#every character is fueled by grief

[fractalkiss]

i truly do think that 1418 pacrim au could work but like. it's not about drift compatibility to me with them although that could work too, i just believe that fernando, master compartmentalizer with relationships, would not wife a guy who regularly goes inside his head (work wife is one thing..REAL WIFE is another)... it's about dealing with grief together.

fernando as washed up grumpy discharged jaeger pilot who lost his partner in a fight and has to deal with post-war horrors and the sudden calm after, with deceased partner's best friend, who is also grieving. his best friend is the sheltered 'test' pilot who fernando has seen around here and there in the shatterdome, but they don't talk like that. until they're both mourning. what if your dead drift partner's voice is still in your head while you get closer to his best friend and you HATE it, but you need to preserve it, you cant escape the loss. yaoi happens

[ohimsummer]

I love writing a goofball, sassy reader <3

[vxsellie]

⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚. GHOSTS OF SACRILEGE !

synopsis. fbi agent!ellie williams x nun!reader ; it's truly no shock that the entirety of west virginia is emerged by trepidation, considering hundreds of residents have gone missing within the past three months. as a form of consolation for those fearful, an esteemed fbi agent is sent to investigate. what she finds, however, is more than she could ever have expected.

notes. this piece is part of the mythologica challenge! i tried my absolute hardest to do the theme justice bc of how good it is. also pls note that every town mentioned is real & i did a decent amount of research on each one, but that doesn't at all mean that it's entirely accurate. i've been to some of the places, but not all also ! this is my first time ever writing detailed smut so i literally know none of the correct words to use or how to describe what's happening & it might turn out being literal dog shit,, if that's the case i apologize!

warnings. religious horror, an attempt at writing smut, angst, plot twists, horrible world building, major character death x2, possessive / obsessive romance, descriptive gore, blood, satanic rituals, human sacrifice, blood, oral (r! receiving), brief mentions of abuse & assault, murder as a metaphor, past animal death, long exposition i'm sorry, and - last but most important - the sweet release of desecrating salvation.

wc. 9.5k+

𝓝aught but unease filled the tiny town of bluefeild as yet another missing person is found to be reported in the newspaper. the sun begins to peer over the horizon, long shadows cast against the sidewalk that newsboys toss the papers from. they ride their bikes down the concrete with a fervor that should be rare. but it’s been rather common in bluefeild as of late. every since december. ever since the incidents first began.

nobody in town can be seen outside without a frantic expression and a fast pace. fear fuels their every step as they scurry outside to retrieve the news before burrowing back into the safety of their homes, hungry eyes skimming the article in search of who’s gone missing this time.

ellie hadn't expected much when traveling here. a small town of worrisome locals, a serial kidnapper hiding in plain sight. y'know, the usual for cases like these.

but something about this case stands out to her. there's a certain weight in her chest as each day passes without answers. in the beginning, she'd asked around town, hoping to find some common denominator among everyone's weariness. but there's nothing. the residents are closed off, thick boots and even thicker country drawls quick to kick the agent off their rotting porch at first glance. she's been here for a while now, not a single clue made evident. no loose ends, no muddy footprints, no witnesses. it's like these people just disappear into thin air.

ellie sits in her idled car, eyes scanning today's newspaper for slips of information. she can't help the way her interest piques, slowly going mad with lack of elucidation. she runs a hand through her hair, shoulders weighed with fatigue and dwindling hope.

see, over two-hundred people have gone missing in the past three months ⎯ which is a big deal in and of itself, but even more so considering bluefeild's population is well under five thousand.

her windows fog as rain patters gently against the steel of her vehicle, the whether cold and dreary in comparison to her car's heated temperature. she supposes it fits the mood, though, doesn't it?

after twenty minutes of analyzing each and every word given, ellie groans and stuffs the newspaper into her glove box, slamming it shut. evidently, the paper provided nothing of use to her. it has a picture of the man missing, his name inscribed under the image, and a few words of grief are quoted to have been said by the families. but that's it.

as of this morning, jason casey has been added to the long list of missing persons. and not a soul could say why nor how.

ellie pulls her phone from her coat pocket, clicking on her bosses contact before wedging it between her ear and shoulder. she listens to it ring as she puts her car into gear, pulling out of the parking space she'd been occupying. it's not like anyone here would dare to use their cars anyhow. most shops and businesses have been temporarily closed, owners fearing the possibility of suffering the same fate as those prior.

"ellie?" joel's voice comes through the tiny speakers, papers rustling in the background of the call as he speaks. "what're you callin' me for? i thought you were on the bluefeild case."

"there's nothin' to go off of." she tells him. one hand is rested on the wheel whilst the other holds her phone.

"you're our best investigator, williams, i'm sure you'll find somethin'." he says offhandedly, continuing to shuffle through whatever papers are of more interest to him than his alleged best employee.

she rolls her eyes at his dismissive tone. "hundreds are missing, joel. without a trace or a sign left behind. they're likely dead, if i were to guess. i don't— what the hell good does that do?"

"find the bodies." he says easily. "their corpses might point to their killer."

"no shit." ellie scoffs. "the issue isn't what to do next, it's how the fuck i'm supposed to do it. this has been goin' on for months and no bodies have turned up. where am i even supposed to look? like i said, there ain't a damn thing left behind."

she coasts down the streets of bluefeild, using this time to feel the layout of it and examine what she's working with. she's been here for a while now, but the town remains a mystery to her. and, from what she's seen, it's a bit of a mystery to everyone else as well.

she notices that many of the homes are old and shabby, paint flaking and wood rotting. in the yards, however, almost every resident has some form of a religious symbol. a cross, a statue of mary, a flag for something biblical. anything to show their faith.

to each their own, i guess. she thinks to herself with a shrug before turning her attention elsewhere.

the streets are empty, as expected. a few street lights are on, the yellow illumination flicking with worn age. even on the two-lane roads, there's not a car in sight. she narrows her eyes at this, a shiver tracing up her spine at the disturbing vastness.

"well," joel says, "search the papers some more."

"i've done that a thousand fuckin' times." ellie groans, eyes still scanning her surroundings with intent of committing it all to memory. just in case. "there's nothin' there. it's just all information on the missing people, half-assed sympathy for the victim's family, and a picture of 'em."

joel sighs, the sound of tapping resonating through the phone. ellie recognizes the sound, having worked for joel long enough to know that he always taps a pencil against his desk when he's thinking. it's a good sign, she thinks. it means he's at least giving her predicament some thought.

she's been in bluefeild for eight days now, spending her time interrogating random residents for informations; spending her nights rereading the stupid fucking newspapers. naught good has been of ramification.

the repetition of it all is driving her insane, especially considering none of her efforts have yet to pay off in any sort of way. she'd hoped that when the next person showed up missing, something would present itself. a clue would rear its ugly head at her and she'd grab it by the throat with fervor. but no. jason casey went missing and all heads remain hidden. so, after an hour of battling with her pride, she decided to make the call to joel and admit her being stuck.

"okay." he says, shuffling a bit as he finally gives ellie his full attention. "okay, pull over for a second, i'm gonna need you to do somethin' for me."

she instantly obliges, pulling off to the nearest backroad. gravel crunches under her tires as she drives along the thin path wedged between two decrepit buildings. the alley is small and a bit sketchy, but that's exactly what she needs. ellie puts her car in park, windows translucent in their heavily fogged blanket.

"how many newspapers do you have on you?" joel asks when he hears her car go into idle.

"um," she reaches over and opens her glove box, watching as yellowed papers fall from the newly opened door. they flutter to the floor and atop the passenger's seat. she hums, amused at the sight of her obsession making a tangible image in her head. "a lot."

"okay, good. perfect." joel mutters, the clacking of a keyboard sounding through the tiny speaker. "the first person who went missing was carl andrews. he was thirty-seven. his wife claims he was supposed to have been walking home from work but never showed up for dinner."

ellie scrambles through her messy stack of newspapers, searching for carl's report. she finally finds it, the paper dated to have been written near the beginning of december. she straightens out the wrinkles, examining his picture.

"looks like your average middle age man." ellie mutters, taking in his scruffy beard and wrinkled skin. "he was a carpenter. had two kids, both boys."

"yes, i have the paper pulled up on my computer." joel says. "but it doesn't show his address or nothin'. this shitty website only has half of the damn document."

ellie skims through the words, searching for the street or neighborhood he'd lived in. when she turns up empty-handed she groans, now well familiar with the feeling of disappointment regarding this case. "nope. no home address." she says with an evidently annoyed tone.

"what about his workplace?" joel asks. "if he'd been walkin' home, his work must be close enough for him to do so."

"oh shit," she mutters. she'd studied his article for hours — studied all of them — and she hadn't even thought to look there. her hands clutch the paper as she searches with a hungered gaze. her eyes widen at the address listed on the paper. "yes it's on fifth street."

more typing is heard through the phone, "says here that,, there's a neighborhood right by there. a few blocks down from the carpenters' building. must've been where he lived."

"perfect." ellie grins, adrenaline rushing through her.

oh, she feels on top of the world right now.

"okay, now i want you to look for addresses in all the other papers." joel says, flipping a switch in his tone — off to being ellie's friend and on to being her boss. a familiar change, but an unpleasant one nonetheless. "check 'n see if there's a link between where they'd been last spotted."

"okay."

ellie sets carl's paper aside and grabs another random one. she reads the heading briefly, recognizing it to be the article on bryan turner who'd gone missing in the middle of january. he'd allegedly been walking his dog and never returned to his apartment, according to his elderly female neighbor.

the address is actually listed this time. not his exact apartment number, but the building. ellie can't help the smile that tugs at her mouth again as she grabs a random notepad and scribbles both addresses onto the paper, reminding herself to compare their proximity when she gets back to her hotel later tonight.

"you're a goddan genius, joel." ellie mutters as she sets bryan's paper atop carl's and grabs another. sam cortez. late december.

"thanks, kid." joel chuckles into the phone. ellie has it set aside, call set to speaker as she flips through papers and continues to write down addresses into her notes. her movements are frantic and hurried, adrenaline refusing to wind down from its newly heightened state. joel speaks again, regaining her attention. "uh, sorry t' tell you this but i've gotta go. it's almost midnight and i've been at the building since ten o'clock this mornin'."

"yeah yeah, whatever." ellie replies off-handedly. "thanks for your help, old man. i think i can take it from here now, though. go get your beauty rest."

"promise to call me in the mornin'?" he asks. "i wanna hear what y' find."

"yes, i promise." she laughs. "i'll call you as soon as i wake up."

"okay good. don't overwork yourself either, you need to⎯"

"goodbye, joel!" she says, grabbing her phone and hanging up on him before she has to listen to him reprimand her for lack of rest. he's one to talk, too, seeing as he'd just admitted to having been at the building all damn day.

she sighs, deciding to put a pin in her address search and get back to her hotel to finish working in the comfort of a bed.

she sets her papers into two neat piles in the passenger's seat ⎯ one for those she'd already gone through and one for those she hasn't yet gotten to. then, she puts her key into the ignition and pulls out of the little road.

as she drives down the street, she examines her surroundings once again. still as impoverished as before.

she passes a small farm house, eyes drawn to the old lady sitting on the porch. she's rocking back and forth rather ominously, making direct eye contact with ellie through the windshield. slowly, the woman nods her head toward where a large cross is staked into the soil of her front yard. ellie looks away, a sudden uneasiness washing over her as she presses harder on the gas.

she reaches her hotel a few minutes later, stuffing her papers under each arm before entering the building and heading toward the elevator. by the time she reaches her room, she practically rips her heavy leather jacket off, the yellow 'fbi' label bright and bold against the black material as she tosses it onto her bed. she sits cross-legged in the center of her room, laying out all the newspapers in front of her.

she continues to sort through them all, eyebrows furrowing as she comes to realize that all the victims are men.

she hurriedly flips through the documents, certain she must he wrong. but she's not. they're all male. ellie writes this down on her notepad, handwriting rushed and nigh unintelligible. despite the sloppiness, she circles it, sure it'll prove to be of importance later on.

by the time ellie finishes going through what feels like hundreds of papers, she decides that's enough for her to be able to find a pattern if there is one. the digital clock atop the nightstand reads 2am, flashing bright red numbers at her. she ignores it, too high off the thrill of finally finding something in this priorly monotonous case.

she pulls her laptop from her bag and flips it open atop her crossed legs, quick to pull up a map and type in the coordinates of each address. they appear random at first, completely fucking unrelated to one another. a pang of dread hits ellie in the chest, worried this will have all been for naught.

but then she zooms out.

each dot for each address glows blue. when zoomed out, it forms something. ellie squints, tilting her head at the incoherent image she struggles to make out. seeing as many of the papers weren't analyzed, the picture is only half-complete.

but then it clicks. a pentacle. and at the very center of the shape, a church.

ellie's mind goes back to the old woman on the porch. the way she'd nodded to her cross. the way almost every family in bluefeild is outwardly religious. she can't believe she hadn't seen it sooner.

this isn't just some case where she can stare at newspapers and hope something pops up. it's an intricately weaved web of murders.

her chest heaves as her eyes dart across the screen, unable to believe it. she finds herself tapping her men against the floor, drumming it just as joel does. she curses herself, tossing the pen across the room as her mind reels. it lands in front of the door, ballpoint pointed toward the exit. ellie takes this as a sign from the universe. despite not having ever been a religious person, she can't help the pang of hope in her chest.

deciding to indulge the pen's sign, ellie writes the church's address into her notepad, shuts her laptop, pulls her jacket back on, then heads for the door. she steps over the pen on her way out.

𝓢he stares up at the church, checking to make sure she's absolutely certain she's in the right place. when she's proven to be correct, she stuffs her notepad into her pocket and walks toward the building.

ellie doubts anybody is inside due to the time, but she wants to search the place regardless.

the church is old, creaky wooden exterior painted in uneven shades of white. the roof is brown and dilapidated with wear. atop it, a large cross is seen standing tall, its tip pointed up at the starry sky. ellie wades through the overgrown grass, her breath coming out in white clouds. it's fucking freezing out here.

when she reaches the building, ellie cups her hands around her eyes before peeking through the windows. the glass is dusty and cracked in some places. she can't seem to see through it, transparency made opaque from lack of maintenance.

she leans back and wipes a hand across the dust, forming a wide arc to peer through. inside, the church looks brand new. wooden pews line the space, a long aisle between each formed column. the floor is white tile, cleaned to be spotless. she tilts her head, struggling to look toward the pulpit. it appears to be⎯

"what're you doing?"

ellie jumps, her head slamming against the top of the window frame. she ignores the ache and whips around to face the owner of the voice. a nun.

you stand behind her with a raised brow, your entire body covered by black and white robes. ellie blinks, something about you making her stomach lurch. she's instantly put on edge, shameless in the way she examines your features.

your brow is knit in distaste for the trespassing girl. your eyes are sharp and steady as you pin your gaze onto hers. your hands are clasped behind your back, formal and almost robotic. or at least, that's how ellie sees you.

ellie reaches under her jacket and pulls out her badge. "fbi."

