#have you ever seen anything so deeply rational

[doctorcrabby]

Stephen “do you not love my woolen union suit” Maturin

[thyfleshc0nsumed]

I agree with you about your stances on punishment, and I think it's so important to see that perspective instead of the more common one. I do not want to live in a world with the death penalty or prison.

But I'm very curious how you got to the point where you want your abuser to be happy. Capital H happy. I've never seen that before. I think it's great, and it must've taken a lot of time, and if it's not too personal, I'd like to hear about the process. If not to help myself, to help someone else. I'm personally very very jaded to the whole "forgiveness" mentality (it seems very catholic to me somehow? I forgive you so I'm better than you?) But the way you put it feels different somehow. Sorry for picking your brain, and if it's too personal I totally get it. Thanks for your time.

Thank you for this question.

Hm, it's a tough one. It may be informed by my lack of any singular capital-A Abuser. Certainly, I have had people who were abusive to me longer term (my mother especially), but for the most part it was many dozens of adults in single instances or shorter term situations during my childhood and teenage years that raped or otherwise harmed me. That lack of any singular individual to act as a locus for all the damage may have made it easier for me to come to a point where I wish them well.

I remember being 19, face in my toilet bowl, puking my guts up after downing a fifth of rum in an hour or two. I think it was a Thursday. I understood my mother for the first time. I wanted to stop drinking, and I didn't know why I couldn't.

My roommate at the time slept on a mattress on the floor in the living room. He left his family the day he turned 18 and took the Greyhound across the country to crash with me. We were good friends when he got here, but my negligence and failure to control my drug use ruined that relationship within a few months. He stayed with me for two years. He didn't have other options.

I don't remember those years well at all. Besides various temp jobs, all I did was drink, get fucked up, and make messes I never cleaned up. It was a one bedroom apartment and I had the bedroom, he couldn't really go anywhere. He didn't really know anyone. I was a fucking terror to live with, and a terror he couldn't even really get away from.

And I didn't mean to be that way. I didn't mean to hurt him with my dereliction. But it doesn't matter, y'know, impact is more important than intent. I fucked up bad.

Eventually he left. I was and still am filled with remorse for putting him through what I did. Maybe this perspective is the christian upbringing, maybe it's twelve step bullshit, but often I see my feelings as very self serving. I can justify just about anything, as long as I use enough self pity. But this feeling was different. It was just... remorse, pure and unfiltered. No rationalizations as to how it wasn't really my fault, no equivocations, no blaming outside factors, just acknowledgement that I fucked up and I hurt someone I loved. I was sorry that I had done that.

Humility does not come naturally to me. This was a humbling experience.

I--and everyone I've ever met, everyone who ever harmed me--am a human being. No more, no less. In each of us is potential both to love deeply and to do great harm to others. No one is without both these potentials.

It comes down to this: what I wish for myself, I must wish for all.

Do not mistake me here--this does not neatly translate into a pragmatic political position. For me, this is simply some sort of spirituality, that is to say, how I strive to navigate my life, day at a time, in the world as I find it. This is as small scale as it can get.

I understand that feeling about forgiveness you mention. What I have to say about it probably won't help the christian connotation; I am an atheist and a subjectivist, though obviously culturally evangelical. Maybe it is that last part that influences this next, but I don't feel I have the authority to forgive anyone. Or, in another word, 'let he who is without sin cast the first stone.'

Now, of course, I believe in neither god nor sin, but I do believe in harm. 'Let he who is not capable of such harm cast the first stone,' perhaps. Not all harm is equivalent, certainly, but no one is innately capable or incapable of greater harm than others. The ability to actually do harm is relative to relations to power, no doubt, but a given power relation is not innate.

So yeah I end up back at 'i have no moral high ground over or under anyone else, the forgiveness is neither mine to give nor withhold,' which frankly is a rather christian viewpoint.

There's this idea in Judaism that has stuck with me for the last few years: tikkun olam. To repair the world. What must I do to ensure my part in that repair happens?

There is so little I have control of. The only thing I can change is what I do. If the world around me is hardened and cruel, why must I adopt that cruelty into myself? Will it get me better outcomes in life? Perhaps, perhaps not. I have found it hasn't, but others may find it has. But that's talking about results. And I don't have power over results.

I cannot change the world, cannot repair it alone. But I think I can work to repair myself, and in the process, the smallest portion of the world may be repaired alongside me. Maybe, maybe not. It becomes a matter of faith. Or to put it in a therapeutic framing, it's an 'even if.'

I'll end with this, an old twelve step saying: "resentments are like drinking a bottle of poison and expecting the other person to die."

What is a resentment? Re- as in once more. -sent, as in sentiment. Feeling something once more. It is the reanimated corpse of a feeling, not the feeling itself. It looks like the feeling you know, maybe walks and talks like it too. But it's rotting away. It died long ago. So why should you pretend the corpse is alive? It moves, it rasps, but it's something else now; it only shares a body with the original, nothing else. So maybe it's time to let go, and begin to move forward.

[creedslove]

BETRAYED - PART FIVE

Pedro Pascal x f!reader

Summary: Pedro invites you to be his plus one for the night but his attention is caught by another woman and leaves you with a broken heart

Warnings: angst, age gap, established friendship, unrequited love/one sided feelings, fluff, glimpse of Pedro being a great (silly) dad, and more angst of course

A/N: I really don't know what you guys will think of this part. It is longer than the others and for those who don't want Pedro to be forgiven, you can consider this the ideal end, though this is NOT the last chapter. I still have some ideas for this story but their development will go according to what you guys want, especially because due to all the feedback I've received over the last week (yes today marks one week I posted the first chapter) things are pretty divided between who wants a happy ending and who wants a sad one, lol!

A/N Part 2: I still can't manually tag people on the works because I use the app and it won't let me do it, that's why I don't have a tag list at all!

3.2k words

PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE | PART FOUR

Your heart clenched the moment you heard Kate's words. Pedro was there. After months pretending not to know each other, after not seeing him nor listening to his voice, months after the horrible argument you two had, where you both said horrible things to each other, words that hurt you two deeply, but also needed to be said. So you two could break free from what was holding you back. You and your mindless passion for Pedro, and him and his incapability of letting you go.

You realized you went silent for several seconds and Kate was staring at you with a worried look on her face, so you gave her a nervous smile and nodded "there's no problem, really. We are not making a scene or anything, I mean, we didn't have that much of a fight, it wasn't that serious"

"Yes, it was, Y/N" Kate said in a low voice "you completely fell out with each other, you have never been apart from long and honestly, he seems the saddest I've ever seen, and you don't seem like you're in a picnic either" she placed her hand on your shoulder reassuringly and looked down, excusing herself as she needed to attend the other guests.

You didn't like to be read like that, yes, you missed Pedro, in many ways you were still broken hearted at everything that went on, it's very hard to just let go of a person you were so invested in for years. It leaves an empty spot in your chest, even when you get over whatever happened, your mind always comes back to a bunch of might-have-beens. And though you and Pedro hadn't been away for that long, that's exactly how it felt. You walked out the kitchen and realized you were getting anxious to see him. He was there, it was a stated fact. It wasn't like when you went to the gym and very often looked over your shoulders, in hopes he wouldn't show up at the same time you kind of hoped he would show up. Internally battling with the relief of not running into him and also the disappointment of not seeing him. Once again, you had to remind yourself to act rationally, you didn't want to be shaken to the core when you saw him, and you definitely wouldn't make a scene at a princess' party.

When you reached the living room, he was the first one you spotted and for a few seconds he was the only thing you could see. There he was, Pedro, your dulce Pedrito like you used to call him and make a soft reddish color spread through his cheeks. He looked the same as always, the same as always made your heart race and you hated that. Your heart beat faster, your palms suddenly got a little sweaty and you were sure you'd stutter if someone asked you any question. You cursed yourself under your breath, months of self care and you still acted like a high school girl around him. The sadness Kate had seen your ass, you mentally rolled your eyes as you saw how he was still the life of the party, how he laughed and made everybody laugh. He wasn't sad, and why should he? Maybe you did hurt him in your argument, in fact you did hurt him as he left with tears in his eyes, but he probably got over you, he had done it so many times before, times where you still were friends and you loved and cared for him, so now what was stopping him from just forgetting about you?

Pedro finally eyed you, he knew you were coming and he tried his best to look good for you, he had a nice outfit on, his hair was messy like you always said you loved and God, he felt like time had stopped when he saw you walk into the living room. Hermosa, princesa, linda, mariposa, all of that crossed his mind once he saw you. He hadn't seen you in what it felt like forever, and now you were there, standing a few feet away from him. His desire was to rush to you, ignoring everyone else there, and wrapping his arms around your waist. If he could, he would let out all those Spanish words you loved roll out of his tongue before he could touch your skin and make you his. He chuckled to himself just to picture what you would say if you knew his heart raced when he saw you, how he wanted to take you into his arms like you had dreamed about it for so long. Life sometimes is truly a joke.

He didn't understand how you managed to become more beautiful since the last time you saw each other but you did it, and he couldn't take his eyes off you. He had no idea if you'd even want to talk to him, give him some of your time, but he was going to try.

Before you could greet everyone who was sitting closer than him, Flora and her big brother came running to you. If someone thought Flora was sweet, they hadn't met her brother yet. Wyatt was a five year old who seemed to be obsessed with you. Out of all his mommy's friends you were definitely his favorite. He was sweet to you like he was with no one else, and the fact he still had some trouble pronouncing his 'R' made him even cuter to you.

He immediately jumped onto your lap, snuggling you as tight as he could, he was overly excited at the sweets he'd eaten and the fact some people who brought his little sister presents also brought him presents!

Pedro's heart dropped to his stomach the moment he saw you surrounded by Flora and Wyatt. He wasn't sure he was strong enough to watch that, but he couldn't look away either. It all brought him back to the dreams he constantly had about you, the dreams where he always got to a happy, crowded home, where you were his and only his, in all the ways you dreamed of for long and now he longed for it as well and you two had built a beautiful family. He was always happy in these dreams, only to feel empty when he woke up.

