#had an ask once that's been begging to be expanded on ever since

[hana-no-seiiki]

YANDERE HUSBAND x GN CELEBRITY!READER

— based off of a dream i had of a childhood friend/crush. hiatus not over tho lol.

— morally bankrupt reader. clingy husband. the usual yandere stuff.

YANDERE! HUSBAND who was your childhood best friend. Your parents shipped you two since you could speak.

YANDERE! HUSBAND who had a crush on you since forever. He doesn’t even remember a time where he didn’t get butterflies and an aching need to be the only one close to you

YANDERE! HUSBAND who’s the biggest flirt. He knows you the best. Although you were completely oblivious. He’d always try to be around you, compliment you, tease you.

He’d give you matching keychains, and would beg his parents to buy whatever gift he’d think you’d like.

YANDERE! HUSBAND who sadly had to move away for a while. He comes back during high school. And the first thing he asks while he’s there? To be put in the same class as you.

Now that you two are older, you finally started to notice how much of a tease he was. Always grappling unto a piece of your attention.

You acquiesce and begin to date him. Not necessarily feeling anything for the guy but thought it was high time that you finally settle down. It was the perfect storyline you could share once your ambitions were fulfilled.

That and cause your parents would only let you go to acting school if he married you.

Which you two eventually did before college. Was it rushed? Definitely. Did you even love the guy? Nuh uh. But you had places you had your sights set on. And he was the only path.

YANDERE! HUSBAND who drops out to be your full time househubby. His parents could always give him a job at their corporation anyways. There was no real pressure for him to study and get a job.

YANDERE! HUSBAND who almost always supports your acting career. Watching all your shows, movies, and interviews. Basically buying out all the merch you featured in. And paying advertisers across the globe to have your face plastered everywhere.

YANDERE! HUSBAND who unfortunately stops you from having any romantic or sexual scenes. Essentially blocking you from any roles that could be your breakthrough just cause it could have a tiny kiss or so.

Your anger at his blatant attempt to have control over you began simmering. Ever so slowly reaching the surface. Not improving at all when you found out he’d been trying out a job that his mother gave him.

Fuck the gifts. Fuck the yachts and cars he’d swarm you with. Why did he get to do what he wanted and you didn’t?

So you follow him to work once, only to catch him in a compromising position with a coworker.

You didn’t care about him or his business beneath the sheets really. So you had to thank the gods above that you knew exactly what and how to do the following act.

Cry. Scream. Throw things at them.

The coworker already left. Shuffling as they tried to hide from your anger.

Your husband is unresponsive. Catatonic. Even more of an excuse to hurt him.

You call him filthy, uncaring, the worst man to ever exist. Hell, even some of your true feelings come out as you yelled about how you regretted ever being with him.

You find out later from his mom that he had been framed. That this coworker was just trying to get money out of the heir.

Still, you wanted out. He had already served his purpose and you needed to expand your horizons.

A week later of radio silence from him as you prepared the divorce papers he walks in.

Covered in red his hands caressed your face,

“You called me filthy did you not? So I cleansed myself with their blood.”

[i-cant-sing]

i was just minding my business like scrolling to find new fics to read since i was so so bored and while i was finding some delicious fics (ahem ahem: yandere big brother bakugou x little sister reader) ur post suddenly idk the word (lumitaw (its a filo word)) and i was screaming and immediately dropped what i was supposed to read to read yours 😭😭😭

i got the worst memory ever to exist because i keep forgetting their names but i think i'll grasp them once the next chapter is out (hopefully) but yeaaah!!! baris reminds me of abbas in a way but ig he's a bit more.. brute yk what im talking about????? ig he's ok..

OH! and i have a theory about the painting, y/n's face getting smudged maybe because baldwin or SALAUDDIN decided to smudged it to forget how they look due to heartbroken (prob not baldwin,, but i feel like salauddin would do that ??) i guess im getting married again 😔😔 i feel like im betraying my pookie salauddin 💔💔💔🙏🙏 BUT ANYWAYS THANK YOU FOR THE UPDATE SNOW!!!! AMAZING AS ALWAYS!! can't wait for the next one already!! 😭😭😭 i think i'll send more of my thoughts if something crosses over my mind (prob when im in the shower)

ooohh i like your theory(portrait pictures at the end). i like it a lot. expanding on it:

Baldwin would probably cause the painting to be smudged because he's kissing it, kissing your lips, drunk off his mind, tears streaming down his cheek as he spends hours sitting in front of it, talking to the painting as if u still exist, begging u to come back from heaven, even apologising for all he's done, just please- come back, angel...

Meanwhile Salauddin would probably be staring at your portrait angrily. He understands why you had to leave but.... you couldnt have told him where you were goinh? Do you not think he couldve protected you? He wouldve used his whole army, gathered Muslims from all around the world to protect you. Did you... did you not have the least bit faith in him? deep down, he knows u did this to prevent a war between him and baldwin but.... Salauddin wouldve gone to war for you. Happily. This wasnt your decision to make alone. Now, he stands in front of your portrait, he has it in his palace now, and he doesnt say voice it out like baldwin, but he has complaints. HE keeps them inside, mentally talking to you, telling you just how stupid you were for sacrificing yourself, for jumping off that stupid cliff. How u shouldve just- just asked him for help ONCE, and he wouldve fought until his last breath if it meant keeping u safe. In his mind, u sacrificed yourself to protect Baldwin from murdering innocent muslims or anyone else u wouldve seeked help from.

And now? All Salauddin can do is pray for you. He wakes up late into the night and sits on the prayer mat, making dua for you for hours, reading Quran for you, has animals slaughtered on eid on your behalf, even doing charity and hajj (pilgrimage) on your behalf, just so that you can have more good deeds in your name. He still has the chess board u gifted him, but he's stopped playing chess. He never played the game again, it was only a painful reminder of you. The one person who he could never beat.

As for your painting, why it was smudged? Salauddin didnt want anyone to see your beauty, thats why he kept the portrait hidden in his room, but then he feared that one day when he's not around anymore, someone will see you. So, he used a rag soaked in turpentine to smudge your face, but couldnt do more than just the bottom half of your face. He thought that was fine, after all, thats how u did often appear when you were around, wearing a niqaab, a veil that covered your face.

Now that he looks at your eyes, he realises his mistake. He heard the wise tell him-

"Eyes are the windows to the soul."

He now knows it to be true.

This is what I think the portraits look like:

Notice that this is the earrings Salauddin gifted Y/n when she was in the market with him:

How Baldwin's been:

[gilverrwrites]

If that ask was too long and elaborate, I have another one!

What about a fic with Batman, where the reader finds out she’s pregnant and doesn’t know how to tell Bruce since he already has mature/ teenager kids and she doesn’t know if he wants to raise one from the infant stage to adulthood.

She kinda overthinks about it and distance herself from Bruce. He notice it and when she would confess, to her surprise, Bruce would get super exited!

What I don't understand

AN: I'm back baby! At least partly, my hand is still on and off achy so I won't we posting as activiely as I have previously. I've done so much research on pregnancy that all my adds are now of pregancy tests, fertilitie test, baby stuff, I'm worried my bf might start to suspect that I'm pregnant which would be akward Bruce Wayne/F!Reader, 3.9K words CW: Husband/Wife dynamic, pregnancy, feet (none sexual), mentions of vomit, body dysmorphia, lying/sneaking around, prenatal anxiety/depression, martial problems, swearing. Fluffy ending tho!

Pregnancy brain is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result. Or maybe that's insanity, who knows? You ponder the thought as you fidget with the flimsy cardboard packaging of the pregnancy test you're awaiting the results of as if you don't know the answer. You'd already taken countless tests, trialling different brands in the hopes of a different outcome but every single one of them had confirmed your situation with variations on lines and plus signs. They'd never offered you a negative, and yet you keep trying.

There was no denying it, and pretty soon there would be no hiding. You were fast approaching the end of your first trimester at 9 weeks but had only found out about a month ago. The task of informing Bruce while there was still time to act seems to grow bigger and scarier with each passing day. Not to mention; it's becoming increasingly obvious that he already suspected something is wrong.

3 weeks ago:

The cold tile against your aching feet felt like ecstasy. You couldn’t help but close your eyes and lean against the wall, relishing in every second of release as you awaited Jason’s return.

You’d spend hours hiding your pain, precariously balancing in a pair of heels as you kept up appearances during a charity event being held at the manor. Bruce was currently being cornered by a visiting dignitary, and as bad as you felt leaving him alone, it might have been your only chance. You’d slipped away to an off-limits hallway, grasping Jason who had drawn the short straw for event appearances along the way. Once out of view to your guests you’d begged him to retrieve a pair of pumps from your bedroom, the petty prospect of keeping it secret from, and thus getting a one-up on his adoptive father being the primary motivator. That, and he owed you, a lot, for defusing many situations in which he and your husband had butted heads.

The weight of your discarded shoes hung heavily from your fingers, you hadn’t realised how weighty they were. A shame, because they were so pretty. They were a gift from Bruce, strappy and bedazzled, the perfect colour to match your dress. Another pair for your ever-expanding collection, he’d always favoured gifting you shoes and purses, and you certainly didn’t mind, at least not until your ankles had begun swelling at the mere notion of being used for their primary function.

“Are you okay? You seem off.��� Jason’s voice returning to the hall made you jump out of your stupor, and he watched with concern as you tucked your heels behind a curtain and slipped into the flats he’d brought you.

“Fine, fine.” You smile, patting his arm with a reassuring smile. “Just didn’t wear those in properly and now I’m paying the price.”

“Right.” He still seemed dubious and was about to say something else when a door creeks open, redirecting both of your attention.

Bruce stood in the doorway, stern, arms crossed. He glares at the both of you, he and Jason have a very similar glare. His eyes focus in on you, identifying you as the main culprit, his gaze roves across your form, lingering on your feet for an uncomfortably long time before speaking.

“If I have to suffer through this, so do the two of you.” He points behind him. “In.”

Jason’s face is obscured as he takes the lead, but Bruce must not like his expression because his frown seems to deepen.

You followed close behind, careful not to step on the hem of your dress now that you lack the additional six inches the heels had offered but your integration back into the crowd is halted. Bruce traced his hand along your back, cupping the curve of your waist and directing you to a lesser populated spot amongst the outskirts of your visitants.

The stony look on his face was gone, replaced with a polite smile for the crowd and softer eyes for you.

“What happened to your shoes?” His voice was low, in-perceivable to anyone but yourself.

“My feet were sore is all.” It’s not a lie.

“Too sore for dancing?” He asks, voice as slick as silk and you don’t want to agree but yes, they are too sore dancing. Not to mention you’d gotten nauseous from standing up too quickly only hours earlier but damn if you didn’t want to dance with your husband. Want to feel his chest against yours, his hands on your curves, admire the smile on his face. There are few things you enjoy more than any form of intimacy with Bruce.

“Maybe later.” You sighed, “I think I need to sit down for a while.”

2 weeks ago:

‘Breast changes are another very early sign of pregnancy. Your hormone levels rapidly change after the egg is fertilized. Because of these changes, your breasts may become swollen, sore, or tingly.’

You groaned aloud, rereading the entry on WebMD once more. You hadn’t expected your breasts to change so early on, incorrectly assuming any swelling or pain would be a result of breast milk, but you were wrong.

Believing you had the house to yourself, you figure now was as good a time as any to read up on more early pregnancy symptoms, to correct any other misconception you might have. You were midway through reading about progesterone and how it causes constipation when your laptop pinged.

A notification popped up in the corner of the screen, a DM from UserDC27, Bruce’s bat-server codename. You click to open the message and audibly gasp when a screenshot of your browsing history greets you, framed in red with its own ‘suspicious activity’ notification in the corner.

‘Pregnancy trimesters in weeks’ ‘Swollen breasts pregnant’ ‘Early pregnancy symptoms’

Amongst all the suspicious browsing habits of this family, of course yours had flagged up! Fucking ridiculous!

UserDC27: ? UserRI01: For a friend UserRI01: dw UserRI01: Love you x UserDC27: [is typing…] UserRI01: has signed out.

1 weeks ago:

“Good morning.” A familiar voice greeted you, strong hands slink around your body, brushing against your back and hips before settling on your stomach. What should have been a sweet moment frightened you, disturbing you from your train of thought and causing you to almost spill your morning decaf coffee.

“Woah there.” Bruce laughed, the warmth and proximity of him soothing you quickly. He effortlessly took the mug from your hands and settled it on the kitchen island so he could pull you closer without spillage.

“Sorry.” You mumbled, turning your head to rest it against his chest. The strength of his cologne is always so much stronger in the mornings, the scent of the man you love, of citrus and woodsiness does wonders to comfort your frantic brain no matter the time or place. “Just lost in thought.”

After a second you realise your mistake, you’ve allowed him an opening to ask what you’re thinking about and that exact moment certainly did not feel like the right time, what with Damian in the next room. You should be alone, completely alone.

He surprises you however, always one for keeping everyone on their toes, by spinning you around to face him and telling you, “I don’t think that’s it.”

“What do you think it is?” You tried to keep your voice airy, relaxed, unsuspicious but even you can hear the guilt in your tone.

“I think you’re tired.” He watches you with a playful glint in his eye, but the next words out of his mouth are accusatory no matter how light his tone is. “Where are you sneaking off to in the mornings, oh wife of mine?”

“W-what?” You heard him fine, you were stalling while you calculated a response. You had been sneaking off in the mornings and the fact that he’s asking so playfully, as opposed to interrogating which he is not unknown to do even with you, means he knows more than he’s letting on.

Bruce isn’t exactly an early riser, often too tired from long nights of crime fighting and case filing, but he is a light sleeper. Always on alert. He’d already caught you in a bought of morning sickness once. Roused by the unpleasant noises you’d been making. You’d lied about it, citing an upset tummy from something you’d eaten. You weren’t sure which was worse, the vomiting, the sombre expression he’d given you as he approached to rub your back throughout, or the look of horror on Alfred’s face when Bruce had brought up your supposed food poisoning later that day.

Ever since you’d purposely been rising early and sneaking off to dispel any nausea in one of the many guest bedrooms.

“Nowhere, I’m just becoming more of a morning person I guess.”

He eyed you sceptically, and you thought you might crack under the pressure. His hands reach up to cup your face, preventing you from turning away. His touch is so gentle, so soft for a man of his stature. “You can tell me anything, you know that?”

“Of course.”

As if you couldn’t feel worse he adds; “I miss waking up to you beside me.”

“Oh Brucie-“

You’re already on your tip toes, ready to concede, to apologise, to shower your sullen husband with kisses when you’re saved by the signal. Literally, a call from Duke 'The Signal' Thomas, with a reminder of your apprehension; an active situation that needed Batman’s participation.

Your relationship, and now marriage to Bruce had always hinged on an unspoken understanding that Gotham comes first. Even with Tim taking over most of his responsibilities at Wayne Tech, Bruce simply does not have enough time to raise a baby. You can't expect him to take turns with the nighttime feeds, with the frequent nappy changes, with the constant attention an infant will need.

