#everyone's lives have been torn apart afterwards

[polaroid-petals]

I'm this close to writing a fic where a few weeks post-confession, Hero has a dream where he gets the option to stab Basil in order for Mari to have never died, only for his knife to stab not this fictional dream version of Basil, but the real twelve-year-old one, whom he then slowly watches die as he's unable to save him from the gash in his stomach.

To his horror, as he wakes up four years after the murder with no memory of what happened afterwards, he learns that he covered up the murder, and he has no idea how or why he did it.

[twistedwonderlandwriting]

A Love Long Forgotten|𖦹๋࣭ ⭑ᡣ𐭩⊹ 𖦹๋࣭ ⭑

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Wordcount:1,021|readerx:Allstudents|Style:Oneshot

WARNINGS: Angst!|Disociation|Hanahaki

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Everything was hazy, even while digging up previous memories, the ones that always left a warm feeling in the pit of your stomach and made your heart squeeze in the best possible way. Though the memories that previously left you feeling all warm and fuzzy now left you with a sense of dread, or rather their lack of presence did. Leaving you with a looming dark cloud as if prophesying what was to come. Why weren't they there? Why couldn't you recall those.....wait were they happy times? Who were you with? All the figures were...not blurry but vague as if you couldn't recall what they looked like anymore, imagining different ethnicities, clothes, hair, skin, eyes, face shapes, noses, but nothing seemed to click. As if the very essence of your loved ones were slipping away, and with the memories of past experiences and people slipping away so was your spirit and will.

Who were you anymore? Were you still the same? Scratch that you obviously weren't the same. Were you even a person anymore? Looking down at your hands they didn't look like yours anymore.....hell nothing truly looked like you anymore. This world had changed you so much....too much. Body, mind, and soul it had ripped into the very fiber of your being torn apart and then flippantly tried to piece you together like a broken puzzle.....You couldn't even dress the way you used to or wanted to, forced to live in the few uniforms and whatever you could find in the lost and found. How long had it been since you arrived in this twisted wonderland? Six? Seven? Maybe eight months? Hell it could have even been a year. It had been April when your shit show of a life began...well your “life” in wonderland at least......why were you here? What was the point?

Not everything had been bad though. The people you had met had been wonderful…at times…some of them had at least, some more....challenging than others but all beautiful and talented in their own right that was the one thing you could confidently state you didn't regret.

Though with even the most wonderful people came scars, mother the time it's in a metaphorical sense but unfortunately for you it had been quite literal as soon as you were thrust into this world. Fighting for your life metaphorically and physically as you barely scrounged by. Becoming a friend, therapist, reliable constant in your friends lif-…no. In the schools. Slowly reassuring, validating and guiding all the mentally crippled students into a slightly better mentality bit by bit while ironically your mental health eroded away…

Not minding because they were friends. I mean they would do the same in return right? They appreciated your efforts, right? Even if they didn't understand your references or jokes at times they still cared.

.

.

.

.

“I'm so glad we're friends.”

The pause in his actions hurt more than any slap across the face or outright rejection ever could have. Maybe it was wrong. You shouldn't have blurted it out. Just being stupidly sentimental while rolling cookie dough into balls, maybe that was the reason, maybe the small action made you feel like a kid again. Less damaged, less broken, lifting your heart in a way that it hadn't in a long long time. It may have been wrong to blurt something so sentimental out, but it just felt so right as you helped him bake a plethora of deserts for the upcoming birthday party. Though the apologetic smile he gave you afterwards taking a brief moment to let his eyes linger on you before he pushed up his glasses and turned back his gaze down to the counter, working wordlessly made it so much worse.

One by one your casual small acts of service, gifts, and company were being rejected so casually by everyone you offered them to. As the memories seemed to flood you squeezing at your heart as a reminder of how little your so called "friends" truly cared as you leaned over the toilet bowl hacking and coughing into it the petals and blood that seemed to form in your throat and get thicker at like a unwanted metallic sludge clogging your throat. It was a massacre with how many differing types of flowers, succulents, and even a form of mushroom species you had clogging your throat, shaking around painfully in your lungs, hitting the walls with painful thuds while you coughed. A painful and bitter reminder of your predicament: Getting out as much as you could before flushing the toilet.

Using the edges and what little strength remained to push yourself up from your kneeling position. Wobbly staggering over to sink to wash off the blood and petals that suck to you from around you mouth and dripping onto your chin with the freezing water that snapped you out of your dazed.

No one had even taken notice to your wobbly steps or how you covered your mouth to cough into your hands at least twenty times an hour as the Hanahaki got worse with each passing day. Though you would have thought that Vil, Riddle, Rook, or even Malleus's astute eyes should have noticed…The thick but now familiar feeling of something gathering in your throat started once again, signaling once more that another coughing or rather choking fit was near. Covering your mouth once more as the petals filled your hands. Though unlike the last few times, it didn't stop. The build-up becoming worse as the attempt of getting the pesky beings out of your airway failed. Your vision darkened suddenly as a wave of nausea and dizziness hit worse than it ever had before. The cold feeling of the tile making contact with your knees causing the thud to ripple throughout the empty halls as the flowers blocked your airway and filled your lungs.

Unrequited love really hurt, but it would be fine. You'd love them all even if it killed you. After all, wasn't it fitting you put your life on the line for them one last time.

[sehtoast]

Happy Birthday (Homelander x Reader)

Fluffy drabble in honor of Antony Starr's birthday today. Gender Neutral Reader. Reader has spider powers. | Fic Directory

On the morning of his ‘birthday,’ he’s a grumbling, grouchy mess.

Homelander pinches the bridge of his nose. “It’s not even my fucking birthday,” he tells you as if he hadn’t said it every single year since you’d both grown close. “Just what marketing thought would sell me better.”

Not only that, but he has to work on his ‘birthday.’ Run around for TV appearances, do his big, live-streamed save of the day to show the world that heroes don’t take a day off. They’ll always be there to save everyone, even if doing so is nothing more than a sore reminder of just how fabricated their lives really are.

Sure! He’ll zip around the state to appease his corporate overlords. Wave to the masses no matter how torn he is between loving and hating them, lift a car off some poor soul or catch another jumper. It’s what he does, right?

Because he’s a hero.

Right?

He’s not allowed to be like everyone else. Can’t kick his feet up and relax. There would be no day spent with you, no sleeping in, no lazy moments spent listening to your heartbeat before you wake.

He gets pepperings of you throughout his day, though.

You appear, in costume, at his birthday save. It’s the only reason he smiled when he touched down with that bozo who nearly leapt off the roof of an apartment complex. The emotive lenses of your mask let him know your smile reaches your eyes without even having to peer through the fabric.

It was your cheering that made it feel real.

He catches the sight of you blowing a kiss from behind the set camera during an interview. He worried his mask may have cracked on screen from how he smiled wider. He kisses you hungrily afterwards, away from prying eyes, before you’re both due to return to your respective duties.

You swing by during one of his meetings in the conference room, having taken the tray of coffee and stacks of paper from whichever employee was originally heading that way. You set a mug down for him and left the others to retrieve their own. The most you can give him is a friendly pat on the back– secret relationship things, y’know? But it means the world to him. You shoot him a wink before leaving.

It’s the only time he’s ever actually drank a meeting room refreshment.

When all is said and done for his big day, the sun has set. He finds you on top of the Chrysler Building, waiting for him atop one of the eagle perches. You’d set up some sort of picnic. He hears a song playing faintly from your phone– one he remembers you saying reminds you of him.

He lands with a sappy little grin.

You baked him a cake. How you managed to swing it to the top without any damage is a mystery to him, but he supposes most things you do are that way. How you love him, soothe him, free him… How your smile lifts the weight from his shoulders every single time.

“Make a wish!” You giggle before he blows out the candles. He takes a moment to admire the smudgy, wrinkly icing and awkward cursive ‘happy birthday, pumpkin!’ you’d written on top of it. More beautiful than that, there’s also you, bathed in the warm glow of the candles. It never gets old.

Yours are the only birthday cakes he actually likes.

His lips quirk into a lopsided grin when you lean in to kiss his forehead as he blows out the flames. He wasn’t sure what he wished for, but he thinks it must have been that. You tell him that his present has to wait for later since you didn’t trust yourself to carry it and the cake up the tower. He doesn’t care about that.

Not now.

Not when there’s a speck of icing to be dabbed on your nose and serenity to be had.

He takes you up above the clouds. The moon glows bright and full, but he has only eyes for you as you sway together. The music had long since ended, but you two dance nonetheless. Your hand rests in his, his arm wraps around your waist, and he floats you in a slow spin.

He thanks you for wiggling into his day as much as you could.

“S’what I do best,” you say, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I love you, Johnny. Happy birthday.”

He wraps his other arm around you, pulling you infinitely closer, no longer spinning. He’d rather focus on holding you. Taking in the moment, being here, now, with you.

He’s happy.

Content.

Peaceful.

Loved.

Completely and utterly tranquil in the gravity of you.

“I love you, too.”

A very happy birthday and many, many more to our shining Starr himself <3

[terriluvss]

Growth, and Trauma in Fairytail

I love fairytail with all of my heart unfortunately it’s my special interest so I’ve overanalysed the hell out of this series and one thing I have noticed with mashima’s writing is the way characters process their trauma. (This post will contain anime spoilers) ALSO TRIGGER WARNING FOR S AND VIOLENCE

Aka, non-existent. For the most part at least. However there are some exceptions to this like with Gray. With characters like Gray, it’s very clear to see why and how he copes with traumatic events take what happened to Ur as example. Gray believes Ur’s death was his own fault (my guess is probably because he was the one who brought up the deliora situation to her causing her to come to rescue him but as a result having to nope out if life), as a result he believes he doesn’t deserve to live as it ‘should’ve been him’. His actions show this as early as Galuna island arc with our boy using iced shell against Lyon. And multiple other times, he always tries to dish out that spell as a sacrifice because he believes his life is worth nothing more.

This is proof that mashima can and does write trauma well sometimes however his writing can also pale in comparison like with the death of igneel. Specially in the Alvarez arc. Natsu was absolutely traumatised by what had happened and we can see this with him running off for a year with happy. He needed his alone time and yet once he returns its as if nothing had happened, he’s his same old smiley silly self. If you told me to look for the differences in natsu’s character between the first episode and the final season, I would have a very very hard time. There was no growth to his character apart from getting ‘stronger’, we don’t get to see how he comes to terms with the fact his one life goal is void or how he deals with the aftermath of tartaros. Afterwards he is back to his smiley goofy self again like nothing ever happened. There’s no signs at all of Natsu even being affected by it apart from getting stronger. His one life goal is now six feet under ground and he has no visible signs of being depressed over that. He’s capable of smiling, being happy, and his usual self. Even during alvarez arc he’s just as fearless and unchanged as ever. During the alvarez arc Natsu had come face to face with this killer once again and instead of showing any signs of fear at all he looks acnologia in the eyes and takes him head on as if he were a weaker oponent or something.

Realistically acnologia should have terrified natsu. Just like how natsu had been afraid of gildarts seeing his raw power, and acnologia is ten times stronger than gildarrs. Especially considering that dragon had KILLED natsu’s dad. Ripping him in half right in front of him, someone Natsu probably viewed as the strongest and indestructible torn apart just like paper. I understand everyone processes trauma differently but we’ve SEEN first hand Natsu showing fear to stronger opponents like Gildarts. So why is it that all of a sudden when Natsu is faced with acnologia in person once more there is no signs of fear, no memories of the trauma, no nothing rather this cookie cutter hero moment again. Where he takes aconologia on as if he were a weaker foe, even laughing to himself and making witty remarks. We’ve seen at the face of truly terrifying power Natsu shrivels up into a stuttering sweating mess. So it doesn’t make any sense that he feels nothing seeing acnologia again. Saying he did the healing during the one year time skip through tartaros doesn’t even make sense because he challenged gildarts to a fight during the manga and you can see him shrivel up in fear unable to speak once more as soon as gildarts destroys a mountain to save him.

Natsu can feel fear. Yet why not with acnologia? Someone who should have traumatised him.

This happens so many times throughout the series. Trauma being swept under the rug like its just another tuesday. I dont get why he can write trauma fine with Gray, but when it comes to people like Lucy or Natsu suddenly its void.

I just wish the characters in this series were given more growth but time and time again it feels like im watching the same characters from episode one over and over again.

But anyway that’s just my two cents on fairytails writing of trauma. This is my first real post on tumblr so it’s probably dogwater, but yeah im open to hearing other peoples thoughts on this and thank you for reading this low effort post.