One of the things he always loved about you and that one he made pretty clear throughout your entire friendship, was how good with kids you were. Of course Pedro had earned the cool uncle status, but he just admired how natural you were, how kids simply wanted you to be around them and how happy you got with that. It quickly drove him back to the night of your argument, and how you threw it on his face he was nearly 50 without a family. Yes, he knew you were right, but it still hurt him anyway. When he was younger, he wasn't sure if he was going for the traditional stuff but he assumed good old marriage and kids would happen to him, after all it happened to everyone. But as the years went by, he just focused on his career and he was pretty happy that way, apart from all the loneliness he felt, loneliness that was soothed by your company during the day and some other female company at night, sometimes even more than one at the same time. Until those stupid dreams began, every single night he would have a family with you and love every single part of it just to be taken back to reality where he was alone and all he got was his career.

"Did you really think I'd forget about you?" You whispered to Wyatt as you very discreetly handed him a small basket with his favorite chocolate. You didn't have enough for all the kids, so you hoped he wouldn't make a big fuss about it, but the moment he squealed in happiness and hugged you, you felt so lucky to be there. You quickly helped him open his present and watched as he ate one piece after the other. Kate would probably kill you the next day, but you didn't care at all, seeing his true happiness.

"Pedwo, come play please!!" He asked the man, waving his hand at him and inviting him to the empty seat next to you. You saw when he smiled at Wyatt and moved closer to you. His cologne was intoxicating and for a moment all you wanted to do was to rest your head on his shoulder and have his arm around your body.

"These are my favorite too, you gotta share" he frowned playfully at Wyatt and looked at you

"Hey Y/N" he said shyly and looked down clearing his throat before looking into her eyes again "you look very beautiful, muy hermosa como siempre" he said and saw the familiar blush spreading through your cheeks adding a cute look to your face. You still reacted the same, maybe you were still his muñequita?

"Hi Pedro" you said softly and smiled politely at him.

"Come on Pedwo do the voice!!! Do it again, fow Y/N to see!!" Wyatt begged excitedly and pointed at his brand new Grogu doll. Once again you felt the urge to roll your eyes mentally, of course that was Pedro's doing and it was so predictable. Cute, but predictable. The little boy however, was mesmerized as once more Pedro sat up and made his Mandalorian voice. You didn't know exactly how it was different from his regular voice, but it was and you couldn't explain. He said whatever Wyatt liked to hear and gently tapped the doll's head, making Grogu cooed and blink his eyes, lifting his little arm gently which caused Wyatt to squeal in happiness again.

You both felt pretty good at that, no matter what happened between you two, you were really good at handling kids together and your chest ached to wonder if the same would apply if you ever had children together.

•••

After singing Happy Birthday and serving the cake, Rob, Kate's husband, asked his kids to go to the backyard. Pedro grinned at the interaction and placed his plate down, taking your hand in his and pulling you "come on Y/N, you'll want to see this" he said happily and you had no other reaction than follow him. The kids were so excited when their daddy asked them to close their little eyes. They peeked all the time, not being able to hold back how eager they wanted to see the surprise. Pedro looked at you and smiled sweetly "I don't mean to brag, but it was my idea, so you're not the only one who is great with kids, you know" he winked at her.

You swallowed and looked down at your hands, fingers entwined and how softly Pedro caressed your hand with his thumb. You immediately let go of his hand and blushed, which wasn't unnoticed by him, who sighed and stared into your eyes "I know you're still hurt about everything that went on and we need to talk, I owe you an apology for what happened and-"

Pedro was cut off by the kids' screams of happiness and pure excitement when their daddy revealed their mysterious present: a bunny. A real life bunny, you stared into Pedro eyes and chuckled "that was your idea, right?" You asked and couldn't help but smile a little "I bet Kate is thrilled" you both burst out laughing and for a moment everything was alright between the two of you again.

He only laughed softly but gently took your hand in his once more, walking towards some trees, away from the fuss the kids were making and once you were both hidden enough from anyone else who might bother you, he finally gathered the courage to speak.

"I screw everything up with you, Y/N. I know I did, in fact I knew it from the moment it happened but I was too proud and stubborn to admit it" he sighed "and then it all got worse and worse until that horrible episode at your place. I deeply regret everything that went on" Pedro looked down, and then back at you again, being puzzled by how indecipherable your expression was. You watched him apologize without really apologizing, you just hated how he asked for your forgiveness without acknowledging anything at all.

"The reason why I didn't want to talk to you anymore was because I'm tired of being your doormat, Pedro. You know how much I love you" you bit your lips "how much I loved you" you corrected yourself and continued "but you only took advantage of it, and you know it. You know how many times you've hurt me, how many times you flirted with me, you kissed me almost on the lips, you sweet talked to me, the times you had your hands on my body not in an erotic way but definitely more intimate than a friend should ever do, you know how confused it left me, and you kept doing it"

Pedro knew it was all true, but he had decided to ask for your forgiveness and to be honest, he looked around embarrassed and nodded

"I-I know that, Y/N. I know I was a real shitty friend, always teasing you, playing with your feelings… I am really ashamed of it and if I could turn back in time, I'd never act that way. I had only one glimpse of what you must've felt all this time… when I saw you with that guy from the gym and it felt like my heart had shattered into a million pieces"

You had to admit you were not expecting that, at first you thought it would be just some more of his usual bullshit, but it seemed Pedro really meant what he was telling you.

"And I know the last straw was that night at the gala. It should've been about us, after all, you were my plus one because I wanted to have you there, and I loved every minute we spent together, you looked gorgeous, muy hermosa mi cariño, but then I was just terrible to you. I don't know why I left with that woman, I mean, I don't know why I just gave in to that impulse and I know I tried brushing off as if you were exaggerating but these past months I was finally able to be true to myself and admit you were right. I was a dick, I not only humiliated you and broke your heart but also put you at risk by letting you go home on your way"

His voice had a sad tone and he didn't look away for a split second, showing he meant all that.

You began tearing up, as those were the words you waited months to hear. You wanted him to apologize, to admit what he'd done and now it had finally happened, you couldn't help but feel sad as it came too late.

"Pedro, I-"

"Please, Y/N, let me finish" he asked and took another breath "that day at your house was completely unacceptable, I know it, and we both hurt each other, I snapped because I saw you with another man and told you to leave me alone, and I didn't understand why I had such a childish and reckless attitude, until I realized I didn't know how to act on my feelings for you, which takes me to the very painful words you told me, which unfortunately, were also true. I left that night hating myself, I didn't know what to do or what to say, so I looked for help, I went back to therapy and I was able to see all the things I was doing wrong"

You saw when he took a step closer and you could smell his cologne, you had no idea what he was going to do, but your heart pounded into your chest as his big hands cupped your cheeks so gently, stroking them and staring into your eyes "and after all that self-analysis I came to the conclusion that I love you" he bit his lips and a light blush spread through your cheeks "I mean, I already did, as a friend, even if I was a dick, I truly loved and cared about you, but it changed, Y/N, it got more intense, you're the only thing that crosses my mind the whole day, the only one I want and crave, all I can think of is your body against mine, your beautiful voice singing while you make breakfast, the way you light up a room when you step inside, how the kids love you because they see how incredible you are" Pedro took another deep breath "I'm in love with you, Y/N" he finally admitted out loud and it felt like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. He leaned in and touched your lips with his very softly at first, ghosting over them, appreciating how perfect they felt against each other. One of his hands went for your waist, wrapping his arm around it and gripping your body in a desperate need. He was so close you could feel his strong chest against your soft breasts, so pressed up against his body it was really hard to remind yourself that wasn't right. The moment you felt the man deepening the kiss, you couldn't hold back a soft moan. You decided to enjoy that moment, something you'd craved for so long, it almost felt like your heart was bursting out of your chest. Your hands gripped his hair, pulling it softly as you kissed him back as eager as he kissed you. You felt like you could be trapped in that moment forever with him, it felt right, even if it was wrong.

When Pedro broke the kiss looking for some air, you still gave him a last peck on the lips, gently stroking his cheek and taking a step back.

"Wow" you whispered and smiled shyly "I've dreamed about that moment for so long. God knows how much I daydreamed that one day this exact scene would happen, now it did, it feels unreal" you looked at him and took his hand, gently squeezing it "and that's why it breaks my heart to see it happened too late. I'm sorry Pedro, but we can't do this. I'm really sorry that I don't believe you, I don't think you love me, I think you love the fact I was in love with you and that stroke your ego like nothing else, I was young, devoted, I would do anything for you and would take anything you had to offer, but we can't do this anymore. I can't do this to myself, I love myself more than I love you now, and I won't let anyone get in the way of that, not even you" she said and let go of his hand "I'll always love you and cherish you Pedro, but it's time to say goodbye"

_____

A/N: any feedbacks, let me know! Also, you guys have just met Wyatt! He is pretty much my OC and for the years I wrote for/roleplayed Victor Creed/Liev Schreiber he was always my character's son, and I developed an emotional connection with him even if he is not real, so I thought to myself, why not show the world what a ray of sunshine my fictional son is, right?

And yes, the bunny thing I got from Narcos because I thought Pablo Escobar had no right to be that cute while gifting his daughter a bunny, the way she got happy when he gave her su conejito just made me go all aww 🥰

[kafkaesque22girlfriend]

The Damned Pt.3

Toji Zenin x fem!reader

Synopsis: forced to get in with the Zenin clan by your parents as a servant, Toji Zenin seemed to damn you more than himself….

mentions of blood, child abuse, Toji being Toji, nightmares.

Toji sat in the kitchen for a while, thinking about his fuck up of a life, his fuck up of a head. He probably should have killed you for even thinking about touching him like that, a simple graze of your fingers under his chin. Soft fingertips, soft skin touching at his bruised and battered skin. He swallowed thickly. That was the first time in his life, that someone else's touch didn't inflict any sort of pain or violence onto his body. He grunts and shakes his head at the thought. He'll be damned if he let anyone in. He's let you this time, but if you even dare to touch him again…

Toji went to his room, wanting to sleep this exhausting day off and forget about this. Sleeping was either hit or miss with him, sometimes he slept like a rock and never wanted to wake up and other times he was restless. It seemed he did drift off for a while when he slipped into bed. However, you didn't have much luck with that….

