#can't escape from the emotional damage

[calculatorguitar]

You know it’s bad when every song reminds me of Aziraphale and Crowley rn. I can just casually be listening to my playlist. “Who wants to live forever” comes on. Omg that’s so them

“the night we met”. On the floor. Sobbing. Literally them.

“never love an anchor”. Wow. Personal attack much? Jfc why am I able to make every single song relate to them. And don’t even get me STARTED on mitski

[mangled-by-disuse]

Tried to put this in the replies, but it got long and is relevant to the OP, so:

Less so than the average British/South African white guy of his time, which is to say: yes, but not notably so.

He did also speak very bluntly in his response to the Nazi requests to translate his work, claiming he would have been proud to be a genuine Aryan [that is, from the Indian subcontinent] but unfortunately he's just German and English. Some of that is "Oxford fellow thinks he's being very smart" rhetorical devices, but he also does seem to have been pretty vocally of the belief that different cultures and ethnicities held value, and while he left South Africa very young and considered himself English, he did also remark on the brutality and inhumanity of the apartheid regime there. He also criticised C.S. Lewis' assertion (in The Last Battle) that some people couldn't get into heaven on the basis of race and culture, but "have a theological argument with C.S. Lewis" does seem to have been one of his primary hobbies at the time so idk if that was purely anti-racist.

At the same time: this was at a time when the N-word was in common parlance (including in children's nursery rhymes and even in leftist discourse), when Britain had an empire and Tolkien had been raised in one of its colonies, and when the school system emphasised "the white man's burden" and the savagery and primitivism of "lesser" cultures. And Tolkien was not a radical, and not sufficiently concerned with race as a topic to break fully from that social conditioning. So it's not like he wasn't a racist, but he wasn't a racist by the standards of his time, background, and immediate environment. (Bearing in mind that his immediate environment was the same one that saw the rise of Oswald Mosley and Winston Churchill.)

What Tolkien WAS was a genuine, old-school British conservative, which I think is what right-wingers pick up on in his work. He had an engrained belief in hierarchy and traditionalism, and his arguments against capitalism come from Catholic semi-feudalism, not socialism. "The rich man in his castle, the poor man at his gate/God made them high and lowly and each to his estate" is very much an underpinning of a lot of Tolkien's work, which emphasises the importance of working to, and being satisfied with, your status in life - Sam's strength is his humility and desire to be a simple gardener, but, while humility remains valuable throughout, Aragorn's strength is that he knows that he is born to be King. Ruling is all he can ever ethically do (noticeably, whether or not his people consent to be ruled - note that the first Man of Gondor he comes into contact with is Boromir, whose response of "ok mate where the fuck have you been when we were fighting and dying for the past forty years?", and that is cast as a mistake on Boromir's part, and he is told to sit down and respect the rightful king by Literal Voice Of The Gods Gandalf), and it would be wrong and evil for him to try to do anything else, just as it would be a moral wrong for Sam to try to be a king.

Lord of the Rings in particular is very concerned with noblesse oblige and the burdens of power - while, yes, the core story is "minor gentry [Sam is the only actual working-class character] rises above his presumed station and, through being literally and metaphorically one of the little people of the world, slips under the radar and completes a heroic quest", almost all the surrounding stories are about the difficult duty of managing power. And, unfortunately, this lends itself very readily to a "white man's burden" kind of reading - these people, you see, are simply of superior race (literally, in the case of the Elves, and in the case of Aragorn, Boromir, and the ruling class of Gondor being measured by their proximity to Númenorean bloodlines), and so it is their unfortunate duty to command and to cleanse the lesser (Orcish, and by extension Easterling and Haradrim) races from their nice, functional societies.

To be clear: I do not think this is how Tolkien intended it. I think, in his own traditionalist, cloistered-academic, Catholic way, he was pretty egalitarian. He doesn't treat the ruling class as actually better than the working class - Sam is no less a hero than Frodo, Merry, and Pippin, all of whom are gentry or nobility, and none of them are lesser as people than Aragorn or Elrond or even Gandalf or Galadriel - even if he does view class distinctions as fundamental and immutable differences. He values friendship, peace, and the laying down of grudges (against all the problems caused by revenge, note that Éomer's first and most noble act of kingship is "accepting the Dunlendings' surrender, treating them kindly, and making peace with them", and they are so impressed by this that they too put aside a centuries-long war and help rebuild the country they helped to destroy). While he often forgets that women exist (I will die on the hill that "three out of 22 rulers of Númenor were women, despite equal inheritance being explicit" is evidence that Tolkien just did not think of women as being half the population), he is quick to defend their value in both masculine and feminine pursuits, and to express them as people outside of marriage and childbearing - and his own life, in which he married a much older divorcée from a different religious background against all voices from their families, reflects that same sense of valuing women on human terms. He is a humanist, not in the religious sense but in the sense that he values humanity above all things in his writing; he writes consistently against power for its own sake, against war as glory, and against bigotry and condemnation.

BUT

he was also a traditional, dyed-in-the-wool Tory, Catholic-restorationist, pro-feudal Oxford don who was raised in a much more conservative time, place, and social class than most of us, and he brings that to his writing too. From a conservative perspective, reading with an eye for right-wing ideas:

Éowyn ultimately turns from the aberration of being a warrior and becomes a wife and mother, embracing "feminine" traits of healing and caring as part of her own healing.

Class is reified through Sam's heroism being that of a servant, and Aragorn's that of a king, and the return of the king is the source of great rejoicing.

Some races, and some classes, are simply better at things. Dwarves are better craftsmen. Men are better warriors. Elves are better at everything because they're special. they are also tall and fair and European

The idyllic Shire is a cottagecore dream of traditional British rural life, in which people know their place, women are real women, and everyone has good manners.

Most of the "good" societies are coded with European or Classical trappings (the exception is actually Gondor, which is pretty easily read as Byzantine), and opposed against a literal rampaging horde from the East. Some of the horde from the East are literally inhuman, while others are elephant-riding brutes who hold oblique historical grudges and strange religious customs. Compassion against these foreign invaders is looked upon favourably by the narrative, but only after you've killed them.

With the previous point, and the films, in mind, it is easy to conclude that regardless of species diversity, the Fellowship is a cadre of brave white men fighting to protect their society from a monstrous foreign threat - one in which a cunning trickster from within the main setting has puppeted the less evolved races into destroying Western civilisation.

While the story is anti-war, it is anti-war in a way that allows for cool battle scenes and noble deaths, and there are several points at which Dying For A Cause is lionised and seen as redemptive in a way that slots nicely into a lot of more militaristic ideologies (including fascism).

again, I cannot underline enough, I DO NOT BELIEVE THIS IS A FAIR READING OF THE NARRATIVE. I think it's an ideologically-motivated reading that ignores both Tolkien's personal views and large chunks of the text. But the thing is: the people who read it in the way I've described would probably say the same thing of your description.

The thing about Tolkien's much-discussed distaste for intentional allegory is: Lord of the Rings is not 1984. It is not an explicit political polemic. It is one man unpacking his Great War trauma and political anxieties, his expertise in Anglo-Saxon literature, his special interests in folklore and etymology, his love of the English countryside and his dislike of modernity, his Catholicism and his conservatism and his egalitarianism and his loneliness and his loves. It is not absolute in its politics, because it isn't trying to give you a political solution: it's trying to give you morals, yes, but they're as much personal ones as societal ones.

It is not a shock that right-wingers latch onto Tolkien's work, or see parts of their beliefs reflected there. It's still a fucking insult to the work, but it's not a shock.

Seeing conservatives and bigots being fans of Tolkien works is a special type of jumpscare bcs what are you doing here man? In the franchise about folks from different backgrounds and races come together in brotherhood to vanquish the villain? Where kindness and compassion and sinple happiness were seen as the best ways to keep evil at bay? Where war is not glorified and seen as a grim necessity to the point where the son of the author gor criticised the movies for glorifying the war too much? Where men openly engaged in feminine activities and were open about emotions other than anger? Where multiple characters gender presentation varied from those we normally associate with their gender? Where women were empowered in multiple different ways? Where greed was presented as turning one into a literal monster?Where the villains are all thinly veiled depictions of capitalism? Where care for the enviornment is seen as a given?

[shaisuki]

𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐆𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝚰𝐒𝐓

[ 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒: 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐃 ]

SYNOPSIS. Overlooked by your whole life in favor to his patient and also childhood friend — you kept quiet. Silently loving the man that belongs to you in a arranged marriage and sometimes you get tired too of asking to be noticed. A outburst from a drunken confession, leads you one thing to another. Miraculously surviving a fatal car accident and being placed under the care of your distant fiancé. Things started to change and so is he. Zayne can't take his eyes off you now. You got his whole attention and he's not that willing to let you go.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: A huge thanks to @itsmearia01 for requesting this one and turning this into a whole trilogy with extra scenes. You can also buy me a ko-fi.

THE CHAPTERS CONTAINS THE FOLLOWING. heavy angst + non mc + unrequited love + arranged marriage + yandere themes + ooc zayne + implied noncon/dubcon + pregnancy + babytrapping + emotional cheating + possessiveness + clubbing + neglect + emotional manipulation + gaslighting + implied murder + car accidents + blood and violence. dead dove do not eat.

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟏: HEART OF GLASS

It wasn't your place to dictate what his heart wants but sometimes you wished his affections were directed to you — just once. was it difficult to spare you crumbs of affection or when Zayne noticed how you start to pull away from him and it was too late for him to realize how damaged the relationship was you desperately trying to build and you got tired of wanting him. can he still get you back? or must he turn to drastic measures?

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟐: THE SNOWFLAKES ON YOUR SHOULDERS

Zayne's an expert for fixing things including heart related problems and yours wasn't an exception. He can take apart your heart and fill the holes of your once shattered heart but can he really do it? When it is you who's refusing him now?

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟑: MY HEART IN YOUR HANDS

a night of his love bore a result. one that you can't escape from. you were still determined to let go of him and put him the story and happiness he deserves even you'll be left with nothing but a body with a shattered heart — Zayne is a another story. He's not willing to let you go when he's already in too deep.

𝐄𝐗𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐒

❆ MC TRYING TO RECONNECT WITH ZAYNE

❆ TELLING A OLD FRIEND ABOUT YOUR SITUATION

❆ ZAYNE FINDING OUT YOU KILLED YOURSELF

❆ ZAYNE REACTING TO YOU BEING KIDNAPPED

❆ DEVELOPING STOCKHOLM SYNDROME

❆ HOW MANY KIDS HE'LL WANT

❆

[alchemistc]

Tommy Kinard buying the newspaper at a gas station because someone wrote a fluff piece about the 118 and there's an Evan Buckley quote in there. The cashier comments on it and Tommy almost doesn't say it but the words bubble up anyway: "That's my boyfriend," he says, and the girl at the register raises brow, grins.

"You're telling me," she snorts, and Tommy doesn't correct her.

---

Tommy staring in horror at a live feed of the local news where Evan is talking down a jumper - the guy directly in front of him in line at the coffee shop waves his phone at Tommy, grimaces. "You seen this, man?"

Tommy blinks. "That's my boyfriend," he murmurs, and the guy in front of him grimaces.

"Dated an adrenaline junkie myself, once," he says, and Tommy knows Evan is strapped in but when he and the jumper both jolt on the line Tommy sucks in a breath and doesn't tell the guy he'd once landed a helicopter on the belly of a capsized cruise ship.

---

"He's your boyfriend," Eddie says, like that has escaped Tommy's notice anywhere in the past year and a half. Evan has been accosted by a dozen bridesmaids and he doesn't look like he knows a single way to dip out of this conversation. "I'm not going over there."

Tommy has to bite back a groan when he sees Evan gesture in his direction, and twelve heads swivel to take Tommy in, eyes all widening appreciatively.

At least this time he hadn't been so flustered he couldn't string the "I'm here with someone." together.

---

"That's my man," Tommy says, arm curled around Evan's neck, lips pressed to the curve of Evan's ear, conscious of the Smartini's captain sending daggers their way. Tommy's gonna hear about this later.

Evan's a fucking ringer in trivia.

"Barf," Gemma murmurs, finger tracing the rim of her wine glass, the stark line of white around her bare ring finger still fading. She's fighting a smile, though, as she leans forward to offer a fist for Evan to bump

---

"Don't even think about it, Kinard," Melton says, but Tommy's already finished his mental checklist.

"That's my fucking boyfriend," he says, finger jabbing in the direction of the partially collapsed building. "You find a pilot who can replace me, you let me know."

---

"That's your boyfriend?" the guy asks, brow tipped judgementally, and Tommy can't decide if he's supposed to be offended on his own behalf or Evan's. Tommy tips his head to where Eddie and Evan are furiously arguing over the song selection in the karaoke binder.

Both of their behalf, then.

He knows his grin is a little dopey when Evans eyes dart up to meet his and he immediately sends a death glare to the man standing too close to Tommy at the bar.

---

Matthew Clark is definitely planning to ignore Tommy when he recognizes him from the far end of the vitamin aisle.

Tommy wants to let him.

Evan doesn't give him much choice though, when he barrels around a corner triumphantly holding up the package of peanut butter cups only to run into Abby's brother - quite literally run into him like a goddamn linebacker protecting his QB.

By the time he makes it to the end of the aisle to assess the damage Matthew is already rolling his tongue between his teeth as he mulls something over. Tommy hasn't seen a face journey quite this emotive in at least a few years.

"That's your boyfriend?" He asks, straight faced and even toned, and Tommy just knows he's getting a phone call later.