"there's no fbi in bluefeild." you point out, voice steady and melodic. ellie's lips part at the sound but she shows no other form of sway. you eye her badge, ellie williams. noted to be a top agent in her line of work. your eyes narrow. "where exactly are you from?"

"richmond." she responds, eyes never leaving yours as she places her badge back into the interior pocket in her leather jacket.

you tilt your head, inquiring. "virginia?"

"yes." she confirms.

you hum, noting the four hour drive she's sure to have taken in order to get here. you looks out across the grass, seeing her car still running as it's parked on the side of the road, yellow headlights acting as a beacon against the dark night.

"it's late, miss williams." you tell her, turning back to her to find that ellie's eyes have yet to leave your face.

she analyzes each expression you make, contorting every detail to memory ⎯ from the way your eyes flick across her features to the way your shoulders shift slightly after having been standing in one position for so long. she memorizes you, allowing your very being to sink into her mind. for the case, of course. you're a suspect, after all. she needs to learn you and feel you out in order to get a proper read on whether you're innocent in all this. that's why she stares at you. that's why her pupils are blown and her lips are parted again. totally.

"do you want to come inside?" you offer, raising a brow at her strange, yet obvious sense of interest in you. "it's freezing out here and i happen to have just brewed some tea."

her eyes dart to the shabby church behind her. judging by the exterior of the building, imagining the place having ac and working electricity is shocking. but judging by what she'd seen of the inside, she's tempted to take you up on your offer. for the case.

"only if y' agree to answer some questions of mine." she says, deciding to set the terms and conditions early on.

your eyes narrow, "what type of questions?"

"the type i need in order to solve the case i'm workin' on." she replies, reminding herself of the large amount of missing men and boys who've disappeared in these past three months.

"mm," you hum.

you look her up and down, taking in the sight of her. it's rare to see any form of law enforcement out here. you'd lived in bluefeild all your life and never seen a cop or fbi agent outside of the television. her leather coat hangs heavy from her set shoulders. her chin is held high despite the way goosebumps trail across her skin due to the chill of the air. she's wearing baggy black pants and heavy combat boots. interesting.

"sure." you shrug. "i've nothing to hide."

"we'll see 'bout that."

her eyes rake over to where he car remains running. she leaves it, using it as a sign to you that she plans to make this quick. you understand the gesture and heed it with care, nodding as you shift around her and walk toward the entrance of the church. the large wooden doors are already unlocked as you push them open.

ellie draws her eyes across the foyer, noting the long hallway. to the left is a doorway leading to the sanctuary and chancel that she'd seen through the windows. to the right is a large door with a shiny golden handle, locked. the hall is lined with more doors, some locked whilst others are free to peer into.

you move about the space as though you'd lived here all your life. ellie supposes that might be true, actually.

you sweep down the hall before turning one of the corners down a branched passageway. ellie follows behind you, the hall illuminated by only a dim yellow light. on either side of the hall, more and more doors branch out to the side. ellie pays no mind to the building's layout anymore. instead, she finds herself more interesting in watching your habit billow behind you, your shoes clicking with each step against the tile.

eventually, you're both now in a kitchen area. ellie hasn't a clue when you'd gotten here, far too distracted by you to care much for the journey you'd taken her on.

the floor is tiled to mirror the sanctuary, counters made of marble. you flick a switch and the lights flutter on, a low hum sounding from the ceiling as the kitchen is illuminated by a yellow glow. on the counter, two cups of tea sit premade. you grab them, one in each hand.

with an amused expression, you pass one to ellie. she takes it, eyes the glass in her hand for a long moment. in the end, she decides against trusting it.

"uh," she clears her throat as she places the mug on the counter behind her, turning to you with an uneasy weariness. "you knew you'd have a guest?"

"hm?" you hum, tilting your head at her with an innocent curiosity.

"y' made two glasses." ellie points out. you continue to look at her, feigning confusion that urges her to continue her explanation. "it's just— well, i haven't seen anyone else here besides you."

"i hadn't priorly known of your arrival, if that's what you're suggesting." you inform her before taking a long sip from your mug, peering at her over the rim with an alluring twinkle to your eye. you lower it, keeping the glass poised between your hands as you lick your lips and continue. "i simply knew i wouldn't be drinking alone."

"what's that supposed to mean?" ellie inquires, those fbi instincts of hers lacing through her tone. her eyes glint with piqued interest, watching you with a steady sharpness. it weighs on your chest, heavy but enthralling.

"what i mean is," you place your mug on the counter with a light clink. "in this church, you're never alone. not really."

she raises a brow, back straightening. "someone else is here?"

"something." you correct, a smirk tugging at your lips. "a deity, spirit, ghost, demon. take your pick, miss williams. it hasn't a title just yet."

ellie has surely formed her doubts about whether or not you're mentally insane. she can't help but indulges you nonetheless. if she intends on puzzling out the mystery of the missing people, she can't outwardly state that you're crazy. so instead, she says, "are these,, things good? or are they evil?"

"mm," you shift, taking another long sip of tea. you ponder on her question while drinking, your mind deciding on exactly how much you wish to tell this governmental investigator. once your mind is made up, you place you mug back down and flash her an amused smile. "its morality varies. as i said, it doesn't much like the feel of being confined by the barbed wire of titles. plus, there's more than one. and none are a repeat of the other, each separated by individuality."

ellie bites back a scoff, trying her hardest not to just grab you by the shoulders and shake you senseless. she wants direct answers, not riddles. she hasn't the time to figure out what you're trying to get at.

"how many?" she asks. "like. are there lots of them or are they few and far between?"

your brow knits as you take a step closer. at your growing proximity, her breath hitches. you are more than just a nun, you're the embodiment of her obsession. all the care and time she'd poured into this case; you personify it.

you're a religious figure in and of yourself. something worthy of worship and praise. if you were to seen by the world as ellie sees you, historians would be studying you for eons to come. paintings and playwrights would be made in your honor, temples and statues forged in hopes that you'd bat the sculptor even a moment of your attention.

but, alas, that's not how the world works. instead, you're made to be a random nun who lives holed away in a ragged church in the middle of nowhere. perhaps the universe had been wise to hide you from the world, for fear of what your divinity would cause. a repeat of troy, no doubt. wars fought for your hand. lives lost for the pulpy beating heart caged behind your ribs.

"as many as i'd like." you tell her, face now mere inches away from her own.

your body is covered entirely by your habit, black fabrics hanging from your shoulders and arms as to keep your entire being shielded from sight. your hair is cast back and under your veil.

despite the coverage, ellie's enamor is unmoved. it's not your body or your hair that she's drawn to. it's the slope of your nose, the plush of your lips, the curve of your cheek, the arc of your brow, the color of your eyes. it's everything that makes you stand out like a brightly shining star in comparison to the dull darkness that is this church.

and stars like you ought to be admired.

"as many as—" she squeezes her eyes shut, knowing her only chance at regaining control of her head is to not face you. her mind is muddled by thoughts of you. she can't think straight. when she reopens her eyes, she could've sworn you've moved closer. "what're you sayin'? i don't—"

"don't understand?" you finish for her, tone pitched in regalement. your head tilts to the side, your noses brushing. "few people do."

"just tell me what y' mean." she utters, voice a whispered breath across your face in the form of a plea. "tell me without the riddles. tell me without trying to evade the truth. tell me with honesty. if you're straight forward with me, i'm sure i'll understand."

you sigh through your nose, leaning away from her. she follows you like a fish on a hook. you take a step back and she takes one forward. noticing, you hold a hand up to halt her movements and she instantly ceases, blinking at you with parted lips.

your head is downcast, palm against her chest. "you'd hate me."

"hate you?" she questions.

despite only just having met you, ellie is quite certain she'd never come to hate you. your very being is as much a wonder to her as life itself. you're a celestial beauty she cannot bear to tear her eyes from. hate is foreign when you're the context in which it's spoken.

"yes." you confirm, expression contorting into one of feigned guilt. and, had ellie not been in such blind awe of you, she'd have likely seen through your facade of deception. "i've made mistakes; plenty. i could never expect you to hear me speak of them and look past their malice."

"but i would." she whispers, taking a step nearer. she places a hand on your wrist, lowering your palm that had priorly been raised between the two of you. she looks down at where she touches you, albeit through the cloth of your gown. "i'd look past it. i'd see you as i do now regardless of what you'd done."

you shake your head, "you cannot mean that."

"i do." she brings your hand to her mouth, pressing her lips against the hills of your knuckles. she looks up at you through her lashes, her mouth remaining close to your skin as she whispers, "i do mean it."

you feel guilt settle deep within your chest, burrowing between your ribs and in the very tissue of your heart. an immoral darkness encompasses the organ ellie so desperately desires to obtain.

you'd lured people into your entrapment many times before. but something about ellie makes you feel bad for doing what you know you need to.

but it's too late now.

she's your last victim. the final sacrifice needed in order to finish what you'd started back in december. after taking her life, all will be well. all will be well. all will be well. well, well, well, well. you repeat this over and over in your mind as ellie kneels before you. she looks up at you as though you're an alter made for this. for worship.

your breath catches in your throat as you watch her sink to the tiled flooring, hands brought up to rest at your hips. her fingers fist the fabric of your habit as she speaks once more, "allow me to prove how much i mean it?"

your head is swimming, unsure on what to do. logically, you know you should stop this before it gets too far. you've already lured her in close enough to do what's needed. but, for some reason, there's a thick knot forming in your chest. as it grows, you come to realize it's not a knot at all. it's a fist. it's ellie's fist.

her eyes bore into your own, her hands remain gripping your hips. somehow, though, you feel as though they're managing to trace their way through you. they line your bones and caress your tendons before inevitably finding their way to your heart. she holds it in the palm of her figurative hands as her physical ones begin to hike up your habit, slowly pulling the cloak up from the floor.

still, despite the discernible desire in her eyes, she does nothing but wait for your response of consent.

it's inexorable, the way you give in. the slight nod of your head had been predestined from the moment you spotted her at that window; and it will continue to prove relevant until your respective faits are sealed.

to ellie, it felt as though you'd taken hours to reply despite it only having been a minute or less. but the moment you nod, she's moving eagerly. she's grabbing your hips and hoisting you up onto the counter whilst simultaneously struggling to pull up the skirts of your clothes. she's trying to do so many things at once that it's dizzying. for both parties.

you aid her, shifting atop the marble as you pull the habit up to reveal what lies beneath it.

ellie feels the world fall from beneath her knelt locale as she stares. a pair of black lace panties adorn you, the upper half of your body remaining covered by the bunched cloth of your habit. the time she takes to memorize you feels agonizing as you sit there, itching to feel her body on yours.

once she's confident that the image has been successfully engraved into her mind, she leans forward. your legs are already parted when her mouth makes contact with your clothed vulva. the wetness that soaks the material soon made into a mixture of your arousal and ellie's opened mouth.

her tongue traces light circles into your clit, a soft sigh escaping your lips as your grip on your habit begins to loosen. you toss your head back in pleasure, the sound of ellie's slurping and licking mixing with the mechanical hum of the lights.

"ohmygod," she says against you, the vibrations of her voice making your breath pick up its pace. "you're so fucking perfect."

one of your hands comes down to tangle in the auburn of her hair, tufts weaving between your shaky fingers. you tug on it, pulling a grunt form the back of ellie's throat as her scalp stings. despite her noise of pain, this only manages to make ellie more vehement in her actions.

she grabs the hem of your panties with her teeth, yanking them to the side. her eyes are shut as she licks a long strip through your wet muscle. you can’t help the way you stare down at her, watching as she puts her absolute all into making you feel good. and, as it turns out, she’s quite skilled at doing so.

ellie's mind is fogged over, mimicking the way her car's windows had been earlier. she supposes there’s no true difference there, however. the interior of her car had been warm in comparison to the cool outside air. swap the temperatures and there’s naught that varies. the warmth that you provide makes ellie feel cold in contrast, which ends in a fogged mind.

the taste of you is enough to make her lose whatever sanity remains intact. all that adrenaline that had flowed through her earlier is being poured into you.

after all, stars should be worshipped right? they should be admired from below, gawked up at. they should be mapped and studied by only the wisest of mankind. they should be doted on with a possessive sense of adoration, one only fit for something so celestial and untouchable as a star.

and that's what you are. to ellie, at least. you're a brightly shining nebula — a feathery cloud of vibrancy, visible only in the darkest of nights. only in the coldest of weathers. only in most decrepit of churches. only here, only now.

only when fate is carved in this exact way. had one thing been altered, none of this would have taken place. it was providence that brought you together. you weren't written in the stars or tethered your entire lives. in fact, the chance of your paths crossing was rather low. but, honestly, that only makes your acquaintance more deeply rooted in kismet. makes it more special.

"fuck," you pant, chest heaving as you squeeze your eyes shut. your head thuds against the cabinet as you tighten your grip on ellie's hair. she groans, fingers pressing deeply into the skin of your hips, hard enough to leave a bruise. your thighs tighten around her head, a coil of heat sitting heavily in the pit of your stomach. "ellie, i'm—"

she tilts her head up slightly, nose pressing into the bead of your clit. she watches through lidded eyes as you come undone onto her face.

she savors it, committing every little detail to memory. a habit this has become, watching you. your brows knit, your legs shake slightly, you breath hitches. and ellie retains all to it.

she made you see stars. made you look into a mirror and see yourself.

that feeling of blissful release is what she feels every time she's fortunate enough to gaze upon you. and now you've experienced it. and she cannot feel more accomplished than she does right now.

"this," you pant, tugging on her hair to bring her face up to your own. she does as you direct her, standing from the floor to press your foreheads together. "was a terrible idea."