-

You glanced at your alarm clock and it was 2 am. Your thoughts were pounding and clouded your rational mind, your throat was dry and itchy. Your fingers twitched, unable to forget the feel of Toji's skin at your fingertips. What was he thinking? What did he want? He was so private and reserved. You decided to trudge out of your quarters and head downstairs to the kitchen and get some water. The water did anything to soothe your mind, or anxious body for that matter. You internally scowl at yourself for being like this, for thinking too deeply into something you shouldn't be, someone who you shouldn't be intrigued by: the black sheep, the damned.

You head upstairs and while you go to step into the hallway, you hear grunts coming from Toji's room. He was probably working out late at night again. That's what you assumed but then you heard the pained exhale and the shaky groans. You became concerned and it was a good thing his door was slightly open. The sight made your face scrunch up.

Toji was on his bed, writhing and twitching, soaked in sweat, that t-shirt of his clinging to his body like a second skin. The look on his face...his features were twisted in pain as his fists clenched white by his side. You've never seen him like this before, maybe you just never heard it when you were deeply sleeping...does this happen to him every night?

“Father…stop...” Toji twitched as he said that under his breath. His body shook slightly as his mind and body became filled with fear. This damn nightmare that haunted him whenever he tried to rest his tortured mind.

Without even thinking, you immediately rush over to him and put your hands on his shoulders softly, rocking him awake.

“Toji. Wake up.” You say worriedly, trying to get him awake without being too firm.

Yet it wasn't working. It felt like he wasn't even breathing. He was in a cold sweat, his body was rigid and violent as he was thrashing about. “Please wake up!” You gasped, using more force now, fear was etched on your face seeing him this way. He worsened as he kept his eyes tightly closed.

But something about your voice made him open them for a brief moment. Toji's eyes were filled with terror and his hands clasped themselves around your wrists as his dark green eyes narrowed into mere thin slits.

"Get...get away from me.” He said sharply.

Toji gripped onto your wrists tight, it felt like the bones were about to snap. Fear flashed in your eyes as your breath became heavy, by some saving grace, you were unable to pull your hand away. When you glanced back at your hand, red marks were adoring the place where his grip was.

You were scared. Scared of him right now.

Your face went completely pale and terrified of his demeanour. Toji promised that he would kill you if you ever touched him again...but when he saw what he had done, the way your eyes widened in fear. He didn't like it...he felt uneasy. He had hurt you. But in that moment, any touch to him could have been his father. “Toji...please talk to me.” You plead with him meekly.

"Don't. ..Don't touch me.” He leaned up and his brows lowered alongside his tone.

“Hey. Look at me. It's just me.” You look into his eyes, trying to soothe him in some sort of way to get him to relax. He was still definitely on edge, he took this time to focus his weary gaze on you. You were sweating even if you were wearing a thin nightdress. Your gaze flitted to your wrists, seeing the blossoming red and blue marks on your wrists, you covered it up for now. He didn't need the extra guilt.

“It's just me. Okay?” You whisper, trying to calm him down

The way you spoke to him so gently, even keeping a little distance to make him feel less threatened. He felt... less uneasy now. He looked at you, your eyes, your lips, your neck, your collarbone...His expression softened the smallest amount, not enough for you to notice though.

"You're safe. Nothing can get you...Okay?” You say with caution. He was covered in sweat, his face drained of all colour. You've never seen him like this before...this afraid. Your wrists were still dealing with the aftershocks of him grabbing it like that, but right now that didn't matter. “Please, talk to me.. What happened?”

As you spoke in that soft sweet voice of yours, he felt like he was knocked out and in some sort of daze.

He didn't want to let you in. He didn't want you here...to see him like this. Toji should through you out. But feeling your presence near him was a hell of a lot better than you not being here right now.

God, he needed you right now. And he hated it. He was starting to come back to reality.

Toji watched you get up, his eyes following you carefully as you instinctively fetched him a towel and a new clean shirt. This small act of kindness was appreciated by him, he fucking hated how damn attentive you were. You sit back down on the edge of the bed next to him and give him them. You watch him take his sweaty shirt off, seeing the muscles of his tight and tense chest ripple before you. He swiped the towel all over him, cleaning himself up and then putting the fresh shirt on.

“I've just been having the same nightmare again... It's not that big of a deal.” He mumbled, wanting to downplay this particular thing. His weakness was being chipped open and he very much didn't want that.

He didn't even look at you, too embarrassed by the way he was acting right now.

You lean forward, not truly thinking about what you are doing, but you just feel the need to make him feel grounded to get the truth. You reluctantly put your palms on the sides of his face softly and make him look at you. Toji stilled into your hold...he should hurt you for that, he should...but he couldn't.

“Please don't lie to me.” You whisper. The way he was. Those soft palms...that sad look on your face. The way he was acting like this wasn't a big deal was scaring you even more.

Toji's heart felt like it was being strangled, he swallowed hard and his mouth opened. That was when he stopped thinking and just pulled you tight against him, his arms swallowing you whole. You gasp as he does that, his arms holding you as if he would die if he let go, your eyes widen, arms rigid for a moment. Toji buried his face into your shoulder and that was when you reluctantly wrapped your arms around him too. He let out a soft grunt, keeping a very strong grip on you, God he didn't want to let go, he held you even tighter.

“Woah, hey...it's okay. Tell me what's wrong." Your tone was soft but your voice was shaky.

Toji couldn't stop it, he couldn't help it. His eyes started to brim with tears, and his lip quivered.

“My father...he was beating me again...I'm just...I'm so tired.” He muttered under his breath, wanting to choke on his fear itself. Fuck, why was he admitting that? Why the hell was he crying? Was he that fucking weak?

You exhaled sharply when his words registered, your face went so pale as his heartbeat kept pounding.

“Why didn't you tell me?”

Toji's body felt like it could disintegrate into dust when you pulled him into your arms too, your warm embrace, that soft skin...His breath was catching in his throat and as the tears leaked down his face, he took in your scent. Sweet. So sweet...He had never cried in front of another person in his entire life, but this time he couldn't keep this gaurd up right now, he sobbed onto your shoulder.

“I don't... Never...I don't want them all to find out what he did...I'd- I can't handle it.”

You pulled away to look into his tear-stricken eyes, his face was ashen. He looked so tired and so lost, exhausted of harboring all this pain, bottling it all up. You gaze down at the scars and bruises, you knew the stories...but seeing him like this was jarring. Imagining him as a little boy, being beaten just for not having any cursed energy, being hurt for not being perfect- it made you worry. “I know how difficult it is for you to open up to me about these things...but I can't tell you how much it means the world to me right now.”

The way you looked at him, the way your eyes were filled with nothing but concern for him...it made him confused, yet he couldn't let go of your body, he liked the way the silk of your nightdress felt against his hands was nice. Toji breathed out raggedly.

“I can't...I can't be weak. I have to be strong...Protect myself...since I was a kid.”

Toji watched your face shift from concerned to determined this time.

'You're strong.” You say confidently as if you were stating a simple fact. “Please just stop being so cruel to yourself.” Your pleading voice made Toji hold onto you even tighter.

You thought...he was strong? Liar.

“I'm not. I'm not being cruel to myself. I'm a disgrace, I've made my peace with that now. Don't try to convince me otherwise.” He gritted out through clenched teeth, his jaw was ticking as irritation engorged his veins. Yet, when he took in the scent of your hair, that sweet sugary scent, he felt subdued a little. What did that mean? He snapped out of his thoughts and that's when you opened your lips to speak.

This would be it, he would either kill you on the spot or...accept your proposal.

“Do you want me to...stay with you tonight?”You ask hesitantly, gazing deeply into those lush green eyes.

Toji's eyes snapped to yours, it felt like his breath hitched in his throat and his body tensed up. Do you want to stay here? In his bed? With him? When you're wearing that little slip of yours? Your body...that close? He wanted to throw you out, lash out at you, put you back in your place for ever getting that close to him. He couldn't, not when you looked at him like that. Those lips...you were so close. He could see the little indent on your lips, that small stain of wine soaked on your lips.

"Look we don't have to talk about this in the morning, we can forget it ever happened. But for tonight, let me stay with you, okay?'

Fuck. That weak smile of yours...did something to him. He shouldn't, he shouldn't-

“Stay.” He said under his breath, honestly hoping you wouldn't hear him but you did.

'Okay.' You get on the other side of the bed and under the covers, resting your head on the pillow facing him. Your chest fluttered a bit when you realized what you were doing. You were in your master's bed, so near him, close enough to smell him, to feel that warmth. The whole bed smells like him. Blinking up at him, your eyes glazed over the smallest bit- he noticed a small blush on your cheeks too.

“Go to sleep. I'll be here, okay?”

-

Taglist (mwah!) @wo-ming-bai @xduskydollx @chilichopsticks @maskedpacific @kaizxnx

[enhaheeseung]

Come back to me - L. HS

Pairing: heeseung X fem reader!

Warnings: angst-ish

WC: 1,168k

Part 8 Sorry for the short chap. The next one will be longer with a lil angst and jealousy👀

Masterlist

“Hey, y/n, I know it’s really early, and you’re probably asleep, but I just wanted to know if you’re okay with me coming over tonight? Maybe we could talk over dinner or watch a movie like we used to just to catch up and talk some things over. I get out of work early, so just let me know!!”

He sent you that message hours ago, and still no reply. Even when he was packing up to leave work, there still wasn’t any word from you, which soured his mood for the whole entire day, needless to say.

He sighed, doing his same boring routine, turning off the little lamp on his desk, getting ready to go home, and just waiting for this day to be over cause nothing good came out of it. You haven’t communicated with him in the past couple of days. His meetings all went like shit cause he could barely comprehend what was going on cause he couldn’t focus on anything but you. All in all, it’s just been rough. He’d seen better days, but at least there was a comfy bed waiting for him at home.

“Early leave?” Jake rounds the corner, nearly running into Heeseung.

“Hmm mm,” he hums softly. The tone of his hum was enough to tell that he was just tired and completely exhausted, and if that wasn’t evidence enough, the eye bags made it obvious.

“You good?” Heeseung nods. “Okay,” Jake gave him a small pat on the shoulder. “Just know I’m available if you need me and Jay too. He can be a dick sometimes, but he’s worried about you even if he’s too prideful to say it,” Jake chuckles, making Heeseung’s lips curve into the smallest smile.