[mezucore]

jake english vs. the confession : a dirkjake visual novel

-> follow jake english on a quest to avoid an incoming confession from his best buddy, while he tries to escape his persistent splinters! will dirk get to confess his love? will jake win against the prince of heart's mind games?? read and find out!!!!!!

downloads: google drive // mediafire

happy 4/13!!!!!!

this is my first 4/13 so i wanted to make something i would be proud of and this is the result!!!!!

more info under the cut :D

i made this with ren'py! i think it might be 10-15 minutes long depending on how fast you read!

good god i did this in two days. i can't feel my arm anymore. there are no choices in this due to severe time constraints but i hope you enjoy it anyway <33 the art may vary in quality, but i'm still proud i've managed to whip up like 35 drawings in a single day tbh?

there are no plot spoilers in this as far as i'm aware, and it's also not that canon compliant? i honestly wouldn't be able to tell you when this takes place. just don't think about the logistics too hard, i made this to be fun and cute!

special thanks :

my boyfriend who read me almost the entire meat epilogue while i was working on this (i have sustained severe emotional damage in the process.)

victoria_'s sleuth-y pen for clip studio paint

the awesome homestuck soundtrack, some songs i used in the VN: moonsetter, darling kanaya, candles and clockwork, elevatorstuck, a tender moment, clockwork sorrow, white

ezgif, because i would be nothing if not for ezgif. i love you ezgif

i hope with my whole heart people will give this the time of day T__T if you do thank you so much i love you forever

[artytaeh]

⋯ ⋯ ﹒ 🪻 ’

THEODORE NOTT— a popular slytherin, an introvert at heart, despite his reputation as a womanizer. theodore nott, who has a big, terrible communication problem.

with the pure terror of displaying his vulnerable emotions, theodore smokes cigarettes to force his emotions to disappear with the wind; bites his inner lip and cheek until his mouth bleeds, so no tears threaten to make way to his eyes.

when theodore nott cries, he stares blankly into the wall. he doesn't sob— sobbing would make him even weaker, more vulnerable, less capable and definitely useless, in his father's eyes.

silent tears are the epitome of theodore's sadness, because other than that, his sadness, stress and troubled thoughts are never known. hidden by a mask of stoic expressions.

theodore nott is 'stupid' smart. if he wasn't a slytherin at heart and soul, then he'd be a ravenclaw, or at least that's what the professors comment amongst them. theo enjoys reading, and would easily spend his afternoon on a silent, vacant corner of the castle, devouring a book in few hours.

he lies, saying that it's simply because knowledge is a good weapon. he'd be saying the truth, if theodore confesses that he reads this much, because whether be it fiction or not, he can escape his thoughts to fully concentrate on the book's contents.

theodore nott is knowledgeable, theodore nott is a good, straight-A's student. theodore nott is quick-witted; you wouldn't want to banter with him, because usually, he gets the last word with a victorious, cheeky smile— an insufferable cocky grin.

and yet, shamefully, theodore nott has no idea how to verbalize his feelings.

every good liar is like this, he'd argue. in exchange of spilling the most atrocious lies with a straight face and nonchalant tone, theodore finds it awfully hard to tell the truth.

ask him what's wrong— you can do that, sure. now, if theodore will answer you, that's another story. and to give you a genuine answer, if he doesn't snap? then an angel must have fallen down its altar.

then, if he can't verbalize or trust anyone, not even mattheo riddle or lorenzo berkshire on a good day— what does theodore nott do, to deal with his full mind and empty heart?

theodore nott destroys.

he destroys other living beings,

being the first one to join mattheo riddle, with a smile on his face, when his best friend snaps at the smallest hint of disrespect. throwing a (not really) deserved punch at a guy that honestly, if you ask him afterwards, theodore has no idea what he done wrong.

when lorenzo scolds mattheo for starting a fight and reprimands theodore for indulging it, the slytherin simply shrugs. he's "looking out for his bro", he says. that's only partially true, as much as he deeply cares for mattheo.

everytime that he starts fights, like a rabid dog. theodore doesn't really know when he stopped being il dolce ragazzo of his madre. when he became a dog that bites without thinking about barking first. "so much for claiming to be the logical one," — lorenzo muses.

... he destroys himself.

which would explain the concerning amount of muggle, wizarding, flavored, all shaped packs of cigarettes he owns. there isn't a brand that he didn't try, at least once— the more harmful, the better.

smoking until his lungs become as black as his heart, as his dark thoughts. smoking, until he drops dead with his worries. smoking, until theodore nott becomes a better man (something that he doubts he could do, for he was born a broken man— born from a couple that should have never crossed paths with each other).

consequently, damaging his hands. skin that becomes calloused and slightly scarred from the cigarettes. knuckles constantly bruised from throwing punches at gryffindors or smartass ravenclaws.

so, theodore nott starts believing that he's unlovable. that loving him— oh, that would be torture. pure masochism, that he wouldn't wish to anyone, not even the witch he dislikes or rolls his eyes at the most.

and that becomes a creeping fear of his. oh, theodore is terrified, when the thought of becoming like his father plagues his mind.

to think that he'd become such a disgusting man, the man who brought so much pain to his mother, that killed the only person who truly loved him.

what would his mother say, if she saw him like this?

would she be disappointed, would she be ashamed to even spare a look at him? would her beautiful porcelain face become a frown, would she walk away, disgusted?

theodore consumes three more cigarettes on that thought alone.

... or would she give him a sympathetic look, gazing at her dolce, bravo ragazzo with those tender eyes of hers? a shade of blue, that theodore was fortunate to inherit.

a sad smile makes its way to his lips. because now, even for a brief moment, theo is himself again. he's not a casanova slytherin, he's not the heir of the nott family. theodore nott is simply his mother's little boy, her teddy.

in honor of such bittersweet memories, theo drops his cigarette and doesn't smoke for at least 24 hours.

theo doesn't know how to deal with comfort. genuinely tender touches, fingertips grazing his skin so lightly—

of desperately needy, lustful touches, he knows. he knows them very well, from all those times he slept with a woman, ruined her for the next guy. from the times a slytherin girl gripped and pushed his hair, needing, begging more of his mouth on her; or when a gryffindor got so lost in pleasure that she left the mark of her nails on his back; when a hufflepuff senior clenched her fingers on his torso, hips and shoulders, screaming for more, deeper, faster; that time when he found a way to shut up a particularly insufferable ravenclaw know-it-all by fucking her mouth, and when he felt the back of her throat on him, the stubborn ravenclaw gripped, scratched, protested on his thighs.

of harsh, violent, cruel, merciless touches, everytime mr. nott decided that a disgusted, disappointed gaze wasn't enough to educate his son. when those knuckles adorned with rings curled into a fist, and theodore was beaten into discipline. all those times he started fights and consequently got hit by a punch or two, even though theodore is a good fighter, and makes sure that even if he does get hurt, the receiving end is in worse state, in need of more than one night in the infirmary wing.

⋯ ⋯ ﹒ 🪻 ’

... but comforting, meant to soothe, gentle touches? oh, theo is terrified of them. rather than flinching away from a fist coming his way, theo looks like a scaredy cat when fingers come to brush his hair away from his face, with all the love and care of the world.

theo doesn't know those touches. to be fair, yes, he was acquainted with them once— but that was long, long ago, when his mother was still alive. a life ago, really, because sometimes theodore wonders if he's the same teddy he once was, under the protective but loving arms of his mother.

so at first, theo panics when you hug him, when you physically bring comfort to his broken, damaged heart.

but then?

then, after he gets a taste of how heavenly it feels to be held by someone he loves? then, theo embraces the fact that he is indeed a touch starved man. then, theo completely and shamelessly melts under your touch, relaxing in your embrace, wishing to never leave this safe haven.

( or maybe he does. a little voice on the back of his mind, menacingly suggesting that this safe haven, this loving harbor — you — might disappear into thin air by the cruel hands of his father, the same he did with his mother. )

but before his truly prodigious brain dares to overthink once again— your hands comb through his hair, brushing it back along with his worries, massaging the scalp and melting the troubled thoughts away. that's when theo closes his eyes. that's when he, finally, is in peace with himself.

and if you'd ask him; this is when and where theodore nott is the happiest. this is when theodore nott is teddy again.

౨ৎ these voices in my head screaming ♡ ͡

run now. i'm praying that they're human . . .

🪻 ; . . . fandom : harry potter.

— my motivation? it's a silly little drabble, about my favorite slytherin. theodore nott deserves love, seriously.

the headers + gifs + icons aren't mine. credits to the respective creators ! 🌷

[papoochu]

With the introduction of Nathalie's father in the latest episode, I decided it was time to finally put my interpretation of him on paper so I can catalog how my perception of him changes. Below are some design notes, backstory, and character study comments. (Warning: it's a lot) Of course, spoiler alert for my fic!

Background:

Victor = reference to Frankenstein

Serdtseva = derived from the word "heart" in Russian

Gave Nathalie “Sancoeur” as a way to distance himself + as a cruel joke

Born circa 1930 in Leningrad to a lower-middle-class family.

Family had connections to the Russian Orthodox Church.

Early Life & Imprisonment:

His early experiences during the Holodomor sparked outrage at the government

Arrested in the late 1940s during the Leningrad Affair while a university student for:

Openly practicing religion in an anti-Orthodox Soviet state.

Expressing interest in banned Western philosophy and literature.

Possible possession of prohibited texts or being reported by a peer.

Sentenced to several years in the Gulag system.

Endures brutal conditions.

Experience deeply affects and distorts his worldview.

Post-Stalin Release & Academic Career:

Released after Stalin’s death in 1953 during the Khrushchev Thaw.

Quietly reinstated into academic life as a professor.

Outwardly reformed; secretly continues dissident activities.

Smuggles and distributes censored literature (e.g., Solzhenitsyn, Western political theory, Orthodox theology).

Involvement in Samizdat & Tamizdat:

Participates in Samizdat (underground self-publishing of banned texts):

Used typewriters with carbon paper to make multiple copies.

Circulated materials within academic circles—dorms, staff offices, cultural clubs.

Involved in Tamizdat (smuggling works abroad to be published).

Rise and Fall in Soviet Society:

Gains influence through connections with:

Other Gulag survivors.

Ideologically flexible bureaucrats.

Rehabilitated intellectuals.

Later accused of sexual misconduct involving minors.

Truth unclear; rumors spread in both academic and dissident communities.

Under increased scrutiny, he resigns and vanishes from Soviet public life.

Exile and Life in France:

Possibly uses false claims of Jewish ancestry or religious affiliation to escape.

Refugee channels assisted by HIAS, Amnesty International, or the Catholic Church.

Smuggled out via Austria or Italy; resettled in France.

Reappears in Lille:

Poses as a Soviet defector and intellectual.

Possibly tolerated by French authorities during Cold War for intelligence value.

Lives in exile—brilliant but embittered, haunted by past, with a sense of superiority.

Family & Decline:

Marries a fellow Soviet émigré, also carrying trauma.

Despite poverty and alienation, they have an unplanned child—Nathalie.

Becomes more religious in exile:

Uses faith to rationalize and justify his actions.

Becomes a controlling and abusive husband and father:

Traumatized, egotistical, and morally fractured.

Legacy marked by ideological extremism and deep personal damage.

Can't find proper work at first due to anti-USSR sentiments - first 2 decades in Lille marked by poverty

He works as a tutor

Slowly finds connections again as people recognize his prestige and skill

Works up in status again

His skills land him a spot on the council

Design Notes/Character Study:

Foil to Nathalie, the Duke, and Gabriel

Color scheme inverted from Gabriel’s

Nathalie dresses similarly to him

She looks more like her mother, but she undoubtedly is her father’s pet daughter

He dresses similarly to the Duke (in a darker color scheme)

Yellow tinge to his shirt - reminds viewer of decay and the past

Outfit based on Shostakovich

He likes to be put together:

Wears gloves

Doesn’t like to touch people directly

Touches Nathalie without gloves (views her as subhuman)

However, his past always cracks through

Clothes slightly oversized

Not afraid to get dirty

Clinical and precise

Juxtaposes Gabriel often getting emotional

Using Courier font rather than the usual Wild Words

Military training background in the USSR

Movements are precise and conservative

Gaunt

Muscle atrophy in the gulags

Doesn’t resort to brute force - is clinical and methodical in his violence

Uses leverage and environment to break bones

Learned to be observant

Scar on throat

His refusal to be silenced (contrasting Nathalie)

Dislikes humanity

Wants a better world

Likes cynical literature like Dostoevsky

Irony: completely misses the point of Crime and Punishment (book he is holding)

Blames the world around him

Believes Raskolnikov’s confession was weakness

Similar to Gabriel in that way

In the picture, he is beating up a predator

Irony: he too is a predator

Not out of concern or justice - out of possessiveness

Likes to inflict torture

First, break the legs (break strongest weapons; prevent escape)

Then, then the arms (not able to grab anything)

Final blow between C1-C7 vertebrae (if not dead, you’re quadriplegic for life)

Contrast to Nathalie, who prefers to tie up loose end quickly and cleanly + Gabriel who hasn’t crossed the line of killing

[blakerights]

hold me for a moment longer

emily prentiss x gn!reader

summary: two people that don't like being vulnerable try and communicate. it takes a lot, but they're trying. inspired by a prompt i found "You look at them like they hung the stars." A silence. "They did so much then that, and I can't ever be grateful enough, even if I wished to."

word count: 2.8k

disclamers: bit of arguing. yearning!! emotional hurt/comfort!! mention of previous abduction/torture. use of y/n. a kiss.

It’s her smile. 

You think. 

Well, actually, it’s her rich laughter that draws your attention first. It makes you pause involuntarily, caught up in the sight of her, mesmerised by her tipped back head, raven curls flowing down her shoulders, as her deep brown eyes, as dark as your coffee before milk, sparkle brightly. And then, of course, it’s her smile that your gaze lingers on, bright and all-consuming. Yeah. 

There’s something about her smile. It makes you wish you were a poet. It needs to be appreciated in a way that only art can capture. Leaving you breathless and yearning for something you should be at peace with not having by now. 

You rub your tired eyes as you take a seat on Rossi’s staircase, ready to lace up your boots and desperately trying to smother a yawn. Your stomach was full and your body warm. Tonight had been a welcome reprieve after one hell of a week. You can smell the smoke from the log burner Morgan, Rossi, and Hotch were enthusiastically setting up outside (JJ had already teased them for acting like boy scouts), and you just needed to push through another drink to ‘ooh’ and ‘ahh’ at their new toy and then you could make your escape. Your bed was calling your name and as much as you loved everyone, the case this week had been exhausting and Emily was making your head spin. You needed to go home and be alone. 

“You’ve been very quiet tonight.” JJ interrupts, pulling your attention from your boot. Her eyes alight with curiosity, and completely invalidating her attempt to appear casual. 