"yeah?" she breathes out. "and why's that?"

you run your hands up and down her back, fingertips tracing the stitching of her leather jacket. you can feel the outlined letters of her 'fbi' label. that familiar twinge of guilt encircles you.

she's a good person — a woman who's to spend the rest of her life helping random people she doesn't know. and yet, here she is. made unfortunate enough to have succeeded in her endeavor.

she stares at you like you're a god, something heavenly. something seraphic. something worthy of her.

"i'm not a good person." you whisper, leaning away from her proximity. predictably, she follows, leaning closer with a desperation only fit for one in love.

the guilt of what you must do is eating you alive. it claws at your chest, snapping your ribs like twigs as it wedges between them to burrow deep within you. it's agonizing yet completely unavoidable.

and in a sickeningly poetic outturn, a random butcher knife is sat neatly atop the marble counter only a foot away from where you sit. just as ellie meets your eyes, the blade happens to catch the light and reflect yellow luminescence. a grotesque reminder of what you're unable to run from.

"nobody is innately good. and, as a nun, y' should know that better than anyone." ellie huffs out a laugh, eyes not daring to stray from you. "in other words, i don't care."

"but you should." you insist, voice teetering on the edge of plea.

"and yet, i don't." ellie counters, just as passionate in her solemnity. you suck in a breath, eyes glossing over. she looks at you with a fondness that feels foreign. she cups your cheeks between her palms, repeating, "i don't."

"i've done horrible things." you say.

"you're a nun." she points out with a light chuckle rumbling her chest. "how horrible could these things have been?"

part of you wants to open up to her, tell her everything that's been weighing on you for these past three months. but each time you get close to a confession, something inanimately symbolic taunts you. whether that be the butcher knife, the hum of electricity, the gun holster at her hip, the residual lust in your chest, or the bright yellow lettering on her jacket.

that gun is meant for you just as that butcher knife is meant for ellie. she'd been wise to bring a weapon, a clear sign that she'd intended on finding someone culpable enough to suspect. and you'd been wise to set the blade atop the counter on the off chance that you'd meet your final victim tonight.

you feel sick to your stomach.

"oh shit," ellie curses as she takes notice to the way you're visibly crumbling in front of her. "i— uh, i didn't mean to be, like, insensitive or anythin'. i'll still listen to you. and i promise to not hate you. promise to never hate you."

"ellie, stop." you sigh. "you can't promise something like that. you don't even know what i—"

"then tell me." she insists, your face still in her cupped hands. you look at her through blurred vision, naught but sincerity behind her pale green irises. "if y' tell me what it is that y' did, we can both carry the burden."

you're instantly shaking your head.

"you don't have to do this alone." ellie says. "plus, isn't a weight split a lighter load than one full?"

as you stare into her eyes, you can't stop yourself from what comes next. you're unable to keep your mouth shut when she's looking at you like that. you decide to tell her, opening your ribs and bearing your heart as though she hadn't already taken it from you. you truly feel more bare in this moment than you did when she'd literally been eating you out.

ellie put her entire trust into you when letting down her guard and abandoning the case she'd obsessed over for weeks. she dropped it like it were nothing, focusing entirely on you in its stead. the least you could do is be honest, right? plus, she's not leaving here anyway. you'd locked the door the moment you two entered the kitchen when she'd been too distracted by your beauty to notice. the trap is already set and she's sitting inside of it without a care. all you need to do now is pull the strings.

but first comes honesty.

for ellie, you'd peel off your clothes. you'd peel off your skin. you'd peel off your flesh. then, when you're naught but bones, you'd give yourself to her. you'd give your entire being to her. not because you think you're worthy of her possession, but because this is all you have. the only thing you're able to offer her as a symbol of your devotion, it's yourself.

though, while you're unable to strip yourself clean off your bones, you feel as though rendering yourself vulnerable and fragile is the next best thing you can offer. for her, you are willing to do the priorly unthinkable.

"you're here in search of the missing men, are you not?" you ask, beginning with baby steps. "in search of who's behind their absences?"

ellie straightens, "i am."

"well." you gesture down at yourself. at your crooked veil that shows stray hairs peeking from underneath; at your hiked up habit, just barely falling to cover your underwear; at your knees that rest on either side of ellie's waist; at your vulnerable state that you're offering up to her. at your bones. "you've found me."

ellie's heart stutters in her chest. not because of what you'd revealed to her, but because you trusted her enough to do so. she no longer cares an ounce for the missing people of bluefeild. all she wants is you. she may be a fool to be this way, but she's in far too deep to mind.

she gives you a weak smile, "i don't care."

"what?" you croak. you stare at her incredulously. there's no way she doesn't care. there's no fucking way. "yes you do."

"i don't."

you blink, looking her up and down. there must be something you're missing — her reaching for her gun, her taking a step backward, her eyes darting toward the knife. but she does none of that. she simply remains stood between your legs, keeps her hands on you, and stares directly into your eyes as you confess your gravest of sins.

"but—" you shake your head, stammering. "but i killed all those people. they're dead. all of them. over two hundred men are buried behind the church."

"i don't care." she repeats, noticing the way your voice raises with trepidation. she traces her hands down your arms, stopping only when they reach your own. she tangles your fingers together, feeling the way your body relaxes slightly to the feel of her touch.

"i killed them because i was paid to." you tell her, your mind reeling as you're unable to grasp her lack of care. you talk in a frantic quickness, rushing to get the truth out for fear that ellie will change her mind in the time it takes for you to speak. "their wives, neighbors, daughters. they— they'd come to me in the confession booths and tell me of the men's abuse o-or assault or misdeeds. and i'd kill them for them. i don't—"

ellie's face remains soft. "you did a good thing, then."

"you can't be serious." you huff, eyes watering with the sheer confusion building within you. "i don't understand how you can still look at me like that. i took their lives. these people, i— they had dreams, they had aspirations and goals and families and—"

"listen," ellie whispers, her hands squeezing yours. "they were horrible people that hurt women. they were abusers and rapists and i don't care what y' did to them or how. all i care about is whether or not y' feel better."

"what?" you ask, voice nigh a breath. "what do you mean feel better?"

"to have gotten that off your chest." she digresses.

you take a deep breath, grounding yourself. the adrenaline of the confession slowly dwindles and you're no longer spiraling. you stare at ellie, centering on her face as the world comes back into focus.

you count your senses one by one. the smell of tea, the sound of humming lights, the feel of a hard counter beneath you, the taste of a bitter truth, the sight of ellie's fond expression. your breathing levels out, slowly but surely. and ellie stares at you the entire time. memorizing you.

"yeah." you whisper. "yeah, i do."

"then that's all that matters."

a supernova; to watch a star combust and explode, a colossally significant occurrence that only the most fortunate are able to witness. ellie considers herself to be substantially fortunate. not only because of what she'd just seen, but because of who it was that did it.

to her, this is even better than a natural supernova. rather than watching a random gassy ball of light die, its you. someone she adores and treasures. and you didn't die. instead, you opens yourself willingly to her. you broke down your walls and bore yourself to her. for ellie, that is far more important than some star's death.

"but—" you say, bringing her attention back to your face. your brows are knitted, clearly struggling to get the words out. she watches you with an easy patience, pupils blown as she submits this to her memory alongside all other files in her brain saved under your name. "but there's more."

"let's hear it." she replies, raising a brow.

you suck in a deep breath, lowering your head as to not face ellie before speaking. "i didn't just start killing whatever men that these women were asking of me. it started smaller. i killed animals, put them in a circle of salt, drew and pentagram, the whole ordeal."

"you sacrificed them?" she asks, tone remaining laced with gentility.

"yes." you nod. "i felt my baptism wasn't enough. god never answered me anyway, he never aided me when i needed it most. he watched my suffering and did nothing. so, i resorted to a new deity of worship." you lift your gaze to meet ellie's. "satanism."

"i'm sorry, i don't—" she blinks a few times, confused. "i don't understand."

"as a child, i relied on god to do everything. my life was nothing without him in it to keep me going. but as i grew, i realized it was unrequited. he cared nothing for me, watching with regale as i sobbed and begged for his help." you explain. "so, as a teenager, i switched over to satanism — worship of someone who actually cared enough to save me."

ellie says nothing, staying silent as you confide in her. she continues to hold your hands, softly cradling them on either side of where you sit.

"but then he wished for payment." you continue. "sacrificial lives as a form of repent for all those years i'd spent as a baptist. i obliged, of course. i killed bunnies and deer, doing research to understand how exactly to offer the stolen lives to him. but as of late, he's wanted more."

"humans." ellie guesses.

"yeah." you confirm. "but i couldn't bring myself to kill random innocent people. so i became a nun and listened in on the confession booths. then, i'd ask the confessors if they wished for me to intervene. they'd concur, paying me to take the lives of their abusers." you recall the fear in the women's voices, the shakiness to their hands as they slipped money through the cracks of the door. "they never saw my face, only heard my voice. and, seeing as i live in the church, none of the recognized me. i soon became a symbol of hope for women and one of fear for men."

ellie's mind strays back to all the religious symbols staked in the yards. "that explains their heavy faith. they think you're some type of prophet."

"yeah, but there's more." you say. "i've researched many, many books to make sure i get this ritual right. and, as it turns out, my 250th victim has to be a martyr. someone who doesn't believe in anything. doing this seals the ritual, ending it."

"good luck finding someone here who meets that criteria." she chuckles.

"exactly." you say carefully. "everyone in bluefield is heavily religious. unless that someone has come from out of town."

"me."

"i wish it wasn't." you rush to explain. "i wish there was some other way i could do this. but it has to be today. i need to do it before another woman comes in asking for my help or the numbers will get thrown off. and if i decline her, i'll lose the faith of all the women in bluefeild."

"okay," ellie shrugs. "do it."

"...what?"

"i don't care." ellie says, the sentence becoming something of a catchphrase for her.

the world stops. again. it screeches to a halt and you almost slam forward at the speed of which it crashed down. you stare at ellie with wide eyes, made shocked by her for a second time. someone so hauntingly perfect cannot truly offer herself up to you like this. she can't seriously be holding out her hand, asking for death to take it.

but what you don't know is that ellie would deem it a gift to die by your hand. it'd be better than dying as a withered elder attached to a beeping machine, or as an agent amid a case who only got to see you in her dreams.

but, this way, she'd be with you always. her love for you would be immortalized; she would be tied down to the very threads that make up the the fabrications of your soul. oh a gift that would be.

"do it." she repeats.

"what?, i don't—" she silences you by leaning forward, pressing her lips against yours.

ellie had kissed you out of impulse, knowing no other way to silence that thundering uncertainty that rumbles your brain. but the moment she does it, she's positive she'll never be able to pull away.

your lips are a cathedral of which she cannot help but melt into, your body a temple she's knelt before and wouldn't hesitate to do again. she kisses you with devout piety, her body molding into yours with each touch that lingers on your skin. somehow, this measly kiss is far more intimate than all else before it.

a silent tear slips from your closed eye as you subtly reach your hand over to where you know the butcher knife lies in wait. ellie surely feels your movement, there's no way she doesn't. but she makes no move to stop kissing you, her lips moving with a vehement neediness.

you loathe the way your fingers find the hilt of the knife. even more so, you despise the way you wrap your hand around it and bring it toward ellie.

she knows. she knows what you're about to do.

and she allows it.

love isn't easy for ellie, never had been. but with you, everything falls into place as though it'd been predestined to do so her entire life. as she feels your body shift toward the knife, nothing runs through her mind aside from your name. on repeat, the singular word replays over and over. she wraps your name around her skull, weaving the letters between her thoughts and molding the syllables against her brain. she was born to love you. and so long as she was able to do so, she'd be okay.

just as the tip of the blade brushes her jacket, you pull away from the kiss and stare at her. the knife remains at her back, resting against leather but not daring to press any harder. ellie's pupils are blown, her lips wet from your own saliva.

"i can't." you utter. "i can't do this to you."

she sighs, "i already told you it's fine, angel. just— as long as i have you near me, i'm content with my decision."

"no." you shake your head. "no i know. it's—" knowing ellie wouldn't understand your explanation, you decide to show her what you mean. with your free hand, you place your palm against her gun holster. "whatever you go through, i want to be there with you."

her eyes widen at your words. she jolts away from you, appearing as though she'd been burned. she sets her jaw, turning her hip away from your reach. "no."

"ellie, please." you implore, tone beseeching. "i can't live on knowing i'd done this to you."

"it's unavoidable." she reminds you. "y' made a deal with the fuckin' devil, or, well— i'm honestly not too sure on the details, but— y' can't not follow through. i understand, okay? finish the damn ritual and live your life."

"i don't want to." you plead with her. "not without you."

she shakes her head, eyes glossing over. despite the evident distaste, her refusal is weak. she stands only a foot away from you, seeming as though she's physically incapable of moving any farther.

"ellie," you say, whispering her name like a prayer. she can't help but look up at you through watery eyes. "ellie, please."

"i don't want you to die." she says, voice nigh a whimper.

"we'll be together, ellie," you tell her, hopping down from the counter to approach her. the blade remains in your hand, long forgotten to the both of you as the sight of the other is far more appealing. "if we do this, we can be together for all of eternity. they'll find our fossils in a million years, bones entwined. they won't even know who's who."

she chokes out a laugh that sounds more like a sob. "god, how stupid would that be?"

you laugh with her, "so stupid."

you're both crying now, tears streaming down your faces as you stare at one another. slowly, ellie pulls the gun from her holster. she's unsure on how this will go down, but she's willing to try. for you.

to be loved is a horrific thing, you've found. it's to be swallowed whole by something so disgustingly beautiful that you're incapable of turning away.

ellie takes a step closer, the distance between the two of you closing. her left hand holds the gun, her right hand coming up to wrap an arm behind your neck. she pulls your toward her, pressing another kiss to your mouth.

your tears mingle, forming a salty sea on your touching cheeks. you sob against her, chest heaving as you pull her closer with one hand, the other holding the knife. she tastes of sacrilege, salvation, and sacrifice. the ghosts that will haunt this decrepit church until the end of time. together.

whatever string that pulled the two of you toward each other will be knotted, tying two lost souls in search of the other.