“Thanks, Jake. I’ll keep that in mind. Take it easy tonight, yeah? I’ll see you next week.”

“See you next week,” Jake says, giving a final salute as Heeseung leaves for the day.

-

You were pacing for what felt like hours ever since you received that text from your husband or ex-husband. At this point, you’re not really sure what the two of you are, but that’s beside the point cause you were literally on the verge of crying, ripping out your hair out, and vomiting.

Okay, maybe that was a bit of an exaggeration, but Lee freaking heeseung the man you’re still so deeply in love with us asking you to have dinner with him. How could you stay calm knowing he wanted to see you and talk with you?

You’d be lying if you said seeing his text first thing in the morning didn’t make you smile and light up like a Christmas tree.

You were like seconds away from saying yes, yes, and yes, but before you could, you had to rationalize this in your head because wouldn’t that be letting him back in too easily? What if he tried to sweet-talk his way back in? You’re not sure if you were strong enough to say no, especially to his face.

Ugh.

You sighed, feeling a headache coming on. You just decided to ultimately ignore his text cause if he was really serious about you, then he’d be persistent. Saying no to him one time shouldn’t be enough for him to give up on you, and if he did, that would be a sign that he probably didn’t want you back anyways.

Except you wanted to see him so bad, being away from him was hard enough, especially at night. You just wanted to hold him, talk to him, spend time with him, but all that would have to wait until he proves himself and proves to you that he’s truly sorry. You just wish time would go by sooner cause every day without him felt like a month.

-

Even past midnight, heeseung was waiting on a message from you, a message that never came.

He sighed in frustration but reminded himself to stay level-headed about the situation, even if it was upsetting and, hurtful and confusing. He had to suck it up. He’s put you through so much worse, and the pain he’s going through right now is well deserved.

So he just continued on his journey to reclaim his spot in your heart, trying his best to focus on the positive even though there were many more negatives.

“Hey, y/n, I’m sure you’re probably sleeping now. Sorry for always bothering you when you’re asleep :( I just wanted to say I hope you had a good day today. I've been thinking of you all day, Couldn’t even get any work done cause I miss you so much anyways. I’ll leave you alone now. Have a good night, y/n. Hope to hear from you soon!”

You nearly jumped from your spot on your bed when you heard your phone go off. You had been thinking about Heeseung so much you couldn’t even get any sleep cause he was on your mind all day and night, even past midnight, and you were still only thinking of him and what he was doing.

You quickly grabbed and snatched up your phone, hoping it was him. As soon as you saw that it was, you squealed, and you probably woke up Sunghoon in the process, but it was for a good reason.

Your heart warmed immediately when you read his text. He was so sweet and thoughtful, and again, you just wanted to hop out of bed, drive back home, and sleep in his arms all night long, but you refrained from doing so, but you couldn’t not reply to his text this time he was obviously putting in the effort, and you didn’t want to seem like you just weren’t receptive of his gestures.

“Goodnight, heeseung,” you typed out and left it at heeseung and not hee cause you didn’t want him to think things were how they used to be or even close he’d have to earn that nickname back.

When heeseung saw your little typing dots, his heart nearly pumped out of his chest.

But first of all, why were you up so late? He frowned. You should be asleep getting your beauty rest.

Although he couldn’t complain when he saw your text, he literally kicked his feet while grinning at the screen like a love-struck fool.

He hearted your message right away. The text itself wasn’t big, but the fact you even bothered replying was enough for him. It gave him hope that there was still a little spark that he could ignite into a flame.

“Just give it time, heeseung, give it time,” he murmured, shutting off his phone, the smile never leaving his face when his head hit his pillow, and for the first time in a long time, he felt like he could finally rest peacefully.

You were wide awake, on the other hand, mind flooded with nothing but heeseung, and you’d definitely be in contact with him tomorrow cause you couldn’t go any longer without seeing him.

Thanks for reading likes comments and reblogs are always appreciated sorry for any typos or errors I hope you all have a good day/night♥️

Permanent taglist:®• @nyxtwixx @iamliacamila @ramenoil @mimisamisasa @scarlet127

Come back to me taglist @mimikittysblog @woahsehun

[veryace-ficrecs]

Tim Drake & Jason Todd Angst Fic Recs

This list will include all ratings and tags, so read at your own discretion! :)

in the planter outside my front door by CosmoKid - Rated G

When Tim’s six years old, his third-grade class takes a field trip to the old firehouse in The Narrows.

By the age of seven years old, he’s learned that there’s a difference between pain and Pain, and that while adults are generally happy to deal with pain, they do not enjoy you talking about Pain.

These two things may be related.

This Dark Ceiling Without a Star by Miss_Lazy_Tuesday - Rated M

“For fuck’s sake, your chatter is going to drive me crazy faster than this stupid spell.” “Then you talk!” “There’s no point!” Jason snaps. “I can feel it, okay. It’s—there’s no emotion behind it, it’s not using my thoughts. It’s just a bunch of weird Greek echoing in my brain and a compulsion to act. And it’s getting stronger. Talking isn’t going to slow it down.” “Then what will slow it down?” After five long seconds of silence, Tim gives into the urge and viciously jabs his fist into Jason’s leg for the second time. “Goddammit, why?” Jason snaps, green briefly sparking in his eyes before disappearing just as quickly. “You are not seriously going to just sit there and wait to die.” “The hell do you care anyway?” “Because I don’t want you to die! Obviously!” “You fucking should.” 

unaware i'm tearing you asunder by hendecagrisms - Rated T

The pieces were starting to click into place, aligning to create a deeply disturbing picture. “Are you seriously saying you’ll become a missing person and fake your death for this stupid homecoming plan?” Jason interrupted, his voice full of as much judgmental incredulity as possible. The kid’s eyes skated back over to him, his face twitching into a brief frown. “What? No.” A pause. “I mean, we could do that instead, if you wanted. But to fool Batman I’d need facial reconstruction surgery and new papers and it would all have to be untraceable—,” he broke off with a scoff, shaking his head slightly. “No, it’s just smarter and more cost-efficient to do it for real.” - Tim learns about Jason Todd's return, does some research on the Lazarus Pit, and realizes that there might be a way to solve multiple problems all at once: removing himself from the picture. For some strange reason, the Red Hood doesn't seem keen on cooperating.

Grin and Bear It (I got blood on your carpet) by Alia_JuneBug - Not Rated

When Jack Drake’s business trip gets canceled, he is forced to stay at home while the legal kinks get worked out. He’s not used to having a teenager underfoot, so it’s only rational that he’s a little snappish around Tim. At least, that’s what Tim tells himself each time his dad’s idea of discipline gets harsher. Bruce had told him to take a break from Robin in order to spend some time at home with his dad, and Tim can’t say no to that. He knows Bruce is probably glad to be rid of him for a short while. And he can handle discipline. This is a Tim Drake problem, not a Robin problem anyway. There’s no need for Bruce to know anything. Things get a little muddled when an injured Jason Todd crawls through his bedroom window.

Thrown into the Storm by ThePokeOne - Rated T

"It figured, Tim thought as he trekked through Gotham's streets in one of the worst storms he'd ever seen. He'd been careless. So stupidly careless."

Or:

Tim gets kicked out, and Jason has a change of plans.

am i the only one pretending (i did it to myself) by rutaceae - Rated T

Tim doesn’t expect his latest civilian kidnapping to be any different from the rest, but when he remembers things best left buried in the past, things take a turn for the worse. Luckily, his family is here to help.

sallow skin (and they can’t look away) by Ghxst_Bird - Rated T

Bruce is off planet when Robin’s distress beacon is lit. He tries not to worry, but then Nightwing contacts him: Robin’s tracker leads straight into Gotham Bay.

1-800-ROBIN by spqr - Rated T

“Gotham Youth Mental Health Hotline, this is Jason speaking. Can I ask who I’m talking to?” There’s a long silence on the other end of the line, and then a small voice says, “I, um. Sorry, I don’t know why I called. This was a mistake. I’ll just hang up now.” “Hey, wait.” Jason drops his feet to the floor, sitting forward in his shitty cubicle. Suddenly his heart is racing and he’s not sure why, but he can’t let this kid hang up. “You don’t have to tell me your name. That’s okay. Just – why don’t you tell me why you’re calling?”

buy the ticket, take the ride by Anonymous - Rated M

Tim had always figured that if he ever woke up in Vegas sans-memory, it would be when he was older than fourteen. But there were some things he couldn’t control, and apparently whatever had happened last night that he didn’t remember was one of them.

hungry for strays by Ghxst_Bird - Rated T

Tim knows something is wrong with Batman and Nightwing, and somehow it all has to do with the new crime lord on the rise in crime alley. So of course he’s not going to stay at the manor while they’re out risking their lives. Tim leaves a note and sets out for intel on the Red Hood. Aka. Everyone is straight up not having a good time

Safe and Warm by sardonic_sprite - Rated G

Batman.

Batman lived right next door. Batman surely had a generator, or at least a fireplace and wood, or some way to get warm.

Batman took care of kids, and Mr. Wayne was really nice. He would at least let Tim warm himself back up. Maybe he could even stay just until the power came back on.

It was worth a shot.

Nervous Breakdown by AhsokaJackson - Rated T

Jay closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose to push back the encroaching headache. And possibly the admittedly ironic desire to strangle this kid for his lack of self-care instincts. "Tim. Timmy. Answer me this. Where exactly is the old man? Actually, better question: Why in the ever-living hell is the answer to that anything other than 'right here'?" Tim gave a huff that sounded more tired than defiant. "Because, like I said, it's a mild case and I don't need to be under observation. I already told Bruce the same thing I told you: I'm fine." "And he believed that."

Don't You Know? by sardonic_sprite - Rated T

“How the hell did you think taking everything the real Robin had was going to make him proud of you?” Jason snapped. “I didn’t want to take anything,” Replacement cried. “I wanted to save it. It… Batman… they were… everything was just… It was awful, and, and Gotham needed… but Robin…” The kid looked up at Jason, desperation in his eyes, like he was trying to find justification from his accuser. “I-I know he wouldn’t have wanted Batman to die.”

Living Dead Boy by Terranpheum - Rated T

Tim was having a normal night photographing Batman and mourning the dead when Jason Todd suddenly breaks out of his own grave. He's unresponsive and catatonic, and Tim knows there's no way he can leave the boy on his own. So, he brings him back to Drake Manor to try and help him recover. It goes… well?