[cherubchoirs]

I know its absolutely impossible but what if angel Gabriel and Angel v1 meet?

ooohhh i love what-if scenarios like this...i'm going to be thinking about gabriel at a point where he knows about the machines, he's met and has fought against them as they've come into hell, but it's long before he meets v1 itself. for a start, he'd be greatly shaken by it, regardless of what point he's at - v1 is very clearly manmade, yet it is also unmistakably divine, not a human imitation of it but a true vessel of god's light...but almost far worse than that, i think gabriel would be acutely aware that its light feels. like his. what can he think, staring down a machine that burns with what seems to be his very own divine fire, except that this is the one that must have wholly devoured him? one that took everything he was? can humanity do that? could they have created something capable of consuming an angel and possessing their power, or is v1 something changed like the modified husks of hell? it would be sickening, horrifying, to believe he could be broken open by a machine and so thoroughly robbed, yet...there is no hostility in v1 toward him. and v1 would have its own thoughts on seeing gabriel like this.

v1 didn't know gabriel for very long as an angel - they met, his light was torn from him, and he lived a short time afterward before he fell. its relationship has largely been with a different gabriel from this, particularly by the time v1 has been resurrected itself, and seeing him like this brings up emotions it couldn't hold for him at the time. gabriel as an angel is buried in guilt, in regret, in fear of his own imperfection and bound up in an identity only as he relates to god. when he expresses anger, he expresses it on behalf of another; when he expresses fear, it's only because he dreads his usefulness coming to an end. gabriel as an angel is only that, an angel in a host of many that strives to be perfection for everyone else...and v1 remembers that, buried in long lost files, how gabriel initially had no idea who he was. but that was at a point when he had already lost everything, when he had no choice but to live with himself. gabriel here is still clinging to it, is still deeply connected to the self only as a vessel, and v1 knows that this gabriel looking upon it is terrified of its implications yet not necessarily for himself - he sees his light being used by something else to work outside of god's will, and that's all that tortures him. the idea that he fails and his power is then used improperly, making him fail again even in death.

so v1 would approach him gently, taking in some of his emotion and responding to it - he doesn't know the steps to take though, faltering as he feels in turn how the machine wishes no harm onto him. even holding affection for him. and what can he do, what can he say to or comprehend about a being like v1 now? that indecision could only worsen with v1 confirming his suspicions and yet claiming this was a willing gift, light imparted into it to save a failing system. gabriel, giving his own fire to reignite the life in a machine. but he would die. he knows it. his life and his connection with god, everything he is in that light...he would grow furious with nothing else viable, needing to tear apart the machine as it tells him again how this was his choice, that one day he would make all of his own decisions and he would be. free. it doesn't mean death, even as he rushes at v1 and is consumed in his own rage, they lied to him and his light is his to use, even when it's torn from him, even when he's told he has failed. there is life after failure, so much more life than he has now. and he screams, he can't stand to hear it because these doubts echo the ones in the back of his mind, the questions he could never bear to entertain when he saw lucifer fall so long ago. v1 tells him he's still alive, light ripped from his body and taken back centuries later, not for himself but for another that he loved. a machine that he chose and loved without being stricken dead. and for that machine, he defied the whole host of heaven and all the natural order to give his very soul away to it, without being stricken dead. they are together, he is whole. gabriel as the angel can't believe its words, he drowns them out desperately despite how they tug at a heart that has never truly believed in heaven, in god, and certainly not in the council.

and v1 knows he can't take it in. but all it wants to tell him is that he will be loved, he will feel love, and he will do it without permission, he will do it as he chooses. and he will be just as radiant as he ever was. and i think somewhere, despite all conscious rejection, it's the words gabriel needs to hear, that even as an angel he would cling to. to fall in love, wrongly, and to be rewarded for it. to be loved as gabriel, not as the archangel. it would quiet something in him, past the surface disgust they had forced onto him, the disgust and the hate that was never his. he loved sinners, why couldn't he love a machine too? what could be freer than that?

[sitepathos]

The Boggart Problem

Laswell catches wind of a group of terrorists meeting with a group of Dark Witches to trade weapons. You and the rest of the boys are sent in to stop it; a fight breaks out and in the chaos, the box containing the weapons is opened, revealing Boggarts transforming into everyone’s greatest fears.

A/N: a comment from @hellnoname inspired me to bring this concept I’ve had to life. I just hope it lives up to expectations.

Price

He’s been in the military for most of his life, and has seen the worst mankind can conjure. He thought he was capable of powering through the sheer horror his jobs brings while in the field, but his Boggart makes him reconsider that.

As the creature stops spinning and reveals his greatest fear: the corpses of his team, you included.

Sure, he’s seen death before, watched the life fade from a man’s eyes and witnessed his fellow soldiers be torn apart by a flurry of bullets. But it’s different with all of you.

141 is the first task force he’s personally assembled and led; he carefully picked each member and approached them to convince them to join. He’s stood side by side with all of you as gunfire rains from around the corner and laughed about it later at the bar for post-mission celebrations.

To him, you’re not just soldiers, but his sons. The ones he never had. And the thought of losing one of you hits harder than any artillery shell; seeing you makes it even worse. A young lad, still just a boy, with so much talent and potential inside and his whole life ahead of him. And it was cut short.

You agreed to join them in their missions; to boldly march with them, even if it could mean death. And worst of all, you put your trust in him. And this is how he thanks you.

When you finally cast Riddikulus and banish the damn things, he opens up more when you stop at the bar afterwards. That Boggart reminded him that in their line of work, death can claim any one of you, and he wants to make sure he spends as much time with all of you as possible.

Of course, death can take his boys over his dead body.

Gaz

Gaz’s Boggart would probably be something from his childhood that plagues him to this day. Something traumatic that put his life in danger.

Say, for instance, a snake bite. When he was little, his parents took him on a camping trip and when they turned their backs, he wandered off and unfortunately found the UK’s only breed of venomous snake, the Adder. The poor thing managed to see it pounce just before it bit him.

Luckily, his parents heard his scream and were able to find him. His dad had the training necessary to suck the venom out and he was rushed to the nearest hospital. He made a full recovery, but was forever scarred with an intense fear of snakes. Just the sight of one is enough to make his heart beat faster, his palms sweaty, and his breathing quicken.

Now, that same snake not only stands before him, but now it’s giant. Even bigger than Ghost. Just as his little Gaz remembered it.

He’s paralyzed. Countless missions in countless hostile environments, and an overgrown lizard is what makes him completely shut down.

You manage to cast Riddikulus before it can bite him and it takes him a while to snap back to reality. After he does, he vows to beat his fear no matter the cost.

Ghost

Trauma alert! Trauma alert! Trauma alert!

No, but seriously, Price may have years in the military on Ghost and seen more action, but Ghost has literally crawled back from the grave, if you know his past. And if you’re familiar with his upbringing, then you know that this man has seen hell itself.

For a man as troubled as Ghost, what could be so intimidating that it would make him completely paralyzed in fear?

The answer is simple: himself. His Boggart turns into a copy of him; a version of himself that’s completely snapped.

The first thing it does is choke you and Soap, the two closest things he has to friends… or what he imagines friends would be since he never had them growing up.

And the truly screwed up part? It’s staring at him the entire time, as if saying, “Look what you’re doing. They love you, they trust you, they put their lives in your hands, and this is how you repay them. How can you be so cruel?”

And that’s what scares him the most: the fact that he can snap at any moment; that one day all his repressed shit will bury him and he’ll hurt those that he cares for, which he thinks is the only thing he can do.

After the Boggarts are banished, he takes some time to himself before joining the rest of you at the bar. The thought of you and Johnny being hurt by his own hands is enough to bring a tear to his eye, which he thought was no longer possible.

Soap

He may be 141’s resident comedian, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have his demons. He finds out that Boggarts can not only take the form of physical fears, but abstract ones, as well. And it makes its victim’s fears to the surface, no matter how much they may know it’s not true.

His Boggart turns into his fear of being alone, surrounding him in a seemingly endless fog that cuts him off from the rest of the team. Even worse, it seems to block all sound, so he’s unable to call for help.

He’s always been afraid of being alone, even as a child, so that’s why he’s always so loud and always being friendly, and why at night he needs to have some sort of noise in the background. Being alone for too long without any sort of noise brings some sort of dread in him that leaves him paralyzed.

He screams in the fog, but nothing comes out. He thrashes, but hits nothing. Eventually, he collapses into a ball, tying to comfort himself in some way, telling himself that he’s not really alone and that his team will save him.

And you do, you cast Riddikulus and help him back to his feet. He’s not ashamed to admit that he clung to you the entire walk to the helicopter.

At that bar, he clings a bit closer to the rest of you. So long as he has you and the rest of 141, he’ll march right into enemy fire, kick down the gates to hell, and give Satan himself a wedgie. So long as he’s never alone.

Alejandro

His fear is easy to figure out, but that doesn’t make it any less frightful: a vision of Las Almos engulfed in flames and her people screaming as the fire consumes them.

Like with Soap, his Boggart is able to bring his fear to the surface and completely paralyze him in a matter of seconds. Deep down, he knows his home is still standing, but right now, the Boggart is making him think his greatest fear has come to pass.

In the vision, he sees Rudy, the closest thing he has to brother, on fire; Rudy screams for Alejandro, but he’s unable to do anything. And for some reason, death doesn’t come, just more pain.

As the flames grow stronger and the cries become louder, he begins to break down. His home is gone, reduced to a pile of ash, and there’s nothing he can do about it.

After the Boggart is gone, he makes arrangements to go home for a few days. He knows that what he saw was nothing more than an illusion, but it’ll help set his mind at ease. And Laswell is more than happy to give him the time off.

König

Like Alejandro, his fear is easier to figure out, but that doesn’t make it any less valid.

All his life, he’s struggled with terrible social anxiety and he’s only just recently made progress to beat it. His Boggart takes the form of hundreds of eyes, all of them staring at him, judging him, belittling him.

He always takes a Calming Drought before a mission, to help beat the jitters that come with his line of work, but the Boggart somehow overpowers the potion and not only brings his anxiety back, but amplifies it tenfold.

He begins to hyperventilate and eventually crumples up into a ball, trying to make himself so small that he can hide from the eyes, but he’s reminded that his size makes him too big to hide anywhere.

He cries out for someone, anyone, to help him. To make the eyes disappear. To make his anxiety disappear. He eventually starts to choke up.

You manage to banish the Boggart and help calm him down, giving him a Calming Drought you keep on you whenever you’re around the Australian giant.

After he gets back to the base, he locks himself in his room, turning out all the lights and covering the single window he has. In the absolute darkness, he does the breathing exercises he was taught as a kid to curb his anxiety. For a while, he insists on being alone and Price is happy to give him his alone time.

Although, he’s happy to accept your offer of using your Animagus form if you happen to be a cat/dog. He finds petting your soft fur helps and asks if you’d be willing to do this again, which you happily agree to.

[thelongestway]

some very sudden and unoriginal Star Trek Prodigy thoughts

do we know from anywhere that the Living Construct was developed by the Vau N'Akat?

because I was just thinking on the thematic parallels of two civilizations suddenly tearing themselves apart. to a point, this could be a product of the Vau N'Akat sense of poetic justice. but I am suddenly not so sure it was. now, I might be deeply misremembering, but I woke at 1 AM to write this, so hear me out.

either the fault lines in Vau N'AKat society need to run deep enough that slight provocation could tear them wide open, or… the Living Construct is neither Vau N'Akat nor Starfleet. Instead, it's entirely its own. Perhaps something of an eldritch opposite to the Borg: an entity which tears apart social connections instead of forging them by force. Most obviously by messing up language; a living punishment for daring to build a Tower of Babel. But perhaps also in more subtle ways?

and who should be able to work on that ship if not people whose existence has hitherto been defined by profound, destructive loneliness? who are always resigned to the possibility that it could, in the end, be their fate?

there is nothing more the Construct can do to those who have lived and breathed loneliness and know it as the baseline norm of existence unless they do something about it with their own hands. Who would it attack? Dal, the only one of his kind, raised by a particularly ruthless Ferengi? Rok-Tahk, perceived as monstrous and dimwitted when she is curious, smart and kind? Zero, who has already lived through being torn away from their people and their link, and has been used as a weapon for who knows how long afterwards? Jankom Pog, alone on a Sleeper ship, with his bitter "if there's one more problem I can't fix, how can I call myself an engineer" and dreams of royalty? Murf, who is too alien to participate in most forms of communication the others form together? The only person who has had even shreds of recent belonging was Gwyndala, and that ended on-screen, with "You chose the ship."

and Janeway. the right way, the wrong way, and the Janeway way, as that recent post said on the insane, warping loneliness of command and loyalty when you're 70k light years away from home (or however long it was). and the Protostar Janeway cannot even rely on her experience being lived.

but the Construct knows Protostar Janeway, and it knows what she misses. so it stays dormant and infects an optimistic Starfleet, used to Community.