You’ve no doubt Alfred would delight in assisting you, he's been dropping hints about wanting a baby Brucie since the engagement, and you love him very much but if you’re to raise a baby, you want to do it with your husband, not his butler.

That’s presuming your husband even wants a child. Another child. He already has enough children to populate a small village. Children with lives of their own. Children who in some way or another have followed in his vigilante footsteps. You think of the stress and trauma each of them has faced, and how it has affected them and their father. You think of Steph and her tremulous relationships with Bruce and Arthur. Of Jason’s deaths, plural. Of Dicks ineptitude to form meaningful relationships with anyone outside of the lifestyle. Of all the childhoods so many, but especially Cass and Damian missed out on. Could you be responsible for putting another child through any of that?

Furthermore, if your child wanted to live this life, could you really stop them? Nobody stopped Tim. Nobody stopped Barbara, when Jim had tried it only caused the rift between them to grow bigger.

Could Bruce stop your unborn child? Would he want to?

Speak of the Oracle. The chime of your phone draws you out of your spiral of perinatal anxieties. It’s Barbara, informing the girls-only group chat that she’s running late for lunch. Crap. You’d completely forgotten that you’d promised the girls lunch and shopping. Barbara had some tech on hold, Steph wanted to try the new caramel cookie waffles at Goodilicious, and Cass needed new boots whether she knew it or not.

Hurriedly, you shove the used test into a previously disused makeup bag that is now full of other used tests. It's starting to smell, but you don't have time to figure out how to stealthily throw it out, so you hide it at the back of a cupboard behind a basket of sanitary products before rushing out the door.

Later

Catching up with the girls had been fun, it had really helped you forget about your predicament and just relax for a while, but it had also taken a lot out of you, keeping you out well past dinner. Your body just was not functioning as well as it used to, for obvious reasons.

Upon returning to the mansion you’d made it to the ground floor lounge, feet too sore to even consider the stairs, and collapsed on the closest couch, exerting just enough energy to pry your shoes and sock off of your swollen feet prior to falling asleep. Just a quick nap you tell yourself, to regain some energy, you’ll be right as rain in time for Damian’s bedtime. He’s old enough now to put himself to bed, especially given that he often patrols with his father until the early hours of the morning, but tonight is his night off and you’d always make the effort to wish him sweet dreams when you can.

You’re awoken by the feel of calloused fingers pressing into the arches of your feet. You hadn’t heard him enter, but Bruce is sitting on the arm of the couch, in nothing but sweatpants and slippers. Between his bare chest and cowl hair, he is a welcome sight, bruised chest and freshly cut lip and all.

“What happened to you?” You ask, voice husky from your impromptu nap. You manage to draw your eyes away from Bruce long enough to check the time on an antique wall clock, it’s 4 AM. You’d far exceeded a nap. “Where’s Damian?”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle. Damian is asleep. When you didn’t wish him a goodnight he came to look for you, that’s how I knew you were here.” He asserts. He looks at you with a furrowed brow and pinched lips, working his thumb into the arch of your feet with just enough pressure to make you mewl in relief. “Are you punishing me for something?”

The question hits you like a ton of bricks, it’s not without merit. You hadn’t intended to spend the night on the couch, but you can understand how it must look to him, especially in tangent with the ways in which you had intentionally been avoiding him; sneaking out in the mornings, not allowing him to see your naked body for fear that he’ll notice your swollen breasts, and growing belly. You hadn’t had sex in at least three weeks.

All at once you are overcome with remorse. You’d been so consumed with the pregnancy and how best to approach the subject with Bruce that you hadn’t stopped to think how your actions would weigh on him. He’s so strong, your anchor, an unchanging presence for the whole family. He locks himself and his emotions behind the big bad bat or billionaire Brucie so well that sometimes he forgets he has them. Sometimes you forget. Even now, clearly hurting and concerned for his marriage, he’s rubbing your feet.

“No of course not Bruce, I’m sorry…” your mind starts to form the end of your apology ‘I was just so tired’ or ‘it’s been a long day’ and they wouldn’t be lies but they’re not the right thing to say. You can’t keep postponing for the ‘right moment’ that will never come, can’t keep chickening out. He needs to know the truth. “I’m- I’m pregnant.”

You’re not sure how you’d expected him to respond really. You’d feared anger, hoped for joy but instead, he continues to stare at you, his brows raising in a way that implied he needed more information. He swaps your left foot for your right as he awaits your resumption. When you don’t speak he nods and states; “I know.”

“You know?” As though possessed your tired body launches into an upright seated position. “How could you know?”

Bruce smiles in response, an amused, tight-lipped ‘Are you kidding?’ smile.

“Well, to name a few things;” he counts off each observation on his fingers. “You’ve stopped wearing heels because your ankles are constantly swollen, your breasts are also noticeably swollen even under your clothes, you now only drink decaf, you seemingly have ‘food poisoning’ every morning and at no other time of day, a massive increase in urination, and my personal favourite, the bag full of positive pregnancy tests behind a crate-full of menstrual products that haven’t been used in almost three months.”

He’s trying to hide it, but he’s smug about his own detective skills. His mouth might be straight but there’s a fire in his eyes that has you drawing your legs away from him with a huff, abruptly ending the massage you had been enjoying. “How long have you known?”

“I’d had my suspicions for about 6 weeks, but I wasn’t certain until I found your stash last week.” Typical of Bruce to have figured out you were pregnant before you’d known yourself. “What I don’t understand, is why you didn’t tell me. Why you’ve been lying.”

“I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t have kept this from you. I was going to but…” You trail off,  straightening your thoughts as best you can and finding your composure, preparing to begin monologuing about your concerns. “I didn’t know how you’d feel about it, what with you know, already having so many kids. Everyone but Damian has flown the nest, Dick and Babs are married! They’re all so grown up, do you really want to start again? And then…”

Conscious of your rambling you cut yourself off, looking to Bruce for reassurance that you’re not talking too much, that he’s not offended by your worries. He consoles you by coming closer, sitting on the cushion beside you and easily coaxing your legs over his. His firm hands are gentle as they grasp your knee.

“And what?” He questions.

“I wasn’t sure how I feel, I wanted to figure that out before talking to you.”

“What do you think you feel about it?”

“I think I want to have your baby Bruce, our baby.” So caught up in your thoughts, you hadn’t noticed your husband’s hands creeping higher and higher up your body until a hand settles on your stomach, his thumb stroking you through the fabric of your shirt. You’d been so self-conscious of its growth but as you look at it now, under Bruce’s sturdy fingers, you realise it isn’t much bigger than it had been pre-pregnancy. How tedious your problems seemed when voiced and put into perspective, except maybe one. “I’m just not sure about how… well I guess I never thought about raising a child within your lifestyle.”

“I understand.” He nods, confirming his statement. He’s done well to keep his face soft but neutral throughout, a staple of his Batman facade but also a careful way not to let his own emotions interfere with yours.

“What do you think?” He looks down at your abdomen as he considers his words. You follow his gaze, watching as his fingers lift your top, exposing your skin to him. Without warning he lowers himself to pepper your belly with gentle kisses, the ticklish motion causes you to giggle and writhe beneath him.

When he looks up at you again he’s smiling, the motion causing the scab on his lip to split and bleed. Without thought you pull yourself closer to him, using his broad shoulders as leverage. Once close enough you dab at the minor wound with your thumb soaking up the fluid as best you can and examining the cut to ensure no further damage.

Bruce watches you intently the whole time, cupping your face in his hand when you appear satisfied. The adoration in his eyes makes you feel sheepish even after everything you’ve been through together.

“I think,” his voice is low, sincere. “I couldn’t be happier to be growing our family together. I think this child, like all our children, will be lucky to have you as a mother, whatever life they choose to lead.”

The amount of pent-up tension in your body had not been apparent to you until now. Until your body noticeably lightens in response to his words. The relief of no longer sneaking around, no more fretting over how he might react has you wishing you’d done this a long time ago.

“Bruce?” You sag into his chest, breathing him in. His arms unconsciously wrap around you in response, pulling you in for a tighter embrace. “We’re having a baby.”

“We’re are having a baby.” He confirms, pressing more, tender kisses to your neck, the curve of a smile apparent as his lips press to your exposed skin. "I've been waiting for this moment since the day we me. But, I think it’s time we got to bed, it’s late.”

Swift and practiced, Bruce lifts you from the couch, cradling you in the bridal position. You stretch to check the clock, 4:34 AM.

“Technically it’s early.” You jest, expecting him to punish your cheek by jolting you in the air or throwing you over his shoulder as he normally does, but instead, he chides you with an amused glare, clearly too concerned about the baby for play fighting.

“Neither of us has been to bed, it’s late.” His grip tightens on your body as he makes his way up the stairs, one steady step at a time. “And I expect my wife to be in our bed when I wake up.”

“Hmmm.” Your morning sickness has eased in the last few days, you’d only persisted in sneaking out to be safe, but he doesn’t need to know that just yet. “I’ll try, but I might be in our bathroom.”

“I can cope with that. At least then I can care for you. And we can throw out your hoard.” You don’t fuss over the likelihood of him having to rush off to save the day or for an urgent board meeting, you just throw your head back, laughing at yourself for trying to hide anything from Bruce.

When you reach the bedroom he lays you in the bed and climbs over your form. He’s in full caretaker mode, a manner you could get used to. He carefully removes your clothes, offers to redress you in your sleepwear and to bring you your lotions, or anything you should need from the bathroom.

Dawn is breaking behind your blackout curtains by the time you’re both settled in bed, entangled in each other’s arms. Sleep has nearly taken you again when Bruce whispers; “I do have one other thought.”

“Oh?" You peer at him curiously over your shoulder. "Yes dear?”

“I think you should be the one to tell Damian.”

His request hangs heavy in the air as you consider the implication. “Tell Damian that he will no longer be your only blood child?”

The room remains silent, he doesn’t expand because you know what he’s getting at. Damian probably won’t mind, because he’ll still be the oldest, the first in line and you’re certain he’ll be a wonderful older brother, he’s great with animals, so why not babies? Right?

“… That's not fair.”

“Think of it as penance for lying to me all month.” There’s an air of humour in his voice as he pulls you closer still, squeezing himself into your back and planting sleepy kisses against your neck. “Besides, he’ll probably take it better from you. I think he likes you more.”

[yuri-is-online]

Azul totally has an octopus and shrimp plush that he makes kiss.

Who? How? Usually when I get an ask I know where it comes from (or why anyway) but this time I just looked at my phone and got hit by a bus. But you know what annon? You are so right, he totally does.

notes: they/them used for Yuu, Azul engages in some SSS tier simping (shrimping?), once again this is a joke but I am not taking cold meds this time! Please look at my masterlist for more serious works.

Plush toys do not exist in the ocean, the concept of them was something Azul had been made aware of in his research and made note of in land training camp. But of course, as was the case with more things than he would ever admit to outside of a court order, Azul failed to grasp just how ubiquitous and popular plushies were. He had even been gifted an octopus plush as a prize during one of the first Board Game Club events he attended, something he had intended to brush off as childish until he saw the way his club mates reacted, even if he didn't understand why himself the little guy was clearly an enviable prize. A claim made less believable with how he hadn't let Floyd squeeze it, or Jade poke at it, and he certainly had not agreed to give it to Idia no matter how much he had begged.

The shrimp plush had been a... strategic purchase. No really, if anyone asked he had a perfectly reasonable explanation for why he had bought this specific plush that he had to go out of his way to find, order, and watch out for to make sure that Jade didn't bring it to him with the rest of his mail. The Mostro Lounge was always going to expand to have a merch store, and since plush toys were so popular with humans it made sense to have some! He just needed to ensure this particular brand was of a high enough quality to commission-

No one was going to buy that excuse. All the more reason to keep this little indulgence a secret, even if the seller had been confused by his request for discreet packaging.

"It's just a plush sir?" To them maybe, to him this is a painful sign that he should just say something already but he needs to plan for that and this should help. The two plushes certainly look natural enough together, Azul has seen pictures of some beds that have a bunch of little guys set up on them and he's beginning to see the appeal. Maybe he should get two eels? Smaller than the shrimp, obviously, it's the only way the real ones will ever let him live it down. But by thinking that he is sort of acknowledging who the little shrimp is supposed to represent. And they're sitting next to him in his bed.

He takes back his previous thought, Azul has no idea how humans sleep with things that remind them of the objects of their affections, it's filling his mind with situations.  He props himself up against the headboard, holding both plushies close to his face so he can see them without his glasses.

“I was so lonely.” Azul is incapable of picturing him otherwise.  “I really missed you.”  He sniffles, and the little shrimp jumps to comfort him.

“I missed you too!”  The little shrimp is friends with the octopus?  Azul has no idea when that happened he just got them today-  “Let’s never be apart again ok?”

“Do you really mean that?”  The little octopus tentatively reaches out one of his stubby tentacles towards the shrimp, who takes it happily.  “I don’t want to let you go…”

“You don’t have to.” comforts the little shrimp. “We can get married and do our laundry and taxes together forever and you won’t ever have to be lonely ever again.” 

And that is apparently when Azul decides to come back to his senses, just as he is halfway through humming a wedding march and making the plushies kiss.  He remembers himself enough to keep them from dropping to the floor, but they still fall to his side as he collapses back onto his pillows redder than a boiled lobster.

Maybe he should just… give the little shrimp over to Yuu.  And make some actual progress on that laundry and taxes bit.

[shotmrmiller]

expanding on the konig ask // it turned a bit nsfw sorry

könig would mistake your simple kindness as a crush.

he'd been slightly startled when you gently rapped on his office door to ask him if he wanted a cup of warm caffeine before breakfast since you're already getting one for yourself. (he hasn't a clue that horangi had practically begged for one too.)

then was the one time you'd offered to stitch the tear in his hood. he'd sputtered, completely taken aback by how brazen you'd been. "nein." he'd stiffly walked away apple-cheeked; hands balled into fists in his pockets. (no one knows how to sew for shit, you're the team medic of both bodies and clothing.)

then you bring him an apple pastry. the pencil (könig, please. we are in 2k24 use a pen) snaps in his hand when you choke out, "apfel strudel". his mother tongue rolling off of yours is truly too much and when you leave, he fists himself under his desk with the butchered words echoing inside his head. shame roils in his gut after— post-nut clarity hitting like nothing else— and with a snarl, he wipes the thick cum off of his hand on his pants while using the other to eat the treat that you so kindly baked for him. (the pastry was cold and made of tart green apples which he's hated since he was a lad.)

and now, with your head resting on his padded shoulder, dozing off. his tongue is tied in a knot and there's a lump in his throat because no one's ever really dared to be so forward with him. not only is he a walking pussy deterrent— what with his height and creepy, blank stare— but he's also a colonel; your superior. he can only have him under you in one way and that's under his command. so he makes his choice. once the helo lands back at base, könig taps the side of your helmet with his finger and mutedly asks you to meet him in his office.