Instead of All the Colors That I Saw by SilverSkiesAtMidnight - Rated T

Dick comes around to stand fully in front of him, keeping a steadying hand on Tim’s arm. “Just because you know you’re safe intellectually doesn’t mean you always feel safe,” he says softly. “It’s okay if you don’t feel safe.” “But it’s not okay!” Tim bursts out. “Because if I don’t feel safe, then how is Jason supposed to feel safe? He shouldn’t have to feel uncomfortable just because my brain is screwed up!” There’s a faint sound by the door, barely more than an intake of breath, and his eyes snap to the no-longer empty doorway.

The Worst Kind of Crush by TimDrakeIsMyPatronus - Rated T

Civilians came first.  It was one of the foundational truths of being a superhero. Their job was to save civilians regardless of the personal cost. Each of them knew and understood the risks associated with the cape when they put it on.  Still, rules got fuzzy when one woke up underneath a building.  Or the one where a building explodes and Tim is trapped under the rubble

Last Request by destiny919 - Rated T

"Any last words, Replacement?" Red Hood casually crouches down in front of him. "Or how about a last request? I'm feeling generous. I'll do you one last favor before I clip those little wings. Whatever you want. Sky's the limit." There's only one thing he's ever really wanted from Jason Todd.

Echoes of You by SilverSkiesAtMidnight - Rated T

Graveyard mud, heavy and dark, clinging to a stained and torn suit. One shoe missing, a leg bent awkwardly and blood staining a bare foot.

Milk white skin beneath the mud, black hair hanging in muddy clumps around his ears. Blue eyes staring back at him, animal-bright and dilated in the brief moment before he flinches back from the light with a cry of pain that stabs through Jason to the soul.

His shaking hand closes around the flashlight before he can even think about it, cutting off the piercing beam and letting it spill out in shards between his fingers. For a petrifying moment as his eyes readjust, he’s sure that when he looks again, there will be nothing there.

“Tim?” he whispers.

The lean and ragged figure, tiny, god he’s so small, lowers his hands away from his face, away from his eyes wide and glittering almost silver in the moonlight.

Hands, mud-covered and torn. The red of his shredded fingernails is sickeningly dark in the broken light.

He’s vomiting before he even feels the bile making its way up his throat.

Petals for Armor by SilverSkiesAtMidnight - Rated T

There’s a small half-moon of blood under the white of Tim’s nail where he bent it. He studies the red of it, feeling foggy and dreamlike. “Can I ask you a question?” His brother’s eyes flick to him and away again, surprised and wary. “What?” His nail doesn’t hurt much, just the dullest of aches when he presses down against it. “When you were homeless, you slept with people for money, didn’t you?” Jason jerks like he’s been slapped. His knuckles are so pale where they grip the steering wheel they suddenly look more bone than flesh. “Did I -” “Was it worth it?” Tim asks, drifting like a cloud over whatever furious reaction Jason was about to give him. “The money, I mean.” His sternum slams into the seatbelt with bruising force. Unbraced for it, his head whips forward and back against his seat as they swerve off the road again and skid to a halt with a screech of rubber.

farthest you’ve ever flown by rutaceae - Rated T

When Jack Drake kicks Tim out in a rage, Tim, not wanting to be a bother, tries to make it work without getting the Bats involved. But he can only go so long without being found out, and it’s not Batman that ends up discovering his secret; it’s the Red Hood.

Familial Ties by AnonymousWhump - Rated T

What he wasn't expecting was to walk into the kitchen to find Tim,  yes Tim because he wasn't in the Robin outfit he was dressed in a hoodie and sweatpants, was that blood on his feet?  Staring at him in shock, eyes flicking from him to the phone in his hand, before mumbling a quiet,

“Jason?”  

Or, Jason breaks into the Titan's Tower to hurt Robin but his plan is quickly derailed when he sees signs of abuse.

Drop In by iselsis - Rated T

Tim's injured, alone in Crime Alley, and the worst possible person finds him. And yet it doesn't turn out as badly as Tim expected.

Watch Your Step Dear by Redaliveviolation - Rated T

Tim was having a great time watching the Dynamic Duo race across Gotham. He was getting so many good photos and he never wanted these nights to end. Too bad the heroes aren’t around when he takes a trip off of the side of a building.

[rotworld]

8: Forgotten

art by @exorbitantsqueakingnoises

your small band of refugees has finally found a safe place beyond the imperium's reach, but this paradise does not come for free.

->warhammer 40k. original necron/reader. contains graphic descriptions of violence, corpses, torture, (robot) insects going into orifices, coercive relationship, possessive/controlling behavior, mentioned memory issues, brief mention of self-harm.

.

.

.

At sunrise, little legs come scurrying into your quarters. Pinprick footsteps tiptoe up the side of the bed and perch on the pillow beside you. Something beeps rhythmically. You groan, rolling away from it. Thin, spidery limbs climb the shape of your body beneath the blankets and perch on top of you like a persistent cat seeking attention. It beeps louder. It wobbles back and forth.

“I’m up, I’m up,” you mumble. The beeping stops. The thing crawls down the bed and creeps up the windowsill, the morning light glittering on its metal carapace. This canoptek scarab is specialized for delicate tasks, the grooves in its tiny, rounded paws intended to slot against circuitry and gently rewire damaged internal processing centers. It was a gift, the first of many. It wakes you in the morning and skitters after you throughout the day.

The smell of food chases the fog of sleep from your mind. Someone has been here recently. Breakfast waits in a silver tray on the bedside table. It’s not a stale rations bar or a cracked tin of corpse starch but food, fragrant and fresh and still hot. Hard boiled eggs from a local avian species, diced greens and fresh fruits, spice-seasoned beans drizzled with sauce and topped with leaves of garnish. It feels like a dream but it can’t be. You’ve never seen anything like this, couldn’t have imagined it even at your hungriest and most desperate. Your eyes burn with tears as you slide the tray onto your lap. You never knew beans could taste like anything more than soggy cardboard and rust. 

After breakfast, you get dressed. A robe has already been selected for you and folded neatly in a chair along with the accompanying sashes, cords and jeweled accessories. Each layer is light and airy so you aren’t overwhelmed by the pleasantly warm weather, but you still feel weighed down by all the thick gold bands and layered bead necklaces and jeweled brooches. It feels absurd to make so much noise while you move, everything clinking and clattering together. You wonder if you’ll ever get used to it.

A pair of intimidating gold and silver figures guard your bedchambers, standing just outside the door. Each holds a shield the size of their towering body and a monstrously large blade. They do not move. They do not breathe. You could easily mistake them for statues if not for the soft hum of their internal machinery. “Good morning,” you say quietly. Expressionless skeletal faces stare back. In perfect unison, they tuck their blades behind their backs and bow deeply—a traditional expression of submission to your authority. You hear them fall into step behind you, marching at your back. Your scarab struggles to keep up and scurries up to your shoulder, clinging gently to your robes. 

The palace is still under construction. There are large slabs of unbroken stone lying around, half-carved pillars and unfinished sculptures, the intricate tile patterns leading to the courtyard in the midst of meticulous assembly. A row of enormous statues marks where the gates will be someday, a looming wall adorned with the symbols of the Runaadi Dynasty. For now, there are only rolling green hills speckled with shrubs and wildflowers. The lychguards remain here at your urging, standing sentinel in the shade of towering trees flushed with spring blossoms. They stand so still that the delicate pink blossoms falling from the branches land on their bodies and sit undisturbed. 

As you descend into the valley, you start to hear voices. Chatter and laughter and the playful shrieks of small children. Unlike the scrap metal shanties and toxic ooze lakes of your youth, this is a gentle world of crisp, clear air and blue skies. Small huts with thatched roofs form a modest village, the grass thinning into what will someday be common dirt pathways. The fields are colorful and sweet-smelling with flowering crops. The storehouse is filling with grains. Furry, four-legged beasts graze on grass at the outskirts. There are no munitions assembly lines and backbreaking quotas, no Arbitrators stalking the streets with scowls and shock batons. There is no squabbling for the last ragged, moth-eaten blanket in the frigid shadows of the Underhive.

People wave and smile. A few children rush over to give you freshly picked flowers. Tryphena comes to see you with a grin on her face and grass stains on the knees of her trousers. There are small, prickly seed pods and leaves sticking out of her short, white hair. “Come to see the common folk?” she teases. “I’d give you a hug, but I might stain your outfit with my dirty peasant hands.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” you say, rolling your eyes. She smells like damp soil and leather. When she wraps her arms around you, she squeezes tight like she’s afraid she might not have another chance. “How are things?”

“Good.” She says it hesitantly, glancing back at the village in something like disbelief. “Everything is good. Dayn got that hole patched in the tannery’s roof. Gellora’s baby is due any day now. We’re building a library, too.” She points to a new structure just past the well, several people dragging wagons of lumber and stone over to build the foundations. “Hardly have enough books to fill it, but that could change someday. Wouldn’t that be something? Talis said I should write a book about we got here.” She picks absently at a starburst scar under one eye. The wound is no longer fresh but it is recent and still healing. It had been self-inflicted; a brutal knife wound intended to vandalize the fleur-de-lis tattoo that only lingers in disconnected spots of ink.

“You don’t want to?” you ask her. 

She’s quiet for a long time, staring out at the fields and the grassy slopes. There are mountains in the distance, great peaks capped with snow and a cloudy haze. No one goes that way anymore. It’s the edge of the world as far as they’re concerned. Two Imperial ships sit in the shadows of those mountains, left to rust and rot. One landed gracefully. One bears a peculiar scar of anti-aircraft weaponry, a clean incision like a scalpel cut unraveling the steel. It crash-landed, gouging a smoldering scar across the landscape like a stripe of forest fire.

“I’m still having nightmares,” Tryphena admits. “About being found here. Sometimes it’s an Explorator fleet, stumbling upon us by chance. Sometimes it’s no accident. Inquisitors of the Ordo Hereticus. My own Sisters, clad in fury. They burn everything and everyone to ash, but it’s the way they look at me that haunts me come morning.” 