In this context, the Construct could easily be the first cause, and at the same time the Vau N'Akat could just as easily have thought it originated from Starfleet. Imagine if the Protostar came in with that weapon embedded in it (from Wormhole shenanigans*), and collectively Chakotay and the Vau N'Akat figured it out too late, at which point the Vau N'Akat decided it was Starfleet's plan all along. Chakotay crashing his ship Prophets knows where makes sense: isolate the isolator. In this case, the Borg being weird about the construct makes sense (need to rewatch), and also Zero being able to just walk out on them. Way less attack surface.

And another thing: the training the Diviner puts Gwyndala through is insane. he wasn't just preparing a wartime interpreter, that'd be a couple of languages plus a Drednok. Teaching a child… Dozens if not hundreds of languages? Why? What past war and experience was he preparing her for? Why make her learn ways of thinking until she could know most of the races in the galaxy blind? Was he ensuring that, no matter what, she could reach someone? Even if everyone else were to be affected - in the land of the blind, the one-eyed lady is queen.

I really, really want to see how season 2 will handle it. and I have faith that they will, and that they will find a new home. we need more linguistics in our science fiction, and even if this theory is totally bonkers, the themes of loneliness, understanding, and literally being able to speak to one another will be there. because the writers are good, and that's what they chose to explore, and showed it like 5 min in of episode 1.

I think Suzette Haden Elgin would've loved Star Trek Prodigy, and that it would be a high compliment.

*crack version: it's a stray Pah-wraith. Instead of "why do you exist here", it goes "you HAVE and WILL ALWAYS exist HERE". The Bajorans were mostly immune to them for the same reason the Prodigy crew is: there is a limit after which loneliness and uncertainty become the default, and then those beings lose their power (and the people thrown into it? die or have the kind of scars we're shown). And also this is how they get Kai Winn - after what, four decades including concentration camps and empty prayer? Took 'em a while EVEN WITH the seeds planted for them by Winn Adami herself!

[doublesidedgemini]

tw: suicide + me being crazy irrational about heart break lmfao

This is a massively long post also warning lol I’m like kinda manic :)

DISCLAIMER: I 100% know that it is domestic violence to message someone and threaten bodily harm or suicide to guilt them into staying with you. Please know I have messaged this person from my past (not the one i am messaging in the screenshots) that I am incredibly hurt BUT HAVE NOT expressed intent to hurt myself to him. The above messages are just my crazy thoughts expressed to someone where we mutually vent about our mental to each other.

Can I just say though, “I hope it grows a pit in his stomach that swallows him” goes fucking hard.

Anyway. This person I’m talking about. The one I’ve been posting about. Like I’ve been saying. Out of everyone in the world I can’t believe he would just up and abandon me. He’s watched me get torn apart by previous relationships and he’s told me how much it hurts to watch me go through that

So to know he saw my hurt and he supported me and comforted me through those times and promised me better and told me better and started showing me better only to snatch it away after just a few weeks with no fucking warning — it just hurts. So much. Fucking. Worse.

And after everything every other man has put me through in my life oh my GOD let me just say Teeth and Jennifer’s Body will always have a special place in my heart. I wish I was them. If men are going to crave and lust after my body and be willing to defile and torture and kill me to get it then let me use this as the siren call to lure them and open my rib cage like a gaping maw and devour them whole.

I can’t help but want to inflict the same pain on him. Abandonment is a huge fucking trigger for me and he was supposed to be my safe person but the thought of dropping my BMI until my heart gives out and he doesn’t find out until afterwards and checks his messages and sees I died wounded and hurting and bloodied by his hand but hating him bitterly with the rage of the trauma that has cemented in my bones I hope it fucking rots him slowly over the years until he has this huge heavy unresolved guilt he can’t get rid that coats him and everything in his life like a toxic sludge

I don’t want him to die. I want him to live. Clearly, I’m crazy and maybe finding a better woman is a better choice for him. Sure, he can be happy. But I hope my torment lifts from my body when I die and haunts him like a fucking ghost :)

Also I just want to say if he had just had the balls to have a conversation with me and tell me he was choosing not to pursue things further INSTEAD OF TELLING ME THE OPPOSITE AND BLOCKING ME JUST A FEW DAYS LATER I would not be feeling this strongly. In fact, if he had just been honest and upfront with me I could still even see myself being friends with him once I let the initial hurt fade. BUT TO JUST ABANDON ME BRRRRRRRROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO the fucking wound this gives me

[creoterative]

As the winds grow cold

Helloooo guys! It’s been a very long time since I last wrote something, but as teasered already, I finished chapter two of Let’s play a game then, my TWDG Fanfiction. This story focuses on Marlon as he is my favorite character and although I think his death was somewhat important for AJ’s developement, I still didn’t like him getting cut off so early on... soooo I wrote an alternative story, where he lives.

The next chapter play three weeks after his secret is exposed and basically shows how he deals with it so far. Until a certain someone wants to play another round of Poker with him.

Please enjoy! I’ll leave the link to the whole chapter right here!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/40118184/chapters/112946044#workskin

------

It was surprisingly calm for a day in the middle of late autumn, but comparatively cold and even though it had already disappeared, there had still been a thin layer of frost on the grass this morning. This meant that winter would not be long in coming and thus the entire school was put in a tense mood.

The cold season was always a problem, but most of all it was an unavoidable danger for all the children at Ericson Boarding School. Marlon had had an uneasy feeling in his stomach every time the first snow fell, the first frost wind came and the first animals began to retreat for hibernation, because then all they had left were the fish in the river, very rarely a rabbit.

And even now, although he was long out of the position of having to worry, he wondered if it would work out as well this time as it had last year. He had somehow managed to minimize the rations so much that everyone got away with the bare essentials, but not a drop more, which had ultimately saved their butts.

Now things looked different. Marlon was no longer at the head of this small group of survivors, it was no longer his job to check on the well-being of each member, even if force of habit made him do it again now and then.

It had actually been three weeks since he had had to step down as leader. After what he had done, there would have been no other way. No, if he had remained in this position of power, it would probably have divided the entire group afterwards and driven it apart. That could not happen under any circumstances. Not because of him. No, either way, it couldn't happen at all. They all worked too hard for that.

Actually, Marlon wasn't allowed much time on the surface, mostly spending the day in the basement, the doors locked from the outside unless someone brought him food (which he rarely really touched). But today, to Marlon's amazement, Louis had opened the large folding doors to the basement and allowed him to move around the yard. The disdainful, uncertain, but sometimes curious looks of the other children were unpleasant, but after Marlon had settled down on one of the benches, they had gone back to their work.

The bench was cold and Marlon himself didn't necessarily give off much heat to make it a little more comfortable. He was the only one who hadn't grabbed any warmer clothes from inside, instead staying in his patched leather jacket, torn jeans and dark red striped t-shirt. Not that the others would approve of him putting on something warmer, but he also believed that at least they wouldn't stop him if he did. So he stopped himself.

He was used to the cold anyway. The boarding school had endured some fierce winters, and after the world went to shit, it had only been through ingenuity and a will to survive that he had been able to escape the ice. One winter he had even had to eat the slugs Louis had collected the previous fall and raised as pets. He was still sorry about that, even if it had kept him from snatching the bowl of soup out of Willy's hand.

Marlon had always held back when it came to food, in his eyes that had only been right, after all he was the oldest and had to be a role model for them. Yes, and what a role model he had been. In the end, however, his behavior had been of no use, they still saw him as a traitor.

Resting his left forearm on the cold wooden table and resting his head on his right hand, he had opened his light blue eyes only slightly and looked at the empty courtyard in front of him. Fatigue had been a constant companion for years, but for the past week it had gotten really bad. It was probably because he just couldn't find any sleep. And not only because it was damn cold down there in the basement.

There was something that kept him awake. That night three weeks ago, the night that had changed everything. That night he had almost become a murderer, twice. Just thinking about it made him want to leave the school, lie down under an old gnarled tree and wait for the snow to make him disappear completely.

The feeling of wet iron in his hand that would emit a deafening sound with the slightest movement of his index finger. The dull thud of plastic on bone, the flickering light of the flashlight. Then Brody's lifeless body falling against the boiler. It had been pure luck that Marlon had hit her a few inches too far to the left, or he would have knocked her lights out forever. The more he thought about what could have happened if he had hit just a little harder in his rage, the more his shoulders tensed and an unpleasant tugging sensation spread through his stomach.

He didn't even notice it himself, was so caught up in his thoughts that he couldn't break free of it until he heard a familiar bark. Immediately his head shot up and his eyes widened a little. There were now only Omar and Mitch outside, the rest had probably moved inside to escape the cold or had gone into the woods to check the traps. But now Rosie came skipping joyfully towards Marlon, which made him smile.

"Hey, sweetie. How are you?" The big, brown female dog gave another delighted bark and braced her front paws on the free part of the bench while wagging her short stubby tail excitedly. Marlon released his head from his hand and let it stroke Rosie's massive body. She was getting her winter coat, even though it didn't really make a difference, short haired dog that is.

He had only been able to see his animal friend once since he had been banished to the basement and he even physically noticed how much he had missed her closeness. A twinge began to grow stronger in his chest and he felt the corners of his mouth, which had been lifted at first, slowly move back down. Rosie noticed his growing displeasure and squealed softly before running her tongue over his chin.

"Oh, it's okay. Just missed you. You can't come down to the basement with me, I'm afraid." The dog squealed softly once more, but then let Marlon continue to scratch her over the head. Yes, three weeks were long when you had no one to talk to and didn't quite know how to act at all.

Marlon had withdrawn completely after his unforgivable act and obeyed every order that was given to him. He just didn't want to cause more trouble, didn't want someone to die because of him who didn't deserve it. In no case he wanted to see more blood on his hands.

The blood that was already on them was already way too much. Minnie and Sophie had been taken by a gang of adults under his supervision and with his consent. Thanks to him, Brody now had a head trauma, as he had learned later from Ruby, from which she also did not recover for a while. At least Brody could walk halfway straight and her eyes worked again, but she was still constantly accompanied by Ruby. And then there was Clementine. Marlon had threatened her with her own gun, wanted to shoot her if she dared take even one wrong step. And then...

Then he had given up. The moment Marlon dropped the gun through Louis' good coaxing, he gave up both the fight against his friends and himself as a human being. He no longer felt entitled to even be present at that school, to take of their hunted food, and to waste their precious time having to stand guard because of him. In short, Marlon felt like the last pile of dirt, and quite justifiably so.

Rosie alone couldn't fix this completely destroyed self-confidence, but at least she tried and her company already made the day a lot nicer than the 19-year-old would have expected. She laid her head on his lap and closed her eyes while Marlon gently stroked her back, partly to reassure her that he was okay. Which he wasn't. But it didn't do any good if Rosie got wind of it and tried like crazy to cheer him up. To which she had certainly noticed that he had lost some weight and generally adopted a calmer, more reserved demeanor. Almost as if he wanted to be invisible.

Somewhere he wanted that, too. Marlon had begged Clementine to at least let him leave the school, but she refused and took him as a prisoner, making the basement his new sleeping place now. Not that he had much to do down there. His things were still upstairs in the office, which, as far as he knew, Violet now occupied for the time being. Clementine had become her right-hand woman, though that would probably change eventually, the way Marlon assessed his former friend.

Yes, they had been friends once. Long before he'd shot himself in the foot like that. After Minnie and Sophie didn't come back, that had been the end of it, too. Even though Violet had never said it openly, it had been clear to him even then that she judged him for it. And she had every right in the world to do so. Now that the truth had come to light, her hatred for him was all the stronger and he let her have it as best he could.

He owed her that. Just as he owed it to everyone else to keep quiet now and do as he was told.

Mitch continued to keep watch, but Omar trotted into the house with a few pieces of wood, probably to turn on the stove. Or to keep it running. How was Marlon supposed to know which stoves were on, he wasn't allowed there anymore. He did, however, feel Mitch's piercing gaze on the back of his neck from time to time, which was quite uncomfortable, but nothing he couldn't stand. They were all watching him as best they could to make sure he didn't do anything wrong. Pah, it was like he was in prison. When in fact he had kept Clementine and AJ as his prisoners. Not right away, and not on purpose, but.... he had done it.

If he hadn't, he would have been next. Or Louis. Or Violet. Aasim. Ruby. Mitch. Willy. Omar. Tenn... Well, at least that's what Marlon told himself, to somehow cope with the remorse that by now was crashing over him like a monster wave. He had no idea how he'd managed to hold them back like that for a whole year, and he didn't even want to imagine the hell he'd put Brody through who was just being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Clementine was right. He really was pathetic.

The wind did pick up a bit now and Marlon began to shiver, which made Rosie run her tongue over his hand. Unfortunately, that didn't really help, rather the quickly cooling drool of the dog only made it worse, but he thanked her with a few strokes for her kindly meant attempt. Yes, she was almost like an anchor of sorts for him, once he thought about it more carefully. Louis was his best friend, but after Marlon had put himself at the head of the students, he had long since stopped talking to him as openly as he had before.

