#even if I do have to sit in the dark with everything on the lowest brightness. I'm kind of used to doing that anyway

[thethingything]

so the migraine has calmed down a lot now and we mostly have postdrome symptoms and it's fucking wild to me that we basically had like 3 or 4 days of 8/10 pain without meds and 5/10 pain with meds, culminating in about 2 hours of 10/10 pain before suddenly being like yeah that's it it's done now.

usually if we have a migraine that gets really bad it starts off with the worst pain and then eases off over the next few days but nope

also though I feel so spaced out and like, brain foggy but a different kind of brain fog to usual. I'm very lightheaded and our brain is processing things very slowly and I feel kind of floaty and weird with it

[hgfictionwriter]

Discovery - Part Four

Jessie Fleming x Reader

Summary: Jessie's feeling the lowest she has in a long time. Things are at the tipping point and she needs to choose to either confront things head on or lose you forever.

Warnings: G!P content. Heavy angst. Body image issues or even dysphoria; mental and emotional anxiety; internal conflicts; themes of rejection and self-loathing; self-sabotaging behaviours. Language.

A/N: Chapters one, two and three.

“I can’t believe you. I’ve waited all day to hear from you - and nothing. After everything that happened, you just leave in the middle of the night and just dead silence. Are you kidding me, Jess?”

“First you give me the cold shoulder all evening without any explanation as to why. Started by a conversation you began, might I add. I tell you I love you. We kiss and you literally throw me off of you.”

“Yes, I was upset and I didn’t want to talk. But you just ghost me all day? I know you withdraw when you’re upset or overwhelmed, but you don’t even have the decency to check in with me or give me some kind of an explanation?”

Jessie sunk into her seat on the couch as she read your messages again. She’d been staring at them on and off for the past hour and felt paralyzed, unable to act.

She’d managed to make it to training this morning, but she was certainly worse for wear. Her eyes were bloodshot and she had dark circles under them from a mix of sleep deprivation and the time she’d spent crying. Her teammates immediately clocked her upset and some fawned over her trying to suss things out and help, but she was largely unresponsive.

She just wanted to do her drills to keep her mind off of you and the absolute disaster she’d created.

Coach recommended she talk to the sports therapist, and while she nodded her agreement, she had no intention of rushing. She already knew what they’d say and she wasn’t interested right now. If she was willing to do those things, guess what, she wouldn’t be in the fucking predicament in the first place.

So here she sat at home this evening, in self-imposed solitude and catatonic. The apartment was dead quiet as she flipped between scrolling distractedly through her phone and re-reading messages with you and looking at pictures of the two of you.

She needed to respond. But it seemed no matter how much she thought about it, she couldn’t figure out what to say. Nothing was remotely adequate. She let out a shuddering breath as she continued to remain inert.

Her heart raced as another message came in from you.

“I’d like to think we’d built enough of a connection and you have enough respect for me to at least acknowledge me and respond. I’ve been sitting here making up excuses in my head for you all day, but reality is, you just choose not to talk to me.”

She let her head fall heavily back against the wall with a dull thud. She closed her eyes and clenched her fists as she felt herself start to tear up yet again.

The end felt inevitable, but underneath all of her fear and anxiety it isn’t what she wanted. It would be easier perhaps. Just close herself off again. Be single again for god knows how long. She was exceptional at pushing people away and pretending it didn’t matter.

Then, maybe, when it felt safe again and the hardship she was currently experiencing was just a distant memory, she would hope to meet someone as incredible as you again. But for what? So she could compare them to you? Miss you? To fuck it all up again?

She released a slow, steady breath and brought her phone back up to reply.

“I’m sorry I didn’t write sooner. I was at training earlier and I guess I just didn’t know what to say.”

“She lives. Well, thank you for replying... So. Do you know what you want to say now?”

She sighed in frustration.

“No.”

She shouldn’t be so curt.

“I wish I did.”

“Well. That’s very helpful.”

“I have some things I want to say. But if you’re not interested in hearing them or trying to resolve anything, I suppose there’s no point.”

She chewed the inside of her cheek.

“I want to know.”

“Do you actually? Because, frankly, even if I told you how I feel last night, I’m not that interested in humiliating myself further or wasting my time if we’re not on the same page.”

Jessie’s chest constricted painfully as she read your message. She never used to consider herself a selfish person, but seeing the toll she’d taken on you, she couldn’t deny it. She wiped angrily at a stray tear at the corner of her eye.

“I’m really sorry, Y/N. You shouldn’t have to feel that way and I’m sorry I’ve caused it. I do want to hear what you have to say.”

“I don’t want to do this through text. It’s going to fucking suck but I want to talk in person.”

Jessie sat forward to the edge of the couch and leaned her forearms heavily against her thighs as she studied your message.

She was scared. She didn’t want to do that. Still, she owed you that, the truth, and so much more. And even if you left hating her, she had to make sure you knew it really was all her - you’d been perfect and all of this rot branched from her.

And if it really was the end, she couldn’t resist seeing you one more time.

“Okay. Where and when?”

—————

Jessie’s hands were cold and clammy as she walked down the hall to your apartment. She breathed heavily before catching herself and steadying them. She compulsively opened and closed her fists as she waited for you to answer.

When you opened the door, your expression was a far cry from the one she was used to seeing greet her. Instead of seeing a bright or warm smile, you looked tired and weary.

Guilt radiated through Jessie; she caused this single-handedly. She was supposed to make you happy, bring you comfort, make you feel safe and loved. Instead, she left you looking like a shell of yourself. Slowly at first, small nicks here and there, before a catastrophic and now lingering blow.

“Come in,” you said with only the slightest inflection in your voice. You stepped aside but didn’t make eye contact as Jessie entered.

“I, um, got you this,” Jessie said after she set her shoes aside and took off her backpack. She pulled a vinyl record out of it and handed it to you. She met your discerning gaze briefly before dropping it to the record in her hand. “I know you’ve been looking for it, so…”

You tentatively took it from her, a frown on your face as you examined it.

“Thanks,” you said flatly.

She knew it wouldn’t fix things or make things up to you - not by a long shot - but she had the faintest hope you would be more receptive.

When she forced herself to look up at you again, she saw you still studying the record. Eventually, your frown deepened and you looked at her almost accusingly.

“I don’t get you,” you said. “You barely talk to me these past couple of days and you act all cagey but then you do this? It doesn’t make sense.”

Your face faltered briefly before you grew stoic once more. “Some days you seem to really like me. Really care for me and understand me and we connect so well. And then others it feels like you can hardly stand to look at me.” A flash of emotion appeared on your face and disappeared just as fast. Your voice strained vaguely before you steadied it. “Never mind touch me.”

Jessie swallowed and dropped her gaze in shame. You went on, your voice cracking.

“I’ve tried to be really patient. But after the other night…I’ve done a lot of thinking and I can’t help but admit how hard it’s been.”

You sighed heavily and set the record down on a nearby table before returning and folding your arms tightly against yourself and leaning back against the wall. Your brow was heavy with a frown.

“And I know you've been trying." Your voice grew taut. "Prior anyway. And that's probably what makes it the worst. It's been hard for you, too - to be with me." Your face fell and your lip trembled briefly as you looked away.

Jessie's heart ached as she watched you battle with your emotions. All of the fear and worry she'd let dominate her fell away, replaced with an overwhelming need to hold you and make you feel better.

"It hasn't been," Jessie beseeched, taking a step forward but stopping when your gaze flicked back to her, warning.

"Do you think I’m stupid?" You said sharply. "I know you can’t stand to touch me. At first, I kept trying to give myself, and you, the benefit of the doubt - but the other night really proved that not only do you most definitely not find me attractive,” you laughed acerbically, “I think I might actually even repulse you.” You stared at her a moment, letting your words hang in the air and feigning amusement before choking back a sob. You visibly clenched your jaw before you forced another empty laugh. “That’s a fun one. My therapist’s about to get a ton of business from me.”

You took a shuddering breath and your voice cracked as you spoke. "I already know how this ends.”

“That’s not at all what’s happening or how I feel,” Jessie protested. She pressed the heels of her palms firmly into her eyes and grit her teeth. Her voice strained with burgeoning emotion. “Jesus Christ. That’s not it at all."

Your face screwed up and you gave a sad shake of your head as you stared her down.

“Stop. Just stop with the vague excuses. Just be honest with me. I don’t need you to confirm it, but don’t lie and tell me otherwise. I can tell,” voice breaking at the end. “Every time you pull away. How uncomfortable you can be when we’re even remotely physical. You can’t stand to kiss me for any length of time. I can feel you just waiting to pull away, like you’re fucking counting down the seconds until it’s over.” You started sobbing. “It’s horrible. Knowing you don’t want me like I want you.”

Jessie took a step toward you and you recoiled. She couldn’t help but think - maybe much like how she had with you times before.

“And don’t give me this whole ‘you’re shy’ or ‘you’re awkward’ thing again. I deserve more than your excuses.” Your voice grew softer. “And it’s not your fault you feel the way you do. You can’t control who you’re attracted to. Sometimes there can be an emotional connection and the physical just isn’t there. I don’t blame you. But I do blame you for dragging this out." You sniffled, wiping agitatedly at a tear that rolled down your cheek before giving her a defiant stare. "So just do what you should’ve done from the beginning.”

“It’s not you,” Jessie started and immediately saw the way you tensed up, ready to argue. She spoke quickly and urgently, her voice pleading for mercy and understanding. “It’s not you. I promise. It’s me - and I know how that sounds. But you were never the problem. I need you to know that.”

You looked ready to explode and Jessie knew it was now or never.

"It's me. I-it's my body. And I've been terrified that you won't accept me," she stammered through, hands to her chest as her gaze remained rooted to the floor. Her lips parted and her shoulders rose and fell as her breathing began to quicken. She swallowed and found the courage to look up at you to see a scrutinizing, but perplexed expression on your face.

"I'm not like you," Jessie said softly, "or most girls. Physically." She held your gaze for a second, to let you begin to process, but to give her time to think as well. She could see you were confused, but you waited quietly for her to go on. "I-I," she started, before stopping to take a steadying breath, her shoulders relaxing as she did so. "I've always been different."

She was slow to proceed and you spoke tentatively, all accusations and harshness now gone.

"What do you mean? How so?"

Jessie swallowed, eyes transfixed on the floor once more. She scratched at the back of her neck so harshly that it hurt.

"The reason I can't be physical with you is because what you would see, and feel," she looked up at you as she exhaled, "isn't what you would expect." She studied you as you processed her words. "That's why I asked you if you'd slept with guys," she finished timidly, embarrassment and shame creeping in despite her efforts.

Your mouth fell open to speak, but nothing came out. You frowned and visibly struggled with what to say next. Jessie's mouth was dry, but she had to take the next step.

"Even though I'm a girl, I have...what a guy has," she said quietly.

Your mouth opened wider to speak, but still nothing came out. You held up a poised finger, cuing her to wait. Eventually you found your words. Jessie held your gaze despite how difficult it was.

"Are you telling me that you have...," you trailed off, your gaze settling on her crotch momentarily before looking up at her, a tinge of pink already on your cheeks, "...a cock?"

Jessie released a slow, shuddering breath through her nose as she continued to hold your gaze. She nodded.

"Yes."

She saw your eyebrows raise as you looked away and her words and emotions just came out in a torrent.

"So if you think I've been struggling, you're right, but that's why," she said bitterly, tears in her eyes already. "It really had nothing to do with you. You've been so perfect. And it's been killing me to lie to you. And to hurt you. But I've been so scared - and I just," she took a shaky breath, "I know I'm not what you signed up for. You didn't deserve any of this, but I was being selfish. I wanted you. And I didn't want to risk losing you, so I just kept lying and the longer I waited, the more impossible it felt to tell you." Jessie's voice broke and she wiped her nose before pulling her arms in tightly against herself.

"And in the end I fucked it all up. And I hate myself for hurting you the way I have. Hearing how I...," she trailed off, gesturing vaguely at you before clenching her jaw tightly. "Hurting you is probably the worst thing I've ever done." Her voice grew high as she fought through her emotions. "And I don't deserve your forgiveness. I would gladly take it, but I know I don't deserve it. You deserve far better than someone who would hurt someone they love the way I've hurt you."

Your brow furrowed as she finished and Jessie swallowed once more, clearing her throat before speaking. "I'm sorry I couldn't say it back the other night. I really wanted to." She gave you a desperate look. "I know it must seem like I have zero integrity, but, I couldn't tell you I love you without telling you," she paused, gaze falling briefly, "all of this." She looked back at you, taking in a slow breath. "I really do love you. And I want so much more for us, but I realize now that even if you were okay...with me...well, with the way I've gone about everything, I've probably ruined any chance for us."

Her face fell as more tears pooled at the corners of her eyes.

"I'm so sorry. I just need you to know that you shouldn't feel badly about yourself, because you were never the problem. It was always me."

"This is a lot for me to process," you said slowly, thumb grazing idly along your arm. You glanced over at the couch for a moment before glancing back at her. "Um, why don't we sit down."

Jessie sniffled, overcome with surprise that you'd invite her in further. It took her a moment to comprehend it, but soon nodded eagerly. She followed you wordlessly to the couch, remaining standing as you took a seat. You looked at her expectantly before gesturing to the spot next to you.

She was mindful of the space between you. She didn't want to sit too close and inadvertently imply that things were suddenly fine. She sat stiffly, back straight, hands on the tops of her thighs as she deferred to you on how to proceed. She glanced at you in trepidation, waiting, but when you didn't say anything for several moments she spoke again.

"I completely understand that this is a lot to process," she validated with a fleeting glance. "While I've been thinking about nothing but this for months, this is all new to you."

"Yeah," you said quietly, still very much in your thoughts.