You watch a man hang a damp blanket on a clothesline. A woman draws water from a well. Children run past, the youngest clutching a stuffed animal with sooty stains peppered across its raggedy fabric skin. “No one is going to find us here,” you say, your voice quiet but firm. 

“If it happened once, it can happen again.” She looks towards the mountains. 

“Nurakhet isn’t on any Imperial map. The tides of the Warp are too treacherous for anyone to risk coming this way. And even if they do…” You clutch the jeweled brooch affixed to a sash hanging over your shoulders—the symbol of the Ruunadi Dynasty. It’s an impossibly ancient antique, luminescent crystals and delicate metalwork forged before even the simplest unicellular lifeforms had begun to swim through the primordial seas of your ancestors’ homeworld. It rested in a stasis container for untold millennia, protected from the ravages of time in subterranean darkness.

“If anything comes here,” you say, “they’ll protect us. They’ll honor the pact.”

Tryphena frowns tightly but she nods, her gaze drawn to white tufts of cloud drifting through the sky. You stand with her in silence for a while, watching the sun rise and the village brighten. “I’m grateful to you,” she says after a time. “We all are. But are you alright?” 

You’re startled by the question. “Of course I am. You see what I’m wearing, right?” 

That’s not what she meant and you both know it. “This was always meant to be the start of something different. Something better than what we had before.  What good is a peace bought with blood?”

“It really isn’t like that,” you insist. You smile, hoping she doesn’t see the tension in it. You look her in the eye and squeeze her shoulder. “Tryphena, I mean it. There’s nothing to worry about. The most strenuous thing I’ve had to do all week is walk from one end of the palace to the other.” 

She cracks a smile. “What hardship! All that walking. Next you’ll tell me that dinner was served on a gold plate, but there was no dessert.” 

The scarab beeps on your shoulder, the glowing node embedded in its body flickering. There’s a shrill, electronic noise, a hiss of static, and then a voice. “Consort, your presence is requested in the western solarium.” It’s Zereb, curt as always. You apologize to Tryphena but she waves you off, insisting she has things to do anyway. You feel her stare lingering on your back as you walk away. 

The lychguards are still where you left them. They bow when you return and shadow you on the long, pleasant walk back to the palace. “Good morning, Zereb,” you say. 

A long sigh emanates from the scarab. Zereb doesn’t breathe—he has no lungs. He makes the sound only to ensure you understand just how exasperated he is. “Is it good? Truly? Do you know what I’m doing right now?” 

“I’d rather not know, but I bet you’re going to tell me—” 

“I am studying the human phallus,” he interrupts. “It is loathsome. Perhaps the most inelegant, repulsive structure in the natural world.”

“Ah,” you say.

“The Phaeron is displeased. He asked me why you insist on abandoning the lychguards when you leave the palace, as though I have unique insight into your rudimentary cognitive processes.” 

“Is he displeased because I left them behind?” you ask. “Or because you insulted me?”

“Irrelevant,” Zereb says. 

You stray from the path. The lychguards abruptly change course to follow you. The trees lining what will one day be a grand, crystalline walkway have sea green leaves and large flowers, starburst blossoms with several layers of pointed petals. You pick several. “Do you know what he likes?” you ask.

There’s a long pause. “What he likes?” Zereb repeats with confusion.

“Yeah. You know. Favorite color, favorite place in the palace, things like that. I know I could ask, but I’d like to try surprising him sometime.”

There’s another, much longer pause. “I do not think he remembers what he likes.” 

“There must be something,” you insist. “He must like Ruunadi spearblossoms, right? He just had more of them planted in the courtyard.” 

“That is because he heard you say that you liked them,” Zereb says. 

“He likes gold, doesn’t he? He keeps giving me more.” 

“The first piece of jewelry you accepted from him was a golden bangle.” 

“Well, what about…” You stop yourself. Those light blue stones, you were going to say, the ones he just used in a spectacular mural in the dining hall—until you remembered they’d been used in the tile flooring of your luxurious bathing chamber. You’d made an off-handed comment once while sitting in the palace garden together. You liked those tiles. It was the color of Nurakhet’s sky just after sunrise, a shade you’d never seen before coming here. 

“Perhaps you could tell him that you like when I have free reign over the observatory?” Zereb proposes. “You especially like when I have several uninterrupted weeks of privacy and do not need to debase myself with the study of human anatomy. Yes, I think it would please him greatly to hear that.” 

“Sure,” you say dryly. The lychguards guide you back to the path, beneath the shadows of looming statues and a great arch of stone. It’s so empty here compared to the village. Most of the Ruunadi Dynasty has yet to awaken. Those few who work tirelessly to construct the palace are little more than automatons, sleepwalking shells directed by the Phaeron’s will. Zereb has told you that they are recreating the old Ruunadi palace down to the smallest painstaking detail, a futile task that may take the rest of time. They keep making and remaking sections. Statues are meticulously carved and then shattered in frustration, their faces unfinished collages of features that don’t match. 

The lychguards stop walking suddenly. You turn back and find them angled towards a different hallway, clearly expecting you to go in that direction. “I thought I was supposed to go to the western solarium,” you say. 

“That was a lie,” Zereb admits. “Sometimes you are reluctant to return if I am truthful.” You don’t move. Zereb knows, somehow. He always does—both of them. Maybe the lychguards silently report your every move, or maybe the scarab tracks your movements. “Consort. I know we are not always in agreement. But it is good that you are here. Your presence has a noticeable stabilizing effect—”

“He doesn’t even know who I am, Zereb,” you say tiredly. “He thinks I’m someone else.” 

“The Phaeron says you are his consort, therefore you are.” 

“This isn’t sustainable. You said his memory was affected by waking early and his IFF transponder isn’t functioning normally. So what happens if it gets fixed? What happens if those memories come back? What if—” 

“Enough,” Zereb hisses. You recognize that hushed, fearful tone. There’s a long agonizing silence before he speaks again. “I must insist that you change your robes later. The Phaeron has already waited so long to see you. He would not care if you came to him covered head to toe in dirt, for the dirt would become precious for touching your skin.” 

You take a deep breath. “I guess you’re right. I shouldn’t worry about things like that,” you say. “I’ll be right there.” There’s a crackle and then the scarab falls silent. The lychguards follow you closely as you begin descending a flight of stairs that seems to go on forever. The palace changes from a warm, sandy brown to sleek black, shiny like obsidian. Veins of bright green pulsate in seams and crevices. The deeper you go, the more alien everything becomes. Enormous structures twist, piston and ripple in ways metal and stone should not. Jutting obelisks shine with strange symbols. The walkways are constantly changing, floating platforms gliding silently across great chasms. You would get lost here without the lychguards to guide you down the proper steps, across the proper moving sections of flooring, into the proper doorways and chambers. 

This is where the Ruunadi Dynasty has slept for longer than you can even imagine. 

The chamber you’re led to is not like the others. Rather than the unnerving quiet, silence save for the constant, bassy thrum of machinery, there is sickening noise. Muffled screams and sobbing. Wet squelches. Flesh peeled, nauseatingly slowly, from bone. Blood spatters tall surgical slabs, dripping constantly down the sides.

“Darling,” purrs Amuresha the Relentless, your savior, your jailor, your husband. “There you are. I had just begun to worry. You dismissed the lychguards.”

“Only for a moment,” you assure him. He stalks forward from the shadows and your head raises, craning your neck to keep your gaze on his face. Amuresha, like all necrons, is cursed for all his unlife to wear a visage of death. The living metal of his body is sculpted into a skeletal form, an elongated skull for a face with a grim, unchanging expression. His chest is a broad plane with horizontal slits mimicking a ribcage, connected to his pelvis by nothing more than a flexible metal pole serving as a spinal column. Rather than clothing, his body is adorned with colorful protrusions mimicking garments and jewelry. Layers of thin, flexible metal sheets hangs in front of his legs to form a ceremonial loincloth and a cloak of interlocking hexagons form a cloak over his shoulders. A flared crown juts directly from his skull, wide and colorful like the wings of a bird. 

“A moment is all it would take to lose you, beloved. You are not like I am.” He reaches for you, metal fingers curling against your cheek. You hear his internal cooling systems kicking into high gear as he overheats himself, cognitive processors humming dangerously, just to warm his living metal to a comfortable temperature. “You are perfect,” he murmurs. “Just as you have always been.”

You smile sadly. It’s hard to know exactly what Amuresha sees when he looks at you. He knows something is wrong. He knows time has passed since the days of flesh, but how long, exactly, eludes him. Zereb has told you he was married once—and that the marriage fell apart in a rather spectacular fashion. Somehow he holds two truths simultaneously; that it was mere days since that last screaming argument that drove his spouse away, and yet staggering cosmic ages have also passed. He knows he is made of living metal and he knows you are not, and no effort has been made to reconcile the two.

He says you are his consort. Therefore, you are.

“Are you going to join me for lunch?” you ask. You take his hand in yours. It’s much larger, each metal digit stretching far beyond the length of your own fingers. 

“Soon, my love. I have work to finish here. Come and see.” You don’t want to. Your stomach churns at the thought of what’s waiting for you in the darkness of this room. But Amuresha bends slightly, bringing your hand to the stylized indents on the lower half of his face resembling the grimace of a skull. “Love?” he asks, so soft and hopeful that your heart aches. 

“Of course,” you say. He can’t smile but the green glow in the dark sockets of his face seems to brighten. 

He leads you. He walks slowly. He never lets go of your hand. The lighting in the tomb chambers is incidental, any illumination the result of machines carrying out their functions. Amuresha makes more light for your benefit, encouraging the walls and pillars to glow more brightly. Your breath hitches as the rest of the chamber becomes gradually visible. You see things that will return in your nightmares. 

There are humans—bits and pieces of them—scattered across the chamber. Heads preserved in stasis cubes and torsos dangling from angular meathooks, bodies bisected and vivisected and peeled like fruit. The worst are the ones that are still alive, strapped to metal examination tables. Some of them thrash as much as their bindings will allow, trying to scream through their gags. Some are motionless, staring blankly at the ceiling. Blood trickles from their ears, nose and mouth. The ones that still have tongues make noises that are almost words; curses, prayers, oaths of vengeance. The ones that still have eyes stare at you with fear and awe and hatred. 