"i am flattered, ja? but you must cease this behavior."

"sir?"

he clenches his jaw, crooked teeth gnashing together in determination. he won't let your pretty, round face deter him from his duty to his country, the team, nor you. it simply wouldn't be fair. he's your leader so it's up to him to put a stop to this. könig refuses to acknowledge the look of disappointment on your face. (delusional. you look confused because you literally have no idea what he's talking about.)

"the food—"

"you didn't like it? the apfel strudel?" he chokes on his spit when you say it and turns around to pound at his chest. he doesn't hear how you had told fender to not order that dessert. 'just because it's austrian doesn't mean the colonel will like it.'

he's fortunate to have such a tall backrest on his office chair because his cock is already at half-mast and your dulcet voice reverberating off the plain walls of his small office is doing him no favors. könig stands directly behind it and dismisses you with a wave of his hand and a hoarse command.

how tantalizing you are, so bold to be showcasing your talent in home economics just like a frigatebird puffing its chest out to attract a mate. his grip on the chair tightens, the leather protesting with a soft creak.

it's just a crush. time will erode these frail sentiments you've come to have for him (for him! an old, ugly man whose virginity has practically grown back since the last time he slept with someone was a paid sex worker years ago) and so he'll just ignore them.

(he doesn't. he fucks his pillow every night— jaw trembling and saliva pooling— thinking it's you taking him instead and confuses your s/o as a relative.)

[thechy-fychannel]

You said you think pre-infarction house was an addict-can you expand on that? What drugs were he hooked on and why did he fully switch to vicodin and never used others again? Did he ever reach a go-to-rehab level addiction? How did wilson handle that? And what was Stacy's attitude towards his addiction? I think she would have been a lot more forgiving than cuddy because 1. She herself is a smoker who goes back to cigarettes during hard time and 2. Unlike cuddy, she didn't have a small child to worry about.

Ahhh thank you sm, I love this question!!! Let's get into it ✨

So my theory is that house was abusing morphine prior to the infarction. here are my reasons for thinking so:

1. Three Stories- the entire reason house's infarction was as bad as it was is bc everyone except house was convinced he was just drug seeking at first. it makes absolutely zero sense for them to think that unless he already had a history of drug seeking. unless I misremember (anyone feel free to correct me if I'm wrong) he already worked at PPTH for a while before the infarction happened. so it was the same doctors he knew and interacted with every single day that saw him screaming in agony and chose to believe he was just trying to seek drugs and not actually in pain. he had to have a history, it just doesn't make sense otherwise for them to assume he was drug seeking.

2. one very specific line in No Reason (the episode where house is shot and the whole episode is a hallucination). when house, wilson, and cuddy are in her office and house is realizing they did something to his brain (the ketamine treatment) cuddy says this specific line: "You were out of control, you were shooting morphine!" This line has always stuck out to me and no one ever seems to mention it. It's very out of place bc the conversation they're having is about him being shot and them doing something to him while he was under. I think this was his brain connecting this event to the last time someone did something to him while he was unconscious, trying to rationalize these traumatic events.

3. In early s3 when the pain comes back, he begs cuddy to give him a shot of morphine in his spine (the scene where he drops his pants in her office and asks her in tears if the scar is all in his head too since she thinks the pain is all in his head.) cuddy gives him the shot and he comes back looking for another one later on, after the pain comes back again. she informs him that she never gave him morphine, it was saline. the fact that the pretend morphine worked suggests he had a mental dependency on it. I'm pretty sure this is the point where he goes back to vicodin (it's been a few months since I did my last rewatch so I could be wrong). I think had she actually given him morphine, he likely would've become addicted to it again. Just the thought of the morphine was enough to have him looking for more.

4. Wilson's tendency to jump straight to heroin use when he thinks house is on something other than vicodin. it happens more than once in the series when house starts acting just the slightest bit off, wilson leaps to the conclusion that he's on heroin. which is an insane leap to make unless it's something he's had to worry about in the past. I think the reason wilson would jump to heroin over morphine is if he knows what it looks like when house is high on morphine. If house used to abuse morphine, wilson would be able to recognize it and if he can't, it must be something much worse. this again plays into why I think he was an addict prior to the infarction even if it wasn't morphine, because who in their right mind would jump to their best friend using heroin if that person didn't have a long history of abusing similar drugs?

Now to answer your other questions:

Why did he switch to vicodin and not go back to others he may have been addicted to? I can tell you from personal experience that while morphine feels great, it makes you hazy and tired and out of it. I think once he was prescribed vicodin after his surgery and learned that he could function on it and not feel hazy, it was a match made in heaven for him (he says a few times in the show that vicodin doesn't make him hazy, so he immediately knows if he's on something else bc he feels hazy.) He didn't need to switch to anything else as long as he had access to vicodin bc he got the high, the pain relief, and no haziness. but when he got cut off of his vicodin during the tritter ordeal, he stole oxycodone (I think?) from wilson's dead patient. so if he didn't have vicodin, it's safe to assume he would go back to whatever he had access to.

Did he ever reach rehab level addiction? / What was Stacy's attitude towards his addiction? I think if we go based off his colleagues thinking he was drug seeking + cuddy saying he was out of control and shooting up morphine, I would say yes, it was rehab level addiction. But— I feel like if it had been that bad, stacy would've mentioned it in some sort of capacity during her arc when they were discussing their relationship. she never hints at him being an addict as far as I can remember. she loved and cared about house so much that she was willing to accept him hating her if it meant he was alive and healthy. I feel like if his addiction had been dangerous, she would've done anything to get him help the same way she did during his infarction. even if it meant going against his wishes and him hating her, she would've insisted he got help. so I'm conflicted on that question, honestly. I think maybe it depends on the perspective of those around him. maybe those at the hospital saw something stacy didn't, I'm not sure. but I agree with what you said about her being more forgiving and understanding of it than cuddy was. I think if he had been an addict while they were together, she would've given him an endless amount of chances until it became dangerous, that's when she would put her foot down and try to force him into rehab and their relationship probably would've crumbled for a whole different reason.

How did Wilson handle his addiction? I think house being an addict prior to the infarction plays perfectly into the theme of wilson emotionally neglecting his wives for house. we obviously don't have an exact timeline of his marriages aside from his first one ending just before house and wilson met, but it's pretty safe to assume that he was married to and even possibly divorced from bonnie before the infarction ever happened since he seems to have been married to julie for a little while in the beginning of the show.

[sidenote: here is my personal timeline HC for wilson's marriages.

Sam: 1991-1992 (canon)

Bonnie: 1993-1998

Julie: 1999 (before infarction) - 2005]

In the episode where house uses bonnie to get dating info about wilson, she says the iconic line, "You always needed him and he was always there for you. He had a wife waiting for him at home and you didn't care." And it just makes sense if the reason house always needed him was because of his struggles with addiction. house in general is a needy person who always wanted wilson's affection to himself, that much is clear, but wilson had to of had a good excuse to always run off for whatever it is house needed from him prior to him being disabled.

Getting into more specifics about how wilson would've handled his addiction back then— I think he would've handled it similarly to the way he did with the vicodin. he's an enabler unfortunately, he would've let house make excuses and made excuses for him because he tries to give house the benefit of the doubt that he can control himself. I think back then even more so, because house wasn't in pain and disabled, wilson had no reason to think house couldn't control himself. I think it's even possible that wilson was in denial about it too, he didn't want to believe his best friend was an addict and maybe he felt like he needed to protect house when others started accusing him of such. I think that may be why wilson asked cuddy to make that bet with house to find out if he was addicted to vicodin. he ignored it and denied it last time and he's enabled him for years since the infarction, he wanted to know if he was treating house's pain or still enabling an addict. the answer was both, which makes it no less complicated. but like with all of house's issues, wilson continues to stand by him and be there for him bc he loves him and wants him in his life, addict or no addict.

[phantomtwitch]

Electric Core/No One Knows AU

I meant to post this for some event, but never got around to it. Since AO3 is functionally down at the moment, I figured I'd share it in case folks are looking for something to read. It's kind of similar to 'As the Ice Begins to Crack' in terms of vibes (or at least that's what I was aiming for - I want to write more AUs in that vein, and I might expand more on this at some point).

Enjoy!

Tucker knows it’s coming as soon as the air shifts. 

The differences are subtle at first. A faint whiff of ozone, a slight chill to the air as the wind picks up and sweeps the fall leaves into spirals over the ground, and then the hairs on his arms stand on end. Then comes the low-pitched hum, the hiss that sounds like electricity running through high-voltage cables, peppered with the occasional burst of static and awful whining as the air grows heavy and thick, the sky darkening even when moments ago the sun shone brightly above them.

Sam freezes next to him, her fingers clutching her milkshake tightly as her eyes dart from side to side, looking for somewhere to hide until they land on an abandoned house nearby. “Come on,” she insists, tugging at his hand.

“Sam, there’s no way that place is safe, it’s been condemned for years–”

“--and being out here with Phantom is?” she interrupts, and Tucker scowls, knowing that she’s right, but moving from one dangerous spot to another isn’t ideal. There’s nowhere else close enough to go, though, or at least not anywhere they won’t risk getting struck once the lightning starts, and he follows her with a groan and an eye roll. They’re on the porch when the first lightning bolt strikes the pavement nearby, making it explode and sending shrapnel flying that barely misses him and Sam, and thunder roars, painfully loud and close. He slaps his hands over his ears, trying to block out what noise he can, but his ears are still ringing when it stops.

Sam forces one of the windows open and climbs through, with Tucker following shortly after. The house is empty and covered in heavy dust that makes Tucker sneeze as they disturb it, the air almost as oppressive inside as it was out, and in the corner he can see signs of something rotting that he doesn’t dare approach. 

The two of them stand at the window even though they both know better. When a ghost that is more an embodiment of the storm than the kind of vague, intangible figure haunting ghost stories becomes a common fixture in town, endless safety lectures and drills become the norm. Knowing what to do in the event of a thunderstorm is the closest the teachers can get to explaining the safety precautions that are necessary when Phantom is about. 

He’s only actually seen Phantom once before, when Sam begged him and Danny to go on a ghost hunting trip back in freshman year on Halloween. Tucker wasn’t terribly interested in ghosts, but he was too old for trick-or-treating and not popular enough to score an invite to any parties, so he agreed. Danny did, too, but bailed at the last minute, claiming he felt too tired and sick to go with them. 

Tucker tries not to think about Danny too much. The three of them haven’t spoken in close to six months, at least, drifting further and further apart despite his and Sam’s best efforts to stay friends their first two years of high school together. Most days he’s barely in class anymore, and when he is Danny is constantly tucked away in a corner, curling in tightly on himself, careful to avoid getting too close to anyone. Dark circles constantly ring his eyes, his expression hollow and skin too pale. Sam asked Jazz once before she went off to college if Danny was seriously ill and she denied it, even as it was clear something about him had changed since high school started.

“Do you ever talk to Danny anymore?” he asks suddenly, and the shift in conversation as they peer out the window and wait for the elusive Phantom to make his appearance catches Sam off guard.

“No. Does anyone?” she says, her tone resigned as another loud peal of thunder echoes around them, and Tucker swears he sees the house shaking. They argued a few times about what to do and what else to try, never figuring out a way to reach him. 

“I guess not.” He turns back to look outside, rubbing his arms as a figure blinks into existence on the road. The features are hard to make out, as always, because of the bright green lightning that flickers across his form, making it nearly impossible to stare at Phantom for too long. His hair looks wispy and white, his eyes swirling pools of green amidst a heavily shadowed face, and his form is hazy and more like smoke or dark clouds in the vague shape of a person, yet there’s an odd solidity in the way that he moves at times, as if by far heavier and present than he ought to be in this inhuman state. 

The words that come out when Phantom speaks next aren’t any language humans can hope to imitate, but it’s clearly a form of communication, the ear piercing whine and buzzing reminding Tucker of standing beneath high-voltage wires even as it rises and lowers in pitch and the rhythms shift. There’s an echo to the words, a way it loops through the air as if constantly caught inside a tunnel no matter where Phantom appears, and his voice gets under Tucker’s skin, prickling like static beneath the surface and making him rub his arms more fiercely than before.

Another ghost roars back, his voice full of snarling and hissing, the sounds animalistic even as there’s a mechanical clicking that accompanies it, and Tucker recognizes it and winces as he spots the strange robotic ghost flying in mid-air, green flames cascading down his skull and back, completely unhampered by the rain that is now beginning to steadily fall. The Fentons call him Skulker. The hunter ghost is infamous, stalking his ‘prey’ throughout Amity Park, although what particular creature ends up being his prey in any given week is often impossible to know until it’s too late. Mostly what he hunts are other animals and ghosts, and for whatever reason, Phantom has long been one of his favored targets.

But the ghost stands little to no chance against Phantom.

“Maybe we should get away from the window,” suggests Tucker uneasily as a green blast extends from Phantom’s palm, swirling with crackling green lightning as it lashes out at Skulker, and sparking arcs of electricity dart from it, sparking against a stop sign and dancing across the pavement towards their hiding place. Though no one has ever seen Phantom directly attack a human before, his powers are wild and dangerous, the lightning barely controlled.

And Tucker’s all too aware that just because no one has ever witnessed Phantom attacking someone before doesn’t mean he wouldn’t do it.

“No, I want to watch,” whispers Sam stubbornly as she peers through the window, but her knuckles are white as she grips the window frame. Tucker barely suppresses a sigh as he remains firmly in place. The things he does for his best friend.

His only friend, a quiet voice whispers, but he ignores it. 

The fight is brutal, the ghosts barely visible as they attack each other, but the evidence of their fight is everywhere as green fire spirals, intertwining with the lightning amidst the rain. “It’s kind of beautiful, isn’t it?” says Sam, the lights and shadows dancing in front of them, and he nods despite himself. It’s terrifying, inhuman. The Fentons’ say that ghosts are nothing more than imprints, echoes of post-human consciousness, but as he watches them fight Tucker realizes he’s never truly understood exactly what that means, if they’re spirits or souls or just the fading echoes given some unnatural life at the very moment of someone’s death. 

“How do you think Phantom died?” he asks as Skulker slams into the pavement, the machinery smoking and his flames dwindling as the rain comes down harder, and Sam doesn’t answer, likely unable to hear him over the downpour and crackle of thunder. They watch as Phantom looms over Skulker, his indistinct form more monstrous than ever, and then he slams a fist into the machinery, his fingers sharp, black claws that spark as they dig through the metal frame and pull out a shimmering, shifting ghost, so tiny compared to the hulking frame encapsulating it. 