"And I want you to know that you don't owe me anything," she said. "I completely understand if this is too much for you or not what you want. No hard feelings." She almost laughed at the last statement as she sat here, congested and teary-eyed. There would be a lot of feelings, but not hard feelings. She rubbed her forehead. "And I understand if there are hard feelings towards me. I'm sorry I was such a coward. I just-" she shook her head quickly, dismissing the thought. "Never mind."

She heard you exhale gently and she peeked over at you. You were initially still, but soon shifted, surprising Jessie as you turned subtly towards her.

"Don't get me wrong. I have a lot of questions. And I still have a lot of confusing feelings and hurt. But - I meant it when I said I love you. So it's hard to see you hurting like this." You scratched at your temple before looking up at her. "Did I do something to make it harder for you to tell me?"

Jessie turned to you fully, a stern look on her face. "No," she said adamantly. "You were," she shrugged listlessly, "you really were - are - amazing. I guess I just let old fears and baggage control me."

"What do you mean?" You asked tentatively before holding up your hands and speaking quickly. "And if I ask something that's too much - just say so. I don't want to make you more uncomfortable."

Jessie frowned deeper. "You're too good for me," she said simply. "You shouldn't give a shit about whether I'm uncomfortable or not. But, let me be clear - for once - I will answer any question you have for me. Some will be easier to answer than others, but I want you to know everything. If you want. That's what I wanted all along, but I was just too scared."

"Well, if you love someone - you care about their boundaries and how they feel," you said plainly. Jessie looked at you and you looked away nervously, clearing your throat before turning back. "And. Backtracking. You...love me?"

Jessie smiled for the first time today. It was an emotional, watery, sad smile. But it was a smile. "Yes. I really do. And it's been absolute torture the past couple of days not talking to you - I know it's all my fault though."

You frowned, thoughts almost visibly churning before you set your gaze on her again.

"Wait. But I'm not your first girlfriend. So...was it like this every time?"

Jessie's posture slumped slightly at your question; more-so, the reminder it triggered. That you were the best and she'd treated you the worst.

"No. No, it hasn't been," she admitted as she picked at the fabric of her pants. "I, um, was more open before. And, uh, I guess it backfired. And I've been pretty reserved and nervous about it since."

"Oh," you said quietly, still deep in thought. "But your teammates know, right?"

"Yeah, they all do. Hard for them not to. And they're cool with it, thank God. But otherwise I keep it quiet. It doesn't seem like it, but I'm actually pretty comfortable with that aspect of myself these days. It caused a lot of angst for me for years, but I'm happy with who I am. Relationships though...that's a different matter altogether."

"I'm sorry, Jess," you said gently, pulling a confused look out of her. Again, you shouldn't be worried about her. "That sounds really difficult. That said, do you mind telling me more?"

Jessie turned to you more fully, your knees nearly brushing now. "I'll tell you anything you want to know. You were right that I was far from an open book, but I don't want to be like that anymore. I want you to know everything, if you'd like." She shrunk into herself a bit and waved a hand aimlessly. "And just because I tell you these things, it doesn't mean that I think you'll forgive me or something. I understand that, you know, things could end. But I still want you to know."

Surprise flooded Jessie's system as you took her hand and gave it the faintest squeeze, continuing to hold it after.

"Jess. It's okay. I want to know."

She mustered up a tight smile for you and squeezed your hand.

She proceeded to tell you her story. Filling the gaps she'd craftily navigated during previous conversations. The embarrassment she'd felt. The otherness. The ridicule she'd experienced over the years. The rejection. The objectification. And the eventual defeat; of feeling like no one would get her or love her the way she wanted to be loved.

By the time she finished, a new set of tears had finished falling, but what she noted most of all was how you now held her hand in both of yours.

"Baby," you said softly, as you lifted her hand and kissed it tenderly. Jessie looked at you in surprise as she sniffled.

She'd expected the worst, so when you looked at her with warmth and compassion, it caught her off-guard to not see disgust or rejection.

"I'm so sorry you were made to feel like that. You didn't deserve that at all. Some people are so fucking close-minded and terrible. I'm so sorry you had to experience that," you told her.

Her shoulders hitched as she rode out the dying waves of her emotion.

"Thanks," she managed, her voice still congested and strained. "Now you know how hypocritical and truly horrible it was of me to make you feel the way those girls made me feel."

You tilted your head slightly and gave it a slow shake. "No. It's not the same. I mean, yes, I felt terrible, but you weren't trying to hurt me. And now I can understand where you were coming from."

Jessie shook her head in return. "It doesn't make it right though. So...if you let me, I'll do everything I can to try to make it up to you and try to rebuild the trust I've broken. Totally understand if that's off the table though."

"I," you started, chest rising as you took a large breath before relaxing once more, "still love you. So...no, it's not off the table. I still have to process a lot of this and reconcile some things. And, yes, reality is you hurt me, but everything makes so much more sense now. So. Thank you. For finally telling me."

Jessie nodded. "Thank you for hearing me out."

You fidgeted slightly and she watched you carefully. You felt her eyes on you and spoke hesitantly.

"We, um. Didn't exactly address my initial issue though. I mean, I understand now why you've been so closed off and flighty. But, you know, none of this necessarily means that you, um, find me attractive. Because that could still be a problem."

Jessie gave you a disbelieving look. "Of course I find you attractive. Well, okay," she slowed herself down, "I understand why you thought I didn't. But, now that you know everything else, my attraction to you is exactly why I couldn't be remotely physical with you. It was...a bit too much for me. Let's put it that way," Jessie finished as she looked away sheepishly. When she braved a look back your face was tinged pink.

"Oh. Okay. Well..., um. That's nice to know, I guess," you responded awkwardly.

"I'm sorry. That was probably too much information," Jessie mumbled. She cleared her throat before speaking more confidently. "So, no, you have nothing - at all - to worry about there. I think the bigger question now is if you would find me attractive. Now that you know that my, um, anatomy is different."

You blushed deeper and cleared your throat as well.

"Oh. I mean, you're still you. And, I'm curious-" you held up your hands quickly in defense, eyes closing as you corrected yourself, "-not like those other girls. No. I would never use you like that." You opened your eyes once again, calming yourself. "What I mean is. I'm still interested."

Jessie felt an ember of hope flickering in her chest. You were still blushing, giving her fleeting glances until you fully faced her, now serious and prim.

"You get one more chance," you told her firmly, holding up a finger. "I know a lot will be new and there'll be things to navigate, but I won't put up with you being distant and cagey again. Do not lie to me again."

Jessie nearly beamed. She straightened up eagerly and nodded her head rapidly in agreement.

"I won't," she promised before she took a second look at you. "Are you sure you want to try again?"

Your face scrunched up adorably as you shot her a look.

"Are you trying to talk me out of it?" You asked, affronted.

"No," she refuted, shaking her head adamantly. "I just want to make sure this is what you truly want. I know I dumped a lot on you just now, so...you are more than welcome to take your time to think. And I definitely don't want you to feel guilty in any way."

"I don't feel guilty," you told her. "And," you exhaled quickly, "as you were telling me about all of your experiences and how you've been treated, all I could really think throughout all of it is that I wished there was some way I or someone could go back and protect you from all of that." You picked at your nails idly. "And, I don't know, that I just wanted to hold you. And kiss you." You gave her another stern look, but it was mild at best. "You're not entirely forgiven yet. But I understand you so much better now. So, I do want to try again."

That heavy, horrible ache in her chest she'd been carrying with her the past while was replaced with a sensation of warmth and lightness.

"You're the most incredible woman I've ever met," she told you unwaveringly. "I promise I'll do everything in my power to make things up to you. I'll make sure you never have a doubt about me, or you, or us, again."

"That's a bold promise," you warned with a hint of a smirk.

Jessie smiled at you undeterred. She gently cupped the side of your face and leaned in, stopping momentarily to speak before giving you a soft, slow kiss.

"And it's one I intend to keep."

A/N: Next up…smut.

Tag requests: @multifandomlesbianic @marvelwomen-simp @kathleenmikaelson

[m0chisenpai]

Mochi what do you think about 90s model reader (think brandi quinones) and loumand (they 100 percent watch fashions shows in modern days)?

Its cannon that they like people who capture attention (*coff coff* lestat). I think they would meet her in a show and would send her flowers and letters to court her and all that jazz

Sorry if this is weird :/

vogue

˚｡⋆ louis de pointe du lac x black!fem!reader x armand

in which your pefermonce off and on the runway catches their attention

author note: I ate this up so much, I literally scoured Pintrest and fell down a rabbit hole and have to fight every desire in my body to do another multipart series for this

The production people move like flies past your eyes while you sit in your regal beauty. Eyes unblinking, legs crossed perfectly, your hair now braided pulled up into a bun with a few pieces falling and curled.

You hold the hand of Armand, his finger runs over and over. You've come to learn this calms not just your nerves but his as well. Louis remains off to the side, he is weary of cameras these days. Preferring to leave you and Armand to such matters.

But when you pout those lips and flutters those ethereal eyes he relents to sit to the sides.

When the interviewer settles in the chair he has your attention and your back straightens.

"Runway, Vogue and Dior, red carpets, music videos. But your most recent appearance in the critically acclaimed rock star The Vampire Lestat's music video put's you back in the public eye when you should look much more...different." That breaks your picturesque facade with a light giggle that crinkles your dark lined eyes,

"That damned name'

'Calm yourself my love.' You catch Louis' fleeting gaze.

"How does the face of the 80s and 90s reappear in the 2000s rained in blood and completely untouched by age?"

"Hmm I think I have my wonderous loves to thank for that, there are only so many things that can hide the thief of the night that is time. But I seem to be lucky to have escaped its grasp." Armand places a languid kiss to the back of your hand while Louis raises his glass from the side.

"I believe the Gift only encapsulated the beauty she had from the moment we first met." Armand speaks up.

"And this would be during your rookie years as an athlete may say?"

"Yes at the beginning of my runway career in my early 20s, though I would not turn till 30. Around the mid 80s I was found by my lovely companions when I was at my lowest. Watching from the sides. And I did everything to ensure not to fall in love."

"Cheeky." Louis coos in your mind.

"Let's go back then, how were you back then? You say you were at your lowest but your face was desired by so many."

"Beauty, fame, money, sex is all so fleeting. And the fashion industry sucked every bit out of you till you were a husk for them to drag along until the needles and knife was needed to hide any evidence of your decline."

Armand will never admit it out loud but he was particularly fond of the 80s and 90s. He loved the fashions o each era, but he fell in love with runway. It was theatre in an entirely new facet. Louis can recall, though his companions face was stone cold, the glimmer of warmth in his eyes that watched each and every model. Catching every small finite detail.

Louis was more than happy to donate and invest in the ocassional piece for Armand who returned the favor. Until one evening they are encaptured by a beauty amount the sea of tall skinny legs.

This angel that graced the runway one evening of Paris Fasion week. It was dull, Armand confided in Louis as they dressed for the show they and and a few exclusive members were invited to.

One by one Armand began to count them like sheep until she entered. A sheer black tube tob pencil skirt dress with a billowy white blouse beneath. Your eyes are smoky and sharp and your lips a bright chery red. When you walk, you lack the stiffness the other girls move with, no no you glide. The runway is your stage, you dance so beautifully.

Armand sits up as you walk past. He neded you then, he neededyou now.

When you are off you brush past the fussy designers who bark orders in French that is too fast and English far too broken. All you care to know is you have a period of relief to indulge in a smoke and soon after a bump from one of your acquaintances.

You slump in your seat, a cigarette warms you up as you enjoy the momentary silence until you are up again. You grow tired, bored of this. You see it boiling in your eyes, past the makeup, the eye liner and rouge.

From your side one of the assistants carefully moves to your side.

"For you ma'am a gift from some of our most generous investors of the arts."

"M' not sleeping with them" you mumble around the still lit cigarette which dangles from your lips as you open the card tucked into the dozens of fresh roses.

"A rose for a rose." You grumble putting out your cigarette on the card and getting up to squeeze into the sheer scandalous dress though you would hardly call it that with the pièce de résistance being an intricate veil that twists and covers and is encrusted with diamonds around your face and binding in the back.

As you go to line up, standing still for any changes and a quick make up touch you are nudged to get in line. But a thought lingers in your mind.

When you walk you can't help but wonder, which one of you wants to sleep and tell the tale, hm?

"On the contrary my dear." You almost falter when you turn to walk back. That man's voice sends shives down your spine as you carefully make sure not to falter. "We would prefer to have you more than just in the flesh."

His partner to the left flashes you a cocky smile. He's lucky you are being watched otherwise you would have scowled.

"Aw, don't scowl like that chere."

They follow you to London. Your picture is in all the tabloids and paprazzi is stationed outside of your hotel where you quckly find the bar. In an act of defiance, and trying to add your flare, you stopped during midwalk to kiss the collar of your mysterious suitor leaving a perfect red stain.

Since then your manager has been bombarded with numerous calls for editorials, spreads, and interviews.

"Another glass for her please."

Your eyes cut to the beautiful man whose eyes look enchanting through the fog of smoke he carefully clows away from your direction. A black turtle neck tucked into a pair of slacks to battle the chill.

But no words can describe the work of art that are his eyes which stare deep into your yours,

"I don't sleep with fashion fanatics, not anymore at least" you mumble into the dirty martini before a new one is placed in front of you.

The corner of his lips twitch into a mix of a smile and a smirk.

"Nah I'm not into the whole art of fashion. Just a simple collector is all," he watches how your luscious lips leave a red imprint along the rim of the glass.

"Oh? And do I fit your collection?"

He hums, "I'd dare to say you outshine it."

"Let me guess," you rest your cigarette in the ashtray to give him your undivided attention. "Your wife wants to watch doesn't she?" Your eyes look pass his shoulder at the women and some of your fellow workers.

"Your far off. Got no wife, but my companion does enjoy to watch ocasionally." Louis leans forward, his chin on your shoulder and his cold lips touch your ear. "And he's been watching this entire time my dear."