"ellie," you whisper between wet kisses, lifting the knife to rest at the nape of her neck, "it's time."

she lets out a sob, a convulsive gasp tearing from her throat. "okay,"

you count down, the two of you agreeing to do it at the same time. you'll drive the blade into her neck whilst she pulls the trigger. your bodies will fall in unison, clinging to one another.

when you reach one, you sink the blade into her with a sickening squelsh. she chokes, dropping the pistol to the floor. it lands with a loud clank moments before her body falls with a thud. your eyes widen, heart ceasing. blood pools onto the white tiles and only one thought runs through your mind: she didn't pull the trigger.

she didn't pull the trigger.

she

didn't

pull

the

trigger.

she didn't pull the trigger. she didn't pull the trigger. she didn't pull the trigger. she didn't pull the trigger. she didn't pull the trigger. she didn't pull the trigger. she didn't pull the trigger. she didn't pull the trigger. she didn't pull the trigger. she didn't pull the trigger. she didn't pull the trigger. she didn't pull the trigger. she didn't pull the trigger. she didn't—

you fall to your knees beside her, hands coming to cradle her bloodied face. you pull her head into your lap, rocking back and forth as crimson soaks into the black fabric of your habit. you clutch her tightly against you, pressing hard on her slit neck, willing the blood to go back inside.

death doesn't take her hand. instead, he grabs her by the shoulders and shakes her for the untimely demise she'd agreed to. the heart she'd taken from you rattles. the death rattle. you choke out a sob at the sound, everything aching.

you lean forward, pressing a kiss to her cold, dead lips. she doesn't kiss you back. you pull away, panting hard as your chest heaves and your eyes burn.

then, in the corner of your eye, you see the metal of ellie's pistol. you crawl across the kitchen toward the weapon, realizing she hadn't even cocked it. god, how had you been so stupid? you do it for her, loading the bullets into the chamber.

with the gun now in your possession, you crawl back over to ellie.

you position yourself atop her, entwining your legs and placing your head on her chest. it doesn't rise nor fall, no beating heard from beneath her ribs. you sob, placing the gun's barrel to the soft part of your chin.

then, without another thought, you pull the trigger. you pull it because ellie was unable. because ellie couldn't bear to do it for you. a part of you resents her for this, but another part can't feel anything for her aside from utmost love.

and there lie two bodies. lifeless.

ellie found what she'd been searching for all her life: something worthy of her devotion. something she can pour her all into. that had been why she became an fbi agent in the first place — in search something to worship whole heartedly. simultaneously, you'd found what you'd been searching for as well: peace.

in the end, however, it had all been for naught.

the ritual didn't work.

it needed someone faithless, someone who didn't care for religion, for god. but that wasn't ellie. not anymore, at least. because, after having met you, she'd finally found something worth her revere.

you were her religion.

⊹ ࣪ ˖𐙚 perm. taglist. @luvsturniolo @ilovewomenfr @zzombiegirl @elliessweetheart @kasqnxx @xlovla

⊹ ࣪ ˖𐙚 additional note. i want this to be said here because i know this piece is super fucking heavy. ellie and the reader's relationship is so fucking toxic. anyone who reads this, i hope you realize how absolutely horrific their love story truly is. there's a shit ton of symbolism weaved within this story that i didn't outwardly state (though most of it i blatantly explained). if u have any questions regarding this piece, i'd love to talk about it bc i put a lot of time into making it.

but, again, their relationship is TOXICCCCCCCCCC!!!!!! it's not meant to be idolized or romanticized in any way. if you didn't notice, i barely used the word 'love' and never made either of them say 'i love you'. that was for a reason!!!! because what they share isn't love. it's unhealthy obsession & i need that to be outwardly said before i post this

[mayapapaya33]

I had sort of hoped Keyleth would have matured and grown past her anger at the Matron over the past 33 years but I suppose it's in character that she hasn't fully dealt with her grief yet. And the Vorb probably isn't helping her issues either. It just sucks because I think a lot of the fandom take Vox Machina's grief fueled blame and fully accept it as fact when the reality is that Vax's situation is almost entirely his own responsibility. The only other person with any remote culpability is Percy. And even Percy is only really to blame for accidentally Killing Vex, not for Vax's choices. But even if you want to hold Percy accountable for Vax's choice in the tomb as well, that still doesn't make him responsible for Vax's death. Vax could have lived a long full life as the Matron's Champion, as shown by the Delightful Purvan Suul and his companion Galdric.

Vax was a borderline suicidal, self-sacrificing character from day one. He always threw himself into danger headfirst regardless of the cost to himself. Between Percy accidentally setting off the trap creating the circumstances for Vax trading himself to the matron during Vex's resurrection, all the way up to Vax CHOSING to come back as a revenant after being disintegrated in order to help defeat Vecna, the choices have always been his. Especially him, fate touched as he is. Ultimately, Vecna killed Vax and Vax killed Vax. I think it's easier to blame the Matron than to be angry with Vax for being who he was.

The Matron maintains the balance of life and death. She accepted Vax's offers both times, do you think she should have refused? The first refusal would have meant Vex's death, and the second refusal would have meant Vax possibly just staying dead after being disintegrated, and not being there to fight against Vecna, which was truly an all hands on deck situation. There was no time to fuck around with a resurrection ritual that might not even work, the whole world was in danger. One life, a life that was already lost, is a small price to pay to save the world. I'm pretty sure Vax would agree with me!

Frankly, Vox Machina were super lucky and privileged to have so many successful resurrections between them. I think they got a little spoilt and entitled about it honestly. Most people have never even met someone who's been resurrected before, they did it like 20 times! Vax was disintegrated, he chose to come back as a revenant to fight Vecna, protect the world, and help his family. An opportunity he was only given due to his allegiance to the Matron. She gave Vox Machina and Vax extra time together and a chance to help save the world.

For those of you shouting "what about true resurrection!?! I hear you, and Matt said it's complicated and didn't elaborate lol. Personally, I think the Matron has quite the special a barrier of entry to true resurrection, if the spell even works at all in Exandria. I think they touched on it briefly in Calamity but I've forgotten. I can only imagine what insane ritual Matt concocted years ago that he's had plenty of time to work on since. Part of the Matron's whole thing is that everyone must eventually go into death, sure they can avoid it for a while, so some resurrection is fine (the DC gets higher every time), but eventually enough is enough and it's time to go. Hence why necromancers and liches are her enemies.

At any rate, I'm really proud of Keyleth for going to therapy and I hope she goes back when all of this moon business is over because she still needs it and that turtle lady in the frog seemed great lol.

[arjudy224]

Visiting an old friend

Ghosts from her past chased her away from Gotham. Now, that she's back at home some things are trying to bubble to the surface.

Prequel: Death of a family

The Intern: Day one

The Intern: The Laughing Fish

The Intern: Busy Work

The Intern: Outreach Gala

The Intern: Visiting an old friend

The Intern: Chemical Valley

The Intern: Billionaire Boys Club

After the 36th topographic map of the day, my eyes begin to glaze over. Why do we still have physical maps from the 1800s? I swear if Gordan accidentally dropped a cigarette all of GCPD would burst into flames.

Interrupting my theory, a group of voices calls me over to Gordan's desk. The colorful group of characters causes me to raise an eyebrow. Whatever it is, it must be serious if the batfamily is involved.

"You knew that missing Wayne boy, didn't you?"

I nod at Gotham's gang of vigilantes. Nightwing winks at me. I flash him a smile.

"Which one? From what I've heard, Mr. Wayne adopts a new orphan every other day." I remark in a smug tone of voice. Nightwing lets out a light laugh.

"Jason."

The years of learning to cope with this grief disappear. All of a sudden, I am 15 again wondering if the boy I liked would talk to me at school. I should have known he would come up eventually. My smile drops.

"Briefly... We went to school together." I elaborate carefully weighing out the correct reply.

"How would you describe the word "brief," Ms. L/N?" Detective Montoya asks sliding a few photos in my direction.

The photo on top was the last Christmas before he went "missing".

We had spent the entire day working on a book report when Alfred announced that he was making x-mas cookies. Stumbling to our feet, Jay's older brother, Dick, waited impatiently with a bag of flower. The two brothers had bickered over their gingerbread house stability until I lightly threw a tuff of flower at Dick. Before I knew it, Jason held my arms to my sides while Dick emptied a bag of flower on my head. Alfred had captured the photo as I put Jason in a headlock. All three of us beamed at the camera. My hair smelled like flower for weeks afterword, but it was worth it.

The next photo was my birthday. Jason and I had taken a road trip to Metropolis to see my family. The camera caught the blush on my cheeks as he kissed my forehead. The candles were still lit.

The piles of photos make me dizzy. Fall break. Our first winter. Mixed in the photos are handwritten notes.

Got a surprise for you this evening. Wear something nice ;)

-J

Meet me at the top of Wayne Tower

-J

A wave of emotions floods my senses. I lost all of that in the move to Metropolis. Staring directly at the reclaimed memorabilia, I frown. Maybe it was stolen all along.

"Why do you ask Detective?" I ask analyzing the box.

"An anonymous source sent these a few days ago."

"Does this look familiar?" He questions dangling a rusted Robin pendant. A dried splotch of blood covered the typical silver exterior.

I stop breathing. That's not possible... It was in the casket. Taking the necklace in my hands, I gently pry the mechanisms open to reveal a familiar engraving: Next time you fly away, Don't forget about me at home. I love you, Robin.

"Where did you get that?" I whisper breathlessly.

The blood slowly drains from my face. The room starts moving. Years of pent of sorrow slam against the dam of my mind.

"Uhhh.. I told you it was..."

"No." I snap suddenly addressing the whole group, "Leave me out of this. Do not make me relive his death."

Turning on my heel, Nightwing stops me from leaving.

"I'm sorry Y/N. I know this must be painful for you, but...."

"But what?" I demand, "That is not my life anymore."

Batman finally speaks up.

"Because someone left these on your desk"

The room goes silent. What?

I frown.

"Who?"

"We don't know yet. We wanted you to be aware. The past always finds a way back to us."

Batman's compassionate gaze fuels my rage. I don't want his empathy.

Finding a crowbar was the easy part. It was tracking down the Clown Prince of Crime that proved to be the challenge. Nightwing was already ten steps ahead due to his bat training. By the time I had stumbled into his operation, it was far too late for either one of us to back out.

The Joker's pale skin contrasts the blood dripping from his forehead beautifully. With each slam of the crowbar, I imagine I'm avenging him. What does Batman always say? Justice. Well, this is justice. The blood splatter clouds my vision, but I can't shake the feeling that I'm feeding into whatever plan he has. The wheezing laughter after every bludgeon causes goosebumps to form across my skin.

"Nightwing, you want to be a part of this?" I call out extending the bloody crowbar.

There is no response. I pause. Where the hell is he?

After one last kick, I search the hallways for the chatty superhero.

Right. Left. Right. Left. The winding hallways are a maze.

"Y/N!" Nightwing chokes out when I walk in.

Sprinting to the man, I examine his restraints. These are precise. Whoever did this must have been incredibly skilled... There is a sharp crack against my skull. Shooting pain erupts from the spot. I black out before I can register what happened.

Batman had found both of us bound and beaten a few days later. The Joker left us alive as a joke. The brand on my forearm tingles from the memory. Joker always thought it was funny to leave me alive with the physical reminder branded on my skin that I had ... failed.

Is this some kind of sick joke?

Glancing at the clock, I relish the end of my shift.

"Keep me updated on any developments." I say, "I've got something I need to do."

"And what's that?" Nightwing calls out.

Grabbing my purse, I pause before replying.

"Visit an old friend."

The full moon illuminates my path, but I could find my way even in complete darkness. It used to be second nature. Follow the main road. Sneak past the main gate that we used to climb over. Avoid the cameras. No need for Bruce to get paranoid. The lonely gravestone stares blankly at me. After all these years, the tears still come.

“Hey Jay,” I say with a pained smile, “It’s been a while.”

The familiar suffocation knocks me off my feet. I sit cross-legged at the base of the grave. The years of weathering have chipped away at the integrity of the stone, yet it stands tall. Vines have grown around the other graves in the area. Something tells me that a certain Butler may be why his grave is intact. A cluster of fallen leaves blanket his plot of land.

“I hate to say it Jay, but you look like shit,” I murmur dusting a few fallen leaves away from the plot. "I leave you for two years and all of a sudden you let yourself go. What would Alfred think?”

Running my fingers through the thick patches of grass, I ramble about the last couple years.

"I owe you 20 bucks." I start, "Nygma is terrible at poker."

The Iceberg Lounge hosts a variety of sins, but Eddie Nygma lost most of his blackmail money during a particularly bad game. For such an intelligent man, one would think he would be able to tame his boasts for the sake of the game. He couldn't.

A shadowy figure snaps a twig behind me. Turning my head, a familiar butler greets me with a smile.

“Ms. L/N, Welcome home.”

Alfred stands tall at my side. The last couple of years have deepened the already present lines on his face. However, his smile lines show proof of his last few years of joy.

“Hey Alfie, did you miss me?” I question climbing to my feet.

“Of course,” he responds,” I had nobody left to eat my cookies.”

I laugh at that before hugging the older gentleman. Dick could eat a platter of baked goods within seconds, but I appreciate the thought.

"Right," I begin, "Because you wouldn't be able to find anybody to eat your cookies...."

"None as entertaining as you Ms. L/N."

I beam up at the man. Always so charming.

"I'll take it as a compliment."

The older man wraps his jacket around himself tight. A frigid breeze shakes the trees.

“Why don’t you stop by for some tea? It’s chilly out here alone.”

I smile wistfully glancing back to the manor.

“I’d love to…. Another time. I’ve got a crazy load at work right now."

"Well Ms. L/N, you are always welcome. You know that."

I frown rolling a piece of grass in between my fingers.

"Besides," Alfred continues, "I get awfully lonely without my inside reporter of the Gotham social scene. "

Rolling my eyes, my smile reappears.

"You are such a gossip." I retort with a playful slap.

"Every day, I deal with costumed vigilantes who want to fight corruption in this city. I deserve to have a moment of petty gossip. Especially with one of my favorite girls."

__________________________________________________________

On a nearby roof, a shadow peers through the darkness. Maybe it was cruel of Jason to lead a trail back to his death. Nothing about the situation they were in seemed fair. But... Jason saw the way Dick looked at her when she first got back to Gotham. The word cruel doesn't explain how horrific it was to come back and find that everybody you loved replaced you. After years of working to make a name for himself, none of it mattered. Even in death, he didn't matter.