You look away with a sigh and retie the knot you’d been focusing on. “It’s been a long week.” 

She hums in agreement, and you hope that is where she’ll leave it as you turn your focus to your other boot and tie a tight bow. When you lift your head, she hasn’t moved but her attention has been captured by Penelope and Emily chatting in the other room. Your shoulders relax without your knowledge, a soft smile tugging on your lips, an instant reaction to having her in your eyeline. You don’t know what was wrong with you tonight, why this ache in your chest was so prominent. Maybe it was being in this environment with your family, the warmth and familiarity. Or just the fact Emily looked like she was glowing, her smile large and infectious. But fuck the feelings you had tightly packed into a neat little box were not cooperating and if you didn’t get ahold of yourself you were gonna give it all away.

You’re so entranced you fail to notice when JJ returns her gaze back to you.

Until she speaks.  

“You look at her like she hung the stars.” She observes.

Your chest seizes, emotions clawing at your throat as your eyes fall closed. You release a shaky sigh and lift your gaze to meet JJ’s before tearing your eyes away again, unable to handle the care you see reflected in them. 

Penelope pulls Emily into a hug, a squeal leaving her lips. It's been years, and still shock dusts the raven-haired womans features. Always a slight delay before she allows herself to sink into the other person. Her eyes closing, cradling their back gently, undoubtedly savouring the sensation of having her friend close.

You remember every time Emily’s arms have held you up. Every time her reassurance and kind words have reminded you that you belong in this job. Your fingers brush against the old ligature marks on your wrists, the damage has long since faded, healed flesh taking its place, but the memories remain. It was her eyes that you saw when you wanted to stop fighting, to give up, and one day hallucinations had made way for the real things. Those deep coffee brown eyes in front of you and ready to rescue you from hell. Her hands cutting you free, her hand holding you as you were loaded onto a gurney and taken to the hospital. Her, her, her. 

“She did so much more than that.” You confess, voice hoarse with emotion. “And I can’t ever be grateful enough, even if I wanted to.” 

“Y/N–” JJ shakes her head, speechless. 

You smile at her tiredly and shrug. “It’s okay.” 

JJ’s frown somehow deepens, “You should tell her.”

“Come on, we both know she’s not ready for that.”

She shrugs, “I think she might surprise you.”

You shake your head, deeply in denial even as your chest beats with something that feels dangerously close to hope. You push yourself off the stairs and grab your coat from the closet, the urge to flee overwhelming. Memories of your capture resurfacing and Emily’s kind eyes hovering in sight, all just too much to bear. “I’m going to get going. I’m tired anyway.”

“Y/N–” She protests. 

“Tell Rossi I say thank you for everything. I’ll see you at the office on Monday.” You manage a flimsy smile and quickly back away, ignoring her second call of your name as you make your way out of the mansion and firmly close the door behind you. 

The cold air hits you like a brick; filling your lungs and sending a shiver through your body. Spring was approaching, but the cold air was yet to break, and damn was it making itself known. You push through the attack on your body and continue rapidly down the steps, determined to get to your car and leave tonight behind you.

When your car was finally in sight – and you were gonna have words with past you for parking so goddamn far away. – you hear hurried footsteps and another call of your name, “Y/N!” 

You do not stop and do not turn around. Emily’s voice is immediately identifiable and you don’t want to talk to her. You don’t want to do anything but leave. 

“Y/N! Hey!” She calls again, the sound of her footsteps drawing closer. It’s no use. You can’t outrun her, you’ve never been able to. 

Your car is just in front of you. Freedom at your cold fingertips. 

Emily’s hand brushes your arm, bringing you to a halt as your shoulders sag. Eyes shutting. “Hey,” She murmurs to your back. Her voice gentle, always so kind when she’s with you. Sometimes you worry she still sees you as a victim. It’s been five months since the abduction, three months since you were given the clear to return to work, and yet, she was still so gentle with you. She must know you wouldn't break if pushed too hard, right? You’re terrified of the answer.

“What happened?” She asks softly, “You just ran out of there.”

You turn around to face her, arms wrapped against your chest to protect yourself from the biting air. You sink back against your car to give yourself some space, hoping the solidity of the car will provide you with some form of support. Emily's flushed cheeks and deep breaths make you wince. Her jacket is thrown on haphazardly, wind flowing through the unzipped leather. You’re half surprised to find her shoes on the correct feet.

You sigh and step forward, so much for space. Your fingers pull her jacket tighter against her body, so you can easily thread the zipper closure together. “You’re gonna freeze.” You grumble. 

Her eyes trace your features, probing for information. You ignore her and focus on your task, battling with the zip when it protests, your brows furrowing and your lip stuck between your teeth as you concentrate. She’s silent the entire time, not using your momentary distraction to question you, which you’re grateful for. You glance up, breath catching in your lungs when you find deep brown eyes watching you closely.

You swallow and force your gaze back to the zipper, hands shaking slightly, which you hope she’ll attribute to the cold and not because her attention is making you flustered. With one final jiggle the zip detaches from the fabric and you manage to glide it up successfully. You release a satisfied sigh, stroking the zip flat before you step back. Emily’s eyes are already on your face when you lift your head, endlessly deep and caring, and causing an insecure laugh to bubble out of your throat. “What?” You croak, hoarsely. 

“Thank you.” She responds sincerely, brows furrowing just slightly. Like you’re a puzzle she’s still trying to understand. 

You wave your hand, tilting on your feet as your gaze skates away momentarily. “It’s cold.” You say. Which is as much of an explanation as it isn’t. 

She nods, her tongue running over her lip as she tilts her head. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” 

“Em,” You groan, shaking your head. 

“You’ve barely said a word tonight.” She shakes her head, the furrow of her brows deepening. “Something is up. Are the nightmares back?”

“No–Well yes– but that’s not it.” You stare at the woman watching you with caring, gentle, non-judgemental eyes, ready to help in any way she possibly could and you feel the overwhelming urge to stomp your feet and run away. “I’m not a victim!” You choke, emotions bubbling up your throat. “Please stop, please–” You shake your hands, “I need you of all people to not see me like one.”

She rears back, her eyes widening, her mouth falling open as unshed tears block your vision and words pour from your mouth. “I will never be able to express how deeply grateful I am for you. For everything you’ve done for me. And nothing I ever do will ever be enough to repay you. I owe you everything, Emily. But I can feel the way you’re watching me. I can feel your gentle kid gloves just waiting for me to break and I need you to understand that isn’t going to happen. I’m okay. I’m healing. I don’t want you to think–” You voice cracks, hot tears spilling down your cheeks. 

You wipe away your tears with cold fingers. The only noises in the air being the low whistle of the wind and your sniffles. The silence eats at you as you keep your gaze to the ground and continuously wipe away tears, too scared to see the mess you’d made. 

“I don’t see you as a victim.” She croaks. “I just didn’t want you to go through this alone.”

You look up at her through tear-stained lashes and your heart shatters at the sight of her lowered head and tense body. 

“You’re just always so gentle with me.” You respond lost and confused. 

She lifts her head, meeting your gaze for a second before looking away and releasing a wet laugh, pained and broken. The sound is like a dagger to your chest. “If I’d known you just thought this all was some quid-pro-quo, some debt you thought you had to pay off–” She shakes her head, stepping back. Your stomach twists. “It was never supposed to be that. I thought you...” She trails off, blinking away tears that barely have the chance to appear as her downturned lips and furrowed brow become more prominent. 

Her head tilts, lips tightening inwards. “So every kind thing you’ve done for me over the last few months? What? That’s just been your attempt at alleviating your own guilt?” 

Your eyes widen in horror, “No, wait, that’s not what I meant. It was never that–” 

Emily continues on with narrowed eyes, ignoring your protest, “I was treating you how I thought you deserved to be treated. It wasn’t gentle-kid gloves. If I thought you were going to break I’d tell you, I’d tell Hotch. I wouldn’t stand-by why you put yourself and everyone else in danger.” She shakes her head, a frustrated huff leaving her mouth as her eyes fix on a point above your head. “I was gentle with you because you’re an easy person to be gentle with when you’re not making me mad.” She chokes, a wave of emotions clogging her throat, tears you wished she’d trust you with again blinked away as the fight leaves her body. 

Your eyes burn in your attempt to hold back your own emotions. Breath stuck in your chest. “Emily, I promise you it was never that. Fuck, its just…” Your internal war with yourself spills outwards; hands shaking and half gasping breaths escaping your mouth as your lungs protest, “You saved my life, Emily. Like found me in hell, rescued me from a monster, and then continued to turn up everyday to make sure I didn’t sink into the dark, kind of saved my life. I could’ve drowned. I-I wanted to. But you were always there fighting for me when I didn’t have the energy to fight for myself.” Tears fill your eyes again, emotions choking you up. “And you’re right, it’s not a debt. But how am I meant to thank you enough for that? You mean so much to me.” You look away, blinking back tears, words and emotions clogging in your throat. 

“More than I should express.” You shake your head and release a wobbly breath. “ And I’ve gone about all of this the wrong way, and I’m sorry about that. Can we just forget tonight even happened? I think I’m just exhausted. It’s been a long week.” You beg, frantic to fix the mess you’d made and get back to before. 

She sighs into the cold night air and steps forward, “Come here.” She murmurs, gently grasping your arm and pulling you towards her. You stumble forwards into warm arms that wrap around your body holding you close as a new wave of tears threaten to make themselves known. It's easy to bury your head into her neck, to fist your hands into her back, to grip onto this woman you didn’t know what you’d do without. You inhale, allowing the comforting scent of her perfume to fill your senses and calm your system. 

“I’m sorry.” You whisper, words muffled by her neck. 

“It was never because I saw you as a victim,” She says gently, voice vibrating through your body, and despite everything, making your lips tilt up slightly. “There were no kid gloves. I was just doing my best to treat you how you deserve.”

You pull back slowly so you can lift your head, her arms dropping so they settle on your waist. Her gaze is stuck in the distance, jaw locked. You tenderly reach up to cup her jaw and her eyes fall closed at her contact, but you push forward, even as you hold your breath, gently running your thumb over tight soft skin. When she doesn’t protest or try to push you away, you slowly guide her face back to yours, continuing to stroke the skin and smiling slightly when she sinks into the contact. 

“Emily, open your eyes.”

Hesitant brown eyes flutter open, and you smile. Hope swarming in your chest again, this time not attached to denial and dread. 

“You are incredible.” 

She blinks, vulnerable. 

“And wonderful and smart and kind.” 

She attempts a smirk, defensive and flimsy, “You’re feeding my ego, be car-“ 

You place your finger over her lip, silencing her. Her eyes widen in surprise, her hands still sitting heavily on your waist, grounding you, a needed comfort. “Don’t joke. I’m serious. I’m so sorry for hurting you, Emily.” You sigh, deeply looking into her beautiful dark eyes. “You really have no idea how astonishing you are, do you?” 

Her lip falters under your finger, her eyes welling up slightly as a frustrated sigh leaves her mouth. “Fuck.” 

You pull your finger away, tracking her expression closely. Vulnerable eyes fighting some sort of battle, heaving breath, and pink cheeks. “Emi-”

Soft pillowy lips tenderly caress yours. And your body reacts instantly. Buzzing and stumbling forward into her as if pulled by a magnet. You don’t falter, sinking into her rhythm before she can pull away. Joy bubbles up in your chest, a smile you can’t contain spreading onto your lips as you kiss her back softly and thread your fingers through her hair. 

She pulls back just enough to catch your eye, a light laughter rippling from her chest. Happy, free. 

She places a kiss against your forehead and releases a relieved sigh. You can only hum in agreement. 

You both stand there for a long moment, wrapped in each other, protecting one another from the cold night air. For a moment, you no longer feel alone. Your lips still tingling from her kiss, a smile you can’t contain all over your face, and warm arms wrapped around you, filling your soul with a true sense of safety. You didn’t need anymore words, not right now. Not while time stands still and it’s just her and you. 

You were silly to put it down to her smile. It wasn’t the smile that was all-consuming, or maybe it was, but it was also just her. Plain and simple. Her. You didn’t need to dissect the parts of her because simply being in her presence left you feeling both breathless and safe. 

It was her. She was the art. 

She was everything. 

And it was going to be okay. 

You were both going to be okay. 

[i6eyes]

10:43 pm. gojo satoru

"i want to crawl inside you," satoru's blend of azure hues locks onto yours, "i want to live under your skin, be as close as possible to ya." he nuzzles his temple on your clavicle.

your attention shifts from the book in your hands to your boyfriend, the very same one who's currently gnawing your chest as gentle as teeth would go. the book you were propping on top of his head suddenly seems like an ideal tool to hit him with.

"what." you monotonously respond, your tone flat, eliciting a whimper from him.

"you don't get it baby," he laments, drawing out his words. why can't he express his love for you in a more .. conventional way? "you're not gonna get it ever. ever! cause no one will love you half as much as i do." he adds.

you won't understand his intense desire to merge with you, to share his very soul, heart, and mind with you. to experience life through your eyes, to feel your emotions, to embody your essence. you, his angel, his cherished love, a woman too gentle, too sweet, too loving for a man like him.

a man who flirts with danger, who caress death with the tips of his fingertips, who wields power with a mere flick of his wrist, a man who believes he's too flawed, too damaged for someone as pure as you.

"try me," you retort, a soft chuckle escaping your lips. you gently place your book aside and run your fingers through his silky unpigmented white hair, a touch that makes him practically purr with contentment. "i've climbed those tall, tall walls of yours — a little more wouldn't hurt now, wouldn't it?"

he wouldn't dream of causing you pain, hurting you in any kind of way, but he knows you don't see yourself the way he does, you never will. "eh, now that i thought about it, it's kinda lame."

you protested, but with a laugh. because that's how things are with satoru, disapprovals and complaints laced with light-heartedness and amusement.

that's what satoru is, a breath of life with a touch of death.

"are you mad right now? because you look soo hot— ow!" you smack him upside in the head.

[runninriot]

hold on together

for @stervrucht, inspired by this beautiful art piece | rated T | wc: 625 | tags: dealing with post UD trauma, nightmares, emotional hurt/comfort | also on ao3

   "We're alive."