Your head quickly turns and sure enough, a man watches at the end of the bar. A gass half filled, his both arms rest on the counter and his eyes remain unmoving on you both.

"Put her tab on my card will you?" Your mysterious heart throb drops a card that clanks and you catch a glimps of the name.

"Louis de Pointe du Lac" you read it to yourself as he stands to walk languidly to the man. Placing a hand don his shoulder and sitting beside him.

You should be unnerved by their constant appearances, but you enjoy this game of cat and mouse. Sharing words at afterparties, drinks at hotel bars, and one night together in the satin sheets of Milan.

Your room is always filled with flowers when you arrive. Champagne and chocolates await by your bedside. You never fail to find their eyes in the crowd, you dare to say this is what love must feel like.

You keep the notes and letters from Armand. His way with words are what bring the light back in your eyes as you walk and model.

Whatever it is, your agent tells you one day, keep it up. because you begin t see a spike in your career and appearances. Leading you to walk your first large red carpet event.

When you step out of the shining vintage car immediately you are met with flashes, clinging to your sur shrug for comfort imagining their arms as you walk and pause for questions and for photographs.

"Can we be under the assumption you have a special someone?" Your interviewer asks over the roar of paparazzi and photographers at a red carpet event.

"Hmm, I guess you could continue to speculate." You give a cheeky grin to the camera as you walk off with a flurry of questions at your leathered heels.

When you enter the museum hosting the charity event they await you. Your drop your shrug into the arms of one of the attendants while Armand takes hold of your clutch. You walk in between them looking at the beautifully restored and donated pieces. The theme is very rococo and you adore it, the artwork, pottery and ceramics and the beautifully restored gowns on display.

"Oh my goodness look at this one, it reminds me of a Monet" you coo as you stand before the water lily pond. Your hand on your chest as you pause. You wish it were yours. Though it is not the original you want it still.

And that's enough for Armand to place a red sticker near the artists name.

"Oh you didn't have to, Armand." you pout at him as he cups your jaw looking into your eyes.

"You clearly desired it, did you not?" When all you do is nod he hums. His thumb begins to stroke the soft skin of your jaw. "Then you shall have it."

"We would travel the cities I was in. And during the off season I spent here or in the comforts of one of our other homes. I believe Berlin will be our destination this year for the holidays, right my love?"

And how can Armand no to those eyes.

They gleam with mischief, golden flakes sparkle in your bright eyes. "Whatever her hearts desires I have assumed the duty to fulfill each ofthem, we both do."

You shush him, had you still been mortal you swear your cheeks would be flushed.

The interviewer

"But I believe this Gift would have to be my most treasured one."

[wanna1be0]

part i - goodbye

synopsis: you and vi grew up together in the undercity. you've always admired her and didn't realize your true feelings until she left. when she comes back with an enforcer, sure you're hurt, but you work with her for the greater good. when cait leaves vi, you're there for her. cw: female reader, vi x reader, emotional hurt, mention of caitvi's relationship, alcohol mentioned, slow burn, spoilers s2

Vi is at her lowest. Being hit and reduced to a monster by the person she thought she could trust broke her. She resorted to the one thing she knew. Fighting.

Vi's vision has gone blurry. She's sweating from the alcohol in her system, and the black of her hair dye is running down her skin. She can tell by the smell of your perfume that you're there, and by the feeling of the big arm under hers, Loris is too.

"Can you just leave me alone?" Vi grumbles, pushing both you and Loris away as you were leading her towards the door. "No Vi, we are here to help you," you say as you put your hand back on her shoulder and continue leading her inside. Pushing you off her once again, this time even more aggressively, she starts to yell.

"Can't you see I don't need your help? I never needed your help. Not when we were younger and not now. And you Loris, I don't need your help either. Both of you should just leave."

Taken aback by her words, tears fill your eyes. When you were younger you did everything together. You were inseparable. When everything went down at the warehouse, you thought she had died and mourned her loss as if it were real.

You look to Loris for help, but he looks defeated. He shrugs his shoulders at you, while giving you a sort of knowing look. She won't change.

She is still hung up on Cait.

You consider Loris a close friend, and with that you opened up to him. About what life was like when Vi left. About what happened to Powder, to Jinx. You and Ekko kept in touch, but you weren't much of a fighter. Thinking Vi had died caused your eyes to open regarding how you really felt about her. Sure you admired her growing up, but you also grew to love her. She was strong willed, protective, someone you could count on. You were left to mourn the love of your life in solitude. And now, she was pushing you away after you had just gotten her back.

Loris and you have been doing this night after night. Sitting with Vi in the bar until she can no longer function without the two of you holding her up, walking her back to the small room she lives in, and slowly getting more and more hurt by her. "I don't know about you, [y/n], but I think I've had enough of her bullshit," Loris says pointing to Vi. And just like that, it is you and Vi. Vi and you. Alone in a dark alley.

"You don't mean that Vi, you're drunk," you say softely. Vi scoffs and begins stumbling to the door. You reach for her shoulder, but she shrugs you away, raising her voice once again, "Leave it [y/n], I don't need you." You blink the tears away, the hurt and sadness becoming searing anger.

"You know what Violet, I will leave. Lets see how long you last with this. Coming back drunk every night to a room you can barely call livable with no companion besides your fists. You know, I mourned you for years when you left. I thought you died. And then you come back, with an enforcer who you eye fuck every chance you get no less, and act as if everything is normal? Well it's not normal Vi. It never has been. And I thought maybe we could be... normal again without Cait. But I should have known better. Goodbye Violet. Have fun fighting your life away instead of facing your feelings."

The corner of Vi's vision begins to fade into black as you walk away. With tears streaming down your face, you mourn the loss of Vi all over again.

© wanna1be0 ★ do not copy, translate, repost or share this work as yours on other platforms ! consider leaving a comment, liking, or reblogging <3 also send me a request for what you want to see next! read part ii here

[transchesters]

inspired by this post. couldn’t stop thinking about it so i had to write this <3 ends abruptly but i could be persuaded into writing more 🫢

sam winchester was cursed to be an abomination before he was even born. the fates, or perhaps god himself, decided long ago that the youngest winchester brother would be lucifer's perfect vessel. sure, it was mary who made the deal with azazel — her youngest for john's life — but azazel would have wound up in little sammy's nursery, dripping his rancid blood into the baby's mouth.

somewhere down the line, sam accepted this about himself. he was an abomination, only a slight step away from the demons he hunted. when he drank from ruby, he believed it was worth it, that it was the right thing to do. he was saving lives here! but then, ruby was dead, and lilith was dead, and lucifer rose from hell. all because of *him*. he had let himself grow blind enough to be manipulated by the lowest of the low, all because she told him it would make him powerful. and if he was powerful, then he could do anything, save anyone.

how stupid he had been. he had let everyone down. dean, bobby... castiel. castiel, who should have killed him the moment they met. who forgave him each time he fell. who picked him back up, rescued him from the cage, and took on the burden of his memories. like sam was something worth saving, or protecting.

it's well past midnight when sam wanders into the main room of the bunker, rubbing at his dark-circled eyes, unaware of the angel sitting at the table who is leafing through old men of letter's records.

"sam. you look unwell."

sam blinks, though he isn't startled by castiel's presence. if anything, he is grateful for it. grateful and undeserving.

"shouldn't you be sleeping?" comes castiel's voice again, his brow furrowed as it usually is. his blue eyes are sharp and curious as sam walks his way, soon sitting down in the chair across from his.

"probably. doesn't mean i can," sam replies, peeking over to see what castiel is reading, but the angel closes the book before he gets a chance to. when sam looks up with a raised brow, the expression on castiel's face is unreadable. "what?"

"why is it that you still torture yourself, sam?" castiel questions suddenly, leaning forward as he rests his arms on the table, lacing his fingers together in front of him. when the only response he gets is a confused look from sam, he tilts his head and continues. "you have such a low opinion of yourself. even after all the good you have done, all the lives you have saved, you still think of yourself as the boy with the demon blood."

sam's face falls flat, and he stiffens in his chair. why did castiel have to be so perceptive, and so straightforward? "i dunno, man. we don't need to get into that right now," he mumbles eventually, averting his eyes from the blue ones that see right through him. he runs a hand through his hair, trying not to think about the last time his insomnia kept him up for so long.

"yes, we do. if it will ease your troubles and allow you to heal, then yes. we do."

sam thinks about that response for several seconds before he finally looks at castiel again, heaving a sigh. "why do you even care, cas? you said it yourself, the day we met. i'm the boy with the demon blood. that's what i am, above being a hunter, above being dean's brother, above everything." something about castiel's eyes urge him to spill his guts, and he suddenly can't stop talking. "i'm unclean. unholy. even after all this time, i still feel it in me. every time i kill a demon, i think about how good it would feel to drink it's blood, and then i hate myself a little more. i'm a monster, cas. i'm no better than them."

their eye contact is unwavering, and as sam falls silent, they are both still. castiel, who has become as precious to sam as dean, stares at him with a profound sadness in his eyes. sam deserves none of it.

"you could fix me," sam says suddenly, the idea hardly formed in his mind before he's latching on to it, leaning forward suddenly so he's closer to castiel. "you, you're the opposite of me. you're pure and just and perfect."

castiel blinks owlishly, his head cocked to the side in a way that makes sam want to weep. how can an angel sit before him like this and not feel anything but revulsion?

"sam, if i could heal you, i would. but there is nothing to heal. there is nothing wrong with you." castiel frowns as sam scoffs at his words, almost pouting. "there isn't. the demon blood within you is just a part of you. there is nothing to be done about it. you can fight your urges, and you can do the right thing. that's all that matters, in the end."

perhaps he means to sound reassuring, but sam just feels sick. he's shaking his head before castiel even finishes his sentence. "you're wrong. i’m wrong, on a molecular level. but you can help me!" without thinking, sam reaches out, grapsing castiel's hand in his own. he's surprised to find that castiel's skin is much cooler than that of a normal human. he's also surprised that castiel doesn't recoil from the touch. instead, their hands twine together like they have done this before. like their hands belong together.

"i want to help you," castiel says in a quiet tone, briefly looking down at their hands, feeling an unusual flutter in his chest. "what can i do for you, sam? i will do anything in my power." devotion is clear in his tone, but sam doesn't notice. he's too far gone into hating himself and trying to fix himself.

"it's angel blood. it's your blood — don't you see? you're the only one who can save me and make me right. because, despite everything, you're still here. you let me hold your hand and you heal me after hunts, even though i'm... me. but if you let me have your blood... it would cleanse me." sam isn't sure, really, where the idea came from. if he's been thinking about it for awhile, or if it all just clicked rather suddenly. but he is without a doubt that it will work. that castiel can save him.

castiel looks up from their joined hands and meets sam's eyes again. he takes in the human before him, tainted but lovely, cursed yet trying his hardest. perhaps he is right. demon blood is what ruined sam in the first place, so why shouldn't angel blood be the antidote? and even though castiel tries to rationalize it in his mind, he knows there is no point. because either way, he would say yes.

"of course, sam," he agrees quietly, an angel blade suddenly appearing in his hand.

"wait — not here. i don't want dean to..." sam trails off, because the thought of his brother walking in on this is simply too terrible to speak.

with a ruffle of invisible feathers, they are suddenly seated on sam's bed, in his simple room, devoid of personal touches that would make it truly his. castiel casts his eyes around, noting the differences between this room and dean's, who filled his with memories and mementos the moment they claimed this as their home. he returns his gaze to sam, sitting beside him so their shoulders brush. "it'll be okay, sam," he promises as he begins rolling up the sleeve of his trenchcoat, and then his white shirt, exposing his pale forearm.

sam stares at the soft flesh — unmarked unlike his own which is covered with scars — with a strange feeling in his stomach. he watches with apt interest as castiel drags the silver blade across his skin, a red line of blood following. the angel and the boy with the demon blood lock eyes again for a lingering glance, before sam takes castiel's arm in his hands and pulls it up to his lips.

[justpoliteconversations]

Comfort [Mer!Warriors + Reader]

All it takes is a single moment for everything you think you know to flip on its head.

I originally had different plans for this AU continuation, but I came across a post of someone asking for a comfort fic and thought I'd try.

Masterlist

Part: 1 / 2

TW: Maybe? Hard to tell sometimes.

Disclaimer: Don't own The Legend of Zelda franchise. Linked Universe is the fan creation of jojo56830.

---

It had been a long day. Between back breaking work and the weariness of too long spent fighting to maintain your composure, the weight of all your hardships seemed to have finally caught up to you. You were just so tired, but even the promise of escape sleep offered seemed impossible to achieve.

Not with this overly spoiled creature screeching (elegantly, somehow. God damned elegantly. like a fully accompanied angel's choir) for your attention. As though this was something you two routinely did (for the record, it wasn't. you didn't know what his damned problem was). And ignoring him wasn't working, as it was going on the second hour now and he had somehow only gotten louder.

You honestly just wanted to cry. You just wanted to sleep.

You just wanted a break that didn't make you feel guilty. Guilty for not wanting to live up to everyone's expectations for once. For just wanting to sit down, eat something horrendously unhealthy, and then maybe nap for a few hours before dinner. And then go right back to sleep without everyone expecting you to fix every damned problem that blew their way.

The perfect day (but it wouldn't be. not really. because you couldn't even imagine closing your eyes when there was still so much to do). And it was being thoroughly destroyed (it was never something that existed anyway) by the unceasing, unholy (ethereal) screeching of the Center's resident golden boy.

How the mer knew just when to start acting up when no one but you was around, you'd probably never know. But it was damned concerning, and annoying. Especially when he decided to be difficult. Like now (oh God. why'd it have to be now when you were at your lowest).

You'd give in eventually, you knew. It was inevitable, and both him and you knew this. You couldn't afford to leave him to his own devices for too long, especially when he had a habit of taking out his frustration on your co-workers when ignored (and not even in an obvious way either. but underhandedly. like 'accidently' splashing water on their phones and equipment during his more enthusiastic performances).