He had buried any worries, hoping he would never have to think about them again or that he would somehow be able to solve them on his own. It felt wrong as a leader to let it shine through that something was wrong, but Marlon, above all, just hadn't been able to stand up to his pride. Pride had ultimately brought him down, as the combination with his fear for himself eventually made him a boxed-in wolf.

Dangerous to anyone who approached.

Marlon quietly breathed in and out through his nose, which burned his lungs as the temperature was probably already scraping zero. Rosie would make a good hot water bottle, but she was far too heavy; if he let her sit on his lap, she would probably completely drain his legs of blood. And there was nothing to be gained by that.

Actually, Marlon wanted to make his way back to the basement, but he knew he wasn't allowed to take a single step without the others knowing where he was going. That meant he would have to get Mitch to lock him up again, and Marlon didn't really feel like doing that. In a few hours there would be a shift change anyway and then someone would make sure he didn't run away.

Suddenly, however, Marlon felt something brush over his shoulders and he immediately wheeled around, startled. A thin, dark plaid blanket slid from his back to the floor and when Marlon looked up, he saw directly into the golden-yellow eyes of Clementine. "Take it easy. It's just me." She bent down and picked up the blanket, holding it again toward the blond boy. "Here."

Marlon was a bit overwhelmed by the gesture and looked at the blanket in confusion before carefully reaching out and taking it. "Thanks, but I'm sure you guys need them more urgently." "If we needed it that badly, I certainly wouldn't give it to you." Good point. Still, he didn't like it. What did she want from him?

He was really starting to get very cold, though, so he wrapped the blanket tightly around his shoulders and knotted two tails together in front of his chest. Clementine kept her eyes on him as he did so, then sauntered herself over to the bench that stood opposite him on the other side of the wooden table.

For some time they looked at each other in silence. Marlon still didn't quite know how best to react, but Clementine seemed to be just as indecisive herself, which didn't make things any easier. At some point, however, Marlon's old curiosity broke through.

"How are the others doing? And you and AJ?" Clementine tilted her head a little, but didn't think twice. "As well as we can be. There's been happening... a lot  in the last three weeks. The waiting is the worst." Yes, they had been waiting forever now for the raiders to ambush them. Everyone had helped come up with a plan, set up traps, make the school burglar-proof. Everyone, but Marlon had been locked in the basement. And he had tended to stay away nonetheless, not wanting to get in the way or even impede their work flow.

"I know. But we can never know when they'll show up. Better to be careful and cover everything than fight unprepared and lose." His words sounded more determined than he actually was, but Clementine thankfully didn't notice. She took her hands out of her pockets and placed them on the table in front of her. "True. But what's this I hear about you wanting to fight?"

That... was actually a valid question. Marlon returned her gaze directly and nodded, this time more determined than his words had seemed earlier. "If you'll let me, I'll join the fight." "Funny. When a few days ago you would have made a deal with them, just so you wouldn't have to fight. You even betrayed your friends so you wouldn't have to defend yourselves."

Her words cut ice cold through the air and hit Marlon with full force. As if he wasn't aware of it. He knew exactly what he had done and almost did. He realized that it must have seemed rather hypocritical the way he was now trying to push his way back to the front.

His cool blue eyes wandered to Rosie, who had sat down beside him again, panting softly, but staring toward the gate as if waiting for someone. "I know.",he managed to say. "And I also know that I can never make it up to you. I...I want to at least try, though." "Why try when you know it won't work?"

He raised his head like a deer that had just heard the growl of a hungry wolf. Why was he trying? There was no other way. What else was he going to do? Sit around and wait for someone to kill him? From the way Violet was giving him evil looks, that wasn't going to be for long. "Because I have to do something. I can't sit around and watch you guys turn the school into a fortress just so I can hole up in it later. I've always been on the front lines, and I'm going to do it again now."

Marlon had taken the lead of his own free will when no one else had dared. With Mrs. Martin's help, he had earned the trust of the younger kids and made sure he knew them all intimately. He had been willing to throw himself into a herd of walkers for them if he had to, knowing they would do the same for him. Most of them, at least.

At one point, they knew walkers so well that Marlon had no trouble at all fending them off. How many times had he had to save Willy's or Mitch's ass when they had once again jumped head over heels into battle. And if Marlon hadn't decided to go after the noises first, knowing it would attract Walkers, Clementine wouldn't be here now.

But then... then he had shown what he was really made of. When those two adults had threatened him and Brody, as well as Minnie and Sophie.... He couldn't think straight. Fear took over in a flash, and when he thought about how much his hands had shaken at the sight of the shotgun's long barrel, he felt sick. Dead people were one thing. Living, intelligent people with guns were quite another. And in the end, he himself had become one of those mindless critters. Driven by fear, panic, hate.

Yes, hate.

Clementine returned Marlon's gaze, though he could clearly see the mistrust in her eyes. Suddenly, however, it ebbed a little and her features relaxed for the most part. She nodded so gently that he almost didn't notice, but the determination in her gaze was quite enough to let him know what she was about to say. He should be careful. But she wouldn't stand in his way if he wanted to help. Just this small gesture of hers made Marlon feel a little calm inside.

It didn't show confidence, but she believed him. Probably the girl would not rely on him in a fight, but at least she would believe that he would try with all his might to defend the walls. And that was enough for Marlon for now.

Clementine reached to her right and picked up something from the floor. A silver suitcase. Marlon's poker case. He heard her release the safety catch and pull out the cards to shuffle them. Her hands deftly took out the playing chips and slowly stacked them on top of each other before she slid four of the different colored stacks over to him. As she did so, he kept silent himself and just watched, for it distracted him at least a little from the guilt that her gesture brought out again. If only he had been so determined when it came to saving Minerva and Sophie....

[beyondglass]

I think a lot about made up scenarios and what if situations but I think my favorite one to ponder on over the last year has been "what if the world went back to the year 2013 with all the knowledge of 2024?"

Like you go to bed one night and it's tonight in 2024, you wake up and it's today's date in 2013. You still have all the knowledge you have now, just your body is 11 years younger. Everyone has all the knowledge they have now, just their bodies are 11 years younger.

But it goes deeper than that. Anyone who's died after this date in 2013 is alive again, with no memory of being dead or the pain of dying. Their last memory is the last time they were actively alive. Anyone born after this date in 2013 doesn't exist anymore. If your wife died in 2015 and you remarried in 2020 would you go back to your first wife? Would you stick with the one you remarried? If you had a kid with your abusive ex in 2014 would you get back with them and hope you can recreate the child you had come to love and care for over the last 10 years? Or would you accept the loss of the person you loved more than anything?

The world is exactly as it was in 2013. Any businesses that someone had spent their life savings on creating afterward is just gone, even if everyone knew you had that business in 2024 you won't have the money to create it quite yet. Any media made after 2013 doesn't exist yet, it's up to the artist if they want to officially recreate it, but some assholes will inevitably "create" it first and copyright it so the original artist won't have the rights to it.

Also anyone who was a kid in 2013 but an adult in 2024 loses all purpose for a bit until everyone can come to an agreement about them. Legally they're kids right? But they've already gone through school. They've lived on their own, they've had their own kids. Are they supposed to stay with their parents until they're legally of age again? Are they allowed to drink still even though it might fuck up their developing brains?

It's also a precovid world but with all the knowledge of covid. It's a pre trump America so would the Maga crowd fight for him to be able to run another 2 times even though we all know he's already been president before?

Personally for me, I imagine going to bed in my own house in 2024 that I share with my cat and roommates. When I wake up in my parents house in 2013, I'm disoriented. I don't realize exactly where I am at first but I realize I'm not where I'm supposed to be. My alarm clock for school is going off and it's that shrill alarm clock sound rather than the hazbin hotel songs I have set as my daily alarm clock now. It's all very confusing.

I shut the alarm off and see the posters on my wall are completely different than the ones I have in 2024. My green day poster in particular is still on my wall and not torn apart in the trash like the last time I saw it. I hear pants and growls coming from the kitchen and my stomach drops.

I open my bedroom door and across the hall is the bathroom I grew up using, it's walls still covered in a nautical theme. This must be a nightmare i think. The pants grow louder and i even a hear a yip. I turn and see my childhood dogs in the kitchen with a baby gate up so they couldn't escape in the night. I almost fall, on the verge of tears. My dog, milo, died during my first year of college. This couldn't be real.

I let the dogs out, my feet feeling the old carpet on the way. My parents tore this carpet out after i moved out. The walls of the livingroom are still ugly red and brown from my step mom's "south west" phase of decorating. The kitchen walls are a bright yellow in contrast. None of this makes sense.

I hear another alarm- my dad's. His heavy footsteps make their way around his room, and finally into the livingroom. He hasn't noticed the changed house yet. How could he? He lives here. He woke up in the same place he went to sleep last night. What he does notice however is that I am here. His daughter. Who he hasn't seen in 5 years. We stand there in shock staring at each other.

After this whole part I'm not exactly sure what would happen, my parents would either go super extreme and force me to live with them until I'm 18 again so they can control me or they would kick me out and make me find my own way again even though I'm 14. There's really no in-between for them. At first they wouldn't believe the world was back in 2013, they would think i did something to make the house look like it used to until they watched the news and saw the chaos unfold.

As soon as I would get ahold of an internet connected device I would try to find my friends and make sure they're all alright. I would maybe crash with one of them or my brother while the world figures itself out.

[whaleji]

girlblogging like kafka ; entry 2

slow day today. started watching a cool tv show about the origins of french rap and hip hop in general. love it. "le monde de demain" on netflix, it stars a guy i already discovered in "sage homme", he's very promising + dances really well. watching it makes me want to scream my lungs out and talk about everything that bugs me all the time, but i'm cursed with having no words to express and describe what i feel and why i feel it except for the obvious. i want to talk about misogyny, about social expectations, about the so lethal capitalism, about the dullness of life in the age of profit and hyper digitalisation. i've been listening to a lot of rap altogether lately. i like the raw feeling of it, the rare display of anger it allows. somehow like that painting by Zack Zdrale, "Continually Torn Apart". but i'm afraid turning my anger, so like a perpetually fed fire, into still art won't ease it enough. it's so ingrained inside, so internal i'm afraid breaking all the plates or writing all the prose of the world wouldn't be enough. expressing my anger only seems to be satisfying when it is being directly witnessed by an audience. that would mean what i'm looking for may be performative art : rap, live painting, walls wrecking... but would that even be enough in itself ? dunno.

i've been thinking about getting a whale tattoo. love whales, they're fascinating beings. their eyes so profound and full of knowledge, so full of kindness and patience. it's hard for me to act on changing something about my appearance forever because my sense of self is so fickle and ever-changing. one day i'm classy, want to fit within the self proper crowd, to curate my persona from the inside as well as the outside, to have nice hair and carefully chosen clothes and perfect nails and skin, to be mature in appearance and thought, to be feminine but not "girly"; the other i dress with whatever looks clean enough on my floor, wear no makeup, despise anything that could associate me with abiding to patriarchal diktats, display proudly unshaven armpits and legs, look at said proper crowds with defiance and anger; sometimes i dress according to specific styles, y2k or goth or emo or lolita or pinterest girl or sea lover, embrace new personas and looks, envision myself as part of that crowd forever and make semi permanent choices in regards to it. recent examples are me dying my hair bright red on a whim on a week night in my friend's small dorm room, or me deciding to get acrylics two days ago because they're pretty and regretting it two days later, bothered by the lack of practicality they induce as well as the way they look.

i'm afraid of facing the same dilemma after getting tatted and regretting it my whole life afterwards. i wish i didn't have such a fragile sense of who i am and how i present to the world. i think the real issue at hand is my materiality. if i didn't have a physical body that i have to constantly accommodate so it looks the closest possible to how i imagine my soul appears, i could just be. i could be myself without my other, physical self to act as a barrier between me and the world. but then i'd be so raw and where could i hide from harm ? if everyone was a soul without a body then our souls would crash against one other and bruise and swallow one other up perpetually. i fear and wish for this extent of rawness from my soul and that of others at all times. as it's impossible yet, i sit and fantasize about immateriality in my bed, looking at abstract paintings headphones plugged in listening to that cathartic rap that turns my despair into anger and helps purge it if only a little.

sitting on my bed. still far away from home. but where's home ? i know wherever i'm coming back to after this vacation is not, and yet my apartment 1000kms from it isn't either. and when did my childhood home stop being home, and what become of "home" ? my home are four people i wish i could climb into, but can't see often, or at the same time. when they're away i'm homeless. i stray. i look for a place to settle in. a concept. i stray. i'm homeless within my house. it's raining outside.

[toji-bunny-girl]

𝗞𝗡𝗕 𝗯𝗼𝘆𝘀 𝗮𝘀 𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗲 𝘁𝗿𝗼𝗽𝗲𝘀 !!