The rain begins to slow and Tucker wonders for a moment what Phantom will do, if he will destroy the squirming helpless thing in his hands, but then there’s a soft whisper, the sounds that come from Phantom no longer sending chills down his spine but inviting comfort instead, of an odd sort of warmth and gentleness. The ghost–is it Skulker? Tucker isn’t sure–responds in a mewling, annoyed tone, but stops fighting back as Phantom pulls an odd soup like container from . . . Tucker isn’t sure, actually, just where Phantom pulls it from, but he flicks the cap open with practiced ease and sucks the small ghost inside. 

“Isn’t that one of the Fentons’ inventions?” wonders Sam, and Tucker jolts as he realizes she’s right. He remembers seeing it once in one of the assemblies, but the device has rarely appeared in their arsenal since they created the portal guns to send the ghost back to their own dimension instead. “Think he stole it from them?”

“With the level of security they have around that place? Doubt it,” says Tucker. Though it’s been ages since he was last at the Fentons, their ghost security was aggressive enough that it would target sufficiently ecto contaminated humans by mistake, let alone a incredibly powerful ghost like Phantom. Tucker doubts they’ve downgraded their security since then, especially since the number of ghost attacks are only increasing. “Maybe he found it in the trash.”

“Maybe,” she hums, sounding doubtful, and it’s at that moment that the electric green eyes snap towards them, focusing intently, and although it’s too late both Sam and Tucker duck in a futile effort to hide. 

“Shit,” hisses Tucker, and Sam shushes him, putting a finger to her lips, but it’s too late as the air in front of them crackles and flickers as a bolt of electricity impossibly strikes the floor in front of them, Phantom appearing within it, his arms wrapped around the thermos. He and Sam flinch as they curl in towards each other, Sam’s hand grasping his own tightly now as the two of them tremble, and he can barely stand to look at Phantom, the electricity arcing along his body too bright. 

A hiss of static erupts, the same odd ghost speech as always, but this time Tucker understands it, hearing words within the noise even though that shouldn’t be possible. “You shouldn’t stay here,” says Phantom, the sparks around him diminishing, although now that Tucker can make out his features more clearly it’s almost worse as he opens his mouth to speak, sharp white fangs sparkling within. 

“Well where else were we supposed to go with you out there fighting?” grumbles Sam, and Tucker stares at her in horror, unable to believe she would dare to speak to any ghost, let alone Phantom, that way. But the ghost lets out an odd sound, of echoing loops and trills and whirring, and it takes Tucker a second to realize he’s laughing. 

“Fair. But this place is haunted,” he replies with a grin, “and the ghost that lives here doesn’t take kindly to intruders.”

“That’s–um–fine,” stutters Tucker, squeezing Sam’s hand tightly before she can utter another word as he forces himself to his feet. “We’ll, um, get going. And, um, thanks.”

The sparks stop running along his body, freezing at midpoints in a way that completely unnerves Tucker, as if the ghost is frozen in a photo instead of standing in front of them. “Thanks?” he repeats.

“For stopping the ghost?” he squeaks out. “And warning us about the, um, other ghost haunting this place?” His voice is so high that Tucker thinks he could sing soprano right now if Phantom asked. 

Phantom continues to stare at him, saying nothing and remaining so still Tucker would swear he’s a statue, and eventually Tucker swallows as he grabs Sam’s hand and tries to pull her through the window, but she refuses to budge. “Sam,” he hisses, tugging again. “Come on. Let’s go.”

“Not yet,” she insists. “Phantom . . . Are you . . . do you have a place to go?”

“I’m not a lost puppy,” he says, the unnatural stillness rolling off him with a wave of sparks. “And I can’t be near humans for long anyway. It’s hard to control the electricity, and dying from electrocution is a terrible way to go.” There’s a noise behind the words, an echo of long, awful scream that makes Tucker shiver and instinctively realize then that Phantom is speaking from experience, and for the first time it occurs to him that the noises that comprise each ghost’s individual speech aren’t half as random as he believed. 

It’s the sound of their death, echoing for eternity, never letting them or anyone else forget. “Is that . . .” asks Sam, wanting to confirm it.

“Yes,” he says simply, and then there’s the sound of something breaking upstairs, a window smashing and shattering, and static prickles against Tucker’s skin. “You should go.”

“Right. And, um, bye, I guess?” says Tucker awkwardly, and finally Sam follows him out the window and back out onto the street. Despite the sounds upstairs, there’s no broken glass outside beneath any of the windows above them, and as he glances back he can see Phantom’s eyes watching, considering them carefully, before another bolt strikes and he vanishes in a clap of thunder, leaving Sam and Tucker alone once more. 

[your-unfriendlyghost]

The Fight is Over

So this is the fic I mentioned working on in this post- the one about Evie not wanting Steve to fight in the rumble. It’s an angstier one, I reckon, but I tried to add lighter moments. Hurt/comfort maybe?? Idk. The ending is hopeful, and I’d say the whole thing is pretty soft, but idk my view of “soft” may or may not be accurate lol. Will be cross posted to ao3.

-

  “Who is this?” says the voice on the phone. 

  “Steve,” he says. He whistles on the S. Ugh. “May I uh…may I speak to Evie, please?”

  “Steve who? Do you have any idea how late it is, kid?” says the voice. It’s low, so it must be one of Mrs. Peterson’s rolodex of boyfriends.

  “Just put her on the line, please. Please,” Steve begs. 

  “No, you need to call her back at a better time.”

  “No, please, man- sir- please, I’ll be fast. I just really need to speak to her.”

  There’s a sound of fumbling, a muttered swear, and a distant “I give up” on the other end of the line, and then Evie’s voice is there. 

  “Steve?” she says, and her voice is cool. “How was the rumble?”

  Steve winces, leaning back into the Curtises’ couch. 

  The rumble. It feels like years ago that he was cheering about winning the rumble. It feels like years since he gave a damn about the rumble, since the Socs mattered. It feels like decades since two days ago, when Evie tossed his momma’s ring at the wall and told him not to come crying to her when the rumble ended up killin’ him.

  “Steve?” she says, the ice in her voice melting just a shade into worriedness.

  “Johnny’s dead,” he croaks. Evie gasps very faintly. “And uh…Dallas couldn't take it…” Steve trails off, because there’s hot tears in his eyes again. God, his eyes are already so swollen and sore from crying. He’s shocked he has any water left in him. 

  “Dallas…” Evie repeats.

  “Yeah, he uh…” Steve rubs his eyes. “He’s gone. They’re both gone.”

  “Steve, I- I’m so sorry.”

  “Can I come over?” he whispers, wishing he was comfortable on the couch, wishing he didn’t have to ask for help, wishing he hadn’t made Evie mad the other day, wishing she wasn’t right.

  “Of course.”

  “Thanks,” he breathes, and hangs up the phone. 

  He stares at the ceiling for a minute, and then the door to Soda’s room, and then at his ratty tennis shoes. 

  He tugs on the chuck taylors slowly, because his hands feel like lead. Everything feels like lead. Steve doesn’t remember the last time he ever felt this heavy. Somehow he manages to trudge outside to his car, and he sits there, holding her wheel for a second, noting the way the bumps on the back fit his fingers, just to feel something solid in his hands. 

  Evie’s place isn’t too far from the Curtises’, just a few miles down the road. Some bluesman croons on the radio, along to a twanging harmonica. A cop car is parked by the old oak tree, and for once, Steve slows to the speed limit, a picture in his head of blue and red lights and gunshots racing through the air. The thought makes his stomach twist violently, and he cuts off his thoughts before they get to Dallas. They get to Dallas anyway. Falling on the pavement, crumpling like a soldier on the battlefield. 

  Except there was no fight to be fought, no war to be won. 

  “No!” Steve had screamed.

  “He’s just a kid!” Two-Bit yelled.

  Steve fell forward then, and he hazily remembers Soda catching him, holding him. He threw his hands up in the air, convinced for a second the bullets were still coming- the cops still had the guns out, it’d be so easy to pull the triggers-

  But they didn’t. 

  It was over, and Dallas Winston was on the ground, dead.

  Steve’s not crying anymore, not really. It’s been over an hour. But the occasional tear escapes, and his nose is running like a river. He sniffles, and the snot gets caught in his throat. He can’t expand his lungs enough to get it out without his rib screaming in pain. 

  Damn Socs, he thinks, but it doesn’t spark the same anger in him anymore. He just doesn’t have it in him. 

  He parks the car a block down from Evie’s place, because her mother doesn’t like when he comes over this late, and drags his feet up the sidewalk. He turns into her side yard, stumbles past the cellar, and hops onto an overturned bin to better reach the window into her bedroom. It glows warm with gold lamp-light, and there’s a little flickering candle on the sill.

  Steve knocks on the glass.

  Evie draws the curtains back and hoists the window open. Her hair is tied back in a pair of braids, and she’s wearing a white nightgown like a girl in a movie. 

  “Evie?” he murmurs, and she cups his face in her hands.

  “You got a few shiners, huh?” she says gently.

  He shrugs. He forgot about those. She runs her hands through his hair, even though it’s greasy and messy and he hasn’t washed out the Vaseline that held it in place all nice earlier today.

  “Come on in,” Evie says, her brown eyes soft. 

  “Okay,” he mumbles, and hoists his body and then his knees up onto the wide sill. From there, he lets his body go limp as he falls onto her bed, feeling like a ragdoll. 

  His rib feels like it’s cracking even more from that pathetic exertion. He hugs his chest and groans.

  “Soda patched ya up?” Evie hums, tracing a bandage wrapped around his knuckles.

  Steve nods.

  “You wanna talk about…everything?” she asks, lying down next to him on top of the sheets.

  He almost does, but he remembers his tooth and shakes his head.

  “Okay,” she says, snaking her arm under his shoulders. Despite the pain in his chest, Steve rolls onto his side and hugs her tight.

  With his face buried in her shoulder, he says “I love you.” He’s said it before, but he doesn’t think he’s ever meant it quite like this. But now he means it with everything he’s got. 

  She holds him close, kissing the top of his head. “I know,” she says, a slight teasing in her voice. He chuckles, because he’s so beat that everything is funny.

  “Honest,” he whispers. “Honest to God.” He doesn’t know how else to say it, that she’s the one thing tethering him to the world right now. That she’s the only thing who feels real.

  “I know,” she says. She pulls back to look at his face. “I love you too, Stevie. I’m glad you came here.”

  For the millionth time tonight, Steve’s eyes get wet. Evie wipes the tears away, murmuring things like “It’s okay,” “It’s over now,” and “I’ve got you.”

  Steve wimpers, thinking about Dallas, who wasn’t even eighteen yet. Thinking about Johnny, who he never did visit at the hospital. Thinking about how Johnny was wearing Steve’s old hand-me-down jacket as he burned in the old church.

  It’s ridiculous, but that’s what really gets him sobbing. Picturing that old jacket, with no one left to wear it now. The collar that would never be turned up how both he and Johnny liked it ever again.

  And Dally, Dally’s Saint Christopher pendant, the one he used to give to Evie’s friend Sylvia- what, is it just supposed to sit there in the confiscated evidence? Steve vows to steal it back. Dallas wouldn’t want it goin’ to the pigs…

  He keeps playing the past week over and over in his head, wishing he’d done something. 

  He wishes he’d gone with Dal to that town yesterday. He woulda seen the burning building, and he’d have put his pedal to the metal and shot outta there. Ponyboy woulda never been able to jump out and save the kids, and Johnny wouldn’t have broken his back and burned, and Dally wouldn’t have snapped. Sure some kids mighta died, but Lord, kids died either way- but if Steve had been there, at least those kids wouldn't’ve been Johnny or Dally…

  But no. Dallas never told him about the country, never told him about the hideout. Steve couldn’t have been there yesterday. He couldn’t have.

  So instead he wishes that Two-Bit had stuck with Ponyboy and Johnny that night last week, kept Ponyboy safe from the Socs. …No, Steve wishes he’d let Pony-kid come along on his double date with Evie, Soda, and Sandy. Suddenly Ponyboy’s presence sounds like no big deal. Hell, Steve would let the kid come along on every double date ever for the rest of time if it only meant Johnny and Dallas weren’t bein’ shipped to the morgue right now, measured and packed into wooden boxes…

  Steve shudders, sobbing and shaking, wishing over and over that he could undo the whole week. Start again, start fresh.

  He wishes he could wake up, and find himself back on that afternoon, the day Ponyboy got jumped. He’d fix everything, he would. Somehow. 

  Ponyboy would never get jumped, Johnny would never stab anyone. And while he’s dreaming, Steve makes it so Sandy never leaves Soda. No, he makes it so they never dated to begin with. So Soda’s heart never breaks. So Soda never shows up in Steve’s room, crying and crying and crying, looking broken beyond repair. And if there isn’t a rumble, Steve doesn’t argue about it with Evie, either, and she still has his ring around her finger, and everything is okay again.

  Steve cries, wishing he were younger, wishing he could fix it, and most of all wishing he could close his eyes and open them to a movie house. Ponyboy would be there, like he was that day, and Steve would tell him he could come along. Anything to keep him from that drive in. Anything to keep him from pissing off the wrong Soc. 

  And then he’d be here tonight with Evie, kissing her and listening to Elvis. He’d be resting easy, knowing Johnny’s at Two-Bit’s house and Dally’s at the bar. Knowing Soda’s not heartbroken and Ponyboy isn’t sick. Knowing Soda isn’t gonna get whisked away to a boys’ home, far away from Tulsa…

  Evie holds him steady, running her hand through his greasy, blood-mud-and-Vaseline-matted hair.

  “D’ya mind if I use the shower?” he mumbles finally, once he’s slowed shaking. 

  “Course not,” she says, hot breath in his ear. “Ya need one,” she teases, pulling away to look at his face. He grins on instinct. Evie’s eyes widen. 

  “...What?” he says, wiping his watery eyes on the back of his hand.

  “You’ve got a hole in your mouth, Stevie!” she says, grabbing his chin to look at the missing tooth.

  He exhales through his nose, but bares his teeth so she can see ‘em. “I reckon it’ll make me look tough,” he says defensively.

  “D’ya have the tooth on ya still?!”

  Steve squeaks in surprise as Evie sticks her fingertip into the space where his front tooth used to be. “Hey!”

  “Sorry,” she says, sitting up and flicking on the lamp. “Now c’mon, d’ya have it?” she demands.

  “Shoot, s’okay, just took me by surprise,” Steve grumbles, prodding the empty space himself. “I got it here, see?” he says, taking his front tooth outta his pocket. It had actually fallen out after the rumble, when he bit into a piece of cake…and then looked down to see his tooth still lodged into the ice-hardened chocolate frosting. He scowls. He’s pretty sure he knows which punch loosened it, too.

  Evie cringes. “Oh…Steve…”

  “I know,” he mumbles, catching sight of where she left his ring on the windowsill. “I know.”

  Sighing, she holds a hand out, and hesitantly, he hands her the tooth. 

  “C’mon,” she says, taking his tooth in one hand and his arm in the other. She kicks the door open and glances down the hall, and seeming to decide it’s clear, she leads him out and into the bathroom.