You heard his screech again, but this time you could hear the low edge that entered his cry. Like the threat of a blade gliding delicately under a silk cloth, smooth and lilting and deadly in its sharpness. A dark, foreboding promise all wrapped up in a beautiful symphony of sweet nothings.

"I'm coming! Just give me a moment!" You finally called out, wincing at the way your voice nearly wobbled. Frustration and exhaustion mixing together into a singular moment of weakness.

It was silent then, and a form of primeval dread filled your stomach at the sudden stillness in the air. Because there was no way he hadn't heard the shake of your voice, nor the emotions that caused it. There was absolutely no way he didn't realize how vulnerable you were at the moment.

Numb. Suddenly, you were numb all over. From your ears to your toes, you could feel the cold pinprick of tingling nothingness itching just below your skin. But through it all, even as your feet took you to the bottom of War's tank ladder, you felt oddly detached from your body.

Ah. You were afraid. As tired and as emotionally drained as you were, you still somehow managed to drudge up enough self-preservation to be afraid of Wars. And you weren't sure how to feel about that. You hadn't really thought about it in a long time. Just how much power he now had over you, after that fateful day you'd come to his tank and cut him a deal.

You still didn't want to think about it. You just wanted to get this over with and go to sleep. You didn't even care that you'd regret this later, when you could finally think past the numbness that had settled over your limbs.

And there he was, from one step on the ladder to the next. Quiet, still as death and submerged up to his eeriely shining, dilated eyes in the dark water of his sleeping tank. The inky blackness of the night around him fading the long, billowing ends of his fins into a smoky wisp of shimmering starlight.

You'd forgotten how beautiful he was at night, when the faint luminescence of his fins and scales ran golden fireflies across the darkened navy of his elegant blue fins. How his enchanting, predatory eyes caught even the faintest hints of starlight and built entire galaxies along the darks of them. How he smiled so prettily when he rose from the water, even if you knew it was a lie (fake. dangerous).

The smile was different this time though. There was something sharper about it, so similar yet so different from the charming upturn of plush lips he so often used to entice the unwary into his clutches.

It was enough to unnerve you, this unknown expression that had settled so distinctly upon his pretty face. Enough even to pull you from your exhausted haze and into something almost approaching alertness. Your nerves firing with renewed unease, even several meters above the water and (allegedly, though you didn't believe that for a second) out of War's reach.

And then he lifted a single, elegant hand. Raised a single, elegant finger. And beckoned you to him in a gesture so human it nearly drew a blush to your cheeks (much to your shame).

If you ever discovered who taught him that gesture, you'd skin them yourself. You swore it. But that was for later, because right then you were frozen in shock. Not even because of the connotations behind such a gesture while an attractive male such as him was behind it.

No. It was the meaning behind the gesture.

"No." You said, so pumped full of adrenaline you didn't even feel the exhaustion that'd been weighing down your bones just moments before. "I'm not that far gone, Wars. No matter what you think you heard."

His eyes narrowed just the slightest bit, condescending and frustrated both. Flickering. Dilating. Contracting.

It would be almost funny, to see a mer as smug and put together as Wars showing anything other than slight annoyance (and honestly, it usually is). But right now, with the darkness closing in from all sides and the weight of everything haunting your every step, it was a reminder. A reminder that for all you had managed to keep your composure around this predator, you were still afraid.

You were afraid. And you always had been. From the moment you set eyes on him and knew (just knew, when no one else could see it) that this creature was hunting you and everyone else around him. Even bloodied and mangled and trapped as he was, he had never stopped hunting. That he watching you, just as you were watching him. Always.

He gestured again, tilting his head slightly. Another gesture that sent warning signals straight into your brain, causing your breathing to pick up and a light sheen of cold sweat to start forming on your shoulders, back and forehead. His eyes had fully dilated by now as well, adding an even more alien quality to his unnaturally beautiful features.

You swallowed, trapped between your self-preservation instincts screaming at you to turn tail and run, and the logic of your mind quietly reminding you that this predator would have killed you already had he wanted (that he could kill someone else too, if he felt the need to call your bluff). Because he would. You knew that. Accidents happened all the time. What was one more? (He'd probably fake tears too. the bastard.)

You glanced off to the side, the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end under his unnatural stare. "Wars I- You know that's not how this works."

You were met with silence. You were too shaken (too compromised) to even think of meeting his gaze. The sharp, unfaltering, stunningly inhuman gaze.

The faint rippling of water. A slight swoosh. And then.

A great, echoing splash. The catwalk under you shaking and nearly tilting as a great weight was suddenly upon it. The flash of shimmering gold across a sea of dark blue. And suddenly he was in your face, so close you could see the ring of blue, blue, blue encircling the dark pools of his eyes.

You couldn't move. You couldn't scream. You couldn't even breathe. Not when he leaned further into your space (so close now you could see the glitter of scales under his eyes. like gold dust). Not when a clawed, webbed hand came up to your fear stricken face. Not when your skin touched for the first time (warm. soft. supple. nothing like your mind had always imagined it).

Not when his powerful (deadly. predator's. killer's) arms gently (so gently. almost tenderly. but that can't be it because he's him and you're you) pulled you into his chest. Not when he pulled you both down until he was laying along the catwalk with you laying flush on top of him. And not when he buried his face (his mouth. his lips. his teeth. teeth. teeth.) into your hair and just...breathed.

In. Out. In. Out. Steady. Even. Inevitable. His large, warm hands on your back, claws delicately kneading into your clothes. His chest rumbling, so faint you'd have missed it entirely had you not been tucked up under his chin (had he not been pressing you into the place in his chest the vibrations were strongest).

Slowly, your breath returned to you. You began to calm. Your mind begun to clear. And you realized, with sudden clarity, what it was that was happening. What this behavior was.

The gentle nipping at your hair. The tender kneading of his (sharp) claws into the thick ruffles of your clothes. The way he had cradled your significantly smaller body into his larger form and curled his silky (thick, powerful) tail fins around you as best he could with so little space.

The way his whole chest seemed to vibrate. The sound so low it was nearly nonexistent. An action you hadn't known Wars was even capable of, let alone willing to utilize. For a human of all things.

You swallowed, not daring to take your eyes off the gleam of his collarbone (shimmering, even in the dark). "Are you trying to comfort me?"

He pushed you harder into his chest, under his chin. His face nuzzling deeper into your hair, until his mouth was pressed softly against the shell of your ear. His hot breath fanning against your sensitive skin.

"Mine." He cooed (disjointed and raw, unnatural but hauntingly beautiful), one hand having found its way up into the fine hairs at your nape. Just holding them between gentle fingers, thumb caressing your exposed neck. "Strong. Brave." He hummed.

He nosed at the delicate lining of your ear. Nuzzling you. "Beautiful." He purred, pulling away just enough to force you to meet his eyes. His gaze so black you saw yourself reflected in them. "Always mine. Give me. Everything bad."

Looking into his liquid night, blue-mooned eyes. Feeling his hands cradling you protectively, possessively, trying to separate you from the world beyond. You finally understood. Everything.

Wars was territorial after all. Of his space. Of his food. Of his resources. Of anything, everything that was his. That he'd claimed.

Knowing that, how could you have forgotten the most important resource a mer can ever possess? When it had been staring you in the face this whole time?

Warmth began to build behind your eyes, and try as you might, you felt the gates you had held so tightly closed for so long beginning to slip from your grasp. And you just couldn't believe it. That this was really about to happen.

In front of Wars of all creatures. The one predator that had everyone fooled.

But that was the thing, wasn't it. From the very beginning, for all his smiles and sweet nothings, never had he truly tried to hide his fangs from you. Never you. Even as he kept the rest of the world at an arms length away.

He had let you in (had reeled you in). He had let you see (had forced you to see) the dark shaded colors of his heart. His truest self.

Honesty, completely and utterly, from a creature that thrives off deception. How could you have been so blinded by your fear you'd not noticed.

The first few tears finally escaped down the curve of your cheek, and when a gentle, tender, loving thumb came to wipe them away. You broke, and it all came pouring out. In the arms of the predator you still feared so much, but knew, without question, would never allow harm to befall you.

Because he is a territorial mer. And there is nothing a mer covets more than their pod. Their family. Their reason for everything else that follows after.

And Wars, the mer who never wanted to leave. Who, after all was said and done, was still a mer like any other. Had no one but you. Only you. By choice. By fate.

By design.

You'd been hunted. And you'd been caught. And now he would never let you go. And he would protect you from everything.

For as long as he lived.

---

Back to the shadows.

[brimbrimbrimbrim]

I wrote a Hellblade 2 fic for Senua/Thórgestr because I have a problem. Rated Explicit (as everything I write) and it’s kinda a love story?

Summary: Thórgestr is brought back to Sjavarrisi to heal from his wounds, while Senua avoids him by the sea. As a storm rolls in, she finds herself alone with him in the longhouse, where she decides that the Northman is everything else but what he once was, and there is room in her to feel love again.

‘He’s coming.’

‘Thórgestr. He shouldn’t be, though. He’s still too weak.’

‘Hurt… dead… almost dead. Should be dead. We saw him.’

From the wooden vardhus overlooking the cliffside seas where Senua sits aloft the briney spray of crashing waves, Thórgestr’s figure approaches. He is a black shift of shade ambling through fog and winter—a Draugr if not for time and the healing touch of the læknir. It had taken many a day and night to drag the dying-dead Northman to Ástríðr’s settlement against the shoreline, where the promise of someone—anyone but the viciously seething healer of the Borgarvirki—could save Thórgestr, for he’d shown Senua the rock beneath the moss… his soul beyond the flesh.

And, it was on those passes of moon and sun during their trek back to the sea cliffs of Sjavarrisi that she spoke to him. Of love—of Dillion—of home, fathers, mothers, and the hidden folk who still talk to her now. It had been easier then, back when he could not speak for the blood in his lungs and the infections that came and went without Thórgestr leaving for Helheim. But even in the nights, when time stretched long between the rattle of his inhale and the wheeze of his exhale, his eyes watched her. Those blue, odd depths, wet and red-rimmed, wait for Senua to speak again.

… and so she did. She spoke on small things, great things, and hidden things until Ástríðr brought them—at last—to her home by the cliffs.

The læknir that Ástríðr promised bore skills to bring back that which was nearing death and, in doing so, shook Senua.

‘Happily so.’

‘The tyrant that nearly pierced his heart. His own father. He, too, deserved to die…’

‘At first. Before. But not any longer.’

Now, the Northman lives, and with his voice returned, Senua speaks less. It is different when the audience of her tales and trials cannot comment in stride. It leaves her guarded now… distrustful, as though his winds will change and Senua will be a madwoman again, not a seer—not special.

She watches him from the lowest platform on the smallest vardhus as Thórgestr draws near, plodding on weakened legs with nothing but determination urging him forward. His ferocity to see her—to seek Senua out in the dark, in the cold—nourishes that distrust his waxing voice began.

Though it is winter, and though sea spray sprinkles from the crush and crash of waves upon the rocks below, Thórgestr appears chin held high, in bandages, leather brók… and little else. The muscles in Senua’s thigh—dangling from the platform overlooking the skerry—tense at the sight of skin and blood-daubed dressings. It is not like it was with Dillion… and yet…

‘He is nothing like her lover. Dead. Gone. Dead Dillion.’

‘No, nothing like him. Isn’t bad. Doesn’t have to be.’

Senua looks at the whole of him, then the pieces: strength beneath skin overgrown by vessels, rivers of moisture that coat curvature with love, a freshly shaven jawline with the raised welt of a shaky hand. She takes in these parts of him, then looks away as Thórgestr’s mouth curves upwards. He knows how her eyes linger in places, or perhaps it is that pleasantries are oddities, things Senua is unfamiliar with. These smiles, words, and looks freely given… as though he feels more for her than Senua does him… yet doesn’t mind—is patient—content to wait.

‘He will wait for her. She knows he is changed. She has changed him.’

‘And he likes to wait… they all do.’

‘You’re just a prize to be won now. A souvenir, like the Goði said.’

‘No. Senua is special…’

“It is cold,” Thórgestr says, a brisk tremor that is hot where the world is cold. He leans against the vardhus’ wooden post, unashamed—it would appear at first glance—of the weakness his wound lays over his shoulders, “Only getting colder.”

‘He doesn’t want you to freeze out here, Senua.’

And then, when Senua refuses to look at him, Thórgestr continues, “You know, as a boy, I would find the highest rock and sit, contemplating my purpose. Even then, my father found love in power. Control. I would do anything to be away from him then…”

‘He’s trying to reach out. Shared experiences… camaraderie… why does she push him away?!’

‘It’s no use. She doesn’t like him. Hates him!’

“I do not mind the cold,” Senua tells him, harsh and finite.

‘Tell him to go away. You don’t need him, Senua.’

She looks to the sea where the remnants of the giant’s fall have left the sea brackish and tumultuous with new disruptions that send foamy droplets up the landslip, wetting the cliff’s edge. Jagged, hunched rocks split waves like the onslaught of a raid, filling the coast with Aegir’s horrible lullabies. Only after a disagreement begins on the horizon between sea and sky does she look back to Thórgestr, whose gaze has not left Senua, though his eyes shift to meet hers.

‘Where was he looking?’

“It is you who should worry,” she scolds, “Unless you prefer to freeze. Bound to your sick bed.”

‘Look. He is warm, though. Not cold.’

‘Let him warm you, Senua.’

I’ve got the rest on AO3 cause it’s like almost 10k. Feel free to check it out HERE.

[theladyfulcrum]

Come here children. Come here. Sit down. Take my hands. Listen.

Here’s what we are not going to do. We are not going to let them unravel us and leave us in a heap of bawling bodies. They want us to sob until our eyes fall out and we rupture our abdominal organs because they’re heartless and sadistic and part of STAR WARS—shhh, steady—but we are going to remain CALM. Call it denial, call it call it bargaining, call it what you will, but he’s not gone.