“We have been studying, Zereb and I,” he says, chuckling as though you might find this amusing. He strolls down aisles of death and butchery, leading you along at a leisurely pace. The stench of rust and rot and death is unbearable. Zereb is here, hunched beside one of the slabs. He is slighter in frame than Amuresha, his chest section narrower, his limbs more delicate. Living metal encases him like a robe, a rounded sheet covering his head like a hood. He glances at you with five gleaming bulbs, gemstone bright, set in his face. A swarm of scarabs, much smaller than yours with much sharper limbs, crawls around restlessly by his feet. The scarab on your shoulder whispers an apology.

“What have you been studying?” you ask, eager to leave as soon as possible. 

“Oh, all manner of things! There is so much wonder in the flesh. I wish to emulate its softness for you. Its warmth. Its sensitivity.” His hand wanders down your back, squeezing your hip suggestively. “I have studied males of this species most extensively,” he says, lowering his voice to a sensual purr. “They are unseemly, I know, but they are more complex than they appear. Just like us, they sometimes copulate purely for pleasure. Perhaps I will be able to do this again soon. Love you in the ways of flesh, just as I once did.” 

You’re too stunned to answer. You didn’t think it was possible. Amuresha has nothing resembling genitalia, just smooth metal between his legs. Zereb’s mentions of his studies earlier ceases to be amusing and suddenly becomes a concern. 

Amuresha stops beside one of the slabs. “Do you recognize these, my star?” he asks.

He wants you to look. Your heart pounds. Bile climbs up your throat at the sight of the body lying there. It’s a woman. Her armor is cracked and shattered in places, bloody from the oozing wounds underneath. Her hair is white, cropped just above the shoulders. There is a fleur-de-lis tattooed beneath her eye. She’s chewed and struggled against the gag in her mouth so much that it’s dug into her face hard enough to expose slippery insides, the meat of her cheek muscles. Her eyes are glazed over but even through the blood loss and agony, you can see the clarity and the sheer magnitude of her hatred for you.

Across the room, Zereb gives a command. The scarabs rush up the side of the slab in a wave. A man babbles through his gag, and then he cries, and then he screams. 

“These…these are…” You’re going to be sick. “I…I thought you killed them already.”

“My love,” Amuresha says softly. He turns you towards him, framing your face in his hands. “Don’t be afraid. Yes, these are the creatures that followed your retinue here. They can’t harm you anymore, you see?” 

You don’t want to look but he makes you, turns your head and forces you to watch Zereb pluck the gag out of the man’s mouth. Scarabs rush in, a few impatient ones wriggling into his nostrils instead, making his eyes bulge and his flesh distend around them as they burrow into his brain. He shivers and retches, fingers scraping the metal slab he’s trapped against so hard they bleed. He gags and retches and gurgles violently, blood trickling from every invaded orifice.  Zereb bends over him, studying his face intently and searching for some hidden sign. When he sees it, he makes a slight gesture. A wave of the hand, two fingers extended. 

You don’t think you’ll ever forget the noises he makes. The wailing. Wordless, mindless animal fear. His struggles turn to trembling and then he goes completely still. Mouth hanging open. Eyes blank. Rivulets of cerebrospinal fluid dribble from his bloody nose. 

Amuresha mistakes the cause of your frightened whimper. He holds you, a hand smoothing over your head in gentle, affectionate strokes. “You are safe here, my star,” he whispers. “You and your courtiers are under my protection. No harm shall come to you.”

You cling to him, keeping your eyes squeezed shut. You can still smell the rancid stink of decay and inhumane cruelty. You can still see Tryphena’s Sister, her bloodshot, hateful eyes, the peek of her mandible through mangled skin. “You promise?” you say weakly. 

“I swear it,” Amuresha says. “You are safe, now and forever. As long as you are here. With me. I love you, darling. I will love you until the stars have all died.” 

His grip tightens until it’s bruising. You tell him you love him, too.

[theheirofthesharingan]

I just found your blog recently, I hope you don't mind that I've been crawling through and liking so many posts. I've always loved Sasuke and never minded Itachi, he was a good villain but it may be saying something that his crimes (while not insignificant) are only rated so highly (from my pov) because he did it all in one night. There are plenty of ninja who did far more heinous things for worse reasons (Orochimaru is a far worse person let alone dangerous villain), so while the big reveal of the plot around Itachi's betrayal was somewhat surprising, it was not exactly "shocking" so much as it felt like it recontectualized things.

I don't really think it makes sense for ss fans to even bring up that "S*kura would never put Sasuke through what Itachi did" considering she was never and would never be in a position to act as Itachi did... but very few ship vs ship arguments are made with "good sense" in mind. (I actually liked her genin arc, she changed from her rather damaging pushy behavior to taking ownership of her own emotions but that then backslid during shippuden... making her once again pushing her own agenda without anyone's input)

I just found your blog recently, I hope you don't mind that I've been crawling through and liking so many posts.

I don't mind that at all. Don't worry about it.

I've always loved Sasuke and never minded Itachi, he was a good villain but it may be saying something that his crimes (while not insignificant) are only rated so highly (from my pov) because he did it all in one night.

I believe it's true but it's also a dreadfully one-dimensional way to look at the situation when a myriad of information is later provided to give context to the whole thing. He's introduced as a cold-blooded killer with zero redeeming qualities, which after the reveal turns out to be more nuanced and layered than we earlier thought. While his actions are still unforgivable, there's so much more to it. So, sticking to what he's shown as initially and refusing to acknowledge anything and everything that follows afterwards isn't how you assess a character or a piece of media in general. It's just looking at his actions and motivations on the face value and refusing to take a deeper look like a petulant child.

There are plenty of ninja who did far more heinous things for worse reasons (Orochimaru is a far worse person let alone dangerous villain), so while the big reveal of the plot around Itachi's betrayal was somewhat surprising, it was not exactly "shocking" so much as it felt like it recontectualized things.

I would not be comparing Itachi with the likes of Orochimaru who was evil and never showed an ounce of remorse.

He did this. This is creepy as hell. Itachi would never, ever do this.

Now, Itachi's crimes are horrible but there's more to them than just "he followed the orders and killed his clan" and "he traumatized his little brother." People tend to downplay his trauma because he isn't a perfect victim and his reaction to the life he lived deeply affects Sasuke. He's only seen as a perpetrator, when, in truth, he's a perpetrator because he's a victim first. There are lot of things he had to learn and acknowledge, but he never rationalized his crimes.

Among his many objectives to die at Sasuke's hands one was that he wanted to be punished for his crimes by the person he'd hurt and wronged the most, because of all things, Sasuke didn't deserve to go through any of what he did.

The guilt he lived with would have been colossal because forcefully prolonging the life so he could be punished for his crimes that weren't even entirely his own fault is a big deal. This is why he's so well received among the audience as well. He doesn't feel entitled to being treated right or with respect. He doesn't think he's worthy of forgiveness or deserves justice.

During his fight against Kabuto, his interaction with Sasuke is also quite interesting. He keeps telling Sasuke and Kabuto both he's not worthy of the praises they shower on him. And he actively avoids looking into Sasuke's eyes.

There are moments he looks in Sasuke's direction, but mostly he avoids looking at him. This is just one example. It's the body language of someone who's heavily guilt-ridden, someone who feels disgusted with himself especially the way he asks both Kabuto and Sasuke to not see him as a good guy.

I don't really think it makes sense for ss fans to even bring up that...

Oh, obviously. She was never placed in the circumstances where she had to make hard choices keeping someone else in mind. Not just that, Itachi did what he did because he wanted to keep Sasuke alive, because the life he'd lived showed him death was the worst thing to happen, so he wanted to protect the person he loved the most from this. When it came to her, though, instead of learning his reasoning, she jumped to the conclusion that Sasuke needed to die. She wanted to do this to "save him from the darkness." Funny, because he was the same boy who'd sacrificed himself to save Naruto's life not too long ago. Who'd wanted to save her life at any cost from Gaara. Who had killed Orochimaru and Itachi - the most dangerous criminals. He'd also freed Orochimaru's prisoners. Considering Konoha was following his trail, the news of this would have reached Konoha too. Despite this, her first response to learning Sasuke falling into darkness was that he should be killed.

I actually liked her genin arc..

Same. I liked those bits. And she was brilliant in Pain arc as well when she saved lives of the wounded Shinobi and civilians, and also during the war arc. But she should have moved on from the person who'd done nothing but brutally humiliate her, reject her. It's not even a character flaw, it's just... Idk what it is.

[mumms-the-word]

Bound by Blood - Ch. 6

Ch. 6 - Morrigan

Characters: Alistair, fem!Surana, Zevran, fem!Tabris, and basically the rest of the DAO crew Plot: Seventeen-year-old Nyssa Surana never expected to find herself a Grey Warden - let alone one of three surviving Wardens, one of which is her own cousin, Velle Tabris. She's the last person anyone would ever choose to save the world. Young, inexperienced, deeply anxious, and only just out of the Circle Tower for the first time in a decade, she's convinced she's as unlikely a hero as unlikely heroes come. But someone has to save Ferelden from the Fifth Blight...and keep her cousin out of trouble...and try not to fall in love with the charming Alistair Theirin, all at the same time. Three impossible tasks, but she's determined to succeed, even with the odds stacked against her. A/N: Nyssa finally obtains the darkspawn blood she's supposed to gather, and the team meets a mysterious Witch of the Wilds.

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Nyssa slipped out from under Alistair’s hand and stumbled toward some nearby bushes, hoping to disappear around them before she embarrassed herself completely. She managed to duck behind a sparse-looking shrub before she retched, her body heaving despite almost nothing coming up. Her stomach was as hollow as a cave, without even the small breakfast she'd eaten hours ago to lose.

She sank to her knees, panting, trying to force her stomach to settle through sheer force of will. The attempt only made her feel worse. She retched again, eyes watering as her throat and nose burned.

“Oh, charming,” Daveth said nearby.

“Quiet, you,” Jory responded. “We can’t all be so cavalier about these beasts.”

“I don’t see you emptying your guts, ser knight.”

“Shut up, both of you,” Velle snapped. Nyssa heard her coming, stomping through the swamp brush, before she felt her hand on her back. “Hey, it’s okay. Let it out. You’ll feel better.”