The words hit Eddie like a punch to the gut. He feels like someone’s dropped him into ice cold water, startled awake by the impact. Slowly, the world around him comes into focus.

   "We're alive and we're safe and whatever you saw in your dream isn't real, okay?"

Strong arms wrap around him, giving Eddie something to hold on to, keeping his trembling body steady.

   "You're okay, Eddie. We are okay."

A sob forces its way out of his throat but doesn't have the chance to get very far. Not with Eddie's face pressed against Steve's shoulder - held tight against warm skin. Skin that is damaged, covered in scars that will always remind them that the horrors are real.

Were real.

   "It's over. They can't hurt us anymore. You're safe, I promise."

Steve's voice is a soothing vibration against the shell of his ear, the hand at the back of his head encouraging him to bury his face where he always feels safest, hiding in the space between Steve's shoulder and neck.

   "I'm here, Eddie."

He always is. Always is there to get Eddie through the nights when the monsters seem too real and he can't escape, can't run from his own mind when it's playing those images over and over again. When he can feel the teeth sinking into his flesh and smell the blood. When he feels so cold, so alone, so scared. When he wakes up screaming and drenched in sweat, unable to breathe.

Steve holds him through all of it, never complains about losing sleep, never makes fun of Eddie for crying.

   "I'm sorry, Steve," he says weakly, the words offering no real solace for how fucked up he feels. "I'm so, so sorry for being such a mess."

   "Shh, don't worry. I got you, Eddie."

Steve always does. Is the only one who gets to see Eddie like this. The only one who can catch Eddie when he's falling.

   "It's all gonna be okay. Do you hear me? I love you, baby."

Loves him despite how broken Eddie is. Loves him with all his flaws, loves him with all the burdens of a tattered mind, the trauma, and barely healed wounds. Loves him and keeps him close. Lets him fall apart in his arms before he helps him pick up the pieces time and again.

   "I don't deserve you," Eddie snivels before he dares to look up, teary eyes searching for Steve's hazel ones, "You shouldn't have to put up with me."

Steve takes him in for a few seconds, eyes flitting between Eddie's, seemingly searching for the right words to say. And then his lips curl into a lopsided smile.

   "You're not getting rid of me that easy. Sorry to break it to you but you're stuck with me forever. We're trauma bonded for life, baby."

Eddie laughs, all wet and choked up - he must look disgusting with his puffy eyes and red, blotchy face but Steve kisses him anyway. Kisses him, and holds him, and it's like a dream. A beautiful dream that slowly replaces every last memory of the nightmare he had.

   "Feeling better?" Steve asks when their lips part and Eddie nods, wordlessly follows Steve back underneath the covers where he crawls into waiting arms, quickly drifting, falling back asleep.

Maybe tomorrow, he will be the one offering comfort. Right now, though, Eddie can rest safely in his boyfriend's arms.

Hopefully one day, the recurring nightmares will finally end for both of them. Until then, no matter how hard it gets, they have each other as their anchor. Protected by love as their armour. Two hearts beating for one another, their rhythmic melody a reminder that they made it.

They are alive.

[amara-scott]

Never been loved.

Pairing: Mattheo Riddle x Slytherin!female Reader Tags: Angst, Angst, Angst

Prompt: "You've never been loved, I can tell."

It would have been a beautiful spring day in the courtyard of hogwarts. But standing before Mattheo—you knew this was possibly a turning point about to happen. Your best friend. Having built that trusting relationship with him was hard. On both sides. But you stuck together and knew each other well.

But now the tension between you and Mattheo is thick, like a storm ready to break. You can feel it in the air, the unspoken words that hang between you both, electrifying the space. And yet, the weight of it all crashes down with the finality of your words, words that you didn't even realize held so much truth. "You've never been loved, I can tell." You don’t know why you said it, why the words slipped from your lips like a confession, an accusation. But the moment they leave your mouth, they settle over him like a shadow, dark and unavoidable.

You watch him, frozen, as his gaze falters, as if a part of him dies with your words. His shoulders drop, and for the briefest moment, he looks almost… human. Vulnerable. The walls he so carefully constructed around himself seem to crack, and for the first time, you see the weight he’s been carrying—the one he’s never let anyone see.

But Mattheo doesn’t speak. Not right away. His lips tremble, just slightly, as if the words he wants to say are too much to bear. His breathing is shallow, uneven. It’s a quiet sort of pain, the kind that threatens to swallow him whole, but he refuses to let it. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mutters, the harshness in his voice an attempt to mask the tremor you caught. His jaw clenches, his eyes narrow, but they can’t hide the flicker of something deep within them.

You wish you could take back the words, erase the hurt you’ve caused him, but you can't. The damage has been done, and now all you can do is watch him retreat behind that mask again.

“You don’t know me,” he snaps, cutting your thoughts off. The rawness in his tone pulls at your chest, makes your heart ache for him in a way you hadn’t expected. He’s breaking, but he won’t let you see it. His walls go back up, taller and colder than before, as he presses his lips together, trying to maintain control.

“You don’t know my name,” he continues, but it’s not the name he’s referring to. It’s something deeper, something that has been built over years of pressure, expectations, and burdens no one should ever bear.

You reach for him, words forming on your tongue, but they choke you as he takes a step back. The tears that threaten to spill seem to freeze in your throat. You want to apologize, to explain yourself, but the words are too heavy, the apology too fragile.

He shakes his head then, and you feel the weight of his emotions like a physical blow. “No,” he says, voice cracking. “You don’t have the right to talk about me. Talk about love. You don’t know anything about me.” His voice raises, and you flinch, a tiny part of you bracing for the anger that you know is coming. But then—then his eyes soften, and a single tear escapes, rolling down his cheek, tracing the path of all the years of grief he’s kept locked away.

The world tilts as you see that tear. It shatters everything you thought you knew about him. The bravado, the indifference—it all crumbles. He’s not invincible. He’s not the cold, untouchable boy he’s shown everyone.

You want to reach out, to take his face in your hands and promise him that it doesn’t have to be like this, but the fear that grips you—fear of what he’ll do, of what this moment will mean—paralyzes you.

When he speaks again, his voice is low, but it cuts through you like a knife. “I think it’s best if we part ways from now on.” The words hang in the air, and for a moment, everything goes still. The wind dies, the distant sounds of the castle fade. His voice is the only thing that matters now.

Before you can process what’s happening, he’s turning away from you, walking toward the castle with a speed that leaves you breathless, leaves you empty. You stand there, a hollow ache settling in your chest.

Your feet move before your mind catches up, and you grab his arm, forcing him to stop. “Mattheo, no—don’t say that.” But he doesn’t even look at you. His body stiffens, his hand brushes yours off as if it’s a weight he can’t bear.

“I’m only saying what you would expect of me. Your image of me is quite apparent. Since you know me so well.” His words are cruel, but they are truth. And it cuts deeper than anything he’s said before. You step back, your heart sinking with the realization that he’s right.

With one last glance over his shoulder, he’s gone, leaving you standing in the shadows of the evening, alone.

Days pass. You bury yourself in your studies, pretending like it doesn’t matter. You let the ache settle in your bones, telling yourself that you’re stronger than this, that you’re better off without him. But every time you close your eyes, you see him—his face, the way his eyes softened for the briefest moment before he pulled away from you, the tear that marked the end of everything.

Pansy finds you in the library, but even she can see the storm brewing inside you. She drags you out, forces you to confront what you’ve done, and somehow, you find yourself standing at the threshold of the common room, looking at Mattheo across the room.

You stand frozen at the entrance to the common room, your breath shallow, heart pounding. The noise around you seems to fade into a dull hum as you lock eyes with Mattheo. He’s sitting there, looking as casual as ever, but there’s something in his gaze that stops you cold—something colder than you’ve ever seen before. It’s like he’s trying to shut himself off from you, a wall rising in the space between you that feels miles wide.

Pansy’s grip on your sleeve is the only thing keeping you tethered to the present, but even her silent pressure on your arm doesn’t make your feet move. She knows what’s going on in your head, even if you’re too caught up in the chaos to say it.

Mattheo’s face remains unreadable as his eyes flicker between the fireplace and the others in the room, but the tension in the air is thick. You can’t tell if he’s angry, hurt, or simply indifferent—but the chill in his expression tells you enough. It’s the same kind of look he’s given you every time you’ve pulled away, each time you’ve said something wrong, like you’ve been a weight dragging him down.

“I think I should go,” you mutter to Pansy, your voice barely louder than a whisper. You can feel your hands trembling, the nervousness creeping up your spine.

Pansy doesn’t let go of your sleeve. Instead, she gently pulls you forward, her usual playful tone gone, replaced with a sharp, no-nonsense edge. “No. You’re not running away this time. Not from this.”

Your throat tightens, and for a moment, you feel like you might suffocate under the weight of it all—the fight, the guilt, the fear that he’ll never forgive you. But Pansy is already moving, leading you towards the fire where the others are seated. The firelight flickers in your eyes as you step forward, your body feeling heavy, like you’re walking through quicksand.

Mattheo doesn’t look up right away, but when he does, you feel the full force of his gaze. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask you how you’re doing or what you’ve been up to. It’s like the space between you has grown into something vast and impenetrable, and no words can bridge that gap. You wonder if that’s what you deserve after what you said, after what you did.

“You don’t have to do this,” Pansy says softly, but there’s a firmness beneath her words. “But if you don’t, you’ll never know if things could be fixed.”

You can’t breathe for a moment. Everything in you screams to just leave, to hide away again, but you know she’s right. You’ve never been good at facing what you’ve done. But if you leave now, you might lose him forever. And you can’t do that.

You stop in front of Mattheo, the words stuck in your throat. For a long moment, you don’t know where to start. It feels like you’ve already said everything you could say, yet nothing at all. But it’s different now. You’re standing here, staring at him, and for the first time in a long time, you’re not running.

"Can we- talk?" You don't hear your own words as you speak and hold your breath while you wait, still contemplating if you could make a run for it—but Pansy is right. Mattheo doesn't spare you a glance as he simply stands up and walks past you, toward a secluded corner in the common room, two armchairs next to each other, a dim lit candle and tall bookshelves rising to the ceiling. You join him as he sits, fiddling with your robe until you take a deep breath, finally looking up at him.

“I—I’m sorry.” The words feel like they’ve been stuck in your chest for so long. You swallow hard, voice cracking slightly. “I never meant to hurt you.”

He stares at you in silence, his jaw tightening, but there’s something there now—a flicker of recognition in his eyes, something that tells you he’s listening. Not because he has to, but because he wants to. You don’t know if that’s a good thing, but it’s a start.

“I know I fucked up. I don’t know what I was thinking, but I—” You pause, unsure of what to say next, your chest tightening with the weight of all the things you should have said before. “I care about you, Mattheo. More than I’ve ever cared about anyone.”

He doesn’t speak for a long while, and for a moment, it feels like the world has frozen around you both. But then, slowly, his lips part. His voice is low, almost like it’s coming from somewhere deep inside him, a place he’s been hiding for too long.

“You don’t have to keep apologizing.” His gaze is soft, almost vulnerable, and it shakes you to your core. “You don’t have to say anything you think I want to hear.”

“Then what do you want to hear?” you ask, almost desperately. “Because I don’t know how to fix this.”

“You don’t have to fix it. Just… be here. With me. No more walls.”

Your heart beats faster at his words. It’s not perfect, it’s not the answer you hoped for, but it’s something. Something you can work with.

And when he stands, taking a small step toward you, you feel the knot in your chest loosen just a little bit, so you stand as well. His arms, warm and familiar, slide around your shoulders, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you don’t feel so alone.

“Let’s not do this again,” he murmurs against your hair, pulling you close as you clutch his dress shirt, shutting your eyes tightly.

And you nod, knowing that no matter how long it takes, you’ll keep trying. You’ll keep showing up, even when the storm inside you feels too strong to bear.

For him. For you.

For what you both deserve.

[curlycow01]

Only you

Pairing: Winter Soldier x Reader

Summary: You and the Winter soldier escape hydra together, and feelings for each other are revealed along the way

Meanings: солдат - soldier

Series Masterlist

Read part 2 here

Out of all the test subjects Hydra gave the serum to, only you survive. You and Soldat were the perfect soldiers of Hydra, their greatest weapons. They brainwash you both, but they overdo yours, and break your mind, making you forget all the memories pre serum, the life you previously had.

Hydra sends you both on missions to assassinate high level targets and you both end up saving each other's lives a lot of times, creating this weird dynamic. Even through the fragments of your mind, you seek the Soldat's presence, his powerful stance and intimidating silence, drawing you to him as your only sense of comfort.

No matter how many times Hydra wipes his memories, his feelings for you don't go away. When he realizes he cares about you, he's determined to find a way to save you.

Decades pass and one day Soldat returns from a mission. Looks like he didn't complete it as his metal arm had sustained heavy internal damage. He seems a bit off as you observe him from a corner. Alexander Pierce enters the room and asks him for the mission report.

The soldat doesn't reply, lost in thought. Pierce hits him on the face, the sound echoing through the room. You feel a flash of anger. "The man on the bridge" he says quietly to pierce, his face having a genuine expression of curiosity. "Who was he?"

"You met him earlier this week on another assignment." Pierce answers. "I knew him" Soldst's voice had a hint of faraway recognition. Pierce is clearly not happy. "Your work has been a gift to mankind. You shaped the century, and I need you to do it one more time." he takes a small pause. "If you don't do your part I can't do mine, and Hydra can't give the world the freedom it deserves.

The Soldat's face was sad, he pressed his lips for a second before speaking in a defeated tone "But I knew him" Pierce sighs in frustration and gets up from the chair. He looks at him for a moment before turning to the scientists "Prep him" One of them spoke up "But he's been out of cryo freeze too long." "Then wipe him and start over" Pierce answers.

Your heart skips a beat as you hear those words. Pierce leaves. the scientist push Soldat back in the chair. Machines attach themselves onto his head, cackling with electricity.

You grip the railing tightly as his horrific screams echoed through the room, his naked chest heaving with heavy breathing. Guards come and escort you elsewhere, but his screams were still ringing through your ears.