Deep breaths, all together now. Crying is cathartic and necessary for coping with the emotional abuse we endure at the hands of Filoni et al., but don’t cry from lost hope. I’m serious. Was it among the worst things we could have possibly been forced to watch? Has a good majority of the fandom been mulling where the hell we are supposed to find the will to go on after that? Of course. But they’ll be back. And Tech will be, too.

Hush, child. Listen to me.

There was a reason he fell into cloud-cover. He could have been falling into anything. Water can be lethal from that height, yes, but let’s all just remember what Hunter pulled in War-Mantle with falling OUT OF A SHIP and down a LITERAL MOUNTAIN and surviving that with JUST HIS KNIFE. HIS KNIFE, KIDS. Tech accepted what he was doing, and he was okay with dying if that was what this meant, but he’s Tech. Once he fell from view he did whatever he could to increase his odds of getting out of it alive. Trust.

Speaking of falling from view— we know the Clone Wars rules. No body, no confirmed death. Forget that— we know the STAR WARS rules. Even if someone gets SLICED IN HALF before your VERY EYES and FALLS AN INDETERMINABLE-BUT-DEFINITELY-NOT-SURVIVABLE DISTANCE, they STILL aren’t dead. Further still, if you had put the two scenes in front of me with no context, I would have said Echo’s death in an EXPLOSION of FIRE seemed more final and certain that Tech falling away from us. And no, I don’t care about the argument that it’s a kId��S ShOW so they wouldn’t show us the body. Go watch Colt’s death and get back to me. Or you know, pretty much any Clone Wars episode.

BUT THE GOGGLES, you wail. I know, dear heart, I know. I see the cracks in them every time I close my eyes. But Hemlock getting his hands on those isn’t confirmation of anything other than what we already know— no matter where he wound up, Tech is having a Very Bad Time™️. Whether he lost them on the extremely unpleasant way down or whether he’s being experimented on in critical condition is hardly a nicer thing to know, but we’ll take just about anything right now if it means we’ll see our boy again, won’t we?

Shhh, I’m not through. We also have that scene with Phee. If it had been a true goodbye, if Tech had shown an ounce of the development he had with Omega about differences in emotional processing and communication, you’d have seen my soul depart through the atmosphere. But no. That scene’s entire purpose was to be unresolved. Was it just to make us incurably sad in retrospect? Maybe. But my gut says no— there’s more he needs to say to her.

On that note, the same goes for Tech and Crosshair. I refuse to believe we’ll never see them together again. I don’t have anything stronger than my refusal, but my feelings on this are rock solid. There’s also the important issue of THE Bad Batch theme— you know how they’ve established a precedent of not using it unless the whole Batch is together? Collectively, we’re going to refuse to believe they’re going to break that now. And there’s too much love for that theme to never hear it again.

Finally, beloveds, we come to our old favorite: story analysis. You know I’m insufferable about this, but listen. If we look at screenwriting, if we look at story structure, if we look at BEATS, this is the old “DARK NIGHT OF THE SOUL” for the Batch (and us obviously). It’s the ALL IS LOST. The EVERYTHING IS AWFUL AND THE HEROES ARE AT THEIR LOWEST LOW. It’s the classic “oh my god this second installment is EMOTIONAL TORTURE HOW COULD THEY DO THIS TO ME” that we can point to in novels, shows, and film series again and again. It’s the ESB ending, it’s the Catching Fire ending, it’s the Rebels S2 AHSOKA IS D E A D AND ANAKIN KILLED HER ending. S3 will open as they enter Act III, where they use what they’ve learned to move upwards toward the finale of this particular story arc. Doesn’t that sound like something nice to cling to?

There now. If I’m wrong, I’ll give you all the choice of k!lling me first or tossing me alive out of a plane with no *hard swallow* parachute, jet pack, or functional grappling gun. But I truly believe you won’t have to.

In the year or two we have to wait, cry for his absence, cry for the Batch being more fractured and farther apart than they ever have been, cry for Hunter feeling like he’s failed everyone he loves, cry for all of it, but not because you’ve lost hope that all might not be lost.

Tech will be back.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Stranger 6

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Destroyer!Chris

Summary: A stranger buys the farmstead nearby and disturbs your sleepy village life.

Part of the Backwoods AU

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

Your grandmother waits for you on the porch. She has a book in hand as she sits on the wooden swing, nose scrunched beneath the wire of her glasses. She looks up as you near the bottom of the steps, the wagon rolling and rattling loudly behind Chris.

“Gramma,” you’re nearly breathless as you step up on the lowest step, “I got the groceries.”

She looks up over the frames of her glasses and closes her book. She clears her throat as she sets it beside her on the flat cushion and fixes the kinks around her ears. She stands with her slight hunch and tugs at the front of her handspun blouse.

“And who’s this?” She preens, “I wasn’t expecting company, sir.”

“Um,” you hesitate, waiting for him to answer. He doesn’t, “this is Chris?”

“Chris, ma’am,” he echoes at last, “I’m new around here. Just bought some property down the way. Wanted to come by and say thanks for that pie. Lucky me, we ran into each other in town.”

“Oh, gosh, that is so sweet,” she fawns as she comes to the top of the stairs, “I’m Sadie, I hope you enjoyed the pie. I didn’t have much left in the pantry, I know rhubarb’s not for everyone.”

“It was delicious,” he pushes the handle up and lets it stand on its own, “please, don’t trouble yourself.” He steps past you up the stairs, “very nice to meet you at last. I’ve heard a lot from your granddaughter.”

He offers his hand and she takes it gently. They shake as she smiles. “You have?”

“Please, sit,” he insists and gestures her back to the swing. 

“Oh, thank you,” she swoons, “I just had my hip done, you see? Only just back on my feet.”

“Then it’s a good thing I came by, isn’t it? Looks like you two could use a spare pair of hands.”

“Um, I’ll get the groceries inside–”

“So, you two… talk?”

“Yeah, she was nice enough to deliver that pie and I guess we just hit it off. She didn’t say?” Chris sits beside her. You watch, dumbfounded. What is he talking about?

“No, she didn’t say she was sneaking off with some handsome man,” your grandmother trills.

“You are too nice, Sadie,” he grins, “I didn’t even get a chance to ask her out… you know, I know things are real old-fashioned around here so I thought I better check with you first.”

“Me? Oh, of course, of course!” She nearly claps her hands as she clasps them together, “my granddaughter… it’s about time she went out and had some fun. The dear helps me out so much–”

You grab a bag from the wagon and keep your chin down. Really? She doesn't call it help when you're alone. She tells you you're nagging or useless or irritating.

Chris clears his throat, “so I have your blessing?”

“Oh, certainly you do,” she squeals, “oh, honey, that’s so adorable.”

You look up as you climb the steps. Your stomach is doing somersaults. You can tell she’s already hearing bells. He has her in the palm of his hand and why not? She's only ever wanted you to finish the job your mother left undone. She wants someone she can boast about to the ladies at the quilting club.

“Woah, woah,” Chris stands as he glances over, “let me get that.” He stands and strides past your grandmother’s knees, “I’ll get everything sorted and you ladies can take it easy.”

“Now, that is just too much, sir.”

“It’s not enough,” he insists as he takes the bag from you, “Sadie, please call me Chris.”

“Chris,” she repeats, “you are a sweetheart, aren’t you?”

“Well, you know, it’s why I left the city. People don’t got much manners anymore. Out here, you all are so nice,” he turns and nears the front door, “can I get you something, Sadie? Water, tea?”

“I’m just fine, honey,” she chimes, “my, my, been so long since we had a man around to help.”

He nods and lets himself in through the screen door. You chew your lip and furrow your brow as he disappears inside. Your grandmother hisses your name.

“Dear, come here,” she points you next to her, “you didn’t say he was so handsome.”

“Gramma,” you groan as you drag your feet towards her.

“Oh, don’t you spoil this,” she grabs your wrist and tugs you down, “we’re gonna fix up one of your old dresses, do your hair nice…” she starts to pick at you.

“Gramma,” you drone again, “please–”

“Don’t be embarrassed. You’re a pretty young lady and he’s…” she makes a face, “well, isn’t he a certain kind. Never saw no men in my days with a jawline like that.”

You try not to cringe, forcing a smile again, “alright.”

“Try to be a little excited, dear! It’s your first date,” she exclaims, quickly tamping down her voice as the door opens squeakily. 

She giggles and watches Chris as he goes to haul two more bags from the wagon. You watch him sheepishly and he looks over, sending you a grin that neatly hides away the sinister gleam in his eyes. You swallow and focus on your fidgeting hands as he once more passes through the front door.

“It’s not too late for you,” she pets your cheek and you flinch, “why don’t you go inside and ask him to stay for dinner.”

You stand and don’t say a word. As you go to the door, you hesitate. Your grandmother was never so happy about anything you did. No, but a complete stranger can walk up and have her singing his praises with just a ma’am and a smile.

[murmaiderii]

A BETTER WORLD CHAPTER ONE: NOWHERESVILLE, MAINE

Also available on ao3

MDNI, Check ao3 tags for more info

Winter and its winds are always unkind to Stan’s boat. The ship wasn’t in great shape 30 years ago when he bought it with what little money his brother gave him. But now, after decades of wear and tear, Stan is getting worried that the old girl is on her last legs. Sailing will be out of the question for the rest of the season. If he wants his boat, his home, to stay intact, he’ll have to hunker down at the nearest port in a shitty little town in Maine.

His boat pulls into the sparsely populated port. He hoists the rusty anchor into the water, grunting heavily as he does. If he had someone to help with that task, maybe it wouldn’t be so hard on his back. “Fuck…” He rubs his aching back through his thick sweatshirt. It isn’t enough to keep him warm in the cold of Maine, but he just doesn’t care enough to even bother grabbing his only coat. The thing is falling apart at the seams, anyway. He locks up his cabin and jumps onto the splintered dock, aggravating his knees in the process. He needs a drink.

Everything in this town is so gray. He’s seen more than his fair share of bleak sites, but this place is just depressing, even for him. Obnoxiously bright street lights pollute the sidewalks, illuminating cookie cutter houses. No lights are on in anyone’s windows. It isn’t even midnight yet. This town must be so dull that people have nothing better to do at night than sleep. Luckily, there’s a bar not too far from the dock, located in the perfect spot to attract the rare sailor who’s unfortunate enough to stop here.

A bell rings when he opens the door to the bar, startling the distracted bartender. The young redhead behind the counter looks up from her phone to greet Stan. “Welcome. Don’t get too many customers at this hour,” she says. “What’re you havin’?” He sits at a stool right in the middle of the counter.

“Gimme whatever will get me drunk fastest for the least amount of money,” he requests. She cracks a small smile.

“Got a real crappy whisky that’ll do the trick.” She grabs a clean glass from under the bar and fills it with an unusually dark whisky from the lowest shelf. She slides it across the bar to Stan. He throws half the glass back and shivers from the bitterness. 

“This is disgusting,” he complains. 

“Want something else?”

“This is the cheapest thing you got?”

“Yup,” she confirms. He swallows the rest of the glass and slides it back towards the woman.

“I’ll take another.” She leans over the bar and fills the glass back up to the brim. His eyes flicker to the cleavage pouring out of her black dress shirt. She sure is showing the girls off, probably in an attempt to get better tips from sad saps like him. She’ll be sorely disappointed to find that Stan is too broke to leave more than a couple bucks for her. She leaves him to his drink, focusing on cleaning up a tap.

He sips his second round more leisurely. He’s in no rush to get back to the faulty heating of his ship’s cabin, and he sure as hell can’t afford a hotel. The familiar bug of nicotine cravings crawls through his body. He pulls a cigarette and lighter from his pocket. The bartender whips her head around when she hears the flick of the lighter.

“Ya can’t smoke in here, buddy,” she tells him.

“C’mon, kid. Ain’t no one else around.” She shakes her head at him.

“Federal law, and I don’t want this place to reek of tobacco.” He sighs and slips the contraband back into his pocket. “Hey, mind if I pour myself a drink? I’m not supposed to drink on the job, but as you said, ain’t no one else around.” He nods at her. She grabs herself a glass and fills it with cheap vodka and cranberry juice.

“Your boss ain’t gonna fire you when he sees ya drinking on the security camera?” Stan asks.

“Bosses are my parents. They won’t do anything besides give me a quick lecture.” She leans on the counter across from Stan. Her big breasts stare him in the face. Keeping his eyes away from them is a struggle. “The hell brought you to this wasteland? Hope you’re not staying long, for your own sake.”

“My boat ain’t doin’ too well. I gotta stay in one spot until spring.”

“Damn, you chose just about the worst spot to stay in. Might be worth the risk to sail to the next port. Drowning is a way better fate than living here,” she complains. 

“If it’s so bad, why don’t you get up and leave?” He questions.

“I’ve been plotting my escape since I was a kid, but I always end up being too lazy to run. That’s the issue of this town. Breaks your spirit so much you don’t even have it in you to escape its clutches. You should get out before it takes you, too,” she warns.

“Can’t be that terrible if it produces women as beautiful as you,” Stan flirts. Her lip briefly twitches up, just long enough for Stan to catch it.

“If only the selection of guys was as good. You’re about the most attractive man to walk into this garbage joint.” Stan chuckles at the compliment.

“I find that hard to believe.” He polishes off his second glass. She pours him another. “Kid, I don’t think I can swing another drink. I’m pretty strapped for cash here.” “On the house. I just wanna talk to someone who isn’t from here for once.” He lifts his glass in a cheers to her.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Marty. Yours?”

“Stan. Marty’s a pretty manly name for such a sweet young thing like you.”

“I’m more salty than sweet,” she jokes.

“Why don’t ya let me taste so I can see for myself?” He leans closer to her face. She leans closer to his in return.

“You’re a real dirty old man, you know that?” She pats him on the cheek.