ꕤ 𝐀𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐈𝐊𝐈 as childhood friends-to-lovers. The two of you have been sticking next to each other since you could ever remember—he knows every single dream you have and promised to reach them together with you, and you promised to be by his side regardless whether he’s soaring or falling. Aomine was your other half and you were his too.

Those were the innocent promises you’ve made when you were both kids. And now that you’re both grown up, his height towering over yours and your body growing curves, every time he hangs his arm on your shoulder or when you hug his arm close to you; it sends butterflies all over your tummy. You’re not sure whether you should be feeling this way, oblivious to your mutual feelings.

Though, you couldn’t say that the both of you didn’t feel it. His hold on your hand lingers longer than it should, your gazes seeping tenderness and signs of jealousy whenever someone of opposite sex gets too close to one of you.

But neither of you are bold enough to admit your feelings, fearing the risk of your friendship torn apart. So you let the lingering touches be, only allow yourself to show your longing gaze whenever his back faces you and bite your tongue as yet another girl confesses to him.

ꕤ 𝐊𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐌𝐈 𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐆𝐀 as fate’s second chances. You used to be friends but eventually, the both of you grew apart with your own lives, almost forgetting about your friendship until one day, you bumped into each other and his name starts to be on the top of your call history again.

There’s not a day where one of you forgets to text the other, not a single night where the two of you doesn’t lay on your beds and talk about your day on the phone. And suddenly, Kagami is back into your life and he refuses to leave again; slowly making himself apart of your life more and more. Until he’s sending you home everyday and you’re cheering his name the loudest in all of his matches.

ꕤ 𝐊𝐔𝐑𝐎𝐊𝐎 𝐓𝐄𝐓𝐒𝐔𝐘𝐀 as dense people in love with the help of their friends. It started when his friends called out the way he looks at you, eyelids softened and relax, orbs brighter than they’ve ever seen. Even he himself was shocked to his feelings, spending sleepless nights thinking all about it—thinking all about you. It took a week after his realisation only did he ask his friends for advise. After all, he’s more clueless about love than anything else.

While on your side, you’re begging your friends to help you out with the boy who you thought didn’t have any feelings for you. The shy smiles he sent you as per Hyuga’s words and the awkward conversations he tried to start seemingly useless to your oblivious mind.

Though, the same goes for him too. The homemade bento you gave him that you’ve spent an hour before school preparing with the excuse it was leftovers from the night before and the sports drink you’d give him after his practice flew over his dense head even his teammates were absolutely flabbergasted.

So the battle between Kuroko and your friends began, just to see which one of you would finally get your feelings through your equally dense heads.

ꕤ 𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐄 𝐑𝐘𝐎𝐓𝐀 as something more than just friends. Every conversations you make would turn into something flirtatious, then you would both laugh it off afterwards, before either of you slips a glance at the other.

Everyone around you are always screaming at the two of you to get a room because of how heavy the chemistry between the both of you is—but neither of you would do anything other than throwing teasing words around and accidental touches.

It’s like you’re both running away from your feelings, afraid to confront the other for something serious; afraid that you’re going to be toyed with and get your heart broken. Yet when someone asks you out on a date, you’d reject them with him in mind.

Ironically, the longer you stay silent about how you really feel, the more painful your heart becomes until it’s almost unbearable. Kise’s just a little away from your reach; he’s yours but not at the same time.

ꕤ 𝐌𝐔𝐑𝐀𝐒𝐀𝐊𝐈𝐁𝐀𝐑𝐀 𝐀𝐓𝐒𝐔𝐒𝐇𝐈 as friends-to-lovers. The base of your friendship starting with what the two of you like in common—snacks. Your first impression of him was some big intimidating basketball player until he’s sitting next to you in the back of the class; where the real party is.

Not 10 minutes after the class started did you hear some kind of stomach growling before Atsushi turns to his bag pack and takes out a big bag of chips along with a pair of scissors. He’s quiet as he cuts the packet with the scissors, as if he’s experienced with it.

Watching him snacking beside you, back hunched like an old man and a hand over his chewing mouth, made you hungry for some snacks too. So, you took out your own caramel corn. You sit at the back of the class anyway, you had to have snacks ready in your bag.

Peering at you, Atsushi’s eyebrows jumped up a little before pointing at your snack, asking for an exchange with his. And from then on, you’ve been sharing snacks in classes almost every single day, until one day you find a piece of paper inside the opened bag of chips he handed to you.

‘Wanna go buy snacks tgt?’

ꕤ 𝐀𝐊𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐈 𝐒𝐄𝐈𝐉𝐔𝐑𝐎 as enemies-to-lovers. It started off small with his original hatred for you; like when you would raise your hand a second faster than him in class when the teacher asked a question or when the voting for class president between you and him turned out to be a tie. Then occasionally, he would overhear classmates talking about how you’re perfect—captain of your club, vice-captain of the student council and there’s no single flaw in your personality and looks.

Perhaps it was jealousy? He didn’t know, such a feeling was foreign to him after all. And as time passed, he saw you as a sort of competition, a threat that he had to defeat. Until one day, when you’re both put into a project, which would take weeks to complete in the least, together by your teacher. Of course it annoyed him, pissed him off but he still had to finish the project with you any way.

You were well aware of Akashi’s hate for you, and his incredible superior complex too so you thought working together with him would be tough; or maybe somehow get you killed as well. But it turned out that he didn’t really planned for your demise, although he would ignore your texts and ideas regarding your project—he didn’t have to say aloud but all you needed to do was to follow his lead and you’ll be fine.

Well too bad for him, you’re as persistent as a mosquito, following him around campus and even going to his practice just to ramble about what you think you should do for the project; completely ignoring all of his threats that he’ll hurt you. Until eventually, he couldn’t handle you anymore and agreed to let you play your part in the work. And that was the start to everything.

Discussions in the school library turned into working in his house’s library. Rides to his house turned into walks to your house after school. And his hatred for you, turned into yet another foreign feeling in his ribs.

[seidenbros]

Hi there! Hope you’re having a great day. I had an idea in mind for a Geralt x reader Angst/Fluff/Smut, where reader was a Witch but she/they passed away. Geralt then dreams of her/them, really sweet and passionate smut where he thinks she’s back and shows her how much he’s missed her/them and then he wakes up and is devastated :,)

Okay.... OKAY. Let me tell you that I nearly cried when I read this request, because DAMN it's such a sad consept. Neverthelesse, I still wrote it. Do I like to make myself suffer? Sure seems like it, but it's just such a great request. I really hope, you enjoy the angst and pain I'll inflict upon you (lovingly). And I went with a 3rd person y/n for the first time, 'cause it seemed more fitting. Let me know what you think

The Witcher Masterlist on A03

Pairing: Geralt x fem!reader Warnings/Tags: fluff, angst and smut, soft Geralt, declarations of love, p in v sex, sad ending (if you couldn't tell from the request), loss of a loved one Word Count: 2513

Love Me Once More

It wasn't the same anymore, not since she was gone. After spending years together, their hearts practically melted into one, losing y/n had been the hardest Geralt ever had to endure. Seeing her die right in front of his eyes, not able to do anything to help her anymore, had torn him apart. Something inside him had snapped that moment, and he'd killed anything, anyone around him. Only when there was nobody breathing around him, had he been able to come back to his senses. Her dead body in the middle of this field, blood everywhere, covering his face, her lifeless eyes staring back up at him...

Even the memory made him clench his fists, curse himself for not getting to her faster so that he could have gotten a chance to save her. Everyone had told him that he hadn't had chance, that he couldn't have done anything different to save her. He didn't blame them, his family, because the others had only gotten there half an hour after everything had been over, because they'd fought in a different place. They'd found him there amidst the corpses all alone, crying his heart out for the love of his life.

When Jaskier had touched his shoulder, Geralt had tensed up, had even growled at him, until he'd realised who it was. Everything afterwards was still a blur, but they'd somehow managed to get him away from there, take care of his injury, while they'd also take y/n's dead body along to give her a proper burial.

Her grave was only a few minutes from where he was sitting now, by the coast, covered in lilacs that would bloom in the spring again. She'd been one of the best sorceresses he'd known, but even that hadn't saved her. He'd gone through it over and over again, but in the end, it wouldn't change anything. What's done is done.

His brothers had helped him with the funeral, they'd even brought him here to this cottage, where he had some peace and quiet, some time to himself, because he needed that. Geralt wasn't good with company at the moment. The only person to visit him every now and then, was Jaskier, who checked up on him, brought him some supplies and made sure that he did indeed eat and didn't only tell him that in order to get rid of him. He had Roach for company, and if he needed someone, he'd know where to find them. Until then, his brothers and Vesemir would leave him alone. There was nothing they could do to heal a broken and battered heart, they could only give him the time he needed and be there for him.

Geralt appreciated that they stayed away from him most of the time. He was grieving, he knew it, and it hurt like hell, but he didn't know how long that pain would remain, but right now, it wasn't going anywhere. They'd always talked about living at the coast at one point. Build a little cottage, maybe get a couple sheep or goats – Eskel could certainly get them set up – and just live a peaceful live.

Looking out over the ocean, Geralt took a deep breath, the salty air filling his nose, his lungs. If he closed his eyes hard enough, maybe he could ream himself way from this place, from this life, to a place where she was still there.

“Geralt?” he heard the soft voice before he felt the delicate fingers on his shoulder. For a second, he tensed up, because this couldn't be real. The light touch sent electric waves through his body, made him acutely aware of her presence, but it couldn't be.

“Y/N?” His voice was barely above a whisper as he stood and turned around, only to see her right in front of him. That warm smile on her lips that he'd always loved, her eyes fixed on him, like there was nobody else in this world she'd rather look at then him. “How... what...” he stuttered, raking his eyes over her body, looking for any injuries, but there none. Little cars here and there, just like he had as well, but she wasn't hurt.

“I'm here,” she said, reaching out her hand for him. Geralt hesitated for a moment, but then he touched his fingertips to here, ran them along the back of her hand, felt her warm skin beneath them. It was her. It was y/n – his y/n. He took one big step towards her and wrapped her in his arms, held her close to his chest, afraid that if he'd let her go, she'd vanish into thin air.

“I thought I'd lost you. I... I held your dead body,” he whispered into her neck, breathing in her familiar scent, while his hands ran over her whole body, making sure that she was really here, not some figment of his imagination, that she was breathing.

“I'm here, Geralt,” she repeated her words, her own fingers tangling in his hair, feeling the soft texture against her skin. She'd missed this, missed him, and so she made him look at her before her lips came down on his. It was a messy, a greedy kiss, but they both needed that, needed to feel that the other was really there, that it was not just a hallucination.

Geralt wasted no time in picking her up and carrying her inside. Nobody would find them out here, but he wanted that privacy, wanted to cherish her the way she needed to be cherished, and his bed would be better than the sand beneath them. A bed, he'd slept in alone for what felt like an eternity.

“I missed you so much, you have no idea.” Geralt's lips moved down the side of her neck as soon as he'd laid her down on his bed, his body covering hers, but he didn't put his whole weight on her. Y/N's fingers raked through his hair, down his back and pulled at the tunic he was wearing.

“I missed you, too... but I'm here now. We are here.”

Geralt sat up to rid himself of the tunic, threw it aside, because the only thing that mattered right now was the woman in front of him. He leaned back down, started peppering her skin with kisses. Down her neck, her collarbone, the slope of her breast.

“This has to come off. I need to feel you, need to make sure this is real!” He sounded desperate, but he didn't care. She could know how much he'd missed, how much he loved her.

Y/N pushed him off her own body so that she could get up from the bed again. Her eyes were fixed on him as she undressed, feeling his hot gaze all over her. Without looking, he pulled down his own trousers, freeing his cock from its confinements.

“Come here.” Geralt sat back against the headboard of his bed, reached out his hand for her. When she took it, he pulled her into his lap. After letting go of her hand again, he rubbed his palms along her thighs, took his time as if he was exploring her body all over again. Y/N cupped his face and kissed him again. A slow, passionate kiss that made him feel so alive that he wouldn't even be able to put it into words again.

When his hands reached her hips, he pulled her even closer, his throbbing cock pressing against her heat. Y/N gasped into the kiss, before she ripped her lips free from his.

“I love you so much,” she whispered before she reached between their bodies and wrapped her fingers around his dick. Geralt swore under his breath. It had been so long since she'd touched him that he felt like a teenager again who would come undone just from this touch.

Geralt's grip on her hips tightened for a moment, before he returned to stroking his fingertips along her thigh, but this time, he inched further up until he reached her folds, finding her already wet and willing for him.

Now, it was y/n's name to gasp at the touch, but she immediately pressed against his fingers, asking for more. And so he complied, pressed his thumb against the sensitive bud there. Hearing her moan his name spurred him on, and he started rubbing slow circles around it. Meanwhile, two of his fingers rand through her folds, already coated in her slick, so he had no problem sliding them inside her. She stilled for a moment, before a long, drawn-out moan left his lips. Her grip on his cock tightened, making Geralt moan in return.

