into: she gives the god of grimm her most precious possession and a token of her suffering.)

and what she asks for in return is ozma's life. the staff was precious to her only in ozma's absence, because it represented her lost love. had the god of darkness answered no, salem would still be obliged to leave the staff in his domain—just as she left light his flowers, you don't take back an offering if the god's answer is not to your liking—and to part with it and walk away empty-handed would have been devastating. but the moment she sees ozma again, the staff means nothing; she lets it fall from her grasp without a thought.

she chose to make herself vulnerable to that pain, offering darkness her own heart as a fair sacrifice for the mere possibility of ozma getting to live. and he tells her to rise and see her faith rewarded.

<- faith.

ruby is in pain. ruby is grieving and boiling in guilt because penny died again and ruby could do nothing to save her again. the sword is all she has left of one of her best friends. and then she offers it up to the toy soldiers—who have come to take them to the red castle—in exchange for, er… being taken to the prince's birthday celebration so that she can present the sword as a gift.

why?

"look, we may not know exactly what's going on, but for whatever reason, this place is putting us on a similar path as a book we all read as kids. i say we follow it—and stop pretending we know what we're doing."

the consequence of this choice of course is that any emotional or spiritual significance this offering might have had is elided by the toy soldiers' grift and the red prince is a child who throws the sword away in a fit of pique: "how could you!?" ruby whispers, before swallowing that pain and stunting around in a scramble to keep the story on the "right" path.

<- fate.

rolls over again.

salem had faith. ozpin believes in fate.

faith is—asking. trying. communion with something greater than oneself. but to believe in fate is to believe in a single narrow path which must be followed no matter the cost because…because.

this is what "look how you've diminished" is about. how you've lessened yourself—and for what? ruby tears out her own heart in a futile effort to appease a spoiled child who kicks it away out of utter indifference—and for what? because the story said so. because she's afraid. because she doesn't know what else to do. she's lost her faith.