“I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t at least shoot my shot. Haven’t seen a woman as gorgeous as you in forever.” He finishes his third drink. There’s enough booze in his system that he feels like his problems are a little further away. “How much do I owe ya?”

“For that swill? $10,” she tells him. He pulls a 10 and two 1s from his pocket.

“Thanks for the drink, sweetheart. I’ll get outta that pretty red hair of yours now.” Stan staggers across the bar. Being this drunk will make it a little easier to sleep in the freezing cabin of his boat tonight.

“Night, Stan. Don’t come back. You’re too good for this place.”

“So are you, kid.” She waves him off. As much as he wants to heed her warning, he doesn’t have the choice. He’s stuck here for some time. If he gets to see her again, then maybe it won’t be so bad.

The booze is not enough to keep him from shivering. Maybe he can call that rich bastard brother of his for a little financial help. He owes Stan as much after exiling him to do his dirty work. All he needs is for him to cover a few repairs and maybe get him a heavier blanket and new coat. But that would mean contacting the asshole for the first time in three decades. The man got rich and famous with his dumb science shit and never even thought to track Stan down and see if he needed help. He’ll freeze before he’ll talk to his brother again. 

He needs to get out of this cold. He can probably swing another glass of whisky at that bar if he skips a meal tomorrow. The longer he can stay in the warmth of the bar, the better. He pulls his hood over his head and power walks back to the establishment. When he gets there, the door is locked, but Marty is still inside, seated at a table and scrolling on her phone. He turns around when the door doesn’t open for him, but she unlocks it for him.

“Everything good, buddy? It’s after hours,” she calls to him. He enters the bar and she closes the door and locks it again.

“I was hoping you’d still be open. It’s damn cold on my boat. Don’t think I’m getting any sleep tonight,” he explains. 

“Well, I can’t let you stay here when I leave. Can’t risk you robbing the place.” She thinks her options over. “There’s a shelter a couple of miles from here.”

“Nah, forget it. Thanks for tryin’.” He tries to leave again, but she puts a hand on his shoulder to stop him.

“There’s a room in the back with a bed. Remember that there are cameras if you try to rob us.” She leads him past the employees only door to a small room with a single bed and a few boxes left there for storage.

“Ya ain’t gotta do this, kid,” Stan protests.

“Don’t make a mess, alright? And no helping yourself to the booze.” She ignores his pushback and starts to leave.

“Hey, Marty?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.” She gives him a salute and walks out, closing Stan’s door behind her. He lays down and stares at the ceiling. This simple gesture by this young girl has to be the first nice thing anyone has done for him in years.

Marty sits in her car and contemplates what she’s done. Trust has never been one of her strong suits, so she surprised herself by letting Stan stay in her bar unsupervised. There was something about him. It’s hard not to pity a man whose life is in such a state of disarray that he’s forced to spend any amount of time in her town. She feels that the effects of her one drink have worn off enough for her to drive home.

Though her family home is across the street from the bar, she doesn’t want to spend too much time with those people. The ten mile drive to her studio apartment is worth the peace it offers. She thinks about Stan through the drive. She’s almost tempted to pay for repairs to his boat in exchange for hitching a ride anywhere but here. She parks in her designated spot, next to the car of the neighbors she always hears fighting through the walls. They’re even going at it when she walks through her front door.

She rips off her work clothes and flops into bed in her bra and panties. She’s going insane here, and Stan's presence really brought those feelings to the surface. She’s sick of the human waste around her. The awful marriages and the town drug epidemic and all the teen parents throwing away their chances at college. The blinding light pollution and the abandoned structures crowding the streets because most businesses can’t survive here. She needs to get Stan out of here before the place swallows him like it does everyone else.

The yelling next door gets worse. They’ve done this nearly every day since Marty moved in almost two years ago. The thread finally snaps for her. She shoots up and starts banging on the wall she shares with the couple. “Shut up! Shut the fuck up! I’ve had it with you people! Get a divorce if you hate each other so much!” She screams.

“Mind your own business, bitch!” The man yells back.

“You bastards keep everyone in this damn building up every night!” She bangs harder. She hears both of them swear and barrel out of their front door. They begin banging on her door.

“Come out and say that to our faces, bitch!” The woman yells.

“Fuckin’ shit,” Marty hisses. Unless she wants her neighbors to bust her door down and lose her deposit for her, she won’t be able to keep them locked out forever. She isn’t going to be able to stay here tonight. She tosses her essentials into a duffel bag and throws an ex-boyfriend’s oversized t-shirt over her underwear. Then, she snatches a small canister from her desk. She takes a deep breath, swings the door open, and blasts the neighbors in the face with pepper spray.

“Dammit! You bitch!” The neighbors clutch at their reddened faces and stumble around blindly, trying to grab Marty. She slams her door shut and dashes past them, straight to her car, and books it out of there. She’ll have to spend a night or two at her parents’ place.

[puimoo]

Dick's inability to jump in Nightwing.

I’ve loved some of the older Dick Grayson related storylines that I have been reading over the last week, but I am really struggling with the new stuff – I’m just not enjoying the characterizations, the bright art, or the storylines as much in the recent-ish Nightwing comics.  It almost feels like they are water blasting away all the interesting shadows and darkness that have previously existed and creating a much less interesting, bubble gum pop character and world.  Using the ‘Dick can’t jump’ storyline as a bit of an example:

Dick not being able to jump (or, as it really should have been, to fly) had so much potential and it feels that in any other era this would have at least have been explored in a more interesting manner (whether it would have been written WELL is always a bit of a toss-up).  Here it is simply: problem acquired through external means, reason for maintaining issue briefly touched on but not explored in any way, problem fixed.  There are no stakes, no consequences, no fallout, no self-doubt.  You have Dick (potentially) having a panic attack and passing out on a trapeze and it takes all of two or three panels with no follow-up or exploration of what is going on in his mind during that attack.  You have someone who is supposed to be deeply fearful sitting on a cliff edge for – again – all of a couple of panels, before he then describes himself fixed.  No internal monologue, no actually capturing of that escalating fear as it consumes him.  In fact, fear seems to be missing altogether – it comes across far less that he is afraid of jumping and simply that he can’t.

I would have loved to see a more organic build.  Dick makes a mistake that shakes his confidence to the core, or Dick is dealing with vertigo following a head injury.  I’d like the stakes to be raised – being unable to jump has terrifying consequences while out patrolling.  I’d like to see the deepening sense of loss and a greater exploration of what jumping actually is to him (and not because he was a trapeze artist as a child once upon a time because he is so much more than that – this old well gets tiresome).  I’d like him to try to push through because Dick puts everything else before his own wellbeing, absolutely fail and there to be even more terrifying consequences for that.  I’d like to see him spiral downwards towards his lowest point where he starts to question whether he can still do this – and if he can’t, then who is he and where does he fit with others.  I’d like to see the batfamily find out and reflect on what this means for them, and for there to have always been this undercurrent that, while Dick is graceful and powerful and incredible when he leaps, that there has always been that fear of what happens if he doesn’t catch himself in time. I want the metaphor to have actually have been seen through (hell, I would have liked there to have been a metaphor in the first place) – it’s not just the fall that should be the story, it’s who catches him when he does and what happens if he hits the ground?

I wanted the arc to capture the fear, the psychology, Dick spiraling and having to drag himself back up with the help of others.  What we get instead is emotionless, bland, with no stakes and no heart.  Certainly no deepening of the character or lore. 

And! Then!  To rub even more salt into the wounds. What an absolutely terrible waste of what should have been an absolutely iconic moment: Bruce taking on Nightwing’s mantle.  When Dick steps into Batman’s shoes, it’s often because things have become almost broken beyond repair – desperate and dark and with the weight of the world on his shoulders.  Bruce steps into Nightwing’s shoes because he’s off on a mountain somewhere having a bath. This should have been something incredible and defining for both of them. Dick as Batman always has this thick, threatening edge to it.  What impact does the role reversal have on Bruce, as he instead drawn more towards who Dick is? What does Bruce sacrifice - what fears does HE have to face when becoming Nightwing?

As someone who was hoping to get back into fandom, I wouldn’t even know where to start in navigating the stuff I do and don’t like in canon, all spread across different reboots.

Right!  I need a palate cleanser!  Off to reread Operation Friendship Helmet (https://archiveofourown.org/works/56642212/chapters/143977645), which is now officially my comfort fic after spending an entire week consuming way too much Nightwing fan fiction.  This time, I will even try and leave a review that captures why I love it so much vs rambling on about characterizations in canon I’m not enjoying. 

[gohandinhand]

Almost exactly one year since everything splintered into a Before and an After. I’ve been struggling to come up with the right words - how do you encapsulate the hardest year of your life, tie it up pretty with a ribbon for presentation?

Much of it is gone anyway, lost to the tricks depression plays on the brain. I think I’m thankful for that, for the agonies which only exist in the pages of the little yellow journal I sealed into an archival bag several months ago. The agonies which rebuilt me - through carefully curated messages of desperation I sent to friends to pull me through my lowest moments, in the studies I pored over trying to understand why suicide can be contagious, as though understanding was the key to finding a way out of the dark - exist in a time far enough behind me to find thankfulness both that they happened and that they are done.

I am here a year later a different person, still grieving but with a mind no longer on the opposing team - brain literally rewired over two months of being zapped with powerful electromagnetic pulses - left wondering:

How do we share the love and the grief that are now forever one, while honoring the deeply held reverence they had for their privacy?

I don’t know. I think, perhaps, there is no right answer. For now, I cry a little extra every time I read the Beijing chapter because you never will again. I speak of you, present tense, when WoT unexpectedly becomes a topic and for a moment you are present, somewhere just behind me. I flip through the pages of a book, I kiss Simon’s forehead, I stare at the ocean, I cradle a pan of PB33, I feel the moss under my toes and I smile even as I miss you.

I love you, I love you, I love you.

How lucky we are to love people, the possibility they hold to be both catalysts for anguish and the path out of it. The conclusion of the hardest year of my life, simply: it’s worth it. These friendships, even if they exist solely in a screen, they are worth it. Grab hold.

Bring them out of the screen, if you are lucky enough. Talk on the phone every week. Walk through the botanical gardens together, sit and chat by a lily pond. Fly across the country to squeeze in a weekend together to put your feet in a creek and dress up and go to ren fest. Let me convince you to come for a weekend so we can walk through a dark corn maze and carve pumpkins in each others presence. Go to the tidepools together and hang out with my cats and marvel at the hail. Come to the aquarium for my birthday. We are so lucky to have all of it, every moment, even if it ends. Especially when it ends.

I love you all. I miss you, Em.

[666writingcafe]

Mammon's Greatest Fear

Author's Note: First of all, I'd like to apologize for not writing this sooner. Work and life in general has taken up a lot of my energy, and I want to make sure I'm delivering the quality you all are used to seeing from me.

Secondly, I wanted to flesh out the reason why MC goes on these mind trips with the NB!Demon brothers, because canonically it's a bit vague (in my opinion, anyway). Basically, I'm taking the original boogeyman scene in OG!Obey Me and adding more substance to it.

MC

I wake up in a brightly lit forest, confused as to how I've arrived here. The last thing I remember was...

Lunging at Lucifer.

Shit.

I'm sure he'll make me pay for it when I see him again.

If I see him again.

I have to figure out how to get out of here before I can even think about visiting Lucifer.

"Oh good! You're here!" My eyes soon meet those of a rather familiar-looking Little D.

"Number 2?" I ask, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes.

"The very same!" the yellow Little D exclaims. "Mister Barbatos wasn't sure that this would work, so he'll be glad to hear that everything's going according to plan!"

"You'll have to forgive me, but I have no idea what's going on." Number Two clasps his hands together.

"That's right; you were in lala land when the discussion happened."

"Forcibly, but yes."

"So, here's the short and sweet version: Mister Barbatos believes that Mammon's fear is makin' his sin go into hyper-overdrive, and since it seems to be affecting you as well, he's havin' me serve as a bridge between the two of you." Number Two closes his eyes as he recounts Barbatos' message, clearly making sure he's saying everything he needs to.

If I recall correctly, while there are lots of Little D's that have spawned as a result of the brothers succumbing to their sin, the original set--Numbers One through Seven--live at the castle.

And if they're the originals, then it's probably safe to assume they have the strongest mental connection to the brothers out of all the Little D's in existence.

Which means...

"We're inside Mammon's mind, aren't we?"

"Ding-ding-ding! Solomon said you'd pick up on it quickly. Now we just need to find Mammon and get him to snap out of it so that everything can return to normal!" Sighing, I get up and stretch. This certainly wasn't on my to-do list today, but if it'll help us quit feeling this way...

Number Two jumps up, forcing me to catch him and carry him in my arms as I begin walking.

"Am I allowed to ask you for some insight into Mammon's psyche, or am I supposed to figure everything out myself?" I ask.

"You know some things already," Number Two answers. "For example, this place should be very familiar to you." Taking a better look at my surroundings proves the Little D. correct.

We're traversing through part of the Celestial Realm's forest.

And just like that, everything clicks into place.

I ran. I don’t know for how long, but eventually I wound up deep in the woods, my lungs about to burst. I nearly collapsed against one of the trees as I began sobbing. I didn’t know what else to do.

If Lucifer didn't find him, Mammon would most likely still be in the woods, lamenting the loss of everything.

As it is, those few moments are some of the lowest points in his life. Not knowing if you belonged anywhere or if anyone gave a damn about your well-being...

I suddenly bump into something solid, nearly dropping Number Two. When I regain composure, however, nothing appears to be blocking my way.

"One of his walls," Number Two casually comments. "He must be close." Sure enough, just a few feet away sits Mammon at the base of a tree, sobbing his eyes out as dark wisps of smoke encircle him. The longer they swirl around him, the more upset he becomes.