Hours later

You opened your eyes and stepped out of the cryo freeze, to see the scientists panicking and few armed guards shuffling around uncomfortably.

The head Doctor spoke up "This doesn't change anything. We still have one supersoldier left. The Asset's failure, though frustrating, is not a complete disaster. Captain America is dead. The collision of the helicarriers killed both of them."

Your blood runs cold as the sentence sinks in. A small gasp escapes your lips at the fact that he's gone. He couldn't be, you didn't want to believe it. The Doctor notices your gasp and turns to you with a darkened expression. "Look at this" he says in a mocking tone "You've grown feelings for him, have you?" he scoffs " Having emotions makes you weak. We've lost the Soldat, but we can still use you, make you the next perfect soldier"

You're frozen in place as the Doctor reveals the truth. "Wipe her" he commands the guards in an emotionless voice. You're still rooted to the ground as the guards approach you. They roughly push you into the chair and lock restraints around your wrists.

Your heart is thundering in your chest as the electrocuting machines on either side of your head are switched on with a small hum of electricity. Adrenaline courses through your veins as the contraption starts coming close to you. You shut your eyes tightly, bracing for the pain.

You feel the cool metal closing around your head for a second, then a huge wave of blinding pain shoots through you, it's like the voltage of an electric chair dialed up to 11. Your cries of pain fall on deaf ears, and you barely survive the first wave. Tears streak down your cheeks as you waited for the second wave. But it never comes.

You slowly open your eyes, still blurry with tears. You can't hear much due to the ringing in your ears, but you can make out that the machine's stopped. A loud crash breaks through the ringing, and you try to blink away the tears to see what's going on.

You see the soldat plowing through the guards and the terrified scientists. The way he was landing his punches was in pure rage, nothing like you've ever seen him before. You try to move, but you were tightly bound by the restraints. Your breathing was still ragged, the first wave left you with little energy.

Gentle fingers brush against your cheek, you snap your head from the restraints to see your savior. "солдат?" your voice is low and hoarse as you gaze into his piercing blue eyes, which were laced with concern. "Bucky" he says as he starts freeing you from the restraints.

You try to stand, but your knees were wobbly, Bucky swiftly grabs your arm to steady you. His eyes scan you for any other injuries. "I should have gotten here sooner" he says grimly, his hand wrapped around yours protectively. "They said that you died" you say slowly, looking up at him "They said the crash killed you, but you survived. Why didn't you run?"

"I couldn't leave" Bucky answers, his gaze softening as he continues "Not without you. Not when you were still trapped." His metal arm reached up and brushed some hair that had fallen over your face, this action made your stomach flip. The atmosphere between you two changed.

"So, uh" you say awkwardly, breaking the silence "Where do we go now?" "I have a place in Romania. We should be safe there." He answers.

"Great" You're trying to sound like you're okay, even though you were anything but okay on the inside, all of these emotions swirling inside of you. He could never know you think he'll never feel the same

You started walking to the exit, but Bucky caught your arm. You turned to him "Aren't we leaving?" He took a deep breath before speaking "Before I killed the Doctor, he said that you had grown attached to me and" he paused for a moment and blinked slowly "that you had feelings for me"

Your breath slightly hitched as he finally learnt your secret. "He also tried to insult you, but I snapped his neck before he could finish the sentence" Bucky takes a step closer to you. "Is that true? That- that you have feelings for me?" he asks slowly. You only nodded, not knowing what to say.

"How long?" As you're thinking what to say, you suddenly realize that he's standing close to you, his lips only inches away. how you would love to- woah. Wait a minute. You snap out of your thoughts and rasp out "A while"

His flesh hand reached out and lightly traced your jaw with his fingers "Why didn't you say anything? he asks softly. You hesitated for a moment "I- I thought you didn't feel the same, because hydra removed emotions-" "Hydra couldn't take away this." He interrupted. His hand stilled and pulled away from your jaw. "They couldn't take you away from me. They didn't change the way I feel about you."

His metal arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer to him. Before you could realize what's happening. his lips were on yours. Your lips perfectly molded his, moving in sync. His other hand moved to the back of your head, pulling you closer and deepening the kiss.

His muscular frame covered you completely as his tongue brushed against your lip, silently asking for entry. You parted your lips slightly, allowing his tongue to slip inside. His tongue danced against yours as his hand moved through your hair.

You both pulled away after a few moments for air. Bucky's metal arm was tracing circles on your hip. "I'll never let them hurt you again" He whispers "I'll always keep you safe." He looks at you with utmost love and affection in his sky-blue eyes.

"Do you think we can make this work?" You whisper back, taking his hand in your own "The world won't accept this. They won't accept us. "Screw the world" Bucky replies firmly and squeezes your hand in reassurance "I don't care about the world, what they say or want, I don't." He intertwines his fingers with yours.

"I only care about you"

[ginnsbaker]

fic: if i bleed (you'll be the last to know) (11/?)

Part Summary: You listen, and her reasons make sense, but they don't ease the tightness gripping your heart. Knowing how well Leigh understands the control she holds over you leaves you feeling exposed, almost humiliated. It feels manipulative, whether she intended it or not.

Pairing: Leigh Shaw x Fem!Reader | Word count for this part: 6.300+ | Warnings: Angst | Author's note: Buckle up you guys.

Masterlist | Part I Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI | Part VII | Part VIII | Part IX | Part X

-

You've never looked at Leigh this way before. 

Not even when she confronted you months ago, a formidable presence with a devastating revelation that shattered what you thought was a straightforward affair with a single man. Not even when she accused you of lying, or when she consistently made things difficult for you. 

Now, you look at her as if she's an entirely different person. And from the way you fall back, it's obvious you don't particularly like what you see. Leigh hadn't realized just how painful it could be to be looked at in such a way. With each of your steps, panic swells inside her. Though you're only a few feet away, it feels as if you've drifted oceans apart. She can't reach you, and the growing distance makes her fear she never will.

“What did you say?” you repeat slowly, each syllable dropping like a stone—deliberate and heavy.

Your eyes, hard and cold, fix on her. It’s an unsettling sight; she'd almost prefer your anger. Anger, at least, is a familiar adversary, a clear-cut emotion she has long helmed and appeased within herself. She understands anger, knows how to quell it, how to unravel it into something resembling forgiveness or at least a truce. But this wounded belief—she doesn’t know what to do with it. It doesn’t want loud arguments or quick fixes. Instead, it seems to demand something she finds far harder to give: an explanation of motives she's not sure she fully understands herself.

“Your eyes are... enthralling?” Leigh stammers out, her voice quivering slightly as she attempts some self-preservation. She regrets the words as soon as they slip out, sounding hollow and clumsy to her own ears.

You don't laugh, or even react much at all, except to say, “You know that's not what I'm talking about.”

Leigh’s heart sinks a bit more. She winces, shaking her head, realizing the frivolous comment has fallen flat, doing nothing to undo the damage. In the end, she can’t bring herself to say what she knows you want to hear.

“After all this time, how…? How do you know about that nickname?” you ask, maintaining a façade of indifference though you can feel the cracks forming. 

“I work for the website,” Leigh says, her eyes dropping to the floor when she hears you take in a sharp breath. “I used to run the advice column there. But when Matt died, I couldn't handle it anymore and I left.” She stops for a moment, her gaze flickering back to you, searching for a reaction, but you remain silent, your expression unreadable. 

“They brought me back recently, just as a contributor. I wasn't sure how to tell you. It's part of how I'm trying to move on, getting back into writing, even though it feels different now,” she adds somberly.

“So, did you just read my entries and figure out it was me from what I wrote?” you ask, your voice low and uncertain.

Leigh swallows dryly, steeling herself for what she has to say next. “Not only did I read your entries,” she admits slowly, her voice a whisper of trepidation, “but I was the one replying to them.”

After her confession, Leigh struggles to meet your eyes. Her ears are filled with the loud rush of her heartbeat, thumping wildly as the seconds tick by without a word from you. Time seems suspended, and when you don't speak, move, or give any indication of your thoughts, dread begins to creep into the edges of her mind.

“I was going to tell you,” Leigh murmurs, the words barely escaping her lips. Your arms cross over your chest, sealing yourself off even more. She feels you slipping further away, when just moments earlier, you had been kissing the life out of her, as if trying to breathe her in. 

This can’t be happening, Leigh thinks. It just can’t.

“When?” you scoff. “When you’re… what? Done with your revenge?”

Leigh’s brow furrows at the accusation. “Revenge?”

“Isn’t that what this is about?” you ask, retreating until your back meets the wall, leaning heavily against it. Leigh notices the fatigue etched into your features, as if the realization that she knew about your submissions and was the one responding to them is more than you can bear.

“I don’t—”

“Payback for what went on between me and Matt?” 

“Y/N,” Leigh utters your name hard, like a deity in her prayers. “You’re misunderstanding this—”

“Am I?” you challenge, your voice rising.  You don't care if the neighbors hear; you’ve never met any of them anyway. “I remember a ‘Gigi Herrel’ advising me to move on, to meet other people, to pursue someone else—”

Your words become stuck in your throat as you realize that ‘Gigi Herrel’ is an anagram for ‘Leigh Greer.’ How could you have missed it? How could you have been so blind?

Leigh aches to reach out to you, to touch you and reassure you that she never meant any harm, that her intentions were never what you're accusing her of. But her hands remain at her sides, afraid you might recoil or push her away. She worries that one wrong move could drive you away for good.

“I never meant to hurt you. Please, Y/N,” she begs, her voice trembling with an urgency neither of you thought she was capable of. “I was trying to protect you—from myself. I’m a mess, Y/N. I’ve been a mess since Matt…” Leigh trails off, unable to finish the sentence.

“You thought toying with my feelings was protection?”

“I wasn’t!” Leigh objects forcefully.

You slump to the ground, your strength giving out as a sharp, nail-like pain spreads through your head. You bury your face in your hands, fingers pressing into your temples, while Leigh sits across from you, her hands nervously twisting together.

Quietly, you voice your frustrations. “If it wasn't a game, then why do I feel like I've been losing all this time? Things would be fine between us, and then suddenly, you'd ignore me. My texts went unanswered, my messages unseen for days. It felt like you weren't even treating me right as a friend. I'd drive myself crazy wondering if I said something wrong or did something wrong… It feels like I'm always walking on eggshells. So, if it wasn't a game, tell me you didn't do those things on purpose. Because if not, then you were awful to me without even trying. You know that, right?”

Leigh's eyes brim with remorse. She quickly wipes at her eyes before a tear can fall, trying to maintain her composure in front of you.. “I would never play games with you,” she implores. “I've been in pieces for so long that I've forgotten what it means to be whole. When I found out about your feelings, I didn’t understand them. I couldn't see how it could happen when I wasn't my best self.

“I pushed you away because I was scared of letting you see the real me—the broken, messy parts. I thought that if you got too close, saw too much, you'd realize there wasn't much to hold onto. That eventually, you'd see me the way I see myself and end up disappointed.” Her voice trembles, betraying the strength she tries to project.

You listen, and her reasons make sense, but they don't ease the tightness gripping your heart. Knowing how well Leigh understands the control she holds over you leaves you feeling exposed, almost humiliated. It feels manipulative, whether she intended it or not.

“You knew how I felt about you, Leigh,” you say, your lips curving into a wistful smile. “I understand that you're hurting and that being scared is part of it, but it doesn't justify leaving me hanging, wondering where I stand with you, feeling like I'm just... waiting for you to decide I'm worth your time.”

Leigh nods slowly. “I realize that now, and I'm so sorry. It wasn't fair to you. I was trying to manage my own issues, but I ended up projecting them onto you.”

You look into her eyes, searching for a sign that the change you need from her is possible. “Being broken isn't a reason to break others,” you say.

Leigh flinches slightly, your words hitting home. “You’re absolutely right,” she agrees, her eyes unblinking. You can tell that if you were to list her faults, she would agree and confess to them all just to resolve things right here and now. But that's not what you want, nor what you need from her.

“Y/N,” Leigh's voice almost breaks as she says your name. “Will you forgive me?”

Yes, you think instinctively. Forgiving Leigh feels almost second nature. But actually saying it out loud right now would set a course you're not sure you're ready to follow. Trust has been strained and rebuilding it isn't as simple as uttering a single word of forgiveness.

Leigh looks at you expectantly, anxiety lining her features. “Y/N?” she repeats softly.

You understand what she's silently asking: if there's a chance to reset everything. But you're not ready to commit to an answer. Offering her any assurance now might only lead to false hopes, especially if you later decide a real relationship isn't possible. Part of you wants to give in, to return to her embrace and pick up where you left off. But another part, perhaps the more rational side, holds you back.

“Leigh, I... can we just... I need some time to think,” you finally say. Disappointment flashes across her face, almost imperceptible but unmistakably there. As Leigh stands, you expect her to quietly leave, respecting your need for space. Instead, she spins around to face you with renewed determination.

“I'm not a perfect person, okay?” she whispers, but you can still sense the rough edges around her voice. This is a side of Leigh you're all too familiar with, having felt the sting of her impatience and temper more times than you'd like. But instead of rising to the challenge, you simply feel drained—too exhausted to argue tonight.

“You don't have to be perfect, Leigh,” you say, more tired than angry. Then, almost impulsively, you ask, “Does Danny know you’re here?”

Leigh's composure slips for just a moment at the mention of his name. Guilt or surprise crosses her face like a shadow, only to vanish as quickly as it appeared. Her jaw tightens, and you sense her displeasure at the topic. “No, he doesn't know I'm here,” she says curtly.

Well, at least she’s being honest. But what were you expecting—that her presence here meant she had chosen you?

“You need some time to think too,” you say, pushing yourself up and moving toward the door. Leigh's expression stiffens as her eyes follow your movements. You open the door, gesturing for her to leave. She approaches, hesitating just short of it, her gaze searching for the right words or maybe just some reassurance, but finding neither.

“I'm sorry,” she murmurs, her defiance fading. “This isn't how I imagined tonight would go. I don't regret what happened, really, but I hate that it ended up hurting you. That's not why I came here.”

“I know,” you reply, unsure of what else to say. 

Leigh starts to leave, then hesitates again just before crossing the threshold. “Can I contact you?”