  In the bright light of the bathroom, Steve’s reflection looks even lousier than he feels- which is saying a lot, ‘cos he feels like he’s been beat half to death. His eyes and cheeks are red and puffy, which sure ain’t his best look. It makes sense though- closing his eyes feels funny, no surprise they look like that. His hair is flat on one side and sticks up on the other, and the grease has loosened, so it sticks out too far on the sides and makes his face look too wide. There’s blood and mud and tears streaking down his face, and he can’t tell where the shiners end and grime begins. His tank top is stained and torn, his vest is caked with mud, and the crown jewel of it all is his damn missing tooth. He thought his teeth were bad before, but glory, he’d rather have a crooked tooth than no tooth at all. 

  He doesn’t look tough, cool, or hoodish.

  He looks like a little kid.

  Steve scowls and sits down on the toilet lid so he doesn’t have to face his reflection.

  Evie looks so perfect, especially by comparison. Her skin’s almost clear, and so soft looking, and the hair that isn’t braided falls ‘round her face in perfect dark curly ringlets. Her nightgown is clean and white, except now there’s stains where she held him. The shoulder he cried into is especially bad, with dark mud and wet tears on the once-nice lace. Great, so now Steve’s ruined Evie’s clothes too along with his face.

  Evie doesn’t seem to notice though- she’s focused on rinsing off the tooth in the sink. 

  “C’mere,” she says, once she’s decided it’s clean. “Look at me.” He does. “Good,” she says. “Now you gonna try to put it back in, okay?”

  “Yer-what?!” Steve says, eyebrows flying to his forehead. 

  “Sometimes they can go back in. I saw my ma do it at the emergency room once. I reckon it’s been too long, but I figure we oughta try, at least.”

  “Okay,” Steve says, going to grab the tooth.

  “No, not there, that’s the sensitive part, that’s the root- I don’t think you’re meant to grab it there?” Evie says, unsurely. “Oh- maybe I oughta wake up Ma…” she murmurs, chewing her lip.

  A jolt of fear and disdain shoots through Steve. If Evie wakes up her Ma, it’s likely to be the breaking point for Mrs. Peterson’s hesitantly allowing him to date her daughter.

  “No!” he says quickly. “No, that’s alright, just do what ya think ya should.”

  Evie nods reluctantly, and hands Steve the tooth by the bottom.

  “Oh-kay,” he breathes, hyping himself up for it. “Here goes nothin’.” He takes a sharp breath, lines up the tooth, and jams it into the socket.

  It’s like sticking a knife into his gum, and the pain shoots through his mouth and into his head like an electric shock. He yelps involuntarily. “Oh!”

  “Shh!” Evie hisses, glancing towards her ma’s room in a panic. “Oh damn- are you okay?!” she whispers, whirling back to face him.

  “Yeah,” he grits out, holding his tooth in place with a finger. “You got any as-thpirin?”

  “I reckon,” Evie nods, the panic in her face giving way to sympathy. She opens the medicine cupboard and hands him the aspirin, and then she rubs his shoulders and plants a kiss on the top of his head. 

  “So do I jus-th…leave it?” he says, lisping around the mess in his mouth.

  “Ma had the kid at the ER bite down on some fabric so it gets pressed back into place.”

  Steve cringes. His head’s already pounding, and the thought of more pressure…ugh. But Evie hands him a little bit of bandaging wrap, and he bites down hard.

  “Now leave that in your mouth, and pray to God it takes,” Evie says, patting his face. She sizes him up. “Next order of business- shower.”

  Steve nods, and goes to shrug off his vest- but oh! His broken rib screams in protest. “Augh…” he manages to groan, curling around his midsection. 

  “Shh, don’t stop biting,” Evie orders, not unkindly. She rises and tugs his vest off one arm at a time, and she tosses it on the tiled floor in the corner of the bathroom. 

  He butts his head into her side affectionately. She chuckles and ruffles his hair. 

  “Is it cool if I get your undershirt too?” she says, and he nods confirmation, although this isn’t exactly the circumstance he’d imagined his first time stripping for her in. 

  She peels off the tank, and disappointingly, she doesn’t take much time eyeing his chest. She’s probably scared he’s uncomfortable. Man, he’s dying to spit out the fabric so he can ask if she likes what she sees.

  Then he remembers why he’s here and wants to kick himself- how can he be thinking about flirting at a time like this?

  Steve stands up and unbuttons his jeans, staring hard at the wall, trying not to feel awkward in front of Evie. She's gone all the way with guys before, but he’s never been so…exposed in front of anyone who isn’t Sodapop- he can’t help but worry she’ll be disappointed. He’s proud of his arms, sure, but everything below his pecs is…a Wild West that his feelings change towards on the daily. He just prays Evie finds it easier to form an opinion. 

  “Thi-sth ain’t quite how I thought thi-sth’d go,” he tries to joke around the gauze, keeping his eyes trained on the wall as he tosses his jeans into the pile of clothes on the ground.

  Evie chuckles. “Me neither. And quit talking, you gotta let your tooth set, babe.”

  He nods, face flushing.

  “Don’t worry,” she says, leaning over his shoulder to whisper in his ear, “next time I see ya like this we’ll have a helluva lot more fun, okay?”

  He bites back a smile, and turns around to kiss her cheek as best as he can around the bandaging in his mouth. 

  Evie smiles and squeezes his shoulder, and then retreats to the door. “You get cleaned up, I’ll find ya a change of clothes.”

  “Okay,” he murmurs. Once she’s shut the door, he clambers into the shower.

  In the shower, he cries again, ‘cos he keeps thinking about how Dally was supposed to be racing next week. Steve, Soda, and Johnny had planned to watch it about a month ago…Soda with Sandy, and Johnny with Steve’s cousin Phoebe, who was supposed to come down to visit… Steve cringes. He’s gonna have to call her and tell her not to come down from Kansas- he’s just not in the mood to host while planning his buddies’ funeral arrangements.

  He wants to go kill that Soc, Bob Sheldon. 

  But he can’t even do that. The damn fucker’s already dead. In his frustration, Steve turns the water temperature up so hot it burns, just so he has something else to focus on. When that gets too painful, he turns the heat completely off so that he’s cold. Maybe if he thinks hard about the cold water and the way his teeth want to chatter, he can be mad at that instead.

  Numbly, Steve washes his hair with Evie’s floral-scented shampoo, and tries to pretend the tears streaming down his face are just water from the shower head.

  After about ten minutes, he hears Evie come back in.

  “I gotcha a towel,” she says, so he figures he oughta come out. He flicks the water off, and pokes his head out the curtain.

  “You okay?” she frowns. She touches his cheek. “Glory, you’re cold! Why’re you cold?!”

  He shrugs, and takes the towel, ducking back behind the curtain to dry off and wrap it around his waist. 

  Back in Evie’s room, she hands him a too-big football jersey, white boxers, and a pair of jeans that are cut off a few inches above the knees. He figures they probably used to be her dad’s, as they smell dusty like they haven’t been used in years- which is how long it’s been since he died in Korea.

  The clothes hang off Steve’s frame loosely- Mr. Peterson was a much bigger man than Steve is. They’re warm though, especially compared to the ice shower he just subjected himself to. 

  “I called the dentist, but they ain’t pickin’ up. I reckon we oughta take ya in tomorrow,” Evie says, falling back onto her bed. She’s changed out of her white nightgown and into a shorter yellow one, and Steve tries not to stare because it really really isn’t the time or place for that.

  “You gonna be able to afford it?” She asks, voice quiet.

  Steve shrugs. Hell if he knows. “How much does it co-stht?” He says, scowling at the damn lisp. 

  Evie shrugs helplessly. “Probably a hundred-fifty if they can’t save the tooth and needa give ya a new one, which they probably will since it’s been so long since ya lost it…but Jesus, I dunno, I stopped volunteerin’ there ages ago.”

  Steve huffs, wrinkling his nose. He probably has a total of a hundred in his bank account. The ol’ man has a lot more, but Steve doesn’t wanna explain it to him…

  He sighs and falls onto the bed next to Evie. He wonders about Johnny’s hospital bills. Do you still have to pay those if you’re dead? Will the Cades still have to pay them even though the doctors failed and Johnny’s gone?

  Steve closes his eyes and tries to focus on breathing in and out instead of the empty feelings inside.

  “I called Sylvia too,” Evie murmurs, voice breaking just enough for Steve to catch it. “She’s stayin’ at Buck’s tonight, told me she’d let him know about Dallas…” Evie trails off, getting choked up. “She cried, Stevie. God, I don’t ever remember hearin’ her cry. Mind, she was tryin’ not to, and I reckon she thought I couldn’t tell, but her voice was waverin’ somethin’ awful, and she started sobbin’ after I said good-bye but before I fully hung up…” Evie rubs her eyes. “Lordy, I ain’t never heard her cryin’ before.”

  “Thought she was two-timin’ him,” Steve murmured.

  “Well, she thought he’d quit gettin’ sent to the cooler,” Evie shoots back, and Steve frowns, but doesn’t argue. He feels like that’s different, but he’s not in the mood to argue with Evie right after she’s let him off the hook for their previous argument.

  “I just…I can’t get my head ‘round it,” Steve whispers. “I can’t believe they’re gone.”

  “I can,” Evie whispers. “Not Johnny. But Dallas.”

  Steve half-laughs bitterly. “I guess we knew he was gonna go out in a blaze of glory, but still…now that he has, it don’t feel…real.”

  “No…I suppose it don’t,” Evie agrees. 

  “They were just kids, Evie,” Steve murmurs, screwing his eyes shut. 

  “Glory, we’re all just kids,” Evie sighs, wrapping her arms around him. He hugs her back and buries his face in her shoulder again.

  It isn’t fair. None of it is fair.

  The next morning when Steve wakes up, there’s still a hole in his mouth, and an even bigger hole in his heart. But it’ll be smaller someday, maybe. 

  “Mornin’,” Evie says, yawning next to him, her hair a mess from sleep. God, she’s the best girl a guy could have.

  “Hey,” he says, grabbing her hand under the sheets. She smiles and squeezes it.

  Evie’s got his ring on her finger again.

[yisony07]

Mario Bailey had always been a reserved and quiet young gay man. He had never been one for adventure or excitement, preferring to stick to his quiet routine and his few close friends. His best friend since childhood was a boy named Darwin, who was the complete opposite of Mario. Darwin was outgoing, boisterous, and always on the lookout for something new and exciting to explore.

It was a lazy afternoon, and Darwin had come over to hang out with his friend. They were sitting in Mario's living room, chatting and listening to music when Darwin suddenly pulled out a wooden mask.

"Check this out, Mario," Darwin said, holding up the mask. "This thing has some serious powers. Legend has it that whoever puts it on gains incredible abilities and becomes a completely different person."

Mario looked at the mask skeptically. "I don't know, man. That sounds a little too good to be true. Besides, I'm not really into that kind of thing."

Darwin chuckled. "Suit yourself, buddy. But I think you're missing out. Take a closer look at it."

As Mario leaned in to examine the mask, Darwin suddenly lunged forward and put it on his face. Mario tried to pull away, but it was too late. The mask started expanding and contorting itself, covering Mario's head with its tentacles. He started to scream and beg for Darwin's help, but he could feel himself giving in to the power of the mask. It was like nothing he had ever experienced before.

The mask made Mario spin into a tornado that moved chaotically across the room. Darwin watched in amazement as his friend was transformed before his eyes.

When the gas of the tornado dissipated, it revealed a young man with a green face, lustful red eyes, and a tattooed hot body.

Thanks to @greenface94 for this masked pic and the tornado gif.

Mario felt completely different now. He was horny, lustful, and lewd, and he had a newfound desire to explore his deepest, unceasing desires. He looked at Darwin with a hungry gleam in his eye, and Darwin could feel himself getting aroused just from looking at him.

"Mario...?" Darwin breathed, unsure of what to say next as he watched his friend approach him with a predatory swagger.

Ignoring Darwin's confusion, Mario grabbed his best friend by the waist and pulled him down onto the couch next to him. He started kissing Darwin deeply, exploring his mouth with his tongue and pulling his body closer to his own. Darwin moaned in pleasure, his hands running over Mario's newly-tattooed body.

Mario's newfound powers were incredible. He could do things with his body that he had never even imagined before. He made himself float off the ground and spin around in the air, making both him and Darwin dizzy with pleasure. He used his powers to satisfy his deepest desires, and Darwin was more than happy to comply.

They made love for hours, exploring each other's bodies and indulging in their wildest fantasies. The room was filled with the sounds of their moans and the smell of their sweat and sex. When the night was over, they lay next to each other, completely spent and covered in sweat and cum.

As the morning light began to filter through the windows, Darwin looked over at his friend, now once again just a simple, reserved young man.

"Did that really just happen?" he asked, still trying to process everything that had happened the night before.

Mario looked at him with a small smile. "I don't know, man. But I do know one thing: I'm definitely never going to forget it."

[creative-soul-22]

Madame Leota for the Character Asks #’s 2,4, 10, 23, and 37! 🥰

Hi @jedimasterbailey !

Thank you for these amazing asks! Let's go

2. A canon or headcanon hill I will die on

Harriota! I'd love to see their interactions, their relationship...

But also I'd love to see more of her interactions with William Gracey!

And PLEEEEAASSSEEEEEE we need Madame Leota and Travis interactions! Imagine how cute it would be if Travis showed her his toys and carried her around in this way too big crystal ball! That's why I'm writing "Madame Leota babysits" at the moment.

And of curse we need to expand that "she was once popular but then Hattie trapped her inside her crystal ball and tables turned" trope!

I headcanon a scene where Leota stays with a royal family. So, as she arrives, she walks down the hallway of a huge ballroom to meet the king and there is an Orchestra playing and a choir chanting "Leota! Madame Leota!" as she walks towards the king.

Ahhhh damn just give a Haunted Mansion prequel called "Leota"!

4. "I know you don't believe in yourself but I do." (please correct me if I misquoted that line, I've only got the German version so far)

It's not only so beautiful but there is also SO MUCH to it! And this scene is so painfully cut short it's almost a crime.

Harriet runs right to Leota when the teams sees that Harriet isn't powerful enough to ban Hattie and when the stakes are getting high. They know they are dead without Leota's help. Keep in my mind: this after the scene in which Ben opened about his grieve for Alyssa. It's after the scene Harriet opened about her sisters and how she feels like isn't a real medium. So, at this point, nobody believes in Harriet, not even Harriet herself does (Ben and Bruce didn't believe in her from the very beginning). And then, just right then, Madame Leota says right this. She believes in her. The one and famous Madame Leota who Harriet has been looking up ever since. Madame Leota trusts Harriet so deeply that she is able to free her that she even begs Harriet to do so. She, Madame Leota, begs. It's more than just Leota's approvement. It's her way of honoring, respecting and acknowledging Harriet's power. It's her picking Harriet up and put her on the same step Leota is standing on. Harriet no longer needs to look up to Madame Leota, she is now equal with Leota. And of course it's a very cute Harriota moment because it's just them at the séance room and they're tender with each other...