Tag list:

@nosyrobin, @jjsmeowthie,@soltik, luna-zendra-star,

[saturnniidae]

HTTYD 2 is ten years old today, it was my first exposure to the franchise and despite its many glaring flaws i can't help but love it and hold it so close to my heart.

This scene is a great example of why.

I love it so much. It's a heart-wrenchingly beautiful reminder that as good as he is, Hiccup is not some perfect hero. He is still just a person, a flawed human being who has cracked under the pressure of his circumstances and is barely given time to grieve his fathers' death.

(I adore scenes like this — It humanizes characters so much more, and just adds to that layer of perceived realism.)

And you can see the regret on his face as soon as he says it. But in that moment he doesn't do anything about it; he's still processing Stoick's death, and he only snaps out of it when he sees Toothless is under the Bewilderbeast's control again and Valka has to hold him back from attempting to go after him.

What he said and did to Toothless there was a momentary lapse in judgment fueled by grief. And later, as he breaks Toothless out of the Alpha's control, you can see he feels terrible about it. About how, even if it was brief, he pushed away his best friend. And he loves Toothless so much.

The way he talks to him literally breaks me every time I rewatch it.

"It wasn't your fault, you'd never hurt him, you'd never hurt me."

"Please, you... are my best friend, bud. My best friend."

And when Toothless comes back he just looks so elated to see Hiccup.

Though, Something that's even crazier to me is the fact all this takes place over less than a week. Once he gets toothless back and Drago is defeated, he is immediately made chief. And with the state berk is in, he is given presumably no time to properly mourn Stoick, or to fully adjust to the presence of his mother.

(though I feel his and Valka's relationship will never be what it could've been. He knows she chose not to come back, and that is a blow to their newly formed and fragile bond that, as much as they love each other, is not something she can ever fully make up for.)

But at least through everything, since the beginning, the one real constant he's had has been Toothless.

They're friendship was built off a mutual feeling of out-of-placeness, then unconditional trust and unwavering loyalty.

they love each other so much it makes me wanna throw up

[mononijikayu]

don’t take that name away (the one only you know) — gojo satoru.

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— gojo satoru thinks that you’ll be with him in every lifetime, every dream, every love story, every heartbreak; it belongs to both of you. only you. he remembers it all and you don’t. but he wishes you do. 

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GENRE: alternate universe - reincarnation

WARNING/S: romance, domesticity, fluff, family, break up, comfort/no comfort, angst, trauma, implied death, hurt/comfort, character death, depiction of death, depictions of loss and depression, depiction of graphic content,depiction of emotional breakdown, depiction of anxiety, mention of death, mention of grief;

masterlist

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𓊈𒆜𝑴 𝑬 𝑴 𝑶 𝑹 𝑰 𝑬 𝑺 𝑹 𝑬 𝑴 𝑬 𝑴 𝑩 𝑬 𝑹 𝑬 𝑫𒆜𓊉

𝒘𝒆 𝒄𝒂𝒏’𝒕 𝒃𝒆 𝒇𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒔 (𝒘𝒂𝒊𝒕 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆)

— 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒕𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒆𝒙 𝒊𝒏 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒍 𝒎𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔.

as you sit by his bedside, holding his hand, you recall the moments of joy and pain you shared. despite the breakup and the passage of time, you find yourself fulfilling a role that goes beyond what remains between ex-spouses, offering comfort and care during his final moments.

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𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕’𝒔 𝒂𝒍𝒍

— 𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒌𝒔 𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒅𝒊𝒆 𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕; 𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒂𝒏’𝒕 𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒊𝒏.

convinced that life without you is unimaginable, he contemplates mortality with a heavy heart. his belief that he should go first stems from a deep-seated fear of facing life without you again. he doesn't want to face another year knowing its lived without you.

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𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒓𝒕𝒚 𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒆

— 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒓𝒕𝒚 𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒆 𝒄𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒍𝒆𝒔. 𝒕𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒔 𝒑𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒃𝒆𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒊𝒔𝒉𝒆𝒔 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈.

each candle flickers in the dimly lit room, casting shadows that dance across his face as he counts aloud. memories flood his mind with each passing candle, from innocent childhood days to shared dreams and heartaches. tears fall freely as he nears the end of his count, overwhelmed by the weight of never reaching forty.

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𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒂𝒓𝒌

— 𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒂𝒇𝒂𝒓, 𝒐𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒕𝒐 𝒘𝒂𝒕𝒄𝒉 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒍𝒊𝒑 𝒂𝒘𝒂𝒚.

from afar, he silently watched your life. he couldn't take anymore heartbreak. so he loved you in the dark. he wanted to keep a distance yet, all he can do is long for you. watching you from the shadows, his heart swelled with unspoken love and admiration. and yet, why do you always leave?

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𝒔𝒍𝒐𝒘 𝒅𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒊𝒏𝒈

— 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒚 𝒉𝒊𝒎 𝒃𝒆𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓.

amidst chaos and uncertainty, you find solace in each other's arms, swaying gently to music only you can hear. in a moment of profound intimacy, you express a desire to marry him, a testament to your unwavering love and hope for a future together. even if it was the end of the world, you'd slow dance with him.

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𝒖𝒔 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒆

— 𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒌𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒇𝒐𝒍𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒅 𝒉𝒊𝒎 𝒕𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖.

with a map in hand, he traces the lines that lead to places you once shared, hoping to find a way back to you. following the intricate paths etched on paper, he embarks on a journey fueled by determination and love, navigating obstacles in search of reconciliation. he hopes that this map finally leads him to you.

[deliciousangelfestival]

Nothing Has Changed - 4

Summary: Returning home for peace, you're faced with your tormentor, Bucky Barnes, who is now involved in your family's business.

Character: Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Words Count: 1,740

Warning: Angst, Tragedy.

Nothing Has Changed - Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist || support: Ko-fi

Thank you to anyone who gave a like, reblog, and left a comment. It motivated me to write more. 

“It fucking sucks,” you muttered, frustration dripping from every word.

Tom, your dad, reached out a hand, his smile a fragile thing, but a smile nonetheless. "At least I've got my kid by my side," he said, his voice raspy.

You saw the tremor in his hand, the glisten of unshed tears behind his eyes. He was trying to be vital for you.

You stared at him, a kaleidoscope of emotions swirling behind your eyes. Here he was, facing his own mortality, yet a ghost of a smile played on his lips.

Acceptance. A horrifying, unwanted acceptance that twisted your insides. You wouldn't accept it. Not this. Not yet.

Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drum solo threatening to burst through your chest.

The air felt thin, stolen from your lungs with each labored breath. You shot up from your chair, the movement jerky, fueled by a potent mix of terror and defiance.

Tom noticed the panic in your eyes.

“Don’t fall apart. Don’t fall apart,” you kept repeating to yourself, the words a desperate mantra as you tried to hold yourself together.

Your hands trembled, and tears threatened to spill from your eyes, but you blinked them away, refusing to let them fall.

After hearing the diagnosis, it felt like your world was collapsing. You were on the brink of shattering into pieces, teetering on the edge of insanity.

Everything would never be the same again.

You couldn’t stay in the room any longer. You ran to the backyard, your steps frantic and unsteady. Once outside, you screamed as loud as you could, “Aaargh!”

The scream tore from your throat, raw and primal, as if expelling the anguish that threatened to consume you. It felt like if you didn’t scream, you might have a heart attack.

You collapse to your knees; the grass is cool and damp beneath you, your breath coming in ragged gasps.

Tears finally streamed down your face, and you didn’t bother to wipe them away. Your body shook with sobs, each one wracking your frame with the weight of your grief and fear.

After letting out your stress and tears, you realized that the core of your anxiety was fear. But what exactly were you afraid of?

The first problem was straightforward. You knew you hadn't engaged in insider trading. You had provided proof. If they still insisted you were the culprit, you had a final, desperate card to play: blackmail. You had a little black book filled with records of suspicious transactions at Drysdale company.

Returning to your hometown was another source of stress. Meeting your tormentors again was daunting, but you hadn't done anything wrong. You were the victim, not the perpetrator.

Then there was your father. No one could have predicted his illness. It was the cancer's fault, an enemy that medicine and chemotherapy could potentially defeat.

You’d come so far. All the hardships you’d faced over the years seemed to have prepared you for this moment. Life sucked, but you had to keep fighting. Survival was the only option.

You looked up and saw the moon. The night was clear, not like the city; here, you could see the moon perfectly.

You clenched your fist, lifting your right arm and extending your middle finger to the sky. "I will win this fight," you declared with defiance.

The cool night air filled your lungs, and you felt a surge of determination. It was as if the universe had thrown everything it could at you, but you were still standing.

You turned back towards the house, feeling a new sense of resolve. This was your life; no matter how hard it got, you were ready to face it head-on.

When Tom saw you walking back into the house, he looked up with concern etched across his face. "Are you alright?" he asked softly, his voice trembling slightly.

You nodded, your eyes meeting his. "I am," you replied, your voice steadier now. "I’ll stay here beside you, Dad."

Tom’s eyes filled with tears; it's been a long time since he heard you call him 'Dad.' He reached out a shaky hand towards you. "Thank you," he whispered, his voice breaking. "Thank you, thank you."

You walked over and took his hand in yours, feeling the frailty of his grip. You gave it a reassuring squeeze. "I should have been here more," you admitted, guilt washing over you. "I'm sorry for being so distant."

Tom shook his head, his tears spilling over. "No, sweetheart, I’m the one who should be sorry," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I pushed you away, and I’ve regretted it every single day."

You sat down beside him, still holding his hand. "Let's not dwell on the past," you said, your voice firm but gentle. "We have now, and that's what matters. We'll get through this together."

Tom nodded, a weak smile breaking through his tears. "Together," he echoed. He pulled you into a hug, and for the first time in a long time, you felt a sense of peace.

As you held each other, the weight of the past seemed to lift, replaced by a new sense of hope and unity. The moon outside shone brightly, casting a soft light into the room, symbolizing a fresh start for both of you.

🚗

For the past couple of days, you’ve been staying with your dad, taking care of him, and accompanying him to the hospital. You listened intently to the doctor's explanation about his condition.

The cancer Tom has is dangerous, but it's still treatable, provided he keeps up with the chemotherapy and medication. The truth is Tom doesn’t want to go through the grueling process of chemo, but having his daughter by his side gives him the strength to endure it. Because of you, he’s willing to fight.

When you drove back home, you noticed another car in the driveway. It was Bucky's.

Tom, while taking off his seat-belt, nervously told you, "Bucky is... ehm... he's helping with the funeral for tomorrow."

You, not caring at all, replied, "I don't care."

Tom looked relieved. He had thought Bucky would become a thorn in the conversation again. "I'll go inside and help him," he said, opening the car door and heading into the funeral home.

You said nothing and grabbed your phone, which had been buzzing for a while. You picked it up from near the car radio.

When the screen showed the name of your lawyer, 'Maya,' you felt a surge of relief. "Hello? What's the result?"

"You're right. They couldn't prove it," Maya said.

You clenched your fist in silent celebration. You had won.

"But," Maya added.

You felt a bad feeling in your gut. "What's the bad news?"

"It's from your office. They fired you," Maya revealed.

You tapped the steering wheel with your fingers, anger bubbling inside you. You had expected this. That damn Drysdale. You knew they would throw you away at the first chance.

You gripped the steering wheel tightly, feeling the heat of your anger rising. "Those bastards," you muttered under your breath. "After everything, they still screwed me over."

Maya sighed on the other end. "I'm really sorry, but I thought you should know as soon as possible."

"Thanks, Maya," you said, trying to keep your voice steady. "I appreciate everything you've done."

Hanging up the phone, you sat in the car momentarily, seething.

You had lost your job, your reputation was in tatters, and now you were back in a town filled with painful memories dealing with your father's illness. The universe was conspiring against you, but you refused to break. You wouldn't give them the satisfaction.

As you sat in the car, grappling with the news of your firing, you suddenly noticed Bucky exiting from the funeral home and heading to his car. Something snapped inside you, a surge of rage and frustration boiling over.

You didn't know why, but in that moment, it felt like the devil had taken control of your body.

Your foot slammed on the gas pedal, and the car lurched forward, speeding straight towards Bucky.

Bucky heard the roar of the engine and instinctively looked up, locking eyes with you. In that moment, your gaze held an intensity that could rival the sun itself.

You wanted to hit him, to unleash all the pent-up frustration and anger that had been simmering inside you for years.

Bucky's heart skipped a beat as he realized what was about to happen. He stood frozen in place, his mind racing with a thousand thoughts in the split second before impact.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl as the distance between the two of you closed rapidly. Bucky closed his eyes, bracing himself for the inevitable collision, a rush of adrenaline flooding his veins.

But at the last possible moment, you swerved the car to the side, narrowly avoiding Bucky and his car. The screech of tires filled the air as you skidded to a stop just inches away from him.

Bucky's eyes snapped open, his heart pounding in his chest as he stared at you, wide-eyed and breathless. The air crackled with tension, the unspoken words hanging heavy between you like a dense fog.

For a moment, neither of you moved, the silence stretching taut between you like a drawn bowstring. Then, with a shaky exhale, Bucky took a step back, his gaze never leaving yours.

You flung open the car door with a forceful slam, the sound echoing in the tense atmosphere.

Bucky leaned against his car trunk, his gaze fixed on you with a mixture of apprehension and resignation.

"You scared? Clueless? Wonder why I want to hit you?" you seethed, your voice dripping with anger.

Bucky swallowed hard, his throat dry with unease.

"That's how I felt when you and your group bullied me," you continued, your words laced with venom. "I want you to remember that feeling."

As you stormed away, leaving Bucky standing alone by his car, he felt a heavy weight settle in his chest. His arms crossed tightly over his chest, an unconscious attempt to shield himself from the pain of the truth you had just delivered.

"I deserved that," he murmured to himself, his voice barely above a whisper, but each word heavy with regret.

Despite the gravity of the situation, a tiny flicker of admiration sparked within him. "But, damn," he murmured to himself, "that was so cool."

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Author Note: Hey friends,

If you've been enjoying the content, I've set up a Ko-fi account.

Your support through tips would mean the world and help me keep creating.

Only if you feel like it!

Here's the link: Ko-fi

Thanks a bunch for being fabulous followers!