“I need to feel you as well, Geralt.. now!” she panted and rocked her hips against his fingers, but then she lifted herself up. Geralt kept his gaze on her, as he positioned herself, guided his cock towards her entrance and slowly sank down on his length.

Geralt's head fell against her shoulder, his arms wrapped around her body to hold her close for a moment, to feel her body pressed to his and feel her heart beating in her chest. She was here, she was with him.

For a moment, they simply stayed like this, joined together after such a long time without each other, but they needed their high, needed to feel alive together, so y/n rocked her hips against him against. She placed her hands on his shoulders for leverage, before she started moving up and down. Geralt's hands found their place on her hips, guiding her, supporting her a little bit.

He trailed kisses along her shoulder, down to her collarbone, where he nipped at the skin for a moment, before he continued his path. Without a warning, he pulled her left nipple between his teeth and sucked on it.

“Fuck... Geralt,” she moaned, fingernails digging into his shoulder. Her movement were becoming faster now, drawing a mix between a moan and a growl from his lips.

Geralt wrapped one arm around her middle, held her close when he turned them in one swift motion, so that y/n was now lying beneath him. He looked down at her for a moment, studied her face, after he hadn't seen it for so long. Her fingers combed through his hair again before she cupped his cheek and pulled him back down for another kiss. She only broke that kiss, because his fingers were between their bodies again, gently rubbing over her clit, while he started thrusting into her again, slowly at first, but he quickly picked up his pace.

“Fuck, y/n, I missed you, I missed this... can't let you go again,” he babbled against her neck, grazed his teeth against the soft skin, but soothed it with his tongue right afterwards.

“I'm so close... Fuck Geralt.” A breathless whisper from her lips as she felt her climax approach, felt that knot tighten, that was close to exploding. Her fingernails scratched over his back, as his movements got faster, a little harder, driving her absolutely insane, but when his fingers got faster as well, he pushed her over the edge. Her back arched off the bed, her chest pressed flush against his, as she came, moaning his name once again.

Geralt fucked her through her high until his own movements became more erratic, his hips stuttered, because feeling her walls constrict around his cock, trying to pull him even deeper. He spilled inside her, a string of cursewords flowing from his lips mixed with an I love you, y/n.

For a moment, his whole weight was on her, because he needed to catch his breath, but then he pushed himself up on one arm. Ever so gently, he brushed his knuckles over her cheek. YN/'s eyes fluttered open, a content smile on her lips.

“Tell me, you're not going anywhere,” Geralt said quietly, the desperation with which he said this nearly making his voice break.

“I'm not. I'm right here.” Her hand framed his face, before she kissed him again. A long, lingering kiss that he felt to the tips of his toes.

Geralt opened his eyes with a start as a bright flash filled the room and he heard thunder very close by. He needed a moment to adjust to his surroundings to realise, where he was. Blinking a couple of times, he looked around for y/n, but she was nowhere to be found. Sitting up, he rubbed both hands across his face. It was raining outside, lightning cracking though the air and lightening up the surrounding.

Geralt got up and got dressed, before he went looking for her. He'd always loved the rain, had always sat near a window if she wasn't able to go outside.

“Y/N?” he called out in the hopes of a response, but he had a gut feeling that she was nowhere to be found. There was a used cup in the kitchen and the front door was ajar. Maybe, she'd gone outside to enjoy the rain. It wouldn't be the first time.

Geralt didn't waste any time and walked outside looking for her, but she was nowhere around the cottage, so he started walking. His feet seemed to move on their own accord, showing where he needed to go. His eyes always scanned his surroundings in hopes of finding her somewhere, though deep down he knew that he wouldn't be lucky.

He eventually stopped at a spot where he could overlook the ocean again. The rain had died down by now, hut he was completely drenched – not that he even cared about that. His eyes dropped down to what was in front of his feet. They weren't in bloom, but he knew that they were lilacs. Her lilacs. On her grave. Her name, the date of her death carved into a stone that set on top of the grave they'd made for her.

All of it had only been a dream, even though it had felt so real. If he closed his eyes, he could still smell her, feels the touch of her fingertips on his skin. Maybe, it was a memory his body, his mind had conjured up, but she was nowhere to be found anymore. He'd buried her himself, had lost her for good. But at least he'd seen her one last time, even if it was only in his dreams, to tell her that he loved her. Words he hadn't said often enough while she'd still been with him.

Geralt kneeled down before her grave and touched his fingertips to the earth there. He knew, he would never see her again, not in person, but at least, he had his memories. Lots of them, but still not enough. Grief gripped his heart and crumpled it up like a piece of paper as he let his tears run freely. It was just him here. Him and his memories of a time where he'd been happy.

[cqsuanla]

fury shakes the rafters

pairing: dark!nat/f!reader

summary:

Aside from the cannibalism, Nat is mostly the same. Still ridiculously strong and stupidly hardheaded. And that face — flinty, cold, mean. Nat’s always been mean. 

(inspired by jennifer’s body)

additional notes: mommy kink, dom/sub, bloodplay(?), dacryphilia, uhh pussy spanking, choking, unhealthy relationship, terrible aftercare

title from a song suggested by an anon: nobody by the crane wives

(ao3)

The light in the stairwell flickers, but it doesn’t make a difference, dim and dirty as it is. It buzzes distantly in your ears. You’re too focused on taking the steps two at a time to notice. You hold your groceries to your chest and fish your keys out of your pocket. If you were strong like Nat, you might just have knocked the door clean of its hinges with the force of your body. Instead, it crashes loudly into your wall, and you nearly fall on your face from the momentum. 

In a bid to gain purchase on your wall, you sweep your coat rack over, and you stumble over it. The clatter makes you wince — you hope she’s in a good mood. It’s hard for her to process stimuli when she’s weak. You scramble onto your hands and knees, shoving scattered boxes and cans into the grocery bag. 

Then, the rhythmic thud-thud of footsteps. You pause, exhaling as your eyes close. 

“Drink?” in a monotone. 

Yikes. You open your eyes, biting your lip. Steel-toed boots. You’ve told Nat a million times that this is a shoes-off apartment. She never listens, and you never argue more. Nat stays; she’s the only one who’ll stay. You can’t drive her away. 

Her right boot rises, scraping against the floor, and you flinch. It just kicks a cereal box away so it can nudge at the shopping bag. The way she says your name, evenly, firmly, has you blinking rapidly, has your hands automatically shooting to the bag, following her prompt. Thank god the bottles are fine. You don’t know what you’d do if they had shattered. 

You wiggle a beer out of the pack, and only then do you dare to make eye contact. 

“Hi,” you murmur. 

She gives you a brief glance, impassive, before snatching the bottle from your hand and returning to her spot on the armchair. “That fucking coat rack.” She flicks the cap off your side table, grungy and scratched up for this very reason. The cap bounces off the wall and disappears under the couch. “Just move it further in. You never listen.” 

You did, weeks ago. You don’t say so. 

The coat rack came with the place, and it was nice, so you refused to get rid of it. Nat hated it, hated that it was so close to the door in your already bite-sized entryway, but never enough to throw it out herself. But you did move it because her complaints were valid, and you wanted her to like being here with you, living here with you. Anyway, she stopped complaining afterwards. Not that you think she noticed — you supposed it was a minor inconvenience to her, the way a fly was, annoying when it was in your face but non-existent once it stopped bothering you. 

Quietly, you move your groceries to the kitchen island, putting everything but your new medical supplies away. There are dirty plates in the sink, which you’ll wash after you make yourself dinner. You wonder what she’s eaten – you’d just bought two new steaks, but Nat likes a bowl of strawberry ice cream now and then.

The TV channel switches in the background. Nat snorts, and you peek around the wall to catch a report on the gruesome series of murders that have been happening lately. People in the neighbourhood hardly went out anymore, too afraid of the dark now. It would scare you too if you weren’t well aware you’d never fall victim. Nat was with you, after all, and you were with her. 

You would be with her for as long as she’d let you. So, what if she was the monster in the dark? So what? It was Nat. Your Nat. She came back to you, talked to you, fucked you. It’s not like she was disembowelling you in some grimy alleyway. She kept most of the violence away from you because she cared. Anyway, like everyone else, she had to eat. You couldn’t fault her for that. 

You’re pulling the gauze out of its packaging when Nat scoffs loudly at the news. They must’ve insulted her because she clicks the TV shut, practically inhales half her bottle and flings the remote onto the couch. 

Then, she sets her sights on you, meek behind the counter, and raises an eyebrow. “Honey, the hall’s a mess. Clean it up.” 

You frown. “You’re still hurt.” 

She rolls her eyes. “I’ll eat tomorrow, and it’ll be fine.” 

You don’t think so. The longer Nat doesn’t eat, the worse it gets. It’s how she’s in this mess in the first place. Nat’s ethereal after a feeding, next to omnipotent. But the guy she picked to eat last week turned out to be some sort of track star because he had booked it at the first sign of trouble, and she’d been forced to retreat when the sirens started blaring. The day after that, she picked a local thug as her next meal, and she’d been caught off guard by the switchblade. So, here she is: slumped on your couch and stitched up sloppily. 

Her hair is limp, skin wane and dry, and in a bad enough mood that you can basically feel it every time you’re within a two-meter radius of her. 

Her physical weakness emboldens you a little, makes you think you can get away with a bit of stubbornness. You pick up the gauze and tape and round the corner. A car speeds by, high beam making Nat’s eyes glint a deep green in the dark. The green follows you the whole way until she has to crane her head around to watch you slip her tank top off a shoulder. 

Those eyes weren’t like that before when you first started dating. You don’t mind the changes, though. Aside from the cannibalism, Nat is mostly the same. Still ridiculously strong and stupidly hardheaded. 

“You don’t want to listen?” she asks, almost conversationally. 

You know better. You clench and unclench your fist. Shakily, you lift it and tuck a hair behind Nat’s ear, hoping foolishly that it will placate her. 

“Baby,” says she, like a gentle mother to a misbehaving child, “you should really listen.” 

You trace the bumps of her stitches, staring hard at her shoulder so you won’t have to see that face — flinty, cold, mean. Nat’s always been mean. 

“At least answer me.” 

“No, Nat,” you mutter, undoing the bandages on her bicep. “I don’t want to listen.”

To her credit, she lets you fix her up. Methodically, silently, you clean her wounds and rewrap them in new bandages. She doesn’t get in the way unless it’s to take a swig of her drink. 

When you’re done with her arms and back, you move to her front. She’s got an ugly gash on her calf, bruised midway from where the man had kicked her bleeding leg. You imagine this is causing her the most pain, not just physically. Nat’s not great with sitting still. She’s independent to a fault, enjoying control to the point that it’s probably some sort of diagnosable complex, and this restriction on her mobility has her restless and irritated. 

Looking down at her, at the space between her knees, you wonder if she’ll cooperate with you. The last time you tried to clean her leg, she’d torn your duvet in half and has since refused to let you look at it. But Nat tilts her head, coy, and gestures toward the space in front of her with her bottle. 

“Scared?” she whispers.

You glance at her face just in time to catch her tongue tracing the jagged end of a canine. Mutely, you shake your head. She smiles wide.

“Liar.”

Of course. You’re always scared of her. For her, too. But you don’t think it matters; it doesn’t change anything. You just want to help her, be good for her. Anyway, she’s trying to get a reaction out of you. You refuse to take the bait, raising your eyebrows and wiggling the bandages in your hand.

“Fine.” With a roll of her eyes, she parts her legs. 

As if dealing with a feral animal, you move slowly, cautiously, afraid to make sudden movements lest she starts getting violent. You squat down and reach for the cuff of her sweatpants. 

“Ah, ah.” She slides the leg back, staring down her nose at you. You pause. “Kneel, baby.” 

Her eyes — did the ring of green get thinner? Your lips part, anticipation beginning to seep into your body, and you comply. Once you’re settled, looking up at her, she makes that same careless gesture with her bottle. A go-ahead. 

As you work, she shifts to put her beer on the table and then combs a hand into your hair. You tense, eyeing her nervously, but she only watches you, imperious, intense, and remains silent. Nevertheless, you pick up the pace, tossing the antiseptic aside and winding the gauze around her pale calf. 

She’s startlingly warm under your hands. Ever since… whatever happened to her — she wasn’t exactly forthcoming with the details — she’s run hotter than ever. You can’t sleep under a blanket with her anymore unless you’re shirtless; the heat would be unbearable. Not that Nat has any complaints about that. 

“All done,” you murmur. 

The lack of reaction from Nat gives you the courage to lean forward and press a sweet kiss to the top of her knee. The hand in your hair rewards you with a gentle scratch, and you can’t help melting into a smile. She’s still got that air of arrogance about her when you look up at her, but she’s not glaring. Which is why it comes entirely as a surprise when she clenches a fistful of hair in her hand, yanking your head back, and slaps you clean across the face with her other hand. 