You let out a sigh. "Good night, Leigh."

She swallows hard and nods slowly. “Bye,” she whispers.

You gently close the door after her and lean against it for a moment. Leigh has turned your world upside down more times than you can count, and you two haven't even truly begun.

-

“Do you ever just think about disappearing?”

Jules lifts her head to look at her sister. They lie side by side at the foot of Leigh's bed, with empty glasses of milk on the floor next to them and an open pack of Oreos, an invitation for the ants.

The night before, after the whole debacle with you finding out she’s been answering your advice submissions, Leigh had come home with her lips still tingling and her stomach in knots. She had almost run to her room in a huff, drawing puzzled looks from Jules and Amy, before slamming her bedroom door shut. They knew better than to ask what was wrong and wisely kept their distance. That was, until Leigh didn't come out of her room the entire morning until afternoon, except for a quick trip to the kitchen for some food, and even then, she was wearing the same clothes as the day before. A single whiff from a few feet away also made it clear she hadn't showered either. 

Worried, Jules decided to intervene with a little gesture that she hoped might coax her sister out of her shell. She grabbed a packet of Oreos from the pantry and poured a glass of milk—Leigh’s comfort snack since childhood—and tapped softly on her sister's door. Leigh didn’t answer. She tried the knob, found it unlocked, and pushed the door open. The sight of Leigh, all disheveled and pale with those heavy bags under her eyes, took Jules right back to those first several days after they learned Matt had been found dead at the bottom of a cliff.

Jules lifts her head to look at her sister. “Leigh, you're scaring me. You know that, right?”

Leigh quickly shakes her head, realizing how her words sounded. “No, no, I don’t mean like that. Not disappearing in the way Matt did.” She sighs, throwing an arm over her eyes. “I just mean... rebooting, you know? Wishing we could rewind to before everything got so complicated.”

Relieved by the clarification, Jules settles back down beside her. They both gaze up at the ceiling, lost in thought.

“I wish I never tasted alcohol when I was fifteen,” Jules says suddenly. 

Leigh frowns. “That bad, huh?”

Jules smiles wryly and nods. “Yeah. Some choices just stick with you, you know? Can’t undo them. Just have to live with what comes after.”

Leigh's thoughts drift as she listens to Jules, a rueful smile crossing her lips. “You know, I've got my own list of should've, would've, could've. I always thought I'd finish college, maybe become an editor or write something of my own one day.”

Jules tries to offer a silver lining. “But you don’t need a degree to be a writer, Leigh.”

“Yeah, I know,” Leigh mumbles, tracing a pattern on the bedspread absentmindedly. “It's just... having that formal education might have made things easier. Like being pushed by mentors... or the doors it would've opened, the people I would've met. But more than that, I regret not sticking it out. I quit too easily.”

Then, turning on her side with her back to Jules, she continues, “But in the end, it all circles back to Matt somehow. This… this inability to follow through really got to me after he was gone. We had so many plans, so many dreams together. And now none of them will ever happen.”

“You still really love him, don't you?”

Leigh’s answer is slow to come. “Yes,” Leigh whispers, her reply muffled slightly by the pillow. After a moment, she adds, “And no.”

Before Jules can comment on it, she continues, “It’s like… I love who we were, who he was to me. And I love all the memories, every plan we made, every silly promise. But,” she stops, picking her words carefully, “but there’s also this part of me that’s learning to live without that, to not need it so much. It feels like moving on, and that part doesn’t love the pain, doesn’t want to keep holding on if it just hurts.”

Jules reaches out, resting her hand on Leigh’s shoulder, offering a silent show of support. “And, um, does that tie into why you were so upset last night?”

Leigh's laugh is faint and strained. “Yes,” she says softly, “and no.” Then she rolls over to face Jules, burying the lower half of her face in the blankets.

“How so?”

“It’s complicated, Jules. I don’t even know where to start.”

“Alright,” Jules huffs. “I’ll guide you then. Does it have something to do with what I said about Y/N seeing Sara?”

Leigh doesn't answer. Instead, she sits up, letting the blanket fall around her lap as the steady breeze from the air conditioning causes her skin to prickle with goosebumps. 

Jules sits up as well. “It's fine to be upset over her. You can grieve for others too, not just Matt. You can’t keep using him as the reason for all your pain. If you want to handle this, you’ve got to figure out what you're really up against.”

“Since when did you start playing therapist?”

Jules smirks. “Rehab over the past five years teaches you some things.”

Leigh forces a smile. She knows Jules jokes to cope, using humor to deal with everything she’s been through. Taking a breath, Leigh says, “I saw her last night.”

“I figured,” Jules says with a knowing look. “You dashed out of the house without even putting on a bra.”

Leigh covers her face, cringing. “You noticed that?”

Jules chuckles. “Well, it's not like any of us, including Mom, bothers wearing one around the house,” she jokes, and they both laugh. “So, did you actually forget to put one on, or…?”

Leigh rolls her eyes and gives Jules a light elbow to the side. “I forgot, okay?”

Jules grins, teasing, “Well, not like it got you any action considering how annoyed you looked when you got back last night.”

Leigh goes quiet, her eyes flitting around the room. “Well, actually…”

Jules leans in, eyes wide. “Oh my god, something happened?”

Leigh bites her lower lip. “We…kissed.”

Jules's brow creases together. “And it was that bad? You looked miserable and locked yourself up all day. Was it really just because of a bad kiss?”

“It wasn’t,” Leigh corrects her quickly. “It was good. Like, really good.” She must look a bit dreamy thinking back on it because Jules grabs a pillow and playfully smacks her in the face.

“Alright, be serious,” Jules says, fighting to keep a straight face. “What really happened?”

Leigh sniffs, clearly reluctant to revisit the details but she begins recounting it for Jules. She explains how she received a submission for the advice column she writes for, from someone using the pseudonym ‘EspressoEyes.’ It arrived on her birthday and was intriguing enough that she responded immediately. She had no idea it was you, but as the details matched too perfectly with your birthday surprise, she started to connect the dots. Then came another question, so on point that she couldn't chalk it up to coincidence anymore. After the kiss you shared last night, she let slip that you truly have espresso eyes. 

“...and that's when everything fell apart,” Leigh finishes, flopping back onto the mattress with a bounce, face down, her hair fanning out around her.

Leigh waits for Jules to react, to say anything. But her sister doesn’t speak or even make a sound for a long time, and just as she’s about to sneak a peek at her sister, curious and a bit anxious, Jules says, “Honestly, if I were Y/N, I’d be very much horrified too.”

Leigh gives her a look that’s both curious and wary. “Yeah?”

“Telling someone you have feelings for them is scary,” Jules explains. “Imagine finding out that the feelings you’ve been hiding came out in such a vulnerable, almost embarrassing way.”

“I guess you’re right,” Leigh concedes.

“But,” Jules continues, “the real problem is that you didn't address it right after you figured it out. You let her pine for you before pulling her in.”

Leigh nods and grabs an Oreo from the floor, popping the whole thing into her mouth. “And I still don't know why I confronted Y/N about Sara right away. By the way, you're an asshole for that, Jules. Y/N isn't dating Sara.”

Jules just grins, completely unabashed. “I know. But it was fun seeing you all riled up.”

Leigh sighs, the cookie in her mouth losing its sweetness. “I feel so stupid for needing that push. I didn't even realize what was happening. It felt like being hit by a truck when I realized I wanted her. And I didn't trust it, you know? Especially since I haven't even been into women since my ex in college.”

Jules studies her sister thoughtfully. “So, what now that you've messed up?”

Leigh looks away, her face shrouded with uncertainty. She wishes she had a definite answer, but she knows only time will tell. “She said she needs some time to think, and I'll give her as much as she needs.”

“And in the meantime,” Jules asks, her eyes brightening with a bit too much enthusiasm, “are you going to break up with Danny?”

“Right,” Leigh mutters weakly, “I almost forgot about Danny.”

-

You carefully place your rental bike against the railing on the front porch, careful not to scratch the paint. After spending a year in sunny Los Angeles, the crisp autumn air of Camden, Maine, nips at your cheeks, reminding you just how unaccustomed you've become to the cold. You pull your bomber jacket tighter around your body, a futile shield against the chill, and find yourself yearning for the relentless sun that’s now hiding above the clouds of your hometown.

The aroma of blueberry pie wafts from the slightly ajar front door of the Ranch style home where you spent most of your childhood, drawing you irresistibly towards the warmth inside. From where you stand, you can see the boats bobbing in the harbor, their masts swaying gently in the breeze. You can nearly taste the ocean’s saltiness, brought back vividly through memories of sailing with your father.

“Mom?” you call out as you step inside after removing your shoes. “I’m home!”

Your mom appears from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a flour-dusted apron. She looks up, her eyes lighting up when she sees you, and she quickly closes the distance to wrap you in a tight hug. Over the years, she’s grown shorter, now standing three inches below you. As she hugs you, you rest your cheek on her salt-and-pepper hair, which smells sweetly of sugar and blueberries.

“Welcome home, honey,” she says, her voice muffled against your jacket. “I wasn't expecting you until dinner.”

“I managed to catch an earlier flight,” you say, squeezing her a little tighter. “Where's Morris?” you ask, referring to her partner and the man who's been sort of a stepdad to you, although your mom and he never got married. They've been sharing this home for the last ten years.

“He's out back,” she replies, pointing towards the yard through the kitchen window. “He's been trying to get the garden ready for winter before the frost sets in.”

You hum in response, dropping your duffel onto the couch nearby.

“Are you hungry?” your mom asks, turning towards the fridge.

“Am I too early for the pie?” you ask, your stomach rumbling at the thought.

Your mom turns around with a wide, toothy grin. “You made it just in time.”

-

Your bedroom is just as you left it last year, preserved in time. Your mom has kept the dust at bay, and the sheets feel freshly laundered, as if you'd only left them hours ago. Instinctively, you gravitate towards the shelves lined with various framed photos of your family. Smiling faces of your brother and your father gaze back at you from the pictures, and a warm, nostalgic smile spreads across your face. You feel a pang of yearning for them—it's been too long.

With a sigh, you collapse onto the bed and pull out your phone. As promised, Leigh hasn’t made any attempts to reach out to you. Without thinking, you browse through her social media accounts, though there's nothing new since you discovered she knew about your feelings all along. Nonetheless, you scroll through her old photos, the ones from before she was widowed, where her smiles seem effortless and full of confidence, as if happiness was her default.

You miss her; that much you can't deny. But you're still hurt, not just because she didn't come clean about her discovery, but also because of the way she often treated you—the hot and cold attitude, the confusion, the lack of kindness and consideration. Time and again, you've given her the benefit of the doubt, especially considering she's grieving a loved one with a secret that further complicated his passing. You understand loss, having faced it yourself, but you've never allowed your grief to justify lashing out at others or toying with someone's emotions. It makes you wonder how you even fell for her in the first place. 

Before you know it, your eyelids grow heavy and you nod off, your phone slipping onto the comforter. You're not sure how long you've been out when a soft knock on your door jolts you awake.

“Come in,” you mumble, still half in a daze as you rub your eyes.

The door creaks open and your mom pops her head in. “Dinner's almost ready,” she says with a warm smile. “Want to come down and help me set the table?”

You nod. “Can you give me five minutes? I promise I'll help.”

Without waiting for a response, she walks over to sit beside you on the bed, gently stroking your hair as if you were still a child. “What’s wrong?” she asks softly. Your mother has always been your confidante, able to read you like an open book. You can't hide anything from her; she'll know.

“I keep falling for the wrong person,” you say, offering a bittersweet smile.

“Oh, honey,” she murmurs, kissing your forehead. “Love is more complicated than the right or wrong person. We're all a combination of good and bad; it's just a matter of deciding whether it's worth it in the end.”

You reflect on your past relationships, few though they are, and realize you're better off without them. They were either taking what they could get or using you as a fallback for their own misery.

“Do you feel like this person could be worth it?” she asks.

“I honestly don’t know,” you say. “It’s all so uncertain.”

“And that's fine,” she says. “Love isn't a sprint. Give yourself the space to figure it out.”

You're finding it hard to agree with her. If only the answers could be handed to you, saving you from future heartbreak. Why do some lessons have to be learned the hard way? Why don't people come with warnings and expectations?

Noticing how unconvinced you seem, your mom offers an idea.

“Tell you what, let's ask Morris to set the table for us. How about you and I go see your brother and father before dinner?”

-

You and your mom walk side by side through the cemetery, hands clasped together. You haven’t visited your father and brother’s graves in over a year, and you've been fighting back tears since leaving the house.

Your mom unfurls a thick blanket over the damp grass, spreading it out with care before you both settle onto it. She surprises you by pulling out a bottle of white wine from her bag. You lift an eyebrow, and she laughs, saying, “In my defense, I used to drink stronger liquor back in the day.”

You chuckle, picking up an empty glass and holding it out. “Pour me one.”

She fills your glass before pouring her own, and the two of you sit there, sipping wine quietly. 

A few minutes later, she turns to you and says, “So, tell me about her.”

You nearly choke on your drink, surprised she knows it’s a woman. “How did you know?”

She smiles impishly. “You’ve always had poorer judgment when it comes to girls, so I figured this is what’s been on your mind.”

You can’t help but be impressed by how well she reads you. “Her name is Leigh. She's the wife of someone I used to see,” you say.

Your mom’s smile vanishes, replaced by shock. “Wait, you're saying you had an affair and now you're seeing his wife on the side?”

You burst into laughter at her horrified expression. “No, it's not like that.” Taking a deep breath, you tell her the whole story: how Matt died and how his wife, Leigh, found you after discovering Matt had cheated on her.

As your mom listens, her shock softens into contemplation. She tops up your wine and says thoughtfully, “Well, that’s complicated.”

“Yeah, it is.”

You open up to your mom about Leigh, sharing both the beautiful and terrible moments without holding back. As you recount the story, it's like rereading a passage in a book and analyzing it with new eyes. When you finish, your mother sets down her drink and says, “She's mean to you.”

You nod, draining the last of your wine.

“Loss does things to people,” she says softly. “You and I both know that better than anyone.”

“We do,” you say quietly.