I'm still not over how short cut it was! It's an important moment for both Harriet's and Leota's character because it shows how Harriet had gone from "I'm qualified. Bonafied. Certified. And I can get rid of what died." to "I need your help, I can't do this alone!".

Also it shows how Leota had gone from "I can show you what happened but it will cost you $3." to "Please, set me free so I can help you." While we see Harriet more often in the movie and her change is shown throughout the movie (living room scene), Madame Leota's change comes out of the blue because she has criminally little screentime. Character changes are great but PLEEEASSSSEEEE show them to us! They are a process, not a switch!

10. Best moment on screen

The scene when she and Harriet defeat Hattie together with Ben. It's Harriet and Leota stepping up to the true greatness of their characters: Harriet being finally able to use her full powers, Leota being finally able to face her greatest fear: Hattie.

23. If they were a scented candle, what would they taste like?

Madame Leota would be a Febreze Ocean candle.

37. What they really think about themselves

Ooh I think Madame Leota blames herself for a lot of things that happened in the past. I'm sure she blames herself for not being able to reach Eleanor Gracey, for Hattie being around and therefore William Gracey's death. She also thinks she was so stupid to keep holding séances every night just to have more money against her gut feeling. Also she thinks that being stuck inside her crystal ball sucks but that she deserves it as punishment. Because inside the crystal ball, she is never happy. She never smiles. She only smiles when she's outside the crystal ball and Hattie is defeated. That's when she's happy again. And then she is able to look at the bright side of things: "It's actually quite spacious in there" (she also says that to calm Harriet down who is extremely worried).

Ahh thank you for letting me rant about my favourite lady at the moment!

ASK ME MORE OF THESE!! ALSO FOR OTHER CHARACTERS, I HAVE A LOT OF FAVOURITE CHARACTERS!!

[mychemicalrachel]

i mean… since i’ve already asked once, maybe the kink prompt will also do? 👉🏻👈🏻 14 for andrew and k? pretty please?

[PWP PROMPTS]

Ahhhhhh hell yes! This was such a fun relationship to explore!! Thank you so much for this prompt!!! 💕💕

14. Dirty Talk

Andrew Minyard and Joseph Kavinsky were different breeds of similarly rabid dogs. Violent and unrestrained, vicious and unrepentant. Warning signs visible from miles away.

The thing Andrew liked most about Kavinsky was his mouth. His bark often preceded his bite– and God, what a bite it was.

Once he had sunk his teeth into Andrew, there was no going back. Honestly, Andrew wouldn't have it any other way.

Andrew had a hard time with people, talking to them and understanding them and respecting them. With Kavinsky, there was no such issue. If he didn't like something, he had no problem letting Andrew, or anyone else, know it. And when he liked something… that was when his teeth really came out.

"I said harder, fuckwad," Kavinsky snapped, his position on his hands and knees in front of Andrew not one of authority by any means, though that didn't stop him from making his demands. "Are you even making an effort? Come on, Minyard. Harder."

Grabbing a handful of Kavinsky’s hair, yanking his head back, Andrew fucked him harder.

Kavinsky cackled, then moaned, sated for only the briefest of moments. It never lasted long. He was always hungry for more, more–

"More," Kavinsky said. He wouldn’t beg and he wouldn't plead, but unlike most of Andrew’s previous partners, he didn't take what he wanted without asking either.

"Tell me," Andrew growled. With the strands of Kavinsky’s dirty hair threaded through his fingers, he used the grip to pull Kavinsky up, closer, holding him to his chest as he pushed into him from behind. Another sharp laugh caught in Kavinsky’s throat when Andrew bit down on his earlobe, teeth scraping across his neck, not only hard enough to feel, but to sting. "Tell me what you want."

He knew that Kavinsky wanted everything, but he would accept whatever it was Andrew would let him have.

Kavinsky said, "Fucking hell," and then nothing else for a long time. His head fell back onto Andrew's shoulder and Andrew could feel Kavinsky’s lungs expanding in his own chest where they were pressed together. The closest two people could ever be to one. "God, you feel so good. I want you to fuck me so hard I feel it for days."

Andrew closed his eyes and thrust deeper, harder. He wasn't as talkative as Kavinsky but he was far more eloquent and he knew exactly what Kavinsky was trying to say– he wanted Kavinsky to feel this long after they'd both come and gone. He wanted Kavinsky to think of him when it hurt just to sit down, and he wanted Kavinsky to become breathless at the reminder of how full Andrew had made him feel.

"Shit, Andrew," Kavinsky moaned, and Andrew thought that was the full sentence until Kavinsky added, "You're so fucking big. So good. So… fuck."

"Tell me," Andrew repeated and if his pace before had been punishing, it was downright torturous when he slowed. He knew the angle to hit Kavinsky’s prostate just right, the way to wrap his hand around Kavinsky’s leaking cock just how he liked, to put Kavinsky on the very edge of an orgasm without tipping over.

Kavinsky’s eyelids fluttered as he tried his damnedest to stay present, coherent, and he swallowed hard, loose and pliant in Andrew's capable arms. "Andrew," he breathed, maybe the closest to a plea that Joseph Kavinsky would ever come. "Want you to come first. Jesus fuck," he shivered against Andrew, "yes, right there. Need you to fill me up. And then I wanna come with you still inside me, with your fingers in my mouth."

Andrew's hips stuttered. He thought, probably, he could come just from the sound of Kavinsky’s voice painting vivid, lewd fantasies. He wanted to pick Kavinsky apart, play out his wildest dreams, learn him inside and out– if only he could trust Kavinsky the same way Kavinsky trusted him. It was a work in progress.

Someday…

"You wanna hurry it up, Minyard? I'm getting bored." Though Kavinsky’s breathlessness betrayed how much he was enjoying himself, his fingers grasping at the sheets because he knew not to touch Andrew without his permission. 

Andrew thought, probably, he would let him touch, if Kavinsky asked.

"Please," Kavinsky gasped. "Fuck, do not make me beg. Andrew–"

As tempting as it was, to make Kavinsky beg, to see if he would, Andrew didn't have the patience or the stamina tonight, as Kavinsky sighed, "Come for me."

Helplessly, hopelessly, Andrew did.

[witchcraftandburialdirt]

"Do you think he remembers them?" "It bothers him more than his arrogance will let him admit." - Kindred

── 𝐔𝐍𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 ── LEAGUE VERSE

Death's whisper breathed across the shell of his ear while the mage followed his trail back home, if one could possibly ever label that decrepit hut a home - what warmth did it have to compare? It was not the first tme he had heard the otherworldly chitters of Death, they seemed to loom within his shadow only to mock him; and now ... now they had mentioned the blight that rained upon his existence. Four corpses filled his vision, each one shoulder by shoulder on his path - their pallid eyes marbles that sunk into the inner recesses of their rotting faces, maws wide and dripping with death spit. A low groan sounded from the girl, her nightgown's collar was stained with blood, the skin lay under the curve of her finger nails. She regarded him lifelessly, but the mage kept his head low and passed through their visage - each boot print following the same pattern he did day in and day out.

An ache nested deep within his chest, it curled through his ribs and coiled around his stagnent heart - why did he ever stop his research? The weepy brine pool of his mind was swept into the various trials and errors he had attempted throughout the years; so it was always those two who stopped his efforts. A primordial entity had soiled his attempts to return the souls to the bodies - to ... new bodies, perhaps, the revelation caused the once chilled pit in his chest to ignite into a quiet rage.

Boy. Get out of your own head.

A memory crawled forward, inviting and coaxing - something his mind and soul seemed to yearn for more than anything within the mortal world.

"...Did you have a nightmare?" The beat of silence between them was enough of an answer, along with the pillows strewn about the floor and the violent nature in which the bedsheets laid. Robin knew that his sudden timidness was a dead giveaway of the way his heartbeat was racing in the caverns of his chest. The taller man knelt down after he placed the candle holder onto Robin's nightstand, and began to pluck up the pillows to place them back onto the bed, his movements were smooth - alluring even - but that didn't much matter when Robin's mind was burning with the visage of his agony. The man did not speak, after all that would be rude since he had asked the question and Robin had yet to actually answer. He would eventually; he always did. Once the room had been straightened out, Robin's quivering lips stilled just enough to utter a brief description - it was a quiet horror filled with regret and guilt. "T-They--they were standing there..in the..in the doorway. Their…their mouths were open like that day." "Mmm…I see, well, I can guarantee it is only you and I here." The sweet and husky voice of the demon echoed in the space around them, a Piltovan apartment back in his days at the academy, its tone a promise of protection - of safety. The man sat himself slowly on the edge of Robin's bed, his silhouette somehow taking up the full expense of the student's eyes. His verdant gaze trailed from the blurred trim of his blankets to meet the man's glowing gaze, his iris painted the color of blood; it was calming to Robin. The visage began to reach out to him, the motion causing Robin to jolt with hackles raised despite the gentle way the man adjusted Robin's comforter around his shoulders, voice soft, "…You're trembling."

A low rumbling growl lifted him from his memories once more, of course he remembered them - they were everything to him. Siblings. Mother. Father. ... Him. The mage forced himself forward once again, each step heavier and heavier into the mud; he felt as though he was sinking into it. Loneliness gripped him, how could he ever forget to mourn and beg in desperation for those he had lost? The wintry gleam of his hair expanded into ribbons and rays of sunlight sweeping across him; bursting flowers along the frame and the excited bleating of the two deer. He wondered if they, too, would join the others in his guilt once time claimed them.

[saulweissberg-archive]

“yeah, well, she has good aim.” consider that his one nice thing to say about kathleen for the year. it wasn’t as if he didn’t understand rationally why she hated him so much. like with tamara, the wife before thalia, he was significantly older than her, and knew how to work a crowd, how to navigate the confusing politesse of new york high society. some choice people called saul smarmy. others referred to him as charming. with thalia’s history, and just the general nature of older sisters, it made sense that she was so protective of her. he had been similarly protective of his twin, levi, despite him being the older twin. that was as far as his understanding went with kathleen, though. not when she worked so hard to irritate him any time their paths crossed.

it was a short walk to the oak tree. his hand was still on her bicep when she put her back to the tree, though she quickly wriggled for freedom and saul let her go without protest. god damn, she didn’t even want him to touch her anymore. not entirely a surprise, but it still stung. just a little. even with her inscrutable expression, she looked as if she’d rather the earth swallow her whole than talk to him. in some way, it was a comfort. at least he wasn’t the only one unsure how to navigate their relationship post-divorce. “i’m glad to hear it.” and he was, really. it probably sounded patronizing, but he truly did want thalia to flourish. he wanted her to have every success in the world. he wanted her to find someone to love her better than he ever could. someone that could give up his career for her. someone that wasn’t emotionally stunted. fuck, he hated himself sometimes...

how had he fucked it up so badly? it couldn’t be entirely blamed on the move to providence peak, though it certainly didn’t help matters. their marriage already had been strained towards the end of their time in manhattan, but it was expanded by the stresses of moving, opening his own firm, and their mutual emotional avoidance. like the two marriages before her, he had fucked it up exponentially. the worst part: he thought they were actually going to make it. if there was any marriage he would’ve betted on not ending in divorce, it was the one with thalia. saul knew better than to make any bets; he always lost. even standing right in front of him, thalia was so far away.

his throat ran dry, the way it did any time she called him out. it had been awhile since they had a difficult conversation, and for once, he wanted to at least try not to immediately shut down. “well… i do worry about you, thalia—not that you’re going to have some public freakout or anything, i just… y’know… want you to take care of yourself.” how many times had she almost fainted from forgetting to eat? how many times did she trip over her feet? how many times did she wake up from night terrors? yes, he may have looked at her as if she was made of glass, but that was only because he cared about her. he loved her. even if they were no longer married, or saul dated someone else for a time, there would always be room in his heart for her. sometimes he wished there wasn’t any love left for her at all, other times he wanted to beg her to take him back. “i just don’t want to offend you by asking if you’ve eaten today, so, y’know… worried eyes and all.”

her next statement had him reeling for a moment. saul shoved his hands into his shorts pockets while he thought of what to say. “oh…” saul hadn’t informed thalia when he started dating again. he wondered if it would’ve been easier for her if he had. was it a shock to her when he began dating dean’s mom ann last summer? that relationship ended as well, but it ended nicely and he got a surrogate son in dean out of the experience. “no, that’s good. i’m happy for you.” he was. he wasn’t. he didn’t fucking know. if anything, it was only fair. if saul was trying to move on, then she should do the same. every time he missed her, he had to remind himself that their relationship ended for a reason. though he kept trying to get out there, saul had come to the conclusion that he probably wasn’t meant for a relationship. some people were meant to be alone, and maybe saul was one of them. “how are you really feeling, thalia? is that something you want or something kathleen wants?”

"She said she saw you at Frontiers but made no mention of the grapes." Thalia wouldn't put it past her sister. Protective from the moment the Clark's brought her home, Kathleen was everything to her. The first moment Kath and Saul met should have opened her eyes. Her sister was never wrong. That was a disastrous dinner but it was already too late. Thalia was enamored past the point of no return. All she could be grateful for was that Kathleen only said 'I told you so' once, when the divorce was finalized.

She truly did not want to be supported by Saul in any way. Their finances were kept separate during the marriage so even after, there was no need to ask anything from him. Even graceful falls got old though and she certainly preferred getting to the tree unharmed. As soon as her back was against the oak, Thalia nodded her thanks and slightly shifted her arm as a sign for him to release. She wanted to start crying or screaming at the mention of the weather. Why talk at all if it was going to be disgustingly superficial? They shared everything at one point, certainly more than just water. Hopes and dreams. She confessed what she remembered the night her family died. Only Kathleen, one therapist, and the detective originally on the case heard her first hand account. And Saul. Now they were talking about the weather and fucking Facebook.

"Yes, a lot of interest. I think we have a dozen new sign ups for classes already." She glanced at him then away. Was it normal to hurt this much after two years? "Saul I–" Thalia took a deep breath then forced herself to look at him. "You have such an expression of worry in your eyes every time you see me. Like I am going to start screaming or crying or something dramatic." This had been building up within her for a while. Every encounter with Saul gave her such significant emotional whiplash she needed a few days to recover. She would feel so tense and trapped. Like the air wouldn't actually cycle through her lungs. "We can talk and be civil." Maybe this was attacking him in a way. They didn't talk before and even though her expression remained neutral, there was the slightest waver in her voice.

"Kathleen is going to set me up. Some sort of blind date, I don't know." It was the last thing she actually wanted. To be put with a stranger who her sister picked in an awkward situation? It was terrible. But maybe it was a step in the right direction. Her life could be filled with someone new. "I wanted you to hear it from me." Instead of passed along by Kathleen or, even worse, if he happened to walk into whichever restaurant they picked for the date. Maybe it was about time though. Better to finally move on and let him do the same.