"He can't see or hear anything past the barrier." Number Two's voice has become a lot deeper. "Unless you break it, there's nothing you can do to save him." His eyes darken, quickly matching the wisps of smoke. The next words to leave his mouth aren't his own.

Go crawl in a hole and die.

That's the first thing I heard Levi tell Mammon all those years ago at the start of the exchange program. As Number Two continues talking, it quickly becomes apparent that he's become a mouthpiece for the wisps of smoke, who are repeating every nasty thing that has been said to and about him.

Do I believe that he allows his sin to control his actions more often than he should? Yes. Does he come across as a self-absorbed douche-bag most of the time? Again, yes.

If I didn’t act this way, then people wouldn’t take me seriously. They’d abandon me.

It's a vicious cycle that I had to help Mammon slowly break in my timeline, but the wounds he's developed from it are still fresh here, making the cycle's grip that much stronger on him.

There has to be a way to get past this barrier. Tapping for weak points doesn't work. Must have some pretty strong magic keeping it together.

But is it stronger than mine?

Only one way to find out.

"Number Two, I don't know if you can hear me, but if you're able to choose what to repeat, find the most vile statements and hit me with them. If my voice is saying any of them, all the better."

My power is heavily tied to my emotions. The quickest way to tap into its full potential is to rile me up and make me lash out. Solomon and Asmo exploited this side of my magic once, but now I get to use it for my own benefit.

Hopefully.