[sockatoothewafflebird]

i keep scrolling through the arcane tag and at least 40% of it is about caitlyn kiramman's warmongering dictator arc. apologies to my followers for being so obsessed with her but i have to add more fuel to the fire that is caitlyn character analyses. please hear me because only one of my caitlyn posts gets attention i want it to be this one.

i personally see caitlyn's character in season 2 as:

a painfully realistic portrayal of how quickly the privileged can go off their rockers at the lower class when they do literally anything wrong. "It's so easy to hate them."

a woman in mourning with no outlet for her grief and anger, scraping at the walls for any semblance of revenge she can get her hands on.

a puppet of the leaders that will use her for their own gain, which will ultimately only make the corruption and prejudice in the system worse and worse. (ambessa.... when i catch you ambessa...)

all of these things can coexist. and they do. arcane is so fucking good at making complex, nuanced, morally-grey characters, and caitlyn is no different.

(putting the rest under the cut bc this got LONG... sorry💀)

something about when you spend your life as a part of the upper class, equality feels like oppression. something about the upper class lashes out when the lower class does nothing but defend themselves, because both feel threatened by the other, but only the lower class is justified in that. something about CAITLYN IS A GASLIGHT-GATEKEEP-GIRLBOSS AND I DO NOT CONDONE HER ACTIONS!!! i stand with my cancelled queen in the sense that i just want to know if she pulls out a ukulele or reciepts!

the worst part about being a caitlyn fan is that she's gonna get worse before she gets better. that's a plain and simple fact. she is going to hurt people, she is going to kill people, she is going to fuck things up; whether it be directly or indirectly, by her own hand or through the puppeteering of ambessa. probably both.

she is going to do horrible things, whether we like it or not. she already has, look at the ventilation systems and how she exploited the grey. she'll only truly be able to realize she's wrong if she goes down to zaun and sees the damage she's done for herself, thinks long and hard about what she's fighting for. she's lost her way and she's gonna have to crawl through the trenches to find it again.

she's using and abusing her power because of things she shouldn't be using as excuses. jinx killed her mother; the attacks at the memorial service; except those don't justify her actions. explains them, maybe. but she's turning into the exact kind of person you'd expect someone of her status to become. someone with power to her name, using it against those below her because she thinks it's justified, with no one bold enough to stop her.

she's going down a dark path and i am HERE to see how she fixes her mistakes in the end... if she even does. i'm excited to see what they do with her. will vi forgive her? will anyone?

that's for the writers to decide. i have faith that they'll execute it well no matter which way it goes. flawed, yes, as all things are, but they will get this right. if they don't i'm gonna be on a watchlist by the end of the month.

oh, caitlyn kiramman, gaslighting-gatekeeping-girlbossing in act 2. what a piece of work. and i'm just a down-bad lesbian that likes psychoanalyzing fictional lesbians. like... have you seen that woman???? she's too good to not put under a microscope. it's like the writers were baiting me specifically.

if anyone has any theories btw, caitlyn related or not, lemme hear them because i will listen. i will read every essay about this show i come across if it costs me my life 🫡

[nanaonmars]

SPOILERS FOR ULTRAMAN:RISING

i know people have been talking about it but i’m going to lose my mind if i don’t say anything. the new ultraman:rising movie is SO SO GOOD. SOOOO GOOD. i’m genuinely losing my shit because i didn’t expect it at all. i was just looking for something to watch with my sisters. imagine my surprise when we played it and it was more emotional than i thought it would be. first of all: the reluctant father trope is gonna get me EVERYTIMEEE. and they did it so well. in fact i think it’s my favorite portrayal of the trope so far. ken had me tense as hell for the first bit bc i wanted to see how they were gonna redeem him, but honestly, the pacing and character development was amazing. watching him progress felt natural, and i absolutely adored seeing how emi made him a better person.

the scene when he met her for the first time and the clouds cleared?? ARE YOU KIDDING ME? he loved her from the moment he met her. and i love love loveddddd that he actually treated her like his daughter. he called her baby, he called himself her dad, he played with her, he fed and washed her, etc etc. i feel like it’s very common to see the father figure still keep that distance, especially when they’re not raising a human, but for the most part, he went all in. you couldn’t tell that man he didn’t birth her! i so badly want to see more of them together, even if it’s just a mini series of him raising her on kaiju island. she impacted every area of his life. he needed her just as much as she needed him.

dr. onda did drive me insane, but i did feel for him just a little bit. i understand why he let his vengeance fuel him. also maybe i’m overthinking it, but i like the parallel of him and ken with their sunglasses. they both hide their sadness, grief, and vulnerability with them. i think it’s neat that they know they can’t hide how their eyes express their feelings.

ultradad and mecha gigantron messed me UP. i was so scared his dad would actually die, but i was also very happy to see gigantron was actually alive. she was very valid in attacking the kdf for stealing her baby!! i hope they can fix mina because emi needs her grandmas. every single scene of ken and emi nearly brought me to tears. this movie was made with so much love. i heard it took 25 years for them to get this movie actually approved and going, so congrats to shannon tindle for having a vision and seeing it through!! thank you for sharing it with the world because it’s easily one of my favorite movies of the year. i hope the end credit scene actually leads to more of this universe, because this movie has truly blown me away.

[housewarningparty]

Part of why it's so frustrating to me that we didn't have the opportunity to spend more time during Vi's pit fighter era and Caitlyn's dictator phase is bc like. Well, I mean those are both hugely significant and interesting ways for them to cope that are deeply reflective of the fundamental differences in their characters

Vi, an undercity kid that spent most of her formative years imprisoned, seeks out pain and oblivion. She finds herself lost and abandoned and immediately reaches for what she's most familiar with - violence. The self harming nature of her fighting career is obvious but I think the other stuff we see in the montage deserved more time too. She drinks to an unhealthy excess, blacking out, getting into more violent altercations. We don't see her seeking out any form of intimacy or connection with people - there are no depicted one night stands or groupies. Instead we see her hallucinating Caitlyn and reacting violently when a guy tries dancing with her.

Whether it's an intrinsic part of her or a trait that was cultivated through trauma, we know that Vi doesn't have many close relationships, but she loves the people near to her fiercely. It's kind of heartbreaking and so fucking interesting that when she's apart from Caitlyn she doesn't try to fill the void with other people. She just misses her.

Vi reacts to being left behind by isolating herself further. She reacts to being hurt by piling more hurt onto herself, channeling her pain into aggression, and when she's not fighting she's trying to numb herself with alcohol. It's a brutal montage and I really wish we'd been able to dive in more to Vi's self destructive tendencies.

Caitlyn meanwhile also reaches for the familiar but in a totally different way. We see her indulging her privilege in a very particular way. Unlike Vi, instead of fully isolating or burying her pain, we see her hold her grief tight in both hands and use it as fuel. She channels her pain into obsessively hunting down Jinx and suppressing Zaun through her increasingly militarized policing campaign. She becomes a workaholic who can't ever stop focusing on her agenda, even as the doubts she has continue to increase. She's stone cold sober in every scene and the combat practice she undertakes at Ambessa's side is controlled, goal-oriented and the complete opposite of Vi's reckless prize fighting.

Instead of solitude, we see her take up with a subordinate that she doesn't have a strong emotional attachment to and take comfort in sex within a dynamic where she perceives she has total control. Maddie doesn't mean enough to Caitlyn to meaningfully challenge her, which we see as Caitlyn ignores her advice and pulls away from her in bed. Hooking up with someone under her is a move that it's hard to imagine the idealistic s1 version of Caitlyn ever approving of and that's why it's so interesting to me. I think it highlights how much of s1 Caitlyn's morality is related to her resisting the ability to abuse her privilege as a favored daughter of Piltover. In s2, she forgoes her earlier attempts for egalitarian reform and justice in favor of indulging more wantonly with her baser impulses for control and power and immediate satisfaction. It suggests this beautiful death by a thousand cuts of her moral center as she loosens her grip on her noble ideals and gives in to this rash impulse, and that pragmatic cruelty, and this selfish want until she's in so deep she's become the sort of brutal oppressive force she had once tried to tear down.

The difference between them in this part of the show is so striking and it's a shame to me that we never get to really see them confront these versions of each other.

[nitw]

the whole sigcorp franchise is about grief -- life, death, grief, and moving on. but i really appreciate how each game handles the topic differently and paints a new perspective of it via the characters in focus:

in to the moon, johnny struggles to cope with a loss and a sense of guilt he can't rationalize. the game asks if it's fair for johnny to be happy if his happiness outweighs the real memories and consequences of the life he lived... but ultimately, it's not up for the doctors (or us) to decide -- johnny's love for river was real, and that mattered to him more than anything else deep down. nothing could change that fact, and he subconsciously held onto it, even as the fabric of reality broke down around him.

in finding paradise, colin struggles to accept his own life coming to an end despite having little to no regrets, and uses fantasy as an excuse to justify his dissatisfaction. the game asks if there's any clear difference between "real" memories and "the fiction we tell ourselves"... but when so much of our lives is fueled by a natural fear of death and loneliness, the distinction barely matters. every moment can be meaningful if you just want it to be, even if it's in retrospect. even the little things.

in impostor factory, lynri struggles with seeing worth in her own life, yet simultaneously does everything she can to leave a lasting mark on the world -- while quincy struggles to be her anchor, as he becomes increasingly aware that they can't live a normal life together. the game asks if lynri has the right to be selfish and pursue her goals at the expense of any chance at happiness with quincy, or if quincy has the right to be selfish and keep lynri grounded if that just seals her fate... but there's no correct answer to that. life is too complicated for there to be a singular, perfect thread of choices. sometimes pain is unavoidable, so all you can do is make the most of what you have while it still lasts.

and every time, these dilemmas are directly mirrored through eva and neil. it always circles back to the hypocritical nature of what sigcorp does, to eva putting on a strong face and trying to see these issues in black and white to protect herself, to neil genuinely believing in the value of his work but failing to take his own advice.

i think the beach episode was the perfect conclusion to all of this. we don't know how eva's gonna carry on now... but we have to imagine that she is. we have to hold onto that hope, for her sake and for our own. we, the audience, have to accept this as the end of the series, and believe that the moment we press the escape key, eva accepts it as well.

these fictional people's lives meant something to us. and if there was hope for them, there's hope for us, too.

[machineheraldbabe]

Viktor's (subverted) Aristotelian Tragedy

A common sentiment I’m seeing throughout post-finale Viktor discourse is an understandable concern or distaste for the element of choice lost throughout his story. I know a lot of us – myself included – expected more time spent on his transformation, along with emphasis on the anger/rage/betrayal fueling it. But seeing him allow Singed to “begin the process” in episode 8 reminded me of Arcane’s origins – tragedy. Bear with me for another long analysis :)

Aristotle wrote the following on the tragedy: “A tragedy is the imitation of an action that is serious and also, as having magnitude, complete in itself…with incidents arousing pity and fear, wherewith to accomplish a catharsis of these emotions.” He also emphasized that the true tragic hero couldn’t be perfect, and his downfall into such catharsis-inducing circumstances was reliant on a fatal flaw, oftentimes pride.

Viktor fits this mold, as do many Arcane characters, and it stands to reason that this was intentional since the writing team has reiterated that the show is a tragedy, at its core.

Regarding Viktor’s fatal flaw, I’d argue it’s pride, but it manifests very uniquely. He never makes any grand declarations about his success and doesn’t draw attention to himself in any clear way throughout season one (“Progress Day” comes to mind). Instead, his pride manifests as staunch independence and self-reliance that lead to his downfall; his unwillingness to break his stoic mold arguably led to his use of the Hexcore…so it goes.

Fascinating caveat: Viktor’s pride is a defense mechanism, a necessary tool he built in order to survive and succeed in a hostile environment to people of his station. His self-reliance is increasingly desperate as his illness worsens. He’s cornered by fate but banks on the sanctity of choice at every turn – in season one, Viktor is bound by the conviction that we all have a choice. It’s why he’s so distressed when Jayce makes the wrong one regarding weaponizing Hextech.

“There is always a choice.”

Viktor’s choice to fuse with the Hexcore is the classic Aristotelian fatal flaw moment, the singular incident that opens the flood gates for eventual catharsis. We watch Viktor make an irreparable choice, one that we know to be bad, and endure the repercussions. He then makes the choice to abandon the Hexcore, and end his life, but audiences can’t shake the feeling that those consequences aren’t leaving anytime soon.

So why is Viktor so anti-choice in his final season 2, act 3 form?

Choice is Viktor’s weapon. Pride is what leads him to abusing it. Despite how uncomfortable and depressing it is to watch, Viktor’s slow descent into the Herald is a perfect twist of fate. The Arcane is even so insidious that it meshes with his original intent, to help those suffering in the undercity, while convincing him that their subservience is healing. He becomes responsible for their choices. He knows what’s best because he’s relieving the Gloriously Evolved of their suffering, right? The utopia is for the greater good, yes?

Admittedly, it was really hard watching act 3 Viktor descend fully into his choiceless ethos. But we can still relate it to his tragic flaw – his pride has mushroomed into coldhearted omniscience; not only does he know what’s best for everyone, evolution, but he also has the sense to make the choice for them to supersede their “baser instincts.” The grief we feel upon seeing this perverted, violent version of himself, as far removed from Viktor as possible, is the culmination of Aristotle’s treatise on tragedy. The catharsis is the rock-bottom Machine Herald.

"Choice is false."

But then Arcane decided to basically make Jayvik canon (get out of here, Christian Linke) and destroyed the early drafts of this post. I’m going to rapid-fire this next bit:

Jayce forces Viktor back to life. Viktor has no agency in his season 2 inciting incident. Again, it’s distressing when we mourn his agency, but it remains in accordance with Aristotelian tragedy.

Viktor clings to humanity as long as he possibly can. When Jayce calls out Viktor’s trajectory, alleging that his old partner had died in the Council chamber, whatever is left of Viktor gives way to the Arcane because his last tether has been snapped.

Jayce knows the game – Old Man Jenkins Mage Viktor told him so. Jayce becomes the linchpin in subverting Viktor’s tragedy. He knows what must happen. He understands now.

Machine Herald Viktor is given the chance to undo his fatal flaw, to reverse the catharsis, when he sees Old Man Jenkins Mage Viktor. With Jayce’s help, he takes it.

Given that it’s a version of Viktor who ultimately frees him from himself by empowering Jayce, we can gather that Viktor has liberated himself from his tragedy.

Aristotle’s catharsis is rapidly transformed from something based in release to something healing – Viktor’s tether to humanity returns. He grasps it. The walls of his pride and self-reliance collapse. He accepts Jayce’s help, finally being seen as the full individual he is. Catharsis ensues, for sure, but I don’t think it’s based in the typical tragedy genre.