Your mom regards you for a moment, then asks, “What do you see in Leigh? Why do you like her?”

You think about it, grappling with how to express the spectrum of emotions Leigh evokes in you. 

“She’s pretty, definitely, and there’s a sharpness to her that’s... captivating. She’s unapologetically herself, and it’s often really funny. But… does that sound shallow? I can’t help but feel a bit foolish listing these superficial things—”

Your mom gently places her hand on yours, stopping your words. “You don’t need a poetic reason to love someone,” she says with a small smile. “Sometimes you just do. But mostly, we feel connected to people because we recognize some part of our soul in them. Recognition is why people are together, Y/N. Can you really love a stranger?”

Perhaps it’s true. Leigh isn’t really a stranger to you. Aside from concealing her knowledge of your feelings, she never pretended to be someone she wasn't. She was honest, showing you both her strengths and flaws. And you didn’t have to like all of it. But you kept coming back, eager to uncover more of her layers.

She continues, “By the way, you must be wondering why I brought you here.”

You glance around at the headstones of your father and brother, then back at her. “Yeah, I was.”

She looks toward the gravestones, her eyes misty. “To remind you that we don’t have all the time in the world. We have to make our time count, even if it means taking risks or facing things we're afraid of. Love isn't easy, but it’s worth finding the right person and making it work.”

“What if it doesn't work out, though?” you ask.

She smiles knowingly. “If it doesn’t, at least you’ll know you gave it a chance. You won't be left wondering what could have been. And that matters.” 

She gives your hand a reassuring squeeze, and you return it, feeling a bit more grounded. She waits for her words to settle in you, before asking, “You’ve already made your choice, haven’t you?”

You nod slowly, a growing sense of certainty welling up inside. “I think I have.”

“Well, then. Let’s finish our bottle and head back.”

-

“You waited until after Thanksgiving dinner to break up with me?” Danny's voice cracks as he speaks, his figure looming in the doorway of his apartment, blocking Leigh's exit. His eyes dart between anger and desperation, his eyebrows furrowed and his mouth set in a stern line. Yet, his hands are open, reaching toward her—pleading.

They had just returned from Thanksgiving dinner at the Shaws'. Leigh wanted to create one last pleasant memory with Danny, something kind to look back on. Aware of his strained relationship with his mom, she didn't want to leave him alone during the holidays by breaking up earlier. Now she accompanied him back to his apartment, planning to end things there and collect her belongings afterward.

Leigh turns to face him, her expression somber. “I just... I thought it was the right time to talk, after everything settled down.”

“After everything settled down?” Danny repeats incredulously. “You mean after we spent the whole day with your family, pretending everything was fine?”

Leigh sighs, knowing how it looks but needing him to understand. “I know how it seems, but I couldn't do it before dinner. It didn’t feel right to ruin the holiday for everyone.”

Danny steps back from the doorway, giving her space to enter. “So, you decided to ruin my night instead?”

Leigh walks inside, closing the door behind her. “I'm really sorry, Danny. I’ve felt for a while that this isn’t working, and I can't keep stringing you along.”

Danny runs a hand through his hair and starts pacing. “Is this about Matt?”

Leigh stills for a moment, considering her answer. It would be easy to say yes, to blame everything on that one pervasive loss. Matt has often been her scapegoat, but Leigh is tired of deceiving herself and others. For quite some time now, it hasn't been Matt’s absence that's been upending her world. Which is why she resolves to tell him the truth, aware that he would find out sooner or later.

Leigh sucks in a deep breath and looks Danny in the eye. “No, it's not about Matt. It's because of Y/N.”

Danny stops in his aimless tracks, his eyes narrowing. “Y/N?”

Leigh feels her heart race, knowing she can’t back down now. “Two weeks ago… we kissed.”

He blinks, stunned. “You kissed Y/N?” His voice is flat, almost disbelieving.

“It wasn’t planned, but... it happened. And it felt right, in a way I can’t ignore,” Leigh says.

Danny crosses his arms, scoffing. “I didn't know you were into women,” he says with a sneer, as if trying to insult her.

Leigh grits her teeth. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

“Clearly,” he replies bitterly. “So how many times? How long have you been cheating on me?”

Leigh shakes her head, holding her ground. “I didn’t purposely cheat on you, Danny. I didn’t even realize I had strong feelings for her until that night. It just happened.”

Danny's face contorts with rage, and he yells, “Stop lying to me, Leigh! You fucking checked out of this relationship a while ago, and now it makes sense. You were screwing someone else on the side.”

Leigh protests, “We’ve never slept—” but her words are cut off as Danny suddenly swings his fist into the wall beside him. The sound of splintering wood and cracking bones reverberates through the apartment, and Leigh stands frozen, shocked beyond belief at what she's witnessing.

Danny looks down at his bloodied knuckles, bewilderment creeping over his features as he pulls back from the wall. He catches his breath and stares at Leigh, their eyes meeting in horrified silence.

“Sorry… I’m so sorry,” Danny mumbles, cradling his injured hand.

Leigh quickly grabs his keys from the dusty fishbowl on the shelf. He watches her, his gaze confused and desperate. “What are you doing?”

She meets his eyes, surprised herself at how calm and collected she feels. “I’m taking you to the hospital. You need to get that hand looked at,” she replies.

He doesn’t protest, only nods numbly and follows her outside.

At the hospital, Danny sits in a stiff plastic chair, his freshly bandaged hand resting on his lap. Leigh is next to him, her eyes fixed on the speckled tile floor, avoiding his gaze.

After several minutes, Danny breaks the silence. “I didn’t know what happened back there,” he starts, his voice low and unsteady. “I didn’t want to be angry, but it just… it had to go somewhere. I’ve never hurt anyone, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he tries to explain. 

Leigh turns to look at him, her expression blank. “You punched a wall, Danny. It doesn’t matter if you’ve never hit anyone; you’ve got some serious anger management issues.”

Danny stays quiet for a moment, staring at his bandaged hand as if he’s still trying to comprehend what he did. He finally looks up, his expression twisted in frustration. “I’ve been angry for a long time, Leigh. Long before Matt was gone. I can’t even remember a time when I wasn’t.”

“I understand that,” Leigh says, shifting in her seat. “Even with therapy, the anger and resentment don’t really disappear completely. They linger like shadows.” She exhales, glancing down at her lap. Before she can stop it, a small smile plays on her lips as she thinks of you. “But lately, when Y/N is around, I forget about it. So know that I didn’t make this decision lightly.”

Danny studies her for a moment before asking, “Did you ever love me? Did I ever stand a chance?”

There's no easy way to say this without hurting him, but she doesn’t want to leave him with false hope. “I tried, Danny. I wanted to,” she whispers.

Danny turns away, his body twisting from her. Leigh wants to feel worse than she does, but instead, she just wants this to be over. She hopes the billing clerk will soon call their name so they can pay and head home. It's been an unbearably long day.

As she waits, her thoughts drift to you. She wants to call you after this, to tell you that she wants to try with you, that it could be real. She wants to explain that she ended things with Danny, that she did it to be free to explore the possibility of being with you, without any reservations.

After a while, Danny lets out a slow sigh, then looks at Leigh with a despondent look. “If your mind’s made up, I should probably put everything out in the open too.”

Leigh looks at him expectantly, a little curious.

“I’ve been keeping something from you. I didn’t think it would matter, but now… well, I can’t hide it anymore.”

“Just say it, Danny,” Leigh says, crossing her arms.

Then Danny proceeds to tell her the one last secret he thought he'd carry to his grave.

[bonefall]

Big question cause I’m so mad about how they were used: any ideas on changing Berryheart and Curlfeather from this book?

I have ONE controversial opinion and you must allow me this;

Curlfeather not apologizing to Frostdawn kinda rocks as an idea.

Obviously it reads as insulting because of how they gave Berryheart a Tom the Wifebeater ass Redemption Death in this book, and the general way that they've not approached her with the nuance she deserves is frustrating. I agree.

But hold my hand and walk with me. Imagine Curlfeather, mauled and bloody before the daughter she died saving. Frostpaw's gone through so much fixing the damage she caused, furious at the state her mother's in, the mess she made of RiverClan, all the suffering everyone's gone through... and Curlfeather says,

"I don't regret anything."

"Really? REALLY? I go through all of that, I come ALL this way, and you won't even give me a rotten little sorry?"

She doesn't give her mother a chance to respond, lashing her tail towards the grimmace that hangs off the side of her shredded cheek, "You're not sorry for how you lead to yourself looking like THAT?"

Frostpaw shoves her scarred throat foward, "You're not sorry for THIS?"

She claws dig into the sodden black earth of the Dark Forest, "You're not sorry you're HERE?"

Curlfeather is quiet, her remaining eye stoic like a stone. Frostpaw begs furiously, "NOTHING?"

"I will vow on our blood that I will not lie to you anymore," the demon's tone is soft and honest, "and I hope that means more than the insincere apology I could offer you otherwise."

Just when it feels like Frostpaw has so much anger that her body can't handle it, pain stuffs itself inside her in equal measure. Her stomach is sick with love, throat choked with affection. It takes her a minute to form the word,

"Why?"

"When my father, Reedwhisker, was taken by the Kin, I saw how they broke him. His uncle, Stonefur, did not buckle under Tigerstar. My grandmother Mistyfoot quietly rescued the Clan from his accomplice, Leopardstar, while Mistystar willingly worked alongside a vicious impostor."

Now that Frostpaw is the one who's waiting quietly, Curlfeather's voice flutters hopefully, "I was willing to do anything to restore my Clan to greatness," the specter pads foward, touching her nose to her daughter's trembling forehead, "except sacrifice you."

She didn't expect to feel the harsh sting of her daughter's paw smacking her across the nose. She reels back.

"You don't get it! It's not about YOU! It's about everyone you hurt! Dont try to pretend it was all worth it, you didn't make anything great, you just broke it!"

"I had to break it so it could be set back stronger. I gave you the chance for the power, and now you are making it better than it was."

"That was in spite of you! You told me to trust no cat and I had to unlearn that!"

"I saved you when I could have escaped with my life."

"From a situation you caused in the first place!"

"It was a warrior's death!"

There is a silence that settles over them. Curlfeather is snarling in offense. Frostpaw looks, again, at her mother's fatal wounds, the defensive stance. She's reminded of how the cats of other cultures don't always see scars as rewards for a fight survived-- just reminders of pain you've gone through.

"...it was a warrior's death," she agrees, gently, watching tattered hackles smoothen out, "...and now you're dead, while I'm still alive."

The emotion in Curlfeather's face is solemn, but otherwise incomprehensible to her daughter. The expression on Frostpaw's is equally unreadable to her mother. This is the only thing they will ever understand about each other-- that there is an irreconcilable difference between them, steeper than the divide between sky and earth.

The last words the demon speaks to her daughter are, "I love you."

It's only years later that Frostdawn can say, "I love you too."

[lukeskywalkerslatinawife]

His Theme (Darth Vader x Reader)

‧₊˚❀ First fic and post ever. Wrote this with no power and stuck in a thunderstorm. New to tumblr.

‧₊˚❀ Summary: Reader is Luke’s partner. Get’s captured and held prisoner. Reader has a chance to escape and refuses it, choosing to help Vader see what he was missing for such a long time. Reader is too good for the world. Platonic Vader x reader.

‧₊˚❀ Warnings: None. Unless you count first time writing.

A/N-Trying to beat the weird kid allegations but I wrote a Vader songfic with fuckin undertale music.

Song: https://youtu.be/FobrRO8EkAM?si=nUsR9vKDxiovCZ4H

Can my damage be undone?

I'd forgotten how to feel.

Vader watched as the random cargo ship flew off to the void.

You had the chance to run away, escape and reunite with your friends, family, be with your Luke and live some sort of fairytale ending.

So why the hell were you standing there like a silly idiot trying to comfort probably the most ruthless, monstrous man in the galaxy?? To Vader, you were one of the weirdest people he had ever met in his life, his long, tragic life.

His reasoning for capturing you was also his biggest drawback. You are Luke’s partner, lover, whatever you both call it. His plan on luring his son with his partner wasn’t going as planned, having you here for quite some time now.

Luke confided in you shortly before your capture. Telling you his father’s true identity. You kept it a secret, even from Vader—even though it was clearly a “I know what you are” situation to the both of you whenever you looked at one another.

You barely spoke, not fighting back at all.

Luke wouldnt want that. You told yourself. You knew of Luke’s yearn for his father to turn to the light, not wanting to hinder that.

You deserve far better friends...

Now you're here at the end.

I can let all them go.

I'll be okay alone..

Today you had walked into the wrong room, running into his broken, destroyed, and burned form over the bacta tank. You scurried off, almost stupidly.

Neither of you spoke a word since the incident.

You couldn’t see his face concealed by his helmet, but you sensed he was troubled today. You chose to just sit beside him in the small room when he came by to check on you, probably making sure you weren’t plotting his downfall, like your friends and the rebellion probably would.

—But deep down Vader knew you were too soft for that, in his eyes too good for the world you were given in this life, though he still viewed you as his enemy in some ways.

“I know you’re sad, I can feel it.” You murmured gently as I shifted my gaze up to look up at the imposing man.

“—You know nothing, (y/n).” The mechanical voice almost snaps back, but he doesn’t shift or move. Looking down at you. Your big, wide, soft and sweet gaze almost terrifying him, your lack of fear always scared him in an unsettling, odd, sort of way.

Leave me be.

Say goodbye.

You can't help. Why must you try?

Why must you.. Stay with me...

Your battle's won. Go with your family.

“It’s okay to be sad.” You spoke up slightly, not fidgeting away or wincing at his sharp reply.

“Let’s be real no one would be happy in this boring floating ball, it’s not too too crazy to put together how you feel.”

Vader’s shoulders shook momentarily, as if he found your little comment amusing and laughed—but one could only assume what that was.

“That’s the most words I think I’ve ever heard you speak, I’m impressed.” His voiced echoed out, no tension, anger, or any emotion.

“Yeahhhhh.” You drew out with a small, childish, and silly laugh. Fidgeting with your own sleeves before it went quiet again, the silence making the two of you beside each other a bit more awkward than it already was.

After a long while, you realized that he probably wasn’t going to hurt you, not physically at least.