Because otherwise, I have no idea how to get Mammon out of here.

~~~

I find myself flying upright, struggling to catch my breath. A sudden dizzy spell threatens to have me fall right back down again.

"Steady." A hand latches onto my arm, preventing me from tumbling off the bed.

"Open." I follow the voice's command, a warm liquid soon hitting the back of my throat. Tastes slightly better than cough syrup, but I can't complain too much, as it quickly helps me feel less disoriented.

"Better?" I nod my head. Glancing over to my right reveals Mammon in a similar position to mine.

"Did it work?" I ask, my voice sounding incredibly croaky.

"Hell yeah, it did!" Number Two excitedly pipes up. "You shattered that barrier into a million pieces! It was awesome!"

"So, Mammon's okay now?"

"He wouldn't have been able to wake up if he wasn't," Barbatos answers. He must have gave me the potion that kept me from fainting just now. "And neither would you. Still, I recommend that both of you take it easy for a couple of days to ensure a full recovery from the mind trip you went on."

"I'm sure it won't be the last one I go on." Barbatos wearily smiles.

"Don't worry about that right now. Focus on resting."

Taglist: @lost-in-time-wanderer, @fuzztacular, @dianedancer18, @sweetbrier2908, @flare-love, @completelyshatteredbrokenmschf, @thunderlightning351, @l3v1chan, @anxious-chick, @5mary5, @expressionless-fr, @tenkobitch, @budbuddnbuddy

[cacti-are-like-flamingos]

Borderline

Gojo Satoru x Reader x Geto Suguru

The Cursed Trio | Moment's Silence

...

Stretching his arms up into the air, the young Gojo stepped into the recreational room of the dorms. Loudly yawning as he fixed the sunglasses back onto his nose, nose scrunched up at the sight of a pensive Suguru sitting by the dark-hued couches. His onyx eyes solely focused on the screen of his phone.

(Side Note: Suguru hates bright screens, just like you, so he kept his on both the lowest setting and in dark mode. On the contrary, Gojo was one of those few assholes who likes having his phone at the highest brightness possible. The one brighter than the common folk's future. If you're like this, kindly fuck off)

"Still?" At this, Suguru spared a brief glance before going back to his device. "Still."

Gojo clicked his tongue in pure annoyance, anger swelling up inside him as he glared at nothing.

Everyone's barely seen you the last four weeks. Mission, shower, sleep, wake up, eat, mission --- that was the routine you've committed to ever since those old fucks decided to abruptly assign you a load of jobs to take care of.

They didn't even work him or Suguru as much as they worked you. It was as though one day, they just up and decided that your skills just needed to be put to the test on a daily basis. Pushed to the very brink, see if you could handle it or not.

And, you took it. Without a single word. You just took it like a good little bitch...and THAT pissed him off.

"Don't even think about it, Satoru." Of course, he knew. Suguru knew everything about him by this point. Huffing, the silver-haired threw himself into the couch, the raven-haired's arms already raised as Gojo plopped his head into his best friend's lap. (Suguru now has an elbow stabbing Gojo's sternum while the other test on the arm rest, fingers playing with the ends of silver locks)

"They don't even fight back! No argument, no protest--- nothing! Where's the spitfire? That bitch is always fighting with me so why not with those old sacks of skin, hm?"

Suguru types something, "Think about it this way, they are an outsider on foreign soil. It's chaotic enough they only got here a few months ago. They don't know anyone and need as many allies as they can get --- you know they've always been quite the politician themselves. They're just playing the game."

The Six-Eye user groaned in exasperation, childishly kicking his feet against the arm rest, "I hate clan politics. So fucking boring. Why do they even bother with those fossils?"

Suguru paused, "Did you not notice, that ever since they arrived here, the spotlight's been taken off of you?"

Gojo pushed the glasses down his nose, confusion in his beautiful eyes, "What do you mean?"

It was Suguru's turn to click his tongue in annoyance, "Satoru, they've been taking the heat for you. So that you can have some semblance of privacy."

For the first time in a long time, Gojo Satoru is silent. A stunned expression adores his features, eyes, once again, focusing on oblivion as his mind processes what Suguru said

"They...they care about me?"

Suguru freezes, fingers hovering over the plastic keyboard of his flip phone. A little bunny charm hangs from the device, Gojo notices. Ieiri must've gotten it for him

"Obviously." He said it as though it was common knowledge. As though everyone knew this to be a fact instead of a myth or falsehood.

"Are you sure?"

Closing the phone, Suguru gazed down at his friend. An indecipherable look in his darkness as he made a slight face, "You know, they're not good with feelings, Satoru."

Gojo whines, staring up at his best friend, faces inches away, "Then why don't they ever call me by my name, eh? Always Gojo this, Gojo that --- they call you by yours, so why not mine?"

Is this motherfuckers being serious rn? Is she for real fucking jealous?

"...I don't know." He lied through his teeth

But Gojo can see all

"Bullshit, you've had the most interactions with them. So it would only make sense for you to know, spit it out."

Suguru told his eyes at his friend's childish antics, "Why don't you just hang with them more? Maybe that'll do the trick."

Sitting up, Gojo threw his hands up in the air, annoyance evident in his voice as he screeched, "I've tried! But it's like they avoid me like I got the freaking bird flu or something."

His interactions with you have always been positive on the surface. Regardless, something has always felt off between the two of you. You took all to his touch despite having avoided everyone else's, sides from Suguru's. In fact, you seem to gravitate towards him. It's likely you are touch starved but for what reason, he didn't know.

You always had this tendency to keep things close to your chest, no matter what. It's been months and none actually knew a thing about your past. Why is that? Why are you so secretive?

You acted like nothing was wrong but all the signs pointed opposite. Did you think him dumb? Did you think he couldn't see the little fears in your head turn as you overnight a most miniscule of interactions as though analyzing it would save your life in the end? He might be blind to others thoughts on him, but not yours.

Although, he didn't know what your thoughts about him were --- he knew that you tolerated him enough that it was safe to assume you enjoyed his presence more than others. And, that was saying a lot.

He bought you things, gave you your favorite foods. Made sure you were comfortable with the people around you, paid attention to you as to not make to feel neglected. So why was it that he still felt miles away from you?

And why did he care so much?

" 'Toru, where did you go?" A familiar voice broke him out of his train of thoughts, looking to his right, Gojo blinked at the sight of a concerned Suguru. Whose eyebrows are nearly knitted at the center, a light frown staining his sharp features like bad art.

"Just thinking," cerulean blue glimpsed down to the eclipse chart that hanged from the other male's strong neck, "Ne, Suguru. Do you care about them?"

Said man rubbed the back of his neck, an awkward look on his face as he nodded, "Yeah, you could say that, I guess."

(Side Note: Suguru did not feel awkward at the fact that he actually cares about you, but rather, he didn't expect Gojo to just abruptly ask emotionally charge questions --- Gojo is much like that one friend who just randomly asks if you love them at the most random of times. They require constant reassurance without making it seem like they are needy/clingy so they ask it in the most nonchalant of manners)

"Do you care about me too?"

"Of course." Not a moment's hesitation. No stutter nor stranger, it was clear and concise. Most of all, it was the truth.

At this, the silver-haired laid his head onto his friend's shoulder. A discreet smile sweetening his lips.

"Okay." "Okay?" "Okay."

Gojo looked at Suguru with squinted eyes, a pout on his lips, "Who were you texting?" "What?" "You were so focused, ignoring me for your phone. So, who were you texting?"

"Utahime." Gojo made a confused face, "What? What for?"

"Nothing important, to be honest. She was just telling me something she saw while on a mission."

"What'd she see?" Gojo quipped.

Suguru hummed, laying his own head on top of Gojo's, an indecipherable expression on his canvas, "Just a little something."

.

.

.

You stood under the rain, streaks of red running down your face as you viciously glared at the curse chained up in front of you. It whine and squirmed under the weight of your cursed chains.

Gashes covered your body, some clean-cut, others would be a mess to stitch back up. Although, as you made action to move over to the curse, you nearly screamed as a lightning strike of pain shot through your abdomen. Taking a moment to focus on your breaths, you gazed down to your torso, mouth twisting into a snarl at the bloody sight.

A hole, the size of your fist, right through your flesh. Must've happened while one of the major curses had you under it,

they did it again. They fucking did it again! It was supposed to be a bunch of Grade 2's.

Should've fucking known

Funnily enough (not funny at all, you're beyond pissed off now), what they meant was a bunch of Grade 1's. Even better, they failed to mention two of them was near-Special Grade

Without a moment longer, you sliced the hideous creatures into smithereens (you would've loved to punch into a pulp but the wounds on your body restrained you from doing so.)

Pulling out your phone, you thumbed the third contact.

"It's done."

"Complaints?"

You bit your tongue until you tasted iron, "None."

"Good. Did you reconsider?"

"No."

A deep static sigh echoed form the other end, "You're proving to be quite the nuisance, little one. Where's your sense of gratitude?"

"When you're not looking, I'm going to absolutely annihilate that little guitar of yours. Now, are we done?"

A brief pause, "For now." The line dies.

What a pain

Literally and figuratively

Although, it was nice. To feel something instead of overwhelming guilt. As you tightened your fist, the cursed chains that wrapped around your knuckles softly whined under the pressure. The soreness of your digits slowly brought you back into reality --- times like these, you missed that stupid onion. He'd talk your ear off, but he had this way of bringing you back to Earth. Suguru also had that skill, but his would lull you to sleep while Gojo gave you enough energy to move about your day.

They both had their benefits

Agh, you really are fucked --- wait...you're not alone

"Well, well. Didn't think I'd find you here." That voice...

You'd only need to glance over your shoulders to see the truth, you could recognize that soul from anywhere

"And, I didn't expect to see you again, Tsukumo."

...

(A/N): Hi hello so like forget whatever I said about the timeline being fucked up. I fixed it but good fucking luck cuz we about to go warp 9 soon enough.

Song Inspo: Borderline - Tame Impala

Huh? How the hell do you know Yuki Tsukumo? And why was she looking for you in the first place?

What did Utahime see that she contacted Suguru?

Why are the Higher-Ups trying to kill you? What exactly did you do to get on their bad side?

Originally:

"Then why don't they ever call me by name, ne?" Suguru was supposed to respond with, "Because you aren't open with them, Satoru." But held his tongue and went with, "I don't know."

"What? What for?" Suguru was supposed to say, "I was... verifying a rumor, nothing important." Yet, at the last second, he switched to, "She was just telling me something she saw while on a mission."

Why is Suguru so secretive all of a sudden? In fact, he's been quite reserved for a while now...

The first contact in your phone was suppose to be Kiyotaka Ijichi. (Did you think I forgot his existence? Well, you are correct.) But I changed it.

The first two contacts in your phone are Toru and Sugu, in that order. (I wonder if the order actually matters)

Ah, it wasn't Tsukumo you were supposed to meet. For the original character, I was torn between two individuals --- one you already unknowingly met and another you met but kept quiet about. Both are surprisingly relevant to one another, colleagues if you will.

Drop a comment!

Feel free to buy me a 🦩

Hope you enjoyed!

[blossom-works]

Scared to Lose You

"We live in a scary and uncertain world. I know you say that you won't know what to do with yourself if you ever lost me, but I cannot promise that I will outlive you. Instead, I promise that I will find a way to tell you that I love you every single day of my life. Up until I can no longer walk on this earth. I will make you feel loved when you walk out that door, and I will make you feel loved when you come back home."

When Leon got that call, his heart stopped. He felt the organ in his chest stop beating. His blood ran cold and his brain went blank. Leon wanted to drop to his knees and wail. He wanted to curse the world. He wanted to burn it down. Leon wanted nothing more than to go back to five hours ago and lock you in your shared home. He would beg you not to go on that mission and to stay home with him. Leave everything to your colleagues so you can be in the comforts of his arms, and he, yours.

Everything feels more real when Leon rushes inside the hospital. He does not even care to check in with the front desk. A couple of nurses have to stop him from barging through every door.

"My wife is here! Tell me where she is!"

The nurses are asking Leon to tell them who it is he is looking for, but all he can say is "My wife". Leon needs to see you. He needs to know that you are okay. You have to be okay. You just have to be. You became his reason for living. You taught him how to navigate the world without getting lost in its darkness. You become his reason to live. If he lost his sun, his light in the world, Leon would be consumed by the darkness of the world.

"Leon!" A banged-up woman comes running down the hallway. Dirt covers her face and she has a slight limp to her.

"Tina, where is she! Tell me she's okay!"

Your co-worker and best friend tell the hospital staff that she will handle this. Tina tells them who it is Leon is looking for and they tell him what floor you are on. Leon immediately sprints to the stairs. No time for the elevator. Tina runs behind the man, asking him to slow down but it falls on deaf ears. How can Leon slow down when his wife is on the brink of death? He needs to be by your side as fast as he can.

Leon sees the double doors to the to the surgery wing but Tina blocks off the door before he can bust through them.

"What are you doing Tina? I need to get to her!"

Tina shakes her head. "You need to calm down, Leon."

"Calm down? Calm down! My wife is about to die and you want me to calm down!"

More of your colleagues hold Leon back, but he fights. He is fighting because he needs to see you. He needs you and there is no way he is going to let anyone take you from him, not even death. Leon is your husband. It is his job to protect you and here you are, in surgery, fighting for your life! Your colleagues have to lock Leon in a room away from the other visitors for fear that he may hurt someone or himself. Given his training, it was hard to overwhelm the DSO agent.

"Enough of this, Leon! You can't go batshit crazy, right now!"

"And why not? My wife is fighting for her life and you expect me to just sit and wait!"

"Yes! There is nothing you can do Leon! Let the doctors do their job so they can save her life and you can bring her back home!"

No words leave Leon's mouth. Tina is witnessing a man at what is potentially his lowest. The room they shoved Leon in is a staff lounge room. Instead of sitting in one of the chairs, Leon paces the floor with his hands behind his head.

"What happened, Tina? What the fuck happened out there?"

"Are you going to sit?" Leon glares at your friend. Tina holds her hands up in defense. "Shit went wrong. It was supposed to be an in-and-out type of mission, but we didn't realize that they had rigged the building with explosives. During the raid, they triggered the bombs. She barely made it a couple of feet outside before the bombs went off."

Tina further explains that you collided with a nearby vehicle from the explosion. The blast resulted in a total of thirty-two casualties, thirty-three fatalities and counting. Before you were wheeled off into the surgery ward, the doctors said that you had multiple shrapnel wounds, broken ribs, and potential internal bleeding. Maybe even a collapsed lung.

As Leon hears all of this, he does not care about the dead cops, agents, or civilians. As horrible as that sounds, all Leon cares about is you. You were in that blast and Leon has no idea what your current condition is. When Tina told Leon about your injuries, he wanted to throw up. He wanted to rip someone's face off. Leon felt his skin starting to burn. The air felt suffocating. Leon feels like he is the one dying, not just you.

Oh, God...you are dying. Are you not? You are on a surgical bed being cut open because it is the only way to save your life. Is Leon really going to lose you? No. Please, God, no. Anything but you. Take him! Take his life! Not yours! Not you!

Seeing her best friend's husband about to enter a panic attack, Tina carefully brings him out of his mind. "Leon, she's going to be okay. We both know she's a strong one. She isn't going out like this." Tina keeps talking to Leon, trying to coax him out of his head. Your friend and colleague really hopes that her words are not empty promises. Tina has witnessed your and Leon's love story since the beginning. Your relationship went by fast, but the two of you love each other. You fought the world together, head-on. You fought for each other, not against one another.

Tina manages to shift Leon to the waiting area. She leaves the man to himself as she gets him a cup of water and a snack from the hospital cafeteria. She doubts he will have the appetite to eat something, but it will not hurt. You and Leon took care of Tina when she went through hell, so it is only right to return the favor. Looking at the time, Tina tells Leon that she has to go home to her family. Leon did not acknowledge her, but Tina knew he heard her. Patting his shoulder, she lets him know that she will have her phone on her.

For eleven grueling hours, Leon sat in that waiting area. He only left his seat when he had to use the bathroom or make a brief call. He sent a quick text to Claire, asking her to take care of Shiloh until further notice. Leon refuses to leave this hospital without the knowledge that you will live. When Claire and the rest heard about you, they rushed to the hospital. None of the doctors or nurses have told Leon about you or your condition. No one had answers and it is quickly killing your husband.

'I didn't feel loved this morning so you can't die. You didn't make good on your vow.' Leon lies to himself in desperation.

One person from your mutual friend group would drop food off for Leon. He would only eat a couple bites of the food though. Leon feels that if he eats more than six or seven bites, he may just throw up. He swears that his heart is about to burst out of his chest at any moment. Finally, when the clock reaches 8:34 a.m., a surgeon walks out the double doors.

"Kennedy?"

Leon immediately jumps from his seat and almost corners the medical expert. He demands to know your condition and where you are. If he has to wait any longer then he may just burst through those damn doors himself.

"Your wife is stable, but her condition is still critical. We're going to keep a close eye on her for the next seventy-two hours. We lost her twice during surgery." Oh, Leon wants to throw up so bad when he hears that you died not once, but two times. "She lost a lot of blood and she has bruising all over her body. Internal and external. Her ribs fractured when she collided with the car, but those are actually minor compared to the rest. Your wife had a total of fourteen shrapnel pieces lodged in her body, mainly her back. With your permission, we would like to run a CT scan to ensure that there is no more internal bleeding or organ damage."

Leon immediately nods and signs the stupid papers. Anything for you. Anything that will make sure you will be okay.

"You can see your wife in about ten minutes. I do have to warn you though, she won't look the same." The surgeon pats Leon's back and goes somewhere in the hospital.

The long hours Leon had to wait do not compare to the ten minutes he has to wait until he can see you. These ten minutes feel like ten days. When a nurse escorts Leon to your room, he wants to yell at her to pick up her pace. Why the hell is she walking so slow?

"She's in here."

Leon practically chokes on air when he sees you on that hospital bed. So many tubes are attached to you that are attached to more machines. He has no idea what any of this does, but if it is to keep you alive, fuck it. Attach all the damn tubes and machines to you. Hesitantly, Leon touches your hand. Contrary to your pale complexion, your body still has warmth to it. That piece of knowledge gives Leon some sort of comfort.

The doctor was right though. You look different, and it does not help that you are hooked up to so many machines. Leon stood there, by your bedside. Just holding your hand and caressing the hair on the top of your head, hoping that you get to come home.

Leon spent an entire week at the hospital. Since Claire was caring for Shiloh, she took the liberty to pack him a bag of clothes and toiletries. Everyone knew that Leon would not leave your side even if you asked him to. It takes you about four hours to wake up after your surgery. Your husband swears that his heart was about to burst when he saw your eyelids flutter.

"Hey, gorgeous," Leon whispers sweet nothings in your ears. He tells you how much he worried for you and how much he misses you. He tells you to never scare him like this again. His heart will not be able to handle such panic again.

Your body hurts and it feels stiff. Your throat is dry too. It takes you a couple of minutes to be able to talk, but when you do, your throat is hoarse. You want to sit up but your body is so exhausted after being blown up and rushed into surgery. Leon does everything for you. Need some water? He is lifting the cup to your lips. Are lights too bright? He will adjust the dimmers. Hungry? Let him check with the doctor first. Kiss? No argument here.

This kiss is desperate. Like Leon wants to make sure that you are alive and well. He wants to make sure that it is you he is kissing and not a corpse. So much love transfers from the kiss. Leon kisses you with his fiery heart that burns only for you. When the doctor deems you okay enough to run more scans, Leon is behind the glass watching you. If he could have it his way, he would be in the machine with you.

You suffered a concussion but with some pain relievers, you will be fine. your scans show no sign of internal bleeding or organ damage. Bruising, yes. Lots of bruising and even down to your bones. Your body also suffered small fractures, but nothing life-threatening. In conclusion, you are lucky to be alive.

When the nurse took out the tubes so you only had an IV drip and your heart monitor attached, you wanted to drown yourself in your work. The sons of bitches blew up local officers and federal agents and innocent lives. Lucky for you, your husband already has the information. The people responsible have been caught and will be tried on multiple, federal accounts. Leon tells you about the memorial being held for the people who died in the explosion.

You touch your husband's face. Your thumb traces the bags under his eyes and his hallowed cheeks. His stubble has also grown too. He looks tired.

"You should sleep." Leon shakes off your concern. "I'm okay."

You both know he is not, but a man will not talk if he does not want to. Even if the person who wants him to talk is his wife. When you are cleared to finally leave the hospital, Leon refuses to let you walk. He has your papers and his bag in one hand, and with his other, he carries you like a toddler. Later the same day, he picks up your prescriptions when you fall asleep on your shared bed.

At night though, Leon refuses to fall asleep. He is scared to close his eyes, only to open them and you are not there. He is scared that your being back home is an illusion his mind made up to cope with your death. Every ten or so minutes, Leon sits up so he can watch your chest rise and fall. He gently touches you so as to not wake you up. You catch onto this behavior after being home for three days.

"Leon, you really need to sleep. Your bags are getting heavier and you can barely stand up without wobbling."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because I need to make sure you're still alive."

Limping, you bring Leon to your shared bed and shove him to lie in the middle. You lay down next to him, maneuvering his arm to wrap around your waist. Your head is on his chest and your left hand is around his waist.

"I'm here Leon. I'm right here." You whisper this repeatedly until Leon's eyes get too heavy and he finally goes to sleep. Deep sleep. Not the "let me shut my eyes for a few minutes" sleep. And you stay there, lying next to him until he wakes up. You know that if he wakes up and you are not there, it will tear at Leon's heart. Making him believe that you were really a figment of his imagination and his wife of only nine months is dead.

It is your turn to watch your husband sleep. To know that he is okay. A part of marriage is caring for each other until you physically drop. Leon did his part, and now it is time you do yours. For the next couple of weeks, maybe even months, the two of you will take extra care of each other. You will make sure to love each other a little more than you usually do. To say it more often. Hugs are tighter and cuddles are longer.

Truly, if Leon loses you, the man might as well die then and there. A part of him would want to crawl into the casket with you and lie with you until he joins you in the afterlife. Nothing would save Leon from that hell, not even alcohol. A downside of being with you is that Leon is dependent on you. You are his reason to live. You are his light in the dark tunnel he often adventures in. You have your claws sunk into his heart, soul, and body. Everything that is Leon is yours. He is yours to claim and yours to love.

Please, do not make Leon fall into the pitless well. Please, stay with him until he takes his last breath. Cheat death. Run away from it. Fight it. Do whatever you have to do to stay alive because there is no world or universe out there where Leon can live without you.

[persphonesorchid]

Connotations Of Sin - JHS x Reader || Teaser ||

Summary: At your lowest, you’ve been living on the streets for the past couple of months. When you decide to leave your only safe haven and find yourself lost in a mysterious fog, an angel stretches out a hand of mercy. Little do you know, black taints his once alabaster wings.

Genre: Fallen Angel au | Angst, fluff, smut, horror ( V Lowkey, i swear)

Warnings: None for the teaser besides a little intimidation :) Full fic warnings will be on the official post ^^

Notes: I accidentally posted this last month LMAO (I cried) Thankfully I think only like one person saw it. Okay!! hi, hello, welcome! This is what i dropped off the grid to write hehe, it's a labor of love....or something. This bad boi here gets very dark, but, I will warn accordingly on the official post ^^. This fic is also in collaboration with the loml @hwaslayer !! Her new Seonghwa series takes place within this universe and I'm so so so happy to have been part of the project! (We've been slaving for months lmao) Please look out for the drop of her series (It lands in June) and be excited because she has so much planned! Tags are open for this fic if you'd like to be notified!

POSTED - HERE

You don’t understand him. In the short time you’ve known him, he’s like a square that’s trying to fit into a circle. The circle is too round to accommodate his sharp edges, but he somehow manages to get just half of the square through, even if the circle is struggling to contain it.

Not to mention the weird things that’s happened within the half hour you’ve been awake, things he’s yet to explain to you. Matter of fact, strange things has been happening since you left Abigail. The police officer, the fog, and whatever the hell was out there in it with you. You’re not even sure if that was real either.

You feel like if you focus on it, you’ll go crazy. So your mind does the only thing it can do to protect itself – pushes it away into a corner to mull over later along with everything else.

“I’d rather not.” You no longer feel the need to show him gratitude. You feel stupid, for one, why did you think trusting a random stranger would be a good thing?

Hoseok shrugs, dropping the half-eaten toast back onto the plate. He walks around you, close enough that the hairs on the back of your neck stands on end, that the warning bells are going crazy in your head again.

It’s uncomfortable being this close. The reaction is visceral, unable to ignore and you wonder why you hadn’t felt it the night before. Why you’d manage to follow him all the way here and not noticed. Maybe you had, briefly and in little moments that were small enough for you to brush them off.

You watch him watch you as he circles you like a vulture, “What are you?”

“Would you believe me if I said I was human?” He asks from behind you, and it feels like a terrible idea to have your back to him. He sounds amused, like this is nothing but a little game to him – just something to pass time while he’s bored.

As he rounds your right, your eyes meet the darkness of his. “You’re not.” It would be strange if you still thought he was after everything that’s happened already.

Hoseok hums, a twinkle lighting his eyes, “Perceptive, aren’t we?” There’s something like pride in his voice but you’re not sure what it’s for, “What do you think I am?”

“You expect me to guess correctly?” The difference in your height does nothing to stop you from glaring at him. He tilts his head at you, dark locks of his hair swaying against his forehead gently.

“No.” Hoseok smiles, “But it’ll make things interesting. I like games; play along.”

A shiver runs down your spine at his tone and the darkness in his eyes. He takes a step away from you and it feels like you can finally take a breath. His movements are fluid as he pulls the dining chair out from below the table. He sits gracefully, propping his chin in his palm as he watches you expectantly.

“Do you want a hint?” He asks, smiling sweetly.

“Why don’t you just tell me?” Your voice was barely above a whisper. You’re tired of whatever game he’s playing at, sick of the fear that keeps you standing still as he stares you down.

Tagging: @allhobbitstoisengard @dontstoptime @astormunchar @eren-fall @taestefully-in-luv @bangtansmauyeondan @xpeachesncream @blog-name-idk @madbutgloriouspond @eoieopda @mssukeyna @euphoricfilter