All this to say, I think Viktor’s arc was, in fact, carefully constructed. He represents the Aristotelian descent into a fatal flaw and that’s very distressing to see unfold, especially since he embodied the tragic hero archetype so well from day one. However, Jayce undoes this narrative and we’re given an incredibly subversive ending that I, personally, never saw coming.

I’m sure that Mage Viktor has a much larger bearing on this analysis than I’m accounting for. But for now, suffice to say that he is Viktor’s way out of the tragedy. TALK ABOUT CHOICE!

This doesn’t erase anyone’s discomfort for Viktor having less and less agency, but I’d like to emphasize the logic and literary precedent behind the story decisions.

PS: here's a quick source I looked at about Aristotelian tragedies. I hope to re-up on Greek tragedies so I can get more specific about the parallels Arcane draws from them.

[watchnrant]

Agatha All AlongEpisode 3: Easter Egg Breakdown

Amulets

Every Witch Has One (Not Just Agatha)

A key detail from this episode is the revelation that every witch in the coven has their own amulet, not just Agatha. As the witches traverse the Witches’ Road, which transforms into a sandy walkway leading to a beach house, their attire shifts to match the setting, yet their amulets remain. This small but significant touch teases the potential deeper importance of amulets for MCU witches and possibly hints at their connection to power and identity within witchcraft.

Big Little Lies Reference

An Homage to HBO's Big Little Lies

Mrs. Hart’s (Debra Jo Rupp) remark about the beach house feeling like it’s straight out of "Huge Tiny Lies" is a clever nod to Big Little Lies. This HBO show, which revolves around secrets and a murder investigation in a wealthy seaside town, is reflected in the trial-like proceedings in this episode. From the luxurious coastal setting to the suspense-filled plot, this homage adds another layer to Agatha All Along, showcasing Marvel’s playful engagement with pop culture.

Mephisto Confirmed?

Agent of Mephisto

The episode drops a significant hint about Mephisto’s potential existence in the MCU. When Jennifer Hale speaks to Teen, she warns him about Agatha, citing dark rumors about her trading her son, Nicholas Scratch, for the Darkhold. According to these whispers, Nicholas became an agent of Mephisto, confirming that the demon lord may already be operating behind the scenes. This moment sets the stage for larger MCU implications, tying in with long-standing fan theories about Mephisto's involvement in mystical storylines.

Trading Her Son for the Darkhold

"She Wouldn’t Recognize Her Own Son"

In a chilling revelation, Jennifer suggests that Agatha wouldn't recognize her son if he appeared before her. This is a subtle clue that Teen might actually be Nicholas Scratch, Agatha’s long-lost son, rather than the presumed reincarnation of Wanda’s son Billy (aka Wiccan). The mystery surrounding Teen’s identity deepens, making this a key narrative thread for future episodes.

Alice Wu’s Tattoo

Cursed Women & Protection

Alice Wu-Gulliver (Ali Ahn) reveals the story behind her tattoo, which was given to her at age 13 to ward off a family curse.

Teen also shares that something significant happened to him when he was 13. Given that Teen is now 16 and WandaVision occurred three years ago, this suggests a connection to Wanda Maximoff, further fueling the theory that Teen may be Billy Kaplan.

This conversation is filled with subtle clues that connect characters through shared trauma and mysterious pasts.

Mrs. Hart’s Hallucination

"Please…Wanda, Let Him Breathe!"

Mrs. Hart's hallucination brings back a haunting moment from WandaVision. Near the end of the episode, she is shown begging Wanda to "let him breathe," seemingly reliving the traumatic death of her husband, which may have been caused by the limitations of Wanda's Hex. In WandaVision, many residents were trapped in loops or frozen, and this new revelation implies that Mrs. Hart’s husband was among the unintended victims of Wanda’s control. It’s a tragic callback to the consequences of Wanda’s grief and power.

Lilia’s Premonition

"Try to Save Agatha"

Lilia’s sudden outburst, "Try to save Agatha," feels like an eerie premonition. This brief but impactful moment hints that Agatha may soon face grave danger, and saving her could become a central objective for the other witches. It’s a well-placed piece of foreshadowing that could hint at Agatha’s future role in the MCU.

Coven's Hallucinations

Facing Past Traumas

Each witch in Agatha’s coven faces a nightmarish hallucination tied to their deepest traumas.

Alice relives her mother's grief over her grandmother’s death, feeling a terrifying sense of inherited doom.

Jennifer’s hallucination shows her facing a man—possibly a doctor or priest—who calls her an "inconvenient woman" and tries to drown her.

Lilia’s vision is especially haunting, as she encounters a demon-looking nun after following a mysterious teenage girl.

These hallucinations provide insight into the coven members' pasts and suggest that their traumas are far from resolved.

Agatha’s Hallucination

Did She Trade Her Son for the Darkhold?

Agatha's hallucination is particularly disturbing. She approaches a baby’s bassinet, only to find the Darkhold in place of the infant. This vision supports Jennifer's earlier claim that Agatha traded her son for the Book of the Damned, but Agatha’s horrified reaction suggests that there is much more to this story. The moment reveals Agatha’s internal conflict and deep-seated regrets, adding depth to her character’s motivations.

Hansel and Gretel Reference

Lilia’s Friend and the Oven

Lilia's brief mention of her friend who went into an oven is a dark reference to the classic Hansel and Gretel tale. In the context of witches and burning, this could symbolize the fate of witches who face persecution or punishment, tying into the show's overall themes of betrayal and survival.

[devieuls]

ˋ Haunted . ☽

Qimir x Ex Jedi Fem Reader < SERIES >

Warning of the Serie: MDNI. Sith Lord Qimir x Fem ex Jedi Reader.

(during the series)

SMUT: Dirty Talk; Bites; fingering; Blood; Spit; Jealousy and Possessiveness; Foreplay; violence; Swearing; Teasing; Unprotected Sex; betrayal; oral sex; dacryphilia; outdoor sex; jealousy BDSM. Dom Qimir ANGST: toxic relationship, self-harm, derealization, suffering, Requited / Unrequited love, prejudices, bullying and insults. There will be flashbacks in this series

Aged characters: Qimir 35 y.o / You 22 y.o.

Synopsis: In a twisted web of light and darkness, two opposites are facing each other, dancing on a thin thread called fate. What happens when light and darkness dance on a wire called destiny, two eternal opposites that inevitably attract each other and create something perfectly powerful and chaotic to unite the power of two in one? The answer emerges in a journey of tension and attraction, where yin and yang discover that their opposition is nothing but a reflection of a deep and unexpected connection. This is the story of how destruction is akin to peace, how the moon one day decided to save the sun, how darkness is not so dark and evil so bad. A journey towards change and desire, where opposing forces merge into a future that no one could have predicted.

(Following some events of the series)

Lenght: 4.4k

TW: THE SERIES WILL BE FULL OF DELICATE TOPICS!

⇠ Previous chapter ✵ Next Chapter ⇢

· · ─────── · 𖥸 · ─────── · ·

Chapter III: Something about you

The moon had been shining in the sky for hours when Qimir decided to return inside the cave with light steps. His discreet gaze fell on you, still seated in the same spot where he had left you, your head bowed while your eyes were fixed on an indefinite point. He pretended not to notice the traces of tears still visible on your face, the redness of your eyes, and your slightly irregular breathing. He could silently read every tiny expression of yours. After all, they were the same as Mae’s when he first met her, and having learned to understand her, he could now understand you. He wasn’t sure if he was okay with seeing his precious apprentice in another body, unfamiliar to him. In this way, he could still feel her close, still see a piece of her in you.

Qimir’s eyes lit up with subtle satisfaction when he saw the empty soup bowl next to the stove. He didn’t show it openly, but inside, he felt a sense of relief: at least you had eaten. That small gesture was a sign that, despite everything, you weren’t allowing yourself to be completely overwhelmed by grief. Qimir bent over his workbench, the torchlight reflecting off the cold metal of the helmet he was welding. Sparks flew under the precise blows of his hands, while his breathing remained steady, calm. He ignored you, or at least tried to, knowing that any word of comfort at that moment would only fuel your anger. He wasn’t a man easily fooled by emotions. He manipulated them, dominated them. But he also knew when someone, like you, needed space to breathe, to grieve in solitude.

Your gaze followed his every movement, watching how his skilled hands worked the metal, his fingers tracing precise lines. He seemed focused, detached, yet there was something in the way he worked that intrigued you. You wiped away the last of your tears with the back of your hand, but the pain inside was still alive. The image of your sister hovered heavily in your mind, and the only connection you now had with her was the man in front of you. Your eyes first followed his silhouette, then his hands, moving up to his shoulders and hesitating there for a few seconds, while the question you wanted to ask kept forming in your mind, heavy as a stone. The fresh tears were drying on your cheeks, and no matter how much you tried to avoid that lump in your throat, you knew you had to know more.

"She…" you began in a whisper, breaking the silence that had become almost suffocating. The word seemed to vanish between the rocky walls of the cave, while the thought of your sister still ached in your memory. Qimir didn’t turn, but you could feel that he was listening. "Did she choose to become a Sith?"

For a moment, the sparks stopped, as if that question had interrupted even the work of his hands. Qimir hesitated, then resumed welding, swallowing hard. His tone revealed a slight hesitation. "Yes," he responded with the calm of someone who knows full well what that answer means. "I only offered her a way out of her pain… I made her understand that her darkness had to be embraced, not rejected."

The silence grew thicker, filled only by the sound of metal fusing onto the helmet. Your heart weighed heavy as you tried to absorb those words. Your sister had made a choice. She wasn’t forced, she wasn’t manipulated as you had believed. She had embraced the darkness, willingly. And you felt broken, torn between hatred for what she had become and compassion for the pain that had led her to that decision. If only you had found her earlier… maybe? You suppressed the thought of "what if?", knowing that changing the past was no longer in your power.

"Was she happy?" you asked, your voice broken, barely a whisper. You needed to know if, at least in the dark side, she had found some form of peace or if her fate had been just another spiral of suffering. Again.

Qimir stopped working, the welding flame went out with a hiss, and the cave suddenly seemed more silent, more empty. He placed the helmet on the bench with a faint metallic sound, keeping his gaze on it as if it were too difficult for him to look you in the eyes while he answered. His expression remained unchanged, but his eyes betrayed a slight melancholy, something he perhaps didn’t even want to admit to himself.

"Happiness was not a feeling that belonged to her," he said slowly, with a sincerity that he rarely let show. "But she was relieved. Relieved of the weight of her past, of the chains that kept her bound to suffering. She found a new purpose."

That answer hit you harder than you wanted. Relieved. Not happy, not peaceful, but simply relieved from her pain. Your heart clenched as you tried to imagine your sister trapped in an existence so painful that she found solace only by embracing darkness. You had hoped, even for a moment, that there had been a bit of light in her life, a fragment of joy, but reality was much harsher. She had suffered just like you, but unfortunately, she no longer had the chance to redeem that pain. "A purpose…" you whispered softly, almost ironically.

Qimir took the welder back in his hands, ignoring what you had said as he reignited the tool. His fingers moved skillfully over the instruments, his gaze remaining fixed on the helmet, as if it helped him remember the first time he had met Mae. "She was young when I first met her," he began slowly, his tone low and delicate, almost as if he were speaking to himself. "She wasn’t yet fully aware of who she was or what she truly wanted. But there was something in her… a constant anger, a pain that drove her to seek something greater, she was searching for vengeance. She wanted to avenge your death."

His words hit you like a punch to the heart. Your death? The thought that your sister had spent years believing you were dead made you shudder, especially since you had thought the same thing before the Order came to find you.

Qimir paused, the sparks stopped again as he observed the metallic line forming on the helmet. "I saw her for the first time on Olega. She was fighting with some kids, she must have been around eight or nine years old, I can’t say for sure…" He took a brief pause, a faint smile crossing his face, as if the memory of young Mae gave him a kind of happiness. "She was using the Force against them. Grief, fear, and anger consumed her so much that her power seemed almost… uncontrollable. In fact, shopkeepers had been complaining for days about disturbances caused by what they thought was a rebellious Padawan. I found her before the Jedi could." Your eyes softened as you listened, imagining your sister alone, abandoned in a world that couldn’t understand her.

Qimir turned slightly toward you, and for a moment, his eyes seemed lost in a distant memory. Perhaps he saw Mae in you, or maybe it was a fragment of something you couldn't comprehend. You stared at him, unable to look away. Every word that left his mouth brought you closer to her past you had never been able to know. “Was she scared?” you finally asked, with another lump in your throat threatening to choke you. “She didn’t show fear… not at first, at least. Her anger was too strong. But yes, behind that strength, there was a frightened child. She didn’t trust anyone.” His words seemed like a distant memory, and you recognized your Mae in those words, believing him. His eyes, after all, spoke more than his mouth ever could. “But I didn’t need to tempt her. It was enough to promise her vengeance if she followed me. That was all she wanted.”

Your eyes filled with hostility and disgust, pain and anguish. “You corrupted her.” you said, your voice full of disdain and anger. “No,” Qimir replied calmly, meeting your gaze directly, showing complete sincerity. “As I said, I offered her an escape from her pain. I showed her that she wasn’t weak because of her pain, but that she could find strength in it. I didn’t corrupt her. I simply offered an alternative to her suffering.” His words were measured, but there was a subtle sincerity in his tone, as if he were trying to explain a deep and personal truth. “I can’t change the past, y/n,” he said, his voice softer and gentler. “But I can help you understand. That’s all I ask of you: to understand. Mae was a complex person, and her path wasn’t easy. But she found meaning in it all, and that, in a way, gave her peace.” His words hung in the air, his tone no longer monotone and cold. Qimir’s gaze seemed pained, you could see it now, but not the same pain reflected in your eyes; his emotions were a whirlwind of feelings and memories. There was sweetness and sadness in those eyes.

“You loved her…” you whispered, realizing what that continuous, unexplainable feeling in his behavior was. That look had to be of a man in love, it was clear now.

Qimir swallowed, his jaw tightening as he tried to maintain his composure. His face was now devoid of any mask of indifference. The gaze of Qimir, which had been almost impassive until then, softened. There was a sweetness in his eyes that spoke of a deep affection. He lowered his gaze, his face now partially hidden by the shadow cast by the dim light of the cave. His expression was a mix of nostalgia and pain, as the words you had spoken seemed to strike him deeply.