[novelconcepts]

fic: the thing about gravity

The thing about gravity is...

Well, the thing about gravity is, it’s inescapable, isn’t it? By definition. Gravity: noun. The force that attracts a body toward the center of the earth, or toward any other physical body having mass. You don’t fight gravity. You plan for it, or plan around it; you don’t fight.

The thing about gravity is, it doesn’t let go just because its convenient. It doesn’t let go because time marches onward, because the seasons change, even in the event a person wants it to. 

The thing about gravity, Jamie sometimes thinks--more and more, if she’s honest with herself, as the years roll by and the memories grow thinner--is in its inevitability.

Maybe this wasn’t what Dani would have wanted. Maybe not. But there’s something about it Jamie hasn’t been able to let go of. Not the year Dani left her. Not the year after that. Not sitting at Flora’s wedding, regaling a room of mostly-strangers with the tale of their life together. 

Not now. 

There’s a lot in life a person chooses, thinks Jamie, watching herself move around the bathroom in a mirror scrubbed clean as ever. Her hands are precise, her motions certain; if they tremble upon the toothbrush, the lipstick, the washcloth, it’s nothing of alarm. Nothing of note. Just part and parcel of moving forward through the years. 

Moving forward, as it were, alone. 

She hates that word, Jamie does. Alone. Didn’t use to. Used to be, alone suited her just fine. Maybe better than anything else. Alone left no room for other people’s manipulations, for sharp words or hot water spilled on soft skin. Alone could allow for accidents, but not embarrassments. Not shame. Just the art of learning the next path forward on your own time. 

And then came blue eyes, thumbs tucked into fists, a brandished fire poker. An adoration Jamie had never before thought she needed. A kiss in a greenhouse, watched by ghosts. 

She wouldn’t trade any of it, even now. Not an inch of what she was able to buy, borrow, and steal with Dani. It was theirs--the messy nights, the languid mornings, the hot tears, the tight embraces. It was theirs, every fern and ficus, every flower, every burned stew and perfect, beautiful laugh. She didn’t get enough time with Dani--Christ, could anything ever be enough, with Dani?--but she knows it was more than they were promised. More than anyone’s promised. She’s grateful, as the lines spring up around her eyes, drawing webs of exhaustion into her skin. She’s grateful, as the strength seeps out of her knees and her hands begin to ache in the cold. She’s so goddamn grateful. 

And still. Still, that pull. Because gravity doesn’t fade with time. Gravity doesn’t release simply because other people say it should. 

In a way, Jamie finds this reassuring. This one thing, this one immutable fact of reality. Even as Miles raises sons of his own, as Flora develops a line of children’s dolls far more advanced than anything she grafted as child, as Owen begins preparing to pass his restaurant down to those younger and more spry. Henry’s gone now, long gone, and Jamie sometimes wonders if he felt it, near the end. If the pull tugged at his trouser leg in those last moments like an errant child. 

Probably not. Henry had his own kind of gravity, didn’t he, made up of those kids and their parents and their bundled-up tragedy. Wasn’t like this. Wasn’t like this at all. She hopes he was happy when he went in his sleep, buoyed on soft dreams of a lost lover’s caress. Hopes he left those kids knowing they’d made it through all the shadows and into the sunlight on the other side.

Owen laughs a lot, when they see each other, about who’s likely to go next. He thinks it’ll be him. She asks him once what he believes he’ll see on the other side, and he’s silent for a long stretch. Long enough for her to know his kind of gravity hasn’t let go, either. 

“She’d want to be,” he says quietly, gesturing toward the ceiling of his flat. “You know. Up there.”

“If anyone could get in,” Jamie mutters, and they’re both grinning. He’s regrown his mustache, a fit of youthful pique that makes her feel like they’re both thirty again. She reaches up, almost expecting to find soil caked into her hair. 

“I’ve never known what to believe,” he says. “Not the way she did, not with any kind of...faith. But I like to think we get back what we put in. That if she believed she’d go to heaven, to her Heaven, then that’s what she got.”

Jamie waits. She knows him too well, knows he’s getting around to it. And, after another thoughtful sip of wine, he does.

“I don’t know what to believe,” he repeats, and there's the faintest tremor in his voice. “But I know what I would love. I hope...I hope she’s left a place for me. In whatever way you can.”

Jamie reaches over, squeezes his hand. He presses the other to his eyes, inhales deeply. 

“Well,” she says at last, “you’ll have to ring me when you find out. I plan to beat you there.”

And they laugh, laugh like old times, like bulky jackets in the rain and spitting bonfires and cake that maybe needs strawberry, maybe needs lemon. They laugh, him believing she’s joking, her knowing she isn’t.

Fact is, with some kinds of gravity, you can feel it. Tugging at your clothes. Whispering around your hair with the breeze. Guiding you forward like a soft hand at the small of your back. Maybe not everyone is granted this kind of luxury, but Jamie thinks Dani was. Thinks it explains everything, really. 

And hasn’t she been smelling Dani more and more, after all these years? Not just when she stumbles upon an old package in the back of the closet, a shirt she somehow missed after all this time, but just...sitting. Just sitting with a book, or waking in the night with the sensation of an arm around her waist. It’ll come without warning, a hint of Dani, and then gone. 

And hasn’t she been hearing Dani, in the strangest of ways? A snatch of song hummed from a lifetime away. A single peal of that deliriously-breathless laughter. A sigh, the way she only sighed when Jamie kissed her collarbone. Never for any reason she can clarify, never from something so lucky as a tape or a video, just...a signal. Brief. Echoing. 

It’s madness, she thinks at first, and then, slowly...no. Not madness. Memory. Memory returning, a little stronger, a little clearer, every year. As if some great cosmic force is actually funneling Dani back to her, instead of clearing out the last of the cobwebs. 

A gift. The greatest gift. She can’t say whether she’s earned it, and she certainly isn’t going to try explaining it to anyone else, but...

She wakes one morning, and thinks, is this how she felt? Is this how she knew? There was a note when Dani went, a single page dictated in her slightly-slanted script. Not an explanation or an excuse; simply I love you, and I loved you, and I will love you. There will be other nights, Jamie. Live. 

And Jamie did, she thinks with a stab of impatience even now. Jamie did live. For years, for decades, she’s gone on without that smile. Without having Dani there on the other end of the phone, without Dani’s hands on her hips when they danced, without Dani’s ring clinking lightly against her own as they bumped hands across a dinner table. Without Dani, she crawled out of bed each morning and walked through another day. And another. And another. She attended weddings and funerals without Dani; held Miles’ son without Dani; hugged Flora tight as she wept over some accident or other without Dani. She walked the world and she hurt and she cried and she lived without Dani. 

And now...

Now, that old gravity. Coming to call. 

It isn’t a bad thing, Jamie thinks all the way over on the plane. She’s a picture of parallel storytelling, dressed in her oldest brown flannel shirt, a pair of jeans with holes in the knees, a pair of Converse high-tops that never quite fit right again after a trip into a lake. Her back is bowed, and her hip clicks when she walks from the taxi up the winding drive. It’s not the same, exactly, as last time. 

In a way, that’s the greatest mercy. She never could have done this, if she’d thought she’d walk that same path as the same woman who did it so many years ago. The path is the same, perhaps, but the woman is changed. The woman has learned so much about what it is to live in a world that doesn’t have Dani Clayton in it. 

She doesn't go to the lake. She goes instead to the house, to whose front door Miles has so kindly granted her a key. He thinks she’s after pure nostalgia, searching for monsters or memories he doesn’t even know he’s missing. Just an old woman, trying to tie her life together with an attractive bow. 

Bless him. He doesn’t need to understand this. If any of them ever do put it together, it will be Owen, and Owen alone. She thinks he might be a little upset with her, but not unforgiving. She thinks, if it had been Hannah, he’d do the same thing. 

Bly yawns open to her, a great good place brimming over with great complicated history. She walks its rooms slowly, hands brushing over tables and wallpaper and the spot where she always leaned her hip and tossed chopped vegetables into Flora’s hair. She remembers: fixing this lamp, retiling this bathroom, sweeping this front hall. This was hers, before she ever thought to have anything else. A great good place to keep safe and sane. 

The kitchen is hard. Upstairs is harder. Her knees creak, and she has to pause for breath before laying her hand on that doorknob. She tells herself it’s old lungs, too many cigarettes, too little clean country air. She tells herself it’s anything except the truth. 

For moment, she’s granted one of those gifts. A windfall of blonde hair on the pillowcase, a bare shoulder, a single freckle she’d gone nearly wild upon finding on otherwise clear skin. She closes her eyes, breathes in the stale air of a room gone unused for decades, and thinks it might be the moment right here and now. That fist of gravity, tightening like a reflex around her heart. 

But, no. Not yet. There’s one place, one more sight to see. 

The sun is nearly set by the time she reaches the greenhouse. She leans her weight against the doorframe, peering inside. It hurts her a little, to see the chaos that has unfurled in her absence. Miles is a good man, but he’s never been much for plants, for quiet cultivation, for long stretches of silence alone in a humid space. Without Jamie’s tending, the life in this room has sprung up in all the wrong places, gone absolutely bananas in all the wrong ways. It isn’t pretty, it isn’t neat, and she almost hates it. 

Organic, she thinks wryly, tapping a fist once, twice, against the doorframe. It’s all just bloody organic, and who am I to try to prune any of it now? 

She walks the room like she walked the house, slow, methodical. Tipped-over planters, she sets to rights. Weeds gone feral, she brushes her fingertips across. It’s not pretty in here, but it is most certainly alive. More alive than it ever was in her care, maybe. There’s something to that. 

A blanket is still spread across the little sofa she used to nap on when the days got especially hot and lazy. She settles herself in, drapes the musty plaid over her lap, leans back against the arm. If she squints, she can almost see another frame wedged in beside her, stiff and trying not to take up too much space. 

Oy. Dead boyfriend. It’s over. 

It’s a laugh that tastes more like a sob--just one of those dumb little things, one of many that still can set her off at a moment’s notice, and is it still called a haunting if you wouldn’t give it up for the world?--and she bites into her knuckles to muffle the sound. The sky outside has gone a rolling purple, nearly at day’s end. It was a nice sunset, she thinks. A good send-off. 

When they find her--when Miles finds her, to be most specific--they’ll think this is how the story ends. An old woman in a greenhouse, asleep. An old woman in a greenhouse, enveloped in endless dream. Miles will cry. He will hoist her into his arms, stand with her the way she once could stand with him on a long night spent dozing by the fireplace, and he will carry her with all the tenderness a ten-year-old boy can never manage. 

It will be a fitting end, for the gardener. 

It will not be the last of Jamie Clayton. 

When she wakes next, the arthritis in her hands has gone. Her knees bend--a bit of resistance, perhaps, but nothing insurmountable. Her eyes peer through the shadows with a keen awareness she’s almost forgotten. 

The ring on her finger gleams--not the tarnished luster of decades’ wear, but like the first time Dani slid it over the knuckle, brought it to her lips, baptized it with a nervous breath. She touches it lightly. Glances back over her shoulder at the old woman beneath her thin blanket. Takes a good, long look to cement gravity’s hold. 

Live, she thinks, god, yes, Dani. I lived. And when all was said and done, wasn’t I always going to choose you? Wasn’t I always going to come home? 

And here, the part of the story she’s been afraid to flip to all these years. The part she can’t plan for. Can’t spin into something fairy-tale or ghostly. It simply is, simply will be, and whatever happens now, Jamie’s stuck into it. Jamie is in the grip of gravity, as she’d always sort of thought she might be. 

A soft rap, knuckles--or a mug--against the greenhouse door. Jamie closes her eyes. Can’t quite bring herself to turn, not yet. 

Even if, she tells herself. Even if it isn’t right. Even if those eyes aren’t hers. Even if those eyes aren’t there at all. 

“Seems an awful long way,” a voice says, mildly amused, “to not even say hello.”

The strength goes out of her all at once, even as she’s spinning, even as her hands are reaching, and Owen was right. Owen was righter than he’ll ever know. It’s what you believe, it’s what you need, it’s what you hope in every stupid aching molecule because sometimes, sometimes the world is not so random and cruel.

Dani could have stepped out of that night, her sweater tucked down past her wrists, her hair pulled back out of her face, and her face. As bright and shining with possibility as ever Jamie remembers. Her eyes, blue as the summer sky. Her lips, finding Jamie’s like there wasn’t so much as a day gone without. 

“Didn’t know,” Jamie realizes she’s gasping. “Didn’t know if it would--if you would--”

Dani presses into her forehead, nose nuzzling gently, lips stealing her breath. A ghost story in the flesh--and yet, somehow, a fairy-tale, too. A woman, and a memory, and a heartbeat made of something so precious, Jamie’s sure she isn't worthy. 

“You cheated,” Dani says, laughing into the side of her face, kissing everywhere she can reach. “You weren’t meant to follow me.”

She doesn’t sound angry. She sounds as in love as she was the night she tried to coax Jamie into just one more kiss in that hallway. 

“You asked me to come back,” Jamie reminds her, hands anchored around Dani’s back, feeling young and strong and better than the last few decades could dream. “You asked me to stay.”

Gravity’s like that. Gravity’s bigger than one person’s selfless heart, bigger than one person’s desperation. Gravity pulls, and maybe it takes time--maybe all things have their time, their place, their two months of blossom for every plant--but, eventually, gravity always wins out. And Jamie could ask questions: how it all works, why Dani’s still Dani, how much of it they’ll remember as the time slips away into nothing. She could make a story out of it. 

Instead, she pulls Dani close, winds the fingers of her left hand with the fingers of Dani’s right, and thinks every ghost story needs an ending like this. An ending steeped in love, in mystery, in shadow, in forever.  

The thing about gravity is, no matter how long it takes, it always pulls you toward home. 

[memryse]

many thoughts about Scar in Last Life

We all know Scar is one of the standouts of Last Life; he’s always been one of the key players ever since 3rd Life, driving conflicts and shaping the course of the server. His chaotic nature lends itself perfectly to 3rd/Last Life, and he seems to have only refined it in the hiatus between seasons.

In 3rd Life, Scar was more of a subjective villain. From his own perspective and Grian’s perspective, he wasn’t scary at all! The two of them were just having fun and causing problems – sure, they threatened people, but their dumb antics together made them just feel like two friends messing around; their POV was lighthearted until the final session, really. From other perspectives, however (particularly Dogwarts’ POVs), that was not how the two of them came across. They felt malicious, scary in how casually they approached such a bloodthirsty game. They’d laugh as they took lives, showing no care for anybody but themselves – they’d betray their allies in a heartbeat without an ounce of remorse, and the rest of the players knew it. Scar wasn’t someone to fear from his own POV.