You take the full brunt of her palm with a cry, almost toppling over were it not for the grip on your hair. Your cheek burns, and so does your eyes. Mostly from pain, partly from the shock of it, maybe a little from shame when you realize you’re getting wet from the rough treatment. 

Nat tuts. “Crying already?” 

You imagine you look pretty pathetic on your knees for her, eyes glassy.

“Don’t give me those eyes, baby; you know I can’t help myself.” 

“I just wanted to help.” 

“I know,” Nat says gently, tipping your head back again so you can see the false sincerity on her face. “You can fix this, you know?” 

Your eyebrows furrow, thoughts racing a mile a minute to puzzle out what she means. 

“Don’t think so hard. You’ll hurt yourself. I’ll show you how, dumb baby,” she coos as she nudges your chin with the knuckle of her finger, and you can’t help flushing deeply at that. Then, she offers a hand, and you take it, and she tugs you up into a straddle on her lap. “Come here.” 

You instinctively wind your arms around her neck, clinging on. Beneath you, she tenses and lets out a low rumbling sound that resonates deep in her chest. You inhale sharply. 

Teeth. Sharpened to deadly points. Poised over your neck. Nat’s breath comes short and hot against your skin, and her tongue, when it peeks out, drags wetly across your skin. 

This has happened once before; the first night she’d come back changed. Like before, she noses at your flushed skin, teasing you with the possibility of damage, and trails her teeth down to your traps. Back then, she hadn’t bitten you. She won’t now, you think, you hope. 

She sighs again, hovering over the meat of your shoulder and prodding her teeth against you. Doesn’t break the skin. 

“Don’t make it worse for yourself. Are you scared?” 

This time, you nod. Nat’s lips curve into a smile, and her hold on your thighs tighten enough to bruise. 

“You should listen, sweetheart,” she says against you. The front of her teeth scrapes over you when she speaks, leaving red marks behind. “I hurt you less when you’re good. Don’t you know?”

“How can you be in the mood?” you wonder, burying your face into the crook of her neck. “You’re half dead.”

“Barely.”

It would take a lot more to kill Nat like this. Anyway, how could you be in the mood when your girlfriend’s cut up like this? 

Nat stands abruptly, ignorant to your yelps and complaints, and dumps you back onto the couch in quick succession. Before you can even register what’s happened, she’s yanked your bottoms down to your ankles and has climbed between your legs. 

Even after that, you don’t get the chance to speak. She wraps her hand around your throat and pins you to the cushions. You grab onto her wrist.

Her body bears down, and you break into a sweat, in small part due to nerves, some part because she’s shoving her hand up your shirt to grab roughly at your bra, but mostly because she’s near scalding. You’re convinced her blood runs at a constant boil now. You’ve grown to love the heat, though. With her, pleasure comes white-hot, and you’d want it no other way. 

“Nat-”

“No,” she growls, and you get an eyeful of her monstrous teeth. She flexes both hands, cutting off your airway and squeezing your breast painfully. You whimper, wound tight as a coil. “Listen to me, baby.”

You look at her through hazy eyes. 

“Those eyes again. God, I love you like this.” Foolishly, your heart clenches at those words. She rucks your shirt up and claws her nails down your front. Beads of blood bloom from the thin scratches she leaves behind. “You’re beautiful when I hurt you.”

Her hand nearly crushes your throat closed, but then she releases you, and you suck air in desperately. Your hands, shaken off her arm, reach for the sides of her head. “Nat,” you croak, tasting the salt from your tears on your lips. “Nat.”

She shakes her head, descending on your chest. It hurts – badly. “Be good for mommy.”

“Mommy,” you gasp out, arching into her mouth. She ignores your pert nipples, electing instead to lick and suck at the burn between your breasts. “Please, please.”

“Shut up,” she hisses. Oh, her teeth are still out. “Hands above your head.”

You obey, another sad sound crawling out of your abused throat. 

The dark pits of her eyes drink in the sight of you, face crumpled in pain and need. A thumb wipes up the last of your blood, and she delights in smearing it across your cheek. 

“Messy baby, clean up after yourself. It’s basic,” she chides, thumb still rubbing at your face as if she were fixing up some runny mascara. “Be good now.”

You don’t dare to speak, just nod and look pleadingly up at her. Your core aches from neglect. 

She makes quick work of that, reaching down to feel the slick between your thighs. Humming, she smirks and very deliberately rubs her middle finger over your clit. You jerk up into her, mouth falling open even as you strangle your moan. 

“I could do anything to you, and you’d still want me.” 

Again, you nod. 

“Where did my little liar go?” she baits. You shake your head. “Say ‘thank you, mommy, for letting me breathe.’”

It takes you a moment to gather the brain cells and say: “Thank you, mommy.”

Her smile widens, teeth back to normal. “Again, for the lesson.”

“Thank you, mommy.”

She brings her hand down on your cunt, full strength. You scream, jolting away from her. Well, you would have if she hadn’t pressed you down by the chest, entirely uncaring about the wound she’d left there. Tears leak out the sides of your eyes, trickling into your hairline. 

“Thank me for that too,” she demands.

“Thank you,” you cry around a hiccup. 

One more spank, and another, and another. Your legs kick uselessly against the cushions, body twisting after every awful smack.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

Your hole clenches around nothing, slick leaking onto the couch. Then, two fingers dip into you, and Nat thrusts them up hard and fast. She’d shoved them in on a contraction, and it hurts for a second before she’s curling her fingers into the velvet of your walls. 

She makes a pleased sound. “Tight as always. Makes me want to tear you in half, baby.”

You stare up at the ceiling. “Th-” She starts up a fast pace, digging her fingertips into your front wall. “Thank you!”

Her cheek rests on your chest, listening to the thunder of your heart. “We should try that big one.” Impossibly, your heart rate quickens at the thought, and you manage to shake your head. She laughs, the sound sharp and cruel, and music to your ears. “Maybe another time then.”

She sits up then, still working her fingers into your cunt, and moves her other hand to your mons. She pets gently over your labia, a sharp contrast to the vicious pace she’s keeping up. Your head spins. 

“My baby,” she breathes, “good enough to fucking eat.”

But she parts your folds to press her fingers into your clit, circling them once, twice, thrice, and you’re so close. So desperately close. 

She leans down, near delicate in her movements, and licks into your mouth. You taste copper and beer and the faintest sweetness. Urgently, you try to kiss back. 

If she’s mean, she’d pull back and deny you the chance to come with her mouth on yours. 

She must think that you’ve suffered enough, though, because she rubs her thumb at your clit and drives her fingers deeper into you, and you push up as far as you can into her body with a scream. You’re swallowed in molten heat, pleasure stripping away at you until you’re just bones on the couch. 

When you come to, Nat’s pulling out some bandages for your chest. You’re too tired to do or say anything, forced into silence by her dominance. 

She smiles at you, still not kind, but it doesn’t look bestial like before. Maybe just self-satisfied. She strokes your sweaty hair as she fixes you up, shushing you if you moan quietly from aftershocks or pain. You are in a lot of pain, bruised and scratched up as you are.

“Good girl,” she says when she’s done. 

Finally, you muster the energy to grab her hand and say, “Thank you.”

She lets you hold on for a few seconds before pulling away. “Sure.”

You wish she’d hold you for a bit, but you don’t vocalize it. She’s been through too much in the last few days; you shouldn’t burden her—

“Don’t be fucking needy,” she says, suddenly and harshly. Your face must have given you away. 

“I don’t mean to be,” you mutter, bringing your arm up to cover your eyes. Feeling stupid, feeling mad that you feel stupid, you say: “It would just be nice if you’d stay for a bit.”

A hand grabs your arm, yanking it away from your head, and you’re treated to a view of her scowl. “Where would I go?”

You didn’t mean it that way, but you don’t know how to get out of this hole you’ve dug yourself. “I-I don’t know.”

Out of nowhere, her hand slaps your cunt again, overstimulated, sore, puffy. You groan, curling in on yourself and hugging your knees to your chest. 

“Fuck, Nat.”

She takes the opportunity to sit down on the end of the couch, where your legs once were. The TV turns back on, and you hear her take a sip from her can of beer. “Clean up the hall later.”

At least she stayed.

[fernthefanciful]

A princess is a creature of grace, poise, decorum. They are soft, gentle, patient. I, however, was none of those things, much to my parents’ despair.

 They only brought that upon themselves, of course. A firstborn daughter, a royal invitation to greet the new monarch not sent, and therefore an insult perceived by a powerful magical being. You know how the story goes. I was cursed and, in my story, there were no blessings to gentle it. No other wishes for my future, or what little she left of it. Just a creature of shadow and talon which appeared, damned the bright vision my parents had of my life, and vanished.

  My childhood was a moderately happy one, even with the dark cloud of the curse hanging forever in my periphery. My parents loved me. My sisters, when they were born, did the same. And I of course love them with all that I am. My parents hired tutors, made sure I learned what it meant to be a monarch, made sure I was prepared for a future of rule. They simply made sure my sister learned as well.

  “Just in case.” My father would say, his gaze flitting across the empty hallways as if something unseen was always listening, always watching.

  And when I got too restless, when the green of the forest and the blue of the lake called to me and I couldn’t help but give in to the need to run, to chase, they took me riding. We’d make trips, have picnics, run around on the heather-filled fields and watch the sky change her colour with the setting sun. For the longest time, we were as happy as we could be.

  My eighteenth birthday was a beautiful and clear full moon night. The air rife with the scents of fresh bread and roasted meats of the feast held in honour of my coming of age. Gentle and joyful music filled the ballroom as people danced and laughed all night.

In an empty hallway, as far away from people as I could get, I screamed and cried as my body tore itself apart. As the wildness that had always lived inside of me wanted out. The howl that tore from my newly changed throat was loud enough to wake the entire city.

  I should have been terrified. I should be lamenting the turn my life had taken, all the things I now no longer could do. I should have felt all of those things. But when I made my way out of the castle and into the forest, the ground soft underneath my paws, the silver moonlight a gentle caress on my fur, I couldn’t help but think that his curse tasted a lot like freedom.

  The wildness that had always lived inside of me, the parts that longed to shed the tight clothing and even tighter responsibilities of nobility, were torn from the inner shadow where I had hidden them and shoved into the light. The parts of me that wished to run, to hunt, to feast, finally had a chance to be free.

  Things changed after that.

  Now, people are wary, afraid. My parents try, they really do. To teach me to act normal, ladylike, human. It’s of no use. The wolf lurks under my skin, peering out of my eyes.

People whisper about how much of a waste it is, such a shame, that a curse has changed me so. They don’t see, they don’t understand. The wolf, the wildness, the hunger, has always been there. It is me, the deepest parts of my soul given physical form.

  Life goes on. My sister, perfect, composed, kind, steps into the limelight. Or is pushed, I should say. To placate those who question my place at Court. Meanwhile I am forced into the background. An animal in the shadows meant to be forgotten.

  My wolf balks at the idea of corsets, of rules, of restriction. Doesn’t understand the need for playing nice with nobles it doesn’t like. She’s a creature of instinct, simplicity, and therefore, so am I.

  I spend my days roaming the grounds, protecting what is mine. The people of the city avert their eyes as I go past. Whisper about curses and how they spread, about what it means for the Kingdom that their princess is now a different creature altogether.

My wolf claims the entirety kingdom as her territory and as I get older, I travel further. Checking in daily with the people on the far edges of the lands. The misfits and the outcasts. The ones with wisdom and magic who have been pushed towards the edges of the kingdom long before I was born. Hatred and fear pushed us all here, to the lands where the briar grows three men tall. Where the trees and the shadows move on their own and where the water of the lake is always smooth, no matter how fierce the storm.

I help where I can, chasing off the foxes for the farmers, climbing trees to hang fetches and talismans for protection, bringing food to those who need it most. Most time is spent drinking tea and discussing life with the old lady whom everyone calls ‘witch’. She teaches me all she knows. Things the tutors at the castle never knew to teach me. About the plants and trees that grow, the animals that roam deep within the forest. About life here, on the outskirts of society, and all the peoples and creatures that are part of it. Here, the people look me in the eye. They bow their heads in respect but never in fear. The bravest of the children ask to card their hands through my fur. The old woman laughingly gifts me a crown of twigs and burrs and rowanberries the colour of blood. Every time I’m in my human skin I wear that crown with pride.

  One day, deep within the forest at the edge of my territory, I meet her. The being who has brought all that was hidden within me to the front and then illuminated it. I shift back to human, standing before her, naked and open, but never vulnerable, thanks to her. I thank her for the gifts she has given me. For the freedom and power and strength. The look on her face when I name her fairy godmother is priceless.