“What was life like before all of this for you??” You spoke up, beginning to play with your sleeve, the edges of his dark, silky cape started prodding at your shoulders, unintentionally making you face him.

“What type of question is that?” Vader gruffly replied. A scoff accompanying it.

“No no!” You lightly chuckled with a nervous tinge, shaking your hands a bit as if signaling him to listen to what you had to say.

“I just mean— ‘cause you know, Luke is your son, and he doesn’t know a single thing about you.” Your explanation rang in the air.

It went quiet again. God damn it, these two both suck at talking, who would blame you two, on opposite sides of a war and everything.

“He really wants to help you, you know?” Your voice softened up a bit more. You began unconsciously tugging at the edges of his cape that poked you, playing with the fabric while you talk.

“He sees the good in you, and because I love him, I believe him and want that for you too.” You continued. You let out a soft smile, thinking about Luke. How much you miss him, love him, and want nothing more than to see him again.

I don't deserve your mercy...

It's not fair to be alone

If you wont fight please just leave...

After what you've been though

No one came or heard my call...

So let me ease your pain

I'm so glad you took your fall.

“Stop.” Vader snapped.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know a little,” you piped up.

“Nobody would want to feel how you feel, it’s okay to be sad, I’m sad too.” You murmured your gaze tired and sad, emphasizing your imprisonment, being away from everyone you love, it would drain anyone really.

“You can’t understand an ounce of what I’ve been through, child.” The robotic voice scratched out, but he didn’t move, or shoo you away, or even touch you.

“I can tell it’s a lot, though.” You quickly replied. Were you referring to earlier when you saw his true form without his suit? Who knows.

Vader sighed, his shoulders relaxed a bit, slumping down as he looked at you. Compared to him you were just this soft little thing, not a bad bone in ya. Whether either of you liked it or not, you two were bound to get close in some sort of way, especially with how you two are tied to Luke, his father and his partner, sitting together and talking.

Knowing you probably were too weak to do anything, plus you’re imprisoned,

It’s not like they can actually do anything. Vader thought to himself, he finally said something.

“It started a long time ago.” He muttered sadly as if thinking you wouldn’t be interested

“That’s okay, I wanna hear.” You reassured

A mechanical exhale was heard through the quiet atmosphere. As if mimicking a sigh. You sat there while Vader explained his life. A chain of events, almost like a story was told.

His life as a slave, his love for his mother, training under the order with his best friend as a master, his forbidden love with his late wife, which sounded like something straight of a novel they would make you read in school.

His battle with his old master, where you would see the 20 year old aftermath of his broken, damaged body—what was left of it.

And now we were here, the prisoner meant to lure his son, now listening to him vent.

At some point his voice began to break as he told you about his life, and you couldn’t help but feel for him. Everything about his life was hardship and tragedy.

No one deserves that

I won't abandon you

You can't help.

Determination fuels me…

Why must you try?

To keep on trying to save you

You gently placed a hand on his shoulder, the coolness of the his metal suit tickling your palm as you raised it up slightly in reaction, before settling it there.

“I’m sorry.” You comforted, a soft quiet utter of your voice.

“I’m sorry the world didn’t treat you kindly from the start.”

Vader paused. His mind kept telling him he shouldn’t feel comforted by his enemy. But it didn’t help that the enemy in question was this sweet soul who never spoke an ill word of him or his empire since her capture.

He replied, confused but accepting the comfort.

“It’s not your fault.” He returned your gesture, settling his gloved hand on your head, ruffling your hair up a bit.

“You’re so strong.”You mused, looking up at him with the most awestruck look on your face. You settled into his touch raising your arms to touch his hand with your two tiny ones, acting almost childlike.

“You’re only saying that.” He scoffs, a tiny laugh hidden in there as he drops his hand. You’re fingers immediately going to smooth your hair out

“I mean it!” You giggled out as you playfully tugged his cape, sensing some form of joy in the room.

*Wow.* V thought to himself. *They’re actually smiling. I’m actually smiling*

“You only speak kindly because…” he trailed, remembering how you ran into him earlier today, you were probably the only person to ever see his burned self that wasn’t one of his men.

“Because you saw what you saw today. You saw how I truly look. I’m a monster an ugly, deformed, monster, I don’t deserve your kindness.” He croaked out, looking down at the floor to avoid what he thought would be your judgmental gaze.

You shook your head with a frown, disagreeing with his self deprecation, pawing at his cape in some way to show some comfort without overstepping.

“You’re not ugly.” A firm reply left your lips.

“I argue that you’re beautiful, you just look different—But different is good!” You replied with a soft little smile on your lips

“You’re such a liar.” Vader scoffed with a humorous smile

“Nuh uh! You’re like those cryptic sculptures and artworks that cost like a million credits in a museum! You’re… majestic” You mused, leaning into him a little bit.

“You went through hell and back. But you’re still alive, proving to the galaxy how strong you truly are!”

“We may be enemies but even I need to appreciate that.” You finished with a bashful little smile on your face.

Vader’s demeanor shifted. Shuddering.

“I’m supposed to hate you, kill you even, b-but I cant.” His mechanical voice shook the room.

I don't deserve your mercy..

I will stay by your side

If you won't fight please just leave...

“Do you love your son?” You spoke up, shifting your whole body to face him.

“Of course I do….” The sith answered quickly.

“Me loving others is what led me here.” He added.

You gave a big smile. One of those smiles a child gives a parent when they’re really excited about something.

“Looks like my Luke is correct!—” You gushed, squeezing his shoulder.

“There is still some good in you.”

That broke Vader. The s lord putting his helmeted face in his hands, as if breaking down. Crying? Maybe. You couldn’t really tell with his voice modifier.

“Stop, you remind me so much of her.” A mechanical whimper escaped his mask.

“Who?” You asked softly.

“My mom!—And my wife! Stop, you’re so unsettling.” He bawled, but made no effort to shoo me away so you stayed in place.

“Hey, hey.” You shushed him, pulling the man by his metal suit into a hug, an awkward one but you still made it work.

You simply held the man, rubbing his suited back as you let him cry it out. Usually it was Luke comforting you when you were sad about something minuscule and random, for maybe the first time you were comforting someone, it just so happened to be the most terrifying being in the galaxy.

“I’m here for you.” You spoke up, with a questioning tone as if asking if it was okay for me to be there for him.

Vader calmed down for a moment, his scratchy artificial breaths steadying.

“I don’t deserve your kindness—”

“I want to be kind so yes you do.” I cut him off.

I know its frightening

Your battle's won...

To think you might now leave

Go with your family..

But that my friend is why—

“I cant change your mind right away, but I know theres good in you, Luke knows it too, and when you’re ready, I want to help, and if Luke ever comes to rescue me, I know he’ll want to help too.” You explained as you cooed at him, it was almost silly to look at, but neither of you cared in that moment.

Maybe you were biting off more than you can chew, or maybe there was a chance that V would turn to the light.

Vader, now more relaxed, still in your arms finally spoke, his small pants dying down finally.

“I can see why Luke loves you so much, you’re too good, even holding out hope for me.” He groaned sheepishly.

Your idea of helping Vader was unrealistic, obviously, but he didn’t need to think about that in the moment, simply enjoying the embrace of another person.

A kind soul, not one who sees him as an intimidating sith lord, or a symbol of power, nor a terrifying monster.

No. You saw him for who he was. Just a man, a man who was fucked over by the galaxy and the order for way too long.

“What’s your name?” You asked, your eyes held a peaceful presence that seemed to only be welcoming.

“My name?”

“Yes, your real name. I doubt you popped out of the womb called Darth Vader. If you were I feel so bad for you.” Your childishness bloomed out with that comment, it was somewhat cute to him.

“So immature.” He commented a small chuckle escaping his helmet.

“My name is Anakin Skywalker.” He replied, his voice a bit quieter this time, a small whisper, but you sure as hell heard it.

Your face was adored with this wide, big, happy smile, feeling accomplished. You broke from the hug to stand up in front of Vader. Hugging him this time so that my chin rested on his black, shiny helmet.

“Well Anakin, I’m here for you, I hope to change your mind for the better and bring you back to the light, maybe with Luke’s help.” You giggled out that last part.

“You can’t let that old bag of bones control your life forever.” You lightly added.

Were they referring to the emperor?? Probably yeah.

Vader responded by wrapping his arms around you. He wont admit it, but you definitely don’t need your little boyfriend who happens to be his son to make him reconsider all his life choices.

“Yeah. Maybe. I’m not convinced.” He gruffly stated.

He nestled his head into your shoulder, seeking the comfort he got from you a moment ago.

“But for you, I’ll consider it, (Y/N).”

Forgive me...

I will spare your life always

Stay with me..

And hold you tight and close

You’re the last...

We will be together here

Light I'll see....

Until its safe to go

A/N I’ll probably write more in the future, just not cringy undertale songfics (love that game haha)

-Ignore the plot holes and OOC, I lowkey was on that 2018 gacha type shit writing this

[sturnioz]

hey

wait

what about

mechanic!matt…………..he been told you to get rid of your car but you don’t have the money for it, the uni semester has already been off to a chaotic start, and PLUS it was a gift from your grandpa on your 18th :(

i lowkey kinda fucked up this req and changed it a bit cos i struggled to write it :| i wrote meeting mechanic!matt for the first time instead my bad my bad my bad. but welcome mechanic!matt <3

you're freaking out.

you're freaking out so bad you're teetering on the edge of a mental breakdown, overwhelmed by a storm of emotions as you stand in the middle of the auto repair shop.

you've been so stressed; your new semester had a chaotic start, your classes keeping you unbelievably busy. to make matters worse, you've also had a painful falling out with your best friend, the kind of rift that feels like a gaping wound. on top of that, you recent breakup still fucking stings and you feel like you're going to throw up every time you cross paths.

and now, as if the universe is conspiring against you, your car has betrayed you, refusing to start in the middle of the road when you were on your way home. (the embarrassment of having to call a tow truck had only made it worse).

the constant sounds of clanging metal and the low hum of machinery surrounds you, gnawing at your nerves, overstimulating you. you close your eyes and rub your temples, desperately trying to block out the flickering overhead lights that create disorientating flashes behind your eyelids.

the air was thick too, heavy with the scent of motor oil and burnt rubber, a pungent reminder of your current predicament that makes your stomach churn with nausea, and you feel an overwhelming urge to escape, to bolt out the fucking door and leave this place behind.

but you can't.

you can't abandon your car — your baby, a precious gift from your grandpa.

with a deep breath, you peel your eyes open, your teeth gnawing at your bottom lip as you scan the bustling shop for the beefy man who greeted you when you first arrived. you're desperate for answers, anxious to find out if your car is truly fucked.

oh god, you wanted to cry. the thought of the repair costs makes you stomach twist. how much money will you have to spend? money that you don't even have. panic instantly washes over you.

you're screwed. you're done. you're hopeless. you're—

"hey," a voice jolts you from your spiralling thoughts, and you snap around, bracing yourself to confront the man you were searching for, but instead, you're taken aback by someone completely different.

he stands before you, hair tousled, strands falling over his light blue eyes. he's wearing a snug black tank top and dark blue overalls, the sleeves casually wrapped around his slim waist, showcasing a patchwork tattooed arm. his hands are smeared with grease and oil, evidence of a long day spent working on cars, and he nonchalantly twirls a wrench around his finger while chewing gum, casualness radiating from him as he stares at you.

"how bad is she?" you dare to ask, your voice trembles slightly, a mix of fear and hope surfacing in your chest.

the corner of his lips twitches slightly at your words before he begins. "she's not doin' too good." your heart sinks, a lump forming in your throat as you brace yourself for what's coming. "for starters, your battery is dead, but there's some damage done to the ignition system too... s'likely that the stater's shot, and the alternator needs replacing too."

you swallow hard, the reality of the situation hits you like a punch in the gut, and the weight of his words settling over you like a heavy fog. "how... how much are we talking?"

"could be a couple hundred for the battery 'n starter, maybe more dependin' on what else i find when i dig deeper," his fingers rhythmically tap against the wrench in his hands, chewing his gum slowly as he admits, "not gonna lie t'you, sweetheart — s'not gonna be cheap."

"fuck," another wave of panic rises within you, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. you feel so helpless. "i uh, i don't, i.. i can't, i—"

"hey," he says again, his voice steady and soothing as he gets your attention. your watery eyes snap to his when you feel his hand touch your shoulder gently. you don't even care about the grease and oil staining your shirt right now. "take a deep breathe, yeah? in and out. eeeeasy."

you nod quickly, following his instructions, inhaling deeply through your nose and exhaling through your mouth, trying to regain control over the rapid beating of your heart. your skin feels clammy, and your head is fuzzy, but his calm demeanour seems to help anchor you.

"there we go.. that's it," he hums softly, squeezing your arm as he nods in approval. "now, talk t'me. slowly."

"i... i can't afford it," you whisper defeatedly. "i don't have a job right now, i can't. i don't know how i'm going to pay for all this."

he studies you quietly for a moment, his gaze shifting from concern to something more contemplative. "we can figure somethin' out... sellin' the parts might be—"

"no!" you blurt out, shaking your head sharply. the suddenness of your response catches him off guard, his eyebrows raising slightly in surprise at your defiance. "i'm sorry, i... i can't sell it."

he lifts his hand to scratch at his cheek, squinting his eyes as he processes your reaction. "you uh, y'not makin' this easy, sweetheart—"

"i know, but i can't sell it," you insist with a soft sigh. "it means a lot to me.. please? is there another way?"

he studies you again, standing in silence, and you hold his gaze, hoping he'll come up with a solution. you watch as he takes a step closer, lowering his voice as if he's sharing a secret.

"what if.. we work somethin' out?" he suggests. "i'll uh, i'll fix your car for cheap — maybe for nothin' if you do somethin' for me?"

"what are you suggesting?" you ask, curiosity piqued.

he grins, revealing his pearly whites as he chews his gum, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly as if he hadn't just proposed something so serious and sudden. he doesn't answer you, which makes you prompt the question again, and he keeps the grin on his face as he turns and walks further into the shop, casting a glance over his shoulder at you, a silent invitation to follow him.