Since Last Life began, however, Scar has become very openly malicious. Even watching his own POV, it’s hard to see him as anything but a villain – his own comment section is full of people commenting on how scary he suddenly seems. I want to expand on some of these villainous moments, because holy fuck, Scar.

In session 1, Scar is certainly a prominent figure, but we mostly get to see his classic silly Scar antics. Sure, he plans on “selling souls”, but it feels like the equivalent of his reputation points in S1. We still don’t get the sense of him going full villain arc yet. He allies with Joel and commits a crime, and we all expect another lighthearted Scar scam which definitely does not go to plan.

And that is what happened… sort of. He’s immediately caught by Scott and Pearl, etc etc etc. The two of them cheerfully agree a scheme to try and kill Jimmy, but that casual discussion of murder is as bad as they get.

Session 2, Scar is chosen as one of the two boogeymen, alongside Joel.

Things go decidedly not to plan immediately. The two of them had agreed last session to try and kill Jimmy, and were supposed to be trusting enough to tell each other if they’re the boogeyman – and yet what does Scar do? Immediately try and push Joel into lava. He’d betray Joel without a second thought – already a contrast to 3rdLife, where upon turning red Scar threw flowers at Grian and asked if they could still be friends. He doesn’t succeed, of course, and Scar and Joel realise they’re both boogeymen, before parting ways.

Scar heads to the nether, where he immediately decides to deceive Etho and Bdubs into thinking he’s weak and has no food, so that he can get close to them nonthreateningly or something. I’ll talk about this more later, but here we get to see what a good liar Scar actually is. People want to assume that he’s all bark and no bite, that he’s a schemer who poses no real threat – when Scar plays into this, he can be reallyconvincing.

The next big moment I want to talk about is, of course, Joel’s trap. The first thing to comment on here is that Scar cries “Joel, are you trying to kill your best buddy?!”, and I can’t work out whether this is Scar acting to diffuse suspicion, or genuine surprise that he’d pull the trap when Scar was right there, but either way it definitely has the former effect. None of the Southlanders suspect Scar in the slightest. Until Scar murders Mumbo in a matter of seconds.

What’s really horrifying about this is that Scar had been begging Mumbo to ally with him just last session. And yet here… not only does he go for Mumbo without hesitation, his reaction afterwards is downright chilling. He just laughs, and tells the others “Welcome to Magical Mountain!” – it’s really quite like a movie villain in how little he seems to care. He doesn’t actually say a word about killing Mumbo; again, despite having desperately wanted to ally with him. To Scar, this was nothing more than an opportunity. Or maybe it’s all a show to him. Maybe it’s both. Scar doesn’t actually care about winning this game – to him, it’s more fun to put on as good a show as possible, and drag as many people down with him as possible (which is definitely a “cc!Scar being a good entertainer” thing, but it translates very well into being a LL!Scar character trait too).

He then hands Joel some supplies, and with the exact same level of nonchalance, tells him to go burn Scott and Pearl’s house down. I’m… getting the sense he enjoyed burning down Etho’s castle in 3rdLife.

Not much of note happens during his subsequent conversation with the Southlanders beyond him failing an initiation spectacularly – after this, he heads back to Joel. They chat from opposite ends of a broken bridge, which is quite a poetic scene honestly, representing the gap between their lives, the destruction of their alliance, etc. I’m just here to talk about Scar’s villainous moments, though, so let me point out one specific line from this conversation.

“I did avenge you, to be fair - Mumbo, I burned him to death, which was enjoyable. I heard him cry, so it was- yeah, that was a thing.”

Just… what the fuck, Scar? What? I know he tried to push the “red lives are psychopathic and feel nothing except a small sense of happiness when people die” in 3rd Life, but this was definitely a lie or at least an exaggeration, because 3l!Scar definitely had a much wider range of emotions than that. Either way, here he doesn’t even have the excuse of being a red life; this is just active malice, pure and simple. Bdubs had a similar level of pride in his boogeyman kill, but I never got the sense that he enjoyed it like Scar did.

Scar goes off to visit Scott and Pearl, and figure out whether they have the enchanting table or not. Note the emphasis on simply figuring it out, not actually getting the enchanting table. Here’s where I want to talk about Scar being a great liar: he fully convinces them into thinking that he was willing to trade lives for the enchanting table, and then he convinces them that he’s so desperate to get the table that he’ll lie about Joel burning their house down. The thing is, Scar had no intention of ever getting the table at that moment – he wasn’t going to trade lives for it to begin with. He’d try his luck at threatening them, but nothing more. He got exactly what he wanted out of that situation: proof. Meanwhile, Scott and Pearl were left believing they’d outwitted him, that they’d called his bluff and bullied him into leaving. They never saw his true intentions, never saw him as an actual threat. Scar is much smarter than people believe, which only makes him all the more threatening.

And finally, he goes on to prove this intelligence even further. He figures out that Scott and Pearl planned to trade for the enchanting table simply by seeing Scott ask Lizzie if she’s home in chat. He then goes to visit Lizzie, and she tells him she declined their offer. What’s notable about this scene is how much less belligerent Scar is than usual: he readily accepts what Lizzie says for once in his life and leaves without being too annoying about it. He later talks about lulling the others into a false sense of security, letting them think he’s not after the enchanting table anymore; that makes me think his visit to Lizzie was purely to confirm that the offer was even made, and he’s now certain that she accepted it. It’s not hard to work out, especially if he noticed her life count.

So, all in all, if you’re not scared of Scar in Last Life, you most definitely should be.

Did I forget to mention he’s currently tied for the highest life count on the server?

[nemesis-is-my-middle-name]

(as promised, a drabble to go along with/expand on this drawing. im holding @answrs fully responsible for the second part of this for the idea that god mighta set his watch a little wrong when ferrying people through time + “sneasler found a shiny ingo!”)

edit: now on ao3

---

Akari had always liked to lie in the grass. Feel the sun-warmed earth below her, look up at the bright sky above her, letting the hours tick by. She imagines she can feel a heartbeat, deep below her. Whatever space or time she came from, that same heartbeat would have echoed to, connecting two distant worlds in an unbroken line.

The earth around her now was cold, and the thin strips of sunlight filtering in from the single, high window felt like a mean joke. She ran out of tears a while ago, but it still hurt.

She didn’t even know Jubilife had a prison. But Commander Kamado had herded her off here, taken away her flute and her Pokéballs and even the strange white-and-gold device she’d been carrying since she arrived here (even though she’d tried to explain that that one didn’t even do anything, it just showed her a map). Rei and Cyllene and the Professor had all given her apologetic looks as she’d been walked down the main road, but none of them stepped in to help her. They were all treating her like a dangerous unknown, something volatile that could turn on them at any moment—or perhaps someone who already had. She’d done everything they asked! They told her from the start they didn’t trust her, because of some origin she didn’t remember, but she’d tried so hard! She’d been useful, she’d followed orders, she’d done her best to never put a hair out of line. But this town—the only family she’d ever known—had still turned on her, every one of them.

She was done crying. But it still hurt.

---

Sparse grass crunched under Ingo’s boot as he paced through the highlands. His Lady had separated from him a ways back, off to settle some Pokémon that were agitated by the current condition of the sky. He’d opted to continue forwards, looking for the person they’d both briefly seen wandering on the top of this cliff. It was dangerous for anyone to be out there without the Nobles watching, especially right then. He wasn’t even sure how they’d gotten up the cliffs without Lady Sneasler’s aid.

It was possible, he supposed, that they’d both been mistaken about what they saw. In which case, Lady Sneasler would be catching up with him in a few short minutes once her own task was completed, and they could confer on their next route together. For now, he would continue on his current track.

“Y’know, if you ask me, the Commander should’ve had me do this a long time ago,” said a voice off to his side.

He turned, startled, to see a vaguely familiar face standing there. It was difficult to place with the mask. The stranger was in a combat stance, a long metal chain in his left hand.

“Well, better late than never,” he said, shrugging, and then a cloud of smoke overtook the surroundings.

It was Beni, that’s where he’d seen the name and face before, he connected a bit too late. The cook in Jubilife’s canteen. That couldn’t be right.

That was more or less his last thought before metal wrapped around his throat, constricting his windpipe, and then everything went dark.

---

Footsteps approached the door to her single cell. She made out Beni’s stooped figure against the bars. He was shuffling, dragging his feet with long, loud noises.

“B- Beni? Are you here to let me out? Please let me out, I want to help-“

The door opened roughly with a loud clang, cutting her off, and with surprising strength Beni tossed something into the cell—a large bundle she hadn’t noticed him dragging in the low light.

“Really, you should be begging us to stay in here,” he said, in his characteristic raspy old voice, at odds with his current position blocking her exit. “Whole world out there’s gone mad…”

She barely heard him, because she was too busy scrambling over to see what he’d thrown in with her. Closer up she recognized the off-white clothing of the Pearl Clan, underneath a familiar worn coat. Ingo wasn’t moving—of course they’d gone after him, if Kamado was worried about strangers from the rift. It was awful, but she felt selfishly grateful that they had, so at least she wouldn’t be all alone anymore.

Not caring if Beni was leaving or not, she curled up against Ingo, relieved when she felt the rise and fall of his chest under her head.

Please don’t hate me, she thought at him. Not you too.

---

Ingo woke up somewhere dark. His head was pounding, his throat hurt, and there was a shivering weight pressing down on his chest. He assumed it was Lady Sneasler at first, but when he looked down, he recognized the mane of black hair tied up with a white kerchief. And the walls around him were too smoothly rectangular to be a cave, and it certainly wasn’t his home.

After another moment, he was able to retrace the last thing he remembered. Searching the highlands with Lady Sneasler, splitting up while she dealt with the Pokémon, finding… Beni…? and being attacked. And now, when he shifted, he could feel a chain wrapped loosely around his wrists and more tightly around his ankles.

Akari hiccuped, and he realized she was crying. Deciding for the moment that the strangeness of the current situation could wait, he worked his hands out of the chain and went to hug her. She whined when he pulled her close, gripping his shirt like she was afraid he’d get up and leave.

“I h-hate them,” she mumbled before he could ask anything. “I hope th-they all go fall in a rift and get stranded somewhere and nobody comes to help them. See how they like it.”

“Akari, that’s an awful thing to wish on anyone.” He sat up a little bit, pulling her with him. “Why would you say that?”

“They deserve it, they were awful first! They- th-the whole town put me down here, they said I was lying to them that it was my fault that I wanted the rift to- a- and they wouldn’t listen and I just wanted to h-help! And then they went and got you and… I- I’m sorry I’m sorry please don’t leave…”

Akari wasn’t even sure why she was apologizing, but some part of her muddled brain said that maybe this was her fault, somehow, that they were right or that maybe if she wasn’t here they wouldn’t have been able to find Ingo either. She couldn’t stop herself from saying it when all her words were just tumbling out.

At least Ingo seemed to disagree with her. “You have nothing to apologize for. And I have no intention of departing without you.”

Not that he could even if he wanted to, neither of them bothered to say. They were silent for a moment, until her crying had softened to quiet sniffling, and then she felt his head move off the top of hers. She looked up to see him staring intently at the single small window.

“What are you-“

But he brought a finger to his lips, eyes flicking down at her for just a moment. “Shh.”

Now that she was listening, she could almost hear something that could have been a trick of her own mind—an echo of an echo, a distant mrr-mee! from who knew how far away.

“What’s that?”

“Lady Sneasler is calling for me.” He began to rummage in his coat, but she already knew what he was looking for.

“They took my Flute too.”

“Ah.” His frown deepened. “Then I suppose we are stuck waiting at the station. However, if my Lady is calling for me, it will not be long before she comes looking. She will not stand to see us both imprisoned.”

She wanted to believe that, even as her imagination was filled with visions of the Galaxy Team trying to drive Lady Sneasler away. She saw the Noble refusing to leave them, and getting injured, because of them, because of her…

Shivering, she turned her face away from the window and back into Ingo’s chest.

He hummed in response, wrapping his worn coat around her shoulders.

---

Sneasler paced up and down the Highlands, her call echoing off the cliffs. It was the unique call that bonded a Noble and their Warden, a signal for the Flute that both of them could hear from anywhere in Hisui. Hers was an imitation of the odd whistle her Warden had done to call for help when he’d first appeared. Even without the Sinnoh-bestowed power of the Celestica Flute, she’d heard him clear across the Highlands just from sheer volume. Now he wasn’t responding at all.

Even if he’d lost his flute, unless he was very far away, her signal should have been able to reach him and tell him to come to her. And he shouldn’t have been that far away, they were together not too long ago—but she’d turned her back for a minute and he’d vanished. What was that thing he was always warning her when she ran ahead? Take care not to come uncoupled from me, my Lady! Now she’d gone and done just that, and the only indication that he’d been here at all was the smell of Sootfoot Root, scuffs in the dirt from a brief struggle, and the hat he was always so careful not to drop, sitting discarded on the ground.

That hat was now held carefully in one clawed hand. She was stuck somewhere between scared and angry, both emotions unfit for a Noble. The other Nobles and the Pearl Clan was probably hearing her calls, at this point. If one of them came to investigate what was going on, and they couldn’t find Ingo either…

She was starting to lose hope, when finally there was a response to her call. Not a Celestica Flute, but it sounded just like her Warden’s fluteless whistle. He’d been asked not to do it, because it was, to be honest, distressingly loud, but at this moment she was nothing but grateful for the ear-piercing shriek. She took off, following the echo of the sound. It sounded like he was at the foot of the mountain, and almost at the border of the Icelands. She sprang up the cliffs in her way in record time, calling back and forth with the whistle.

One more cliff was scaled in a few bounds, and then she came to a screeching halt when she saw the source of the sound.

A white coat in pristine condition, free hand held at the side like it was a moment from reaching out and snatching whatever came close, a smile twisting features that should have been her Warden’s into something else entirely, as he lowered his hand from his mouth. She’d seen this form before, on Zorua attempting to trick Ingo, but this wasn’t a Zorua. She let out a little hiss as she drew near, more warning than threatening. The smell of the Rift was hanging in the air here, clinging to the man in white just like it had done to Ingo and Akari.

“Hello!” He seemed unfazed by a large, clawed beast hissing as it approached him. The smile didn’t move. “This is a strange place. You are a verrry strange Pokémon. Do you know where we are?”

His voice wasn’t the echo of a Zorua or the loud demand for attention of her Warden. Every word was clipped, like it had been cut out of paper with exacting care. She didn’t know what to do with it, but it wasn’t a threat for certain.

She made her Warden call again, confused. He whistled just like Ingo.

His brow furrowed a bit, maybe in confusion, and then he caught sight of the hat still in her hand. His smile got just a touch wider, strained.

“That hat does not belong to you,” he said, voice even colder than before as he indicated it. “Where did you find it?”

She perked up. She still didn’t know what this strange not-Ingo was, but she knew the look in his eye and the tone of his voice well. It matched her own current feelings.