  She smiles at me then, a flash of razor-sharp teeth. I bare my own fangs back at her. She asks me then, if I understand. How they are being treated. Those who do not fit in, those who are made of wildness and shadow and blood. How they are shunned because of what they are.

  She tells me this will change, once I am queen. When I tell her that I never will be, that my parents will never find a match for me, she simply laughs and tells me not to worry. After all, I have a fairy godmother now.

  She keeps close after that. Always watching, always near, but never interfering. Not unless I ask her to. So when war, inevitably, finds itself at our borders, I ask for her aid. I stand in the middle of the bloodied battlefield, staring at the incoming forces. The wolf in me is itching underneath my skin. She wishes to hunt, to kill, to feel flesh rip underneath her claws, blood filling her mouth as she tears them apart. So I call out to my fairy godmother, asking if she would join me for a hunt, before I shed my skin along with my humanity and charge forward.

  The battle is brutal and short. The enemy army is better trained, but not against the army of outcasts led by myself and my fairy godmother. Their swords and shields quickly fall against our teeth, claws and magic.

Afterwards, I greet my father on the battlefield. Bare and covered in blood. There is fear in his eyes, yes, but also respect. And, for the first time, trust.

  Things change once again. I am brought back into the castle, but nothing is the same. I spend most of my time in the forests, still, but I also find myself fighting. Training with weapons other than tooth and claw. Weathered old men, tutors, hired by my father to teach me all they know. I learn how much I don’t know, how much there is still to learn. I earn my scars, even if they never stay for long. I earn their respect, even if it is hard won. I am no longer alone, some of my people from the outskirts join me and never leave their princess’ side.

  It doesn’t take long before suitors come from all over the world, wishing to marry one of my sisters. Singing praises about the small kingdom that could so quickly put an end to war. That could tame monsters and wild things. Silly men, none of us were tamed, we simply chose to fight.

  My parents and sisters work hard to get the most advantageous matches. To make sure that both the kingdom and my sisters will continue to grow and prosper. Bargains are struck, feasts are had. One by one my sisters move away, happy with their chosen husbands. All of them are visited by a giant wolf at least once. They know to treat my sisters well, or one night feel the sharp tips of my fangs against their throat.

  Years later I am gifted another crown. It is a beautiful thing. Delicate golden flowers and bright shining gems. It feels uncomfortable to me the way all pretty things do. “It might not suit you,” my father tells me, “but you have earned it.”

“As you have earned your rest.” I tell him.

“You will be wonderful, my Queen.”

  Rumors start spreading, about the Wolfqueen, the Wild One, sitting upon a blood-red throne. About the Kingdom of monsters where beasts, fae and man live free. About the Queen with the Iron Heart, who turns away all who wish to court her, and kills all who dare more.

  It’s not that I do not want someone at my side. I do. I wish for the love that my parents share. That my sisters eventually found with their husbands. But all those who come for my hand, those who finally dare when I have no more free sisters left, come for just that. My hand but not my heart. They are all poised and polished. Perfect little princes who look towards the wealth of the castle but away from the wildness within me. They are afraid to meet my wolf’s cold, assessing gaze.

  Some even try to change me, to find the human underneath the wolf. They only try once.

  For years, I rule alone. Through another war, through a plague born of magic, through prosperity and abundance. My people always by my side but no one to claim my heart.

  But then, a commotion. A man, dressed in furs. No scars on his body, but plenty on his soul. His eyes glowing the same gold as mine in the gentle torchlight. A wildness in them that my wolf recognizes. A challenge that my wolf is eager to take, to rise up to.

  “Your Oracle told me to come here.” He tells me, “I asked for guidance, to find what my heart truly desires, and she sent me to you.”

  My fairy godmother steps up behind me, laying a hand on my shoulder. I can’t see her, but I know she is smiling a smile of sharp pointed teeth. No doubt the oracle he speaks of.

  “My Queen,” he continues, bowing deep, his eyes never leaving mine, “I came looking for connection, for freedom. I believe I will find it with your time and your company. Will you grant me it?”

  “And what, my prince,” for if my fairy godmother sent him, he can only be that, “will you grant me in return?” I lean forward, eager, hungry.

  “Loyalty,” he steps forward, onto the dais, “companionship and understanding.” He leans over me for a single, challenging moment, before kneeling before me, baring his throat. “Perhaps in time even love. But for now, the thrill of a hunt. Of a chase.” He grins, baring sharp fangs. A breath, and a beautiful black-furred wolf sits in front of me.

Oh – the hunt is on. A thrill goes through me as I shift, ready to run, to chase him down and claim him for my own. For if one thing is certain, it is that I am a wild thing, a Queen, a hunter, but never, ever, prey.

(First posted on my website)

[legolasbadass]

A Lifetime Apart [1/3]

Artwork by the lovely @gwen-ever​

Relationship: Thorin x OC

Summary: Thorin meets his One while still a young prince in Erebor, but their lives are torn apart by their families and the arrival of Smaug. 

Based on Alice Tynan’s interview with Richard Armitage in ‘The Vine,’ this fic was inspired by @gwen-ever’s wonderful art for the @tolkienrsb 2021! 

Warnings: Angst. Seriously guys, this is really angsty, get your tissues ready. (gwen and I are not sorry lol)

Rating: T

As always, the fic can be read on AO3. 

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 

There is a room in Erebor, a secret place where once their love bloomed in peace. All the memories of that place, where he held her and worshipped her with his lips, were forever engraved in his mind. It was there that, after months of struggling with his feelings, he had realized she was his One.

All Dwarves know that Mahal sometimes creates two of his children from the same stone, bonding them for life. Of course, not all Dwarves marry. Even those granted this honour by their Maker do not always choose to marry, for some value friendship above all other bonds, while others devote themselves to their craft. Still, as a young boy, Thorin had hoped Mahal would deem him worthy, and every night he had dreamt of the moment he would meet his One, conjuring their likeness like an artist who paints a picture and gives it life.

He had also wondered what it would feel like to meet his One. Would he know immediately? And how would he know? Perhaps it would be like in those romance novels his sister liked so much. A tender, all-consuming look from across the room, silently reassuring the other that they had found each other at last.

Perhaps due to long hours in the council chamber, Thorin had become more of a realist as the years went on. He always had to be on his guard, and he learned quickly that he could not trust his desires, for they could be manipulated by advisors and enemies alike. Romanticism was fine for artists but not for princes. The idea of a destined love became no more than a child’s fanciful dream, and Thorin grew gradually less opposed to the concept of an arranged marriage until the thought of it did not bother him at all. After all, his parents had been married for a political alliance and had still grown to care for each other. Thorin knew he would do the same.

At least, that was what he had told himself before he met Rúna, his dear Rúna.

He did not know immediately that she was his One, but from the moment their gazes met, he knew he would never again be the same. Her presence had so bewitched him that he had not realized he was walking toward her until she stood right in front of him. Then, stumbling over his every word, he had thought himself defeated, oblivious to the fact that she felt the same indescribable pull toward him.

“Thorin, at your service,” had been his first words to her.

“Rúna, daughter of Ragni, your highness,” she had replied with a curtsy, enchanting him all the more with her melodious voice.

“I hope you are having a pleasant time, Lady Rúna.” Already, he had loved the way her name rolled off his tongue.

“More pleasant than you, at least, seeing as you have found nothing better to do than stare at me from across the room,” she had replied teasingly.

Blushing furiously, he had attempted to remain formal and composed but, ultimately, had failed miserably. “I had hoped that would go unnoticed, or at the very least, that you would humour me and pretend like nothing had transpired. And just because I was watching you does not mean I am not having a pleasant time. On the contrary, my spirits were lifted by the sight of your fairness.”

Thorin could still remember the beautiful blush that had painted her cheeks. “Forgive me,” he had said hastily. “I did not mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“I did not say I did not enjoy it,” she had replied with the most enchanting smirk.

That was how their conversations usually unfolded. Thorin, who always prided himself on being in control and always knowing what to say, would find himself barely able to think. He blamed her low-cut gowns and the redness of her lips for that.

They soon became inseparable. Every day, they would meet in their secret room, a haven where they shared stolen kisses and soft caresses. Âzyungel, she would call him, for she, too, had accepted Mahal’s will. She had accepted Thorin as hers, and in those moments, both of them had believed nothing would ever separate them, for they were destined to be together.

Deep in the caverns of his mind, a voice called out to Thorin, warning him against the intensity of his passion, but he did not listen. He found himself thinking of her at the most inappropriate times, and she haunted the nights he wished he could spend with her. When he closed his eyes, he saw her smile and heard her laughter, clearer than the soft splashing of water against limestone rocks.

What would it be like to spend his whole life with her, his Rúna?

Thorin thought with utter surety that he would soon know when they announced to their families their intent to wed. At first, everyone was overjoyed. Rúna came from a wealthy and respectable family, so the king had no objections to his grandson’s choice — not that any of that mattered to the couple. Ale and Dorwinion wine flowed freely as the news travelled through the mountain. The prince had chosen his princess.

Thorin and Rúna welcomed their families’ approval, but they secretly longed to be alone once more. When at last they found themselves in the comfort of Thorin’s chambers, they drank some more wine between languid kisses, committing the moment to memory. Fingers braided hair then caressed the skin they hastily revealed, their cheeks tainted with the soft glow of love.

That night, like their hearts forever bound, their bodies became one. Thorin was gentle, attentive to her every need, and even afterwards, he continued to bathe her in tenderness, scattering kisses all over her skin as they murmured promises of eternal love to each other, bodies entangled.

Rúna fell asleep to the soft lullaby of his heartbeat beneath her cheek, and though she never doubted for a second his sincerity and devotion, those promises were never fulfilled.

Rúna knew they should have been patient, and although she was usually very sensible, she had not known how to resist her handsome prince, especially not when his body had promised her glorious passion, now and for the rest of their lives. Besides, it was not as though premarital relations were unheard of. However, princes had to follow much stricter rules. And these rules had been carelessly ignored. And as the days went on, Rúna knew she would not have the luxury of keeping their transgression a secret, for inside her bloomed the product of her and Thorin’s love, but also the cause of their demise.

Even if it had not been for her growing belly, her morning sickness and alarmingly fluctuating moods would have given her away. And they did. She had never seen her parents so furious, and their disappointment pierced her heart. Her father shouted about her stained reputation and their ruined bloodline, leaving her in tears as she tried to scramble away in search of Thorin even as she knew it was hopeless.

She knew they would separate them.

King Thror, with the support of Thorin’s parents, banished Rúna from Erebor, never to see her beloved again. She tried to fight them, indignation festered inside her like a poisoned wound, the unattainable promise of Thorin’s love shattering her heart into a million pieces, but it was hopeless.

They did not inform Thorin of this, for it was their firm intention never to let him know about the bastard child. Instead, they told him she was bedridden while they conjured up a more permanent plan. And so, unaware that his One had been taken from him, Thorin brought flowers to Rúna’s door every day. He hated every moment he was forced to spend away from her — it felt unnatural — but he consoled himself by thinking that they would spend their whole lives together.

Then the dragon came.

Thorin had been out hunting in the woods with his siblings when a strong wind began to rattle the treetops. Then a roar like thunder split the sky, and the blood of Thorin’s veins froze when he heard a shout from afar.

“Dragon!”

Rúna.

Without so much as a glance at his companions, Thorin bolted toward the mountain, fear clogging his throat.

Refusing to believe this was real, he did not even stop when the gates loomed above him, riddled in flames, but the screams piercing his ears grounded him to the bitterness of reality. The air was wrought with the stench of burning flesh and the sorrow of a broken people. All around him, children cried in fright, and mothers wept while the distant ringing of useless steel announced their defeat.

No help came from the Elves that day, nor any day since; a betrayal Thorin never forgot. Even if there had been survivors still clawing for breath inside the mountain, they had no means to reach them.

Rúna.

Thorin searched for her everywhere, shouting her name until his lungs burned, but when the moon appeared, and she was still nowhere to be found, Thorin knew it was hopeless. Grief crashed over him like a hurricane.

He had lost her.

He wanted to tear the sky open and demand retribution from Mahal himself, but all his remaining strength he used to remain on his feet. He had to be strong for his people — what remained of them. His family had miraculously survived, but even that could not have filled the gaping hole where his heart had once beat.

Rúna, his dear Rúna. The memory of her lips against his turned to ash in his mouth. When he had last kissed her and held her, he had done so thinking he would have a lifetime to keep loving her. But she was now no more than a memory.

He forced himself not to think of that, for his people needed him now more than ever. Only once he was finally alone did he let his tears run free, and all through the night, he sobbed into his pillow, his only comfort the memories of their secret room, untouched by fire and blood. Thorin held onto those memories all through the years, never forgetting, never forgiving.

—

Khuzdul translations:

Âzyungêl: Love of Loves (used here to refer to the Dwarven belief in a single, destined soulmate)

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