“No,” he replied, his voice cold and detached. “She was my pupil… I loved her as a master loves his pupil.” The statement, though devoid of warmth, concealed a truth that spoke of a deep and sincere feeling. The pain that came through his voice seemed genuine, and the way he spoke of Mae revealed a connection that went beyond appearances. The special bond between a master and his pupil… you remembered.

You remained silent as Qimir turned back to his workbench, trying to regain control of his emotions. “I saw something special in Mae,” he continued, his voice now calmer and more reflective. “And I hoped that as she grew, she would want something more than revenge. Something that I also wanted… but it didn’t turn out that way.” “And what do you want?” you asked, closing the chapter on Mae, which seemed to be hurting both of you equally. “The power of two.” he said with a renewed calmness in his tone, as he took the edges of his shirt to wipe the sweat from his forehead, revealing the large scar on his back that you had already seen that morning by the shore.

“Did Mae do that to you?” you asked, your voice low and uneasy, as you examined the scar with a mix of concern and curiosity. “What do you think?” Qimir responded, turning to you with a tired, curious look, as if challenging your intuition. There was a hint of stoicism in his expression, a defensive barrier against your question. “No…” you replied, a slight doubt creeping into your voice, part of you could imagine Mae as the cause of such a deep wound. “It was someone who throw me away" Qimir answered, his tone dry and his expression showing how painful that memory was. “Was it your Sith master?” you asked with a curious look, continuing to dig into his past. “No, my first master,” His face twisted with a mix of pain and stoicism, as if the memories of that night had suddenly resurfaced after a long time.

“A master… Jedi?” you replied, noticing his subtle hint that confirmed your suspicion. “You were a Jedi…?” you continued, your growing confusion as you tried to piece together a puzzle of his past. Qimir’s gaze turned sharp, like a blade ready to defend itself from a wound reopened after too long. His dark eyes reflected a gentle hardness, as if the question had touched a nerve still somehow alive. “A long time ago,” he answered tersely, cutting off the possibility of further questions.

You looked at him and nodded, understanding that it was best not to press him further. Shifting your gaze back to the strange helmet that seemed so important to him. “Why do you use that?” The man’s gaze shifted back to you once again, this time with something new in his eyes, that made you look away. “It’s made of cortosis,” he began. “Useful against lightsabers. Or as an isolation helmet.” Qimir stood up from the bench to retrieve the toolbox he had used. “Like those of the padawans.” He began to walk toward you with a light and relaxed step. “It blocks all the senses?” your tone was curious again as you observed the helmet he had left on the bench. “It's just you and the Force,” he stopped in front of you, then nodded towards the spot where the object was. “Try it.” “I don’t trust you.” you hissed with a tone too much acid. “Trusting me is fair,” Qimir said in a calmer and warmer tone, looking at you. “But you should trust yourself, y/n. Good night.” He concluded, then moved past you and disappeared into an undefined point in the cave behind you.

You spent the night staring at the cortosis helmet on the workbench, its shiny and cold surface reflecting the dim light of the cave. Qimir had been gone for hours, probably gone to sleep, leaving you alone with your thoughts, but his presence still lingered in the air like a shadow you couldn’t shake off. His words kept echoing in your mind. “It’s just you and the Force.” Each time your gaze returned to the helmet, your curiosity grew. There was something tempting about that object. Your mind wandered through conflicting thoughts: the pain of loss, the anger towards the Jedi, the confusion about your sister’s past. You wanted answers, but you feared what you might discover. “Would Mae have tried it?” you wondered. Probably. The thought that your sister might have already walked the same path now offered to you burned inside you.

You crouched on the makeshift bed, your knees drawn to your chest, and the cold of the cave seemed to seep under your skin, but it wasn’t the physical chill that made you shiver. It was the possibility that, by putting on that helmet, you might see something greater, a truth that eluded you. “I don’t trust him,” you repeated to yourself, but another part of you whispered that maybe Qimir wasn’t the problem. Perhaps, you were afraid of what you might discover about yourself. Hours passed slowly, but the helmet continued to call to you silently. Perhaps your connection to the Force was still there, buried under layers of pain and distrust. Maybe that object could offer you a way to rediscover it.

With a deep breath, you rose and approached the wooden table, reaching for the helmet, your fingers brushing the metal surface. Your eyes studied the object with curiosity and interest, silently debating whether to wear it or not. You withdrew your fingers from the metal lump and quickly moved away to return to bed, ignoring the strange allure that drew you to it. The night dragged on, each moment seeming to stretch into infinity, and the shadow of the decision you were avoiding continued to haunt you. “Maybe tomorrow,” you thought, trying to convince yourself. But deep down, you knew it was just an excuse to procrastinate. The cave was immersed in a profound silence, broken only by the faint, constant song of the distant ocean. The waves crashed against the shore with a slow, hypnotic rhythm, as if trying to lull you to sleep. But your heart still beat strongly, unable to calm down, filled with the myriad emotions experienced throughout the day.

Lying on the bed, you tried to let go of your thoughts, but it was impossible. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw the helmet, felt its call, an invisible force that seemed to pull you toward it. It wasn’t Qimir, it wasn’t even your sister; it was something within you that demanded attention. Your hands trembled slightly as you tried to adjust the worn blanket over yourself, but the cold seemed to come from within. Outside, the sound of the sea continued, a tranquil and rhythmic murmur, occasionally interrupted by distant gurgles of marine creatures moving in the depths. You heard the occasional chirping of something on the shore, perhaps Skura singing with the moonlight, or just the wind stirring some debris. Despite your restlessness, the sound of the sea had a calming effect. Slowly, your body began to relax. Each breath grew slower, deeper. You closed your eyes; the thoughts still wandered in your mind, but less insistently. “Yeah…Maybe tomorrow…” you thought again, but this time with a bit more conviction. Sleep began to take hold, and the sound of the waves blended with your dreams, taking you far from the cave, the cold, and the questions you were not yet ready to face.

The night passed silently, as your thoughts, one by one, slipped into the oblivion of sleep. When the sun began to filter into the cave, bathing the space in a soft light, Qimir was already awake. He moved with a light step, running a hand through his slightly tousled hair. However, something made him slow down as he passed by where you had fallen asleep.

He paused for a moment, his eyes settling on you, watching with an attention that lingered a few seconds too long. Your face, relaxed in sleep, appeared more serene, almost angelic, free from the weight of the pain and anger that had burdened you. His gaze wandered discreetly, lingering first on your delicate features, then on your lips, as a subtle but growing emotion began to stir within him. It wasn’t carnal desire, no, it was something deeper, more intimate. There was a sweetness in the moment, a sweetness he hadn’t allowed himself to feel for a long time. He clenched his jaw, feeling a weight pressing on his chest, a realization that made him uncomfortable. With slow and silent movements, he bent slightly toward you, reaching for the blanket that had slipped a bit away during the night. Gently, as if fearing to wake you, he pulled the blanket up, covering you better and noticing the goosebumps on your arms. The gesture was simple, but within him, he knew that something different was beginning to grow, something that shouldn’t have been there.

Your face was partially hidden by some strands of hair that had fallen across your face while you slept. His gaze fixed on those fine threads covering your skin, and without thinking much, his hand moved on its own, as if guided by an impulse he couldn't control. He brought his fingers close to your face with an almost exasperating slowness, as if every second was stretched. His breath caught in his throat as he brushed against the strands, feeling them lightly under his fingertips. Each movement was cautious, almost fearful of disturbing your tranquility. His fingers followed the line of your hair, gently pushing it aside to reveal the soft contour of your face.

The silence in the cave seemed to grow thicker, the moment suspended in an invisible tension. When he finally withdrew his hand, Qimir felt his heart pounding hard in his chest. He had maintained control, but at a cost. For a moment, he had forgotten everything: his mission, his discipline, his resistance. There was only that simple gesture, that touch which had unveiled a part of himself he hadn’t intended to confront. Qimir paused again, his inscrutable gaze fixed on you for a few seconds too long. When your eyes slightly opened, you glimpsed his blurred figure in the shadow, as if he had just stepped away from you. Your body was still wrapped in the fatigue of sleep, but his presence seemed closer than he wanted to admit. He clenched his jaw, aware that you might have felt his touch, but when your voice broke the silence, his gaze returned to you, masking any emotion.

"I want to go home," you said, your voice low but firm, still slightly thick with sleep. Your eyes had barely opened, capturing his increasingly clear figure once more. "You don't have a home to go back to, y/n," he replied, his tone calm but still cold, carrying a sense of stark realization. He hadn't said it to hurt you, but to make you understand a reality you might have been trying to avoid.

You pressed your lips together, refusing to let his words affect you more than they already had. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing how much they hurt.

"How long will it take to fix the ship?" you pressed, unwilling to linger on his statement. He looked at you sideways, taking a half-breath as if about to respond brusquely, but then something in his gaze softened. "Still quite a while," he finally said, his tone practical and direct. Then, as if trying to break through the wall of hostility you were desperately maintaining, he added, "Are you hungry?"

The question caught you off guard. For a moment, you felt almost disarmed by his unexpected kindness. There was no trace of manipulation in his words, only a simple concern that seemed almost out of place.

"I'm not hungry," you lied, wrapping your arms around yourself. But your stomach betrayed you with a soft growl, and Qimir looked up at you with a shadow of an amused smile. "Doesn’t seem" he said with a side glance, maintaining that smirk that made you roll your eyes. Qimir picked up a basket with some fresh fruit inside and offered it to you. Noticing that you refused to take the bowl from his hands, he set it down on your lap, still covered by the blanket.

"I just want the ship fixed and to leave," you finally said, your tone softer, almost as if you were trying to convince yourself. But Qimir didn’t respond immediately, holding a piece of fruit that looked like an apple, taking a bite while watching you with almost sarcastic indifference. "If that’s what you want," he said finally, raising an eyebrow slightly, letting his words hang in the air. "I have no rush to leave." His indifference was palpable, almost irritating.

You gritted your teeth, taking a deep breath to avoid jumping at him and smashing the woven basket over his head. His calculated and detached attitude made you seethe, but you understood that reacting impulsively would only play into his hands. You needed to be more cunning. Thus, you decided to change your approach. "I don’t understand," you began, breaking the silence with a soft, almost sweet voice. "Why are you helping me? After everything you’ve done, after what you are…" Your tone sounded too sweet to Qimir’s ears, which made him suspicious right away.

Qimir’s eyes narrowed slightly, a faint smile curling at the corner of his lips as if he was reading your intentions as easily as flipping through a book. He decided to play dumb, entering your game. "Maybe… because not everything is as you think, y/n," he replied slowly and measuredly, tilting his head to the side as he scrutinized you carefully. "Or maybe, because I’ve lost something too." His words seemed to float in the air, vague. There was something in his expression, in his dark eyes that seemed to dig into you, making your defenses waver. There was no hurry, no defensiveness in his voice, just a strange weariness that made you think for a moment that perhaps he wasn't so different from you.

Every move you made, every word you said, seemed to resonate with him in the same calculated manner, as if you were studying each other, careful not to reveal too much but also curious to see where the other would take the conversation. You moved slightly closer, your eyes meeting his for an instance too long. "And what have you lost?" you asked in a barely perceptible whisper, your voice low, as if that question was as much for him as it was for yourself. Qimir didn’t respond immediately. He simply stared at you with those dark, penetrating eyes, the smile gone from his lips. His fingers played absently with the apple he still held, as if pondering his next move carefully. "Maybe more than you can imagine," he finally replied. There was a hint of vulnerability, a glimpse of something deeper, but it closed quickly, as if he didn’t want to reveal too much. "more than you can think." he continued, as his gaze once again hesitated on your lips

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TAGLIST: @neteyamtanhi

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Notes :

I know I’ve disappeared, but I’ve been busy and not a little.

The next chapter I plan to do even better. I’m starting to write now, so I’m a little rusty. Forgive me.

I was also thinking of doing a small taglist for the series, maybe for those who want to follow it and stay updated without forgetting it, in case you tell me in the comments. I hope you enjoyed the chapter, Have a good day. <3

-Mel

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[dilfismz]

How TWD characters would react to you being chosen during the lineup

(Oopsie this is sad)

Rick's breath caught as Negan’s bat landed on you. His heart shattered, pain flooding his eyes. "No," he whispered, his voice breaking. Every instinct screamed to protect you, but he was powerless, forced to watch as the brutal act unfolded. Tears streamed down his face, rage bubbling beneath his grief. He locked eyes with you, a silent promise of vengeance. The moment felt eternal, your shared history flashing before him. As your life slipped away, Rick’s resolve hardened. In his heart, he vowed to make this right, to fight for your memory, to never let this horror be in vain.

Daryl's heart pounded as Negan’s bat pointed to you. His world shattered. "Get the hell away from her" he growled, struggling against the hands holding him back. Anguish twisted his face, tears threatening to fall. He wanted to fight, to protect you, but he was helpless. The first blow landed, and Daryl’s scream tore through the night. Each hit felt like it was breaking him instead. As your blood pooled, his rage surged. He locked eyes with you, memorizing every detail, every second. In that moment, Daryl was broken. He would honor your memory by ensuring Negan paid for this, no matter the cost.

Glenn's heart stopped when Negan’s bat pointed at you. "No, please," he begged, desperation choking his voice. His eyes filled with terror and helplessness. He reached out instinctively, restrained by rough hands. The first strike landed, and his scream pierced the air. Each blow felt like it was tearing his own soul apart. Tears streamed down his face as he watched, powerless. Your gaze met his, full of love and sorrow. In your final moments, Glenn’s world crumbled. He clung to your memory, vowing silently that your death would not be in vain. He would find a way to honor your life and fight on, carrying your love in his heart.

Carl’s blood ran cold as Negan’s bat swung toward you. "Please, God no!" he shouted, lunging forward, only to be held back. His single eye widened in horror, tears blurring his vision. Each brutal hit felt like it was striking his own heart. "I'm sorry," he whispered, voice breaking. Rage and grief warred within him, but he was helpless. As your life ebbed away, Carl locked eyes with you, memorizing your face. He felt a fierce determination ignite. This loss would fuel his fight, strengthen his resolve. In that devastating moment, Carl promised to honor you, to become stronger, and to ensure your death was not in vain.