Nyssa pressed a shaking hand to her forehead, her skin feverishly hot. The icy cold that still lingered on her palm from that last ice spell was only a small relief. She called more ice magic to her palm and pressed her hand to the back of her neck.

Maker’s breath. She was pathetic.

“Sorry,” she mumbled. “I’ll…I’ll be okay in a second.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Velle said, rubbing her back. “You were awesome out there. The way you just crushed that guy? I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Nyssa’s stomach lurched again and she squeezed her eyes shut. “Velle, please. Let’s not talk about it.”

“Oh. Okay, sorry.”

Beyond the brush, Alistair cleared his throat. “Uh, Jory, Daveth, why don’t you…scout around a bit? Make sure there aren’t any lingering darkspawn waiting to jump us. We can meet up by the bridge in a few minutes.”

Eyes still closed, she heard the two of them drawing away, Daveth muttering something under his breath, and then the sound of armored footsteps coming closer. She sat up and opened her eyes just as Alistair crouched near her, unhooking a flask from his belt and opening it.

“Here.” He offered it to her with a small, friendly smile. “Don’t worry, it’s just water. I’m not trying to trick you or anything.”

After a second's hesitation, she took the flask gratefully, raising it to her lips for a few tentative sips while Alistair fussed with another small pack on his belt. The water didn’t do much to settle her stomach, but it at least washed away some of the acidic taste of bile from her mouth.

“Feeling any better?” Velle asked, kneeling beside her now.

Not really. But she nodded instead. “A little.”

“I have some army rations,” Alistair said, pulling out a small bundle from his pack. He took something like a dry tea biscuit from the bundle and snapped it in half, holding out part of it to her. “It might help, I don’t know.”

“Thank you.” She took the biscuit from him and nibbled on one corner. It was dry and tasteless and almost too hard to bite into, but the thought of eating anything more adventurous than half a stale biscuit seemed like a bad idea anyway. And bite by tiny little bite, it did seem to help.

She cleared her throat gently, dropping her gaze to the ground. “Sorry that I’m so…you know.”

Weak. Ridiculous. Stupid. Slow. Any of those could apply, she supposed.

“Hey, don’t apologize,” Velle said. “These things are creepy as hell. And you splattered that one like a bug.”

Nyssa winced. “Not helping.”

“Oh, right. Sorry.”

“She’s right, though,” Alistair said, giving Nyssa the other half of the biscuit as she finished the first half. “No need to be sorry. I remember when I fought my first darkspawn. I screamed like a little girl and nearly fell on my arse trying to stab it. I think it probably died of laughter before I even hit it.”

She couldn’t tell whether his story was true or if he was merely trying to make her feel better, but either way, it helped. She bit her lip to stop a smile from showing. “Did you feel sick afterward?”

“Well, no,” he said, shrugging, “but I did nearly soil my drawers, if that helps.”

She wrinkled her nose slightly but couldn’t help a small laugh. “Maybe a little.”

“Only a little? Well, you can’t blame a man for trying.” He smiled as she giggled again. “Feeling better now?”

She nodded. “Yes. Thank you, Alistair.”

“Don’t mention it,” he said, standing. “I know what it’s like to be the new guy. Or—I guess you would be the new girl. Girls,” he added, glancing at Velle, who stood and crossed her arms, arching an eyebrow at him. “Point is, I get it. And it does get easier. Fighting darkspawn, I mean. You sort of get used to them.”

Nyssa doubted she would ever get used to fighting darkspawn, but she kept those thoughts to herself as she ate the rest of the biscuit Alistair had given her and stood. She took one last sip of water and then, a little self-conscious, cleaned the mouth of the flask with her sleeve before closing it and handing it back to Alistair. “So what now?”

“Now you collect your vial of darkspawn blood, same as the others.” He reached into a different pack on his belt and produced a small crystal vial with a cork stopper, holding it up for her to see.

“Oh…” Right…she had forgotten that part. She took a deep breath. “Well let’s get that part over with, then.”

Velle put a hand on her shoulder. “Nyssa, I can—”

“No, no. I should do it.” If she couldn’t do this, then what was the point of all the dramatics? Besides, she did feel better now, with a little water and food in her. She nodded, mostly to herself, steeling her nerves. “I can do this.”

She took the vial from Alistair and returned to the path, making her way over to the darkspawn that she had killed with her magic. It was still a gruesome sight, with the darkspawn’s broken body in a mangled heap among the shattered wood and bones. She forced herself to study it, looking for places where blood still flowed freely from its body.

Think scientifically. This is a specimen, like in textbooks. Nothing more, nothing less.

She took a careful breath and crouched beside the debris.

Ugh, Maker, the stench…

She thought she had gotten used to it. They had fought and stepped over the dead bodies of plenty of darkspawn already. But to crouch so close, the pungent scent of wet, rotting decay, and foul, corrupted blood so near her nose, her stomach threatened to rebel all over again. This time, however, she swallowed down the nausea and held the vial beneath a dripping wound on the darkspawn’s arm.

Black, thick blood dripped steadily down into the vial, slowly turning the transparent crystal black, as if she were filling it with pitch or tar. As she watched, waiting for the little flask to fill, the words of one of the army sergeants lingered in her mind, something she had overheard as she was helping the other mages cast protective spells on the soldiers before they headed into the Wilds.

Careful with the darkspawn. Their blood is as black as sin and poisonous. Don’t even touch it. You get tainted with that blood and you may as well slit your throat.

Unbidden, the image of the soldier from that morning came to her mind. The way he writhed on his cot, mumbling feverish, half-mad nonsense, the veins standing out stark and black beneath his skin. 

She clenched her teeth together. Why was there no cure? And if there was, why did only the Grey Wardens know about it? Three Wilds flower blooms lay gathered in her bag right this moment, with enough potential to cure a mabari sick from darkspawn blood. Yet for men and women, the blood was a death sentence.

She held up the vial to the light, letting the early afternoon sun try to shine through the crystal. But the blood inside was so black and thick, she might as well have asked the sun to shine through stone.

This small crystal flask now held the thing all the soldiers in Ostagar feared. The thing that had corrupted the soldier in the clinic and caused him days of suffering.

You get tainted with that blood and you may as well slit your throat.

More than the claws or weapons of the darkspawn, more than the chill of the mountain air or wounds from the battle itself, it was this blackened blood that could taint and kill them. This little vial, only half-filled with darkspawn blood, would make the entire army camp quake if they knew she carried it with her.

So much fear, and so much trouble, for such a small measure of blood. And she didn’t even know what she needed it for.

She stood and stoppered the vial closed, careful not to get any of the blood on her hands. Then she slipped it into her bag alongside the Wilds flowers she had collected. Corruption and cure, side by side.

“Now what?” she asked, turning back to Alistair and Velle, who had already wandered over.

“Now we find those treaties that Duncan wants,” Alistair said. “Come on, let’s regroup with the others. The sooner we find the treaties, the sooner we can all return to camp for a bit of downtime.”

Nyssa wasn’t sure if they just had bad luck or if it was normal for nothing to go right for Grey Wardens, but of course, the treaties they were looking for were not in the ruin that Duncan had directed them to.

What waited for them instead was a witch.

“Well, well, what have we here?” a voice crooned nearby. Nyssa turned from where she and the others had gathered around a broken stone chest to see a woman descending the steps of the ruin. Dark-haired and with strange, gold-colored eyes, she smirked at the group of them and crossed her arms loosely in front of her. “Are you vultures, I wonder? Scavengers poking amidst a corpse whose bones were long since cleaned? Or merely an intruder, come into this darkspawn-filled Wilds of mine in search of easy prey?”

Around Nyssa, the others reached for their weapons, either to stand ready or, as Daveth and Velle did, to completely unsheathe their blades, each of them on high alert.  But Nyssa only stared. The woman looked to be around the same age as her and Velle, yet she stood with an air of proud confidence that neither of them could match. Her clothing was a patchwork assortment of black-dyed leather, raven feathers, and a worn, purple drape of fabric that barely covered the curve of her pale breasts. Despite that most of her upper body was exposed to the chill of the mountain air, she seemed as unbothered by the cold as she wasby the wary stares and drawn blades directed at her.

Nyssa knew she ought to be wary, but something in the air crackled with energy, something she recognized instantly. Magic.

This girl was a mage. The staff she carried on her back, twisted black wood topped with some kind of curling horn, only confirmed Nyssa’s suspicions. A hedge mage, perhaps. A mage outside of the Circle, certainly.

An apostate.

At their silence, the woman tilted her head. “What say you, hmm? Scavenger or intruder?”

Velle scoffed. “And who made you lord over these wilds, huh?”

The girl arched an eyebrow, amused. “No one. But I know them as only one who owns them could. Can you claim the same?”

“Don’t answer her,” Alistair muttered under his breath. “She looks Chasind, and that means others may be nearby.”

The girl laughed. “You fear barbarians will swoop down upon you?”

Alistair’s frown switched easily into a dry-humored expression. “Yeah,” he drawled. “Swooping is bad.”

“Stop talking to her,” Daveth hissed. For once in their entire adventure out in these swamps, he looked nervous, even scared. “She’s a Witch of the Wilds, she is. She’ll turn us into toads!”

“Quiet, Daveth,” Jory whispered back. “Don’t give her any ideas.”

…toads? Nyssa tried to ignore a flicker of annoyance. Was that all people thought about when it came to magic? That it could turn people into frogs and toads? They had bigger things to worry about, if this girl truly was a Witch of the Wilds.

Nyssa had read a few stories of them in the Circle library. Stories of women practicing dark magics in far away corners of the world, swamps and forests to the north and south, from as distant as the jungle marshes of Rivain to the tangled forests of the Arbor Wilds in Orlais. They were either myth and legend, women selling their souls to demons in exchange for extended lifespans or more magical power, or they were simply hedge witches, apostates who were more danger to local villagers than power-hungry abominations.

It was hard to say which narrative fit this girl. She didn’t seem to align with anything Nyssa knew about these supposed witches.

“Witch of the Wilds,” the girl repeated slowly, sounding amused. “Such idle fancies you have, to believe such tales.”

Her gold-eyed gaze swept over to Nyssa and lingered. She uncrossed her arms and gestured to her, as if beckoning her to speak. “You there. You have not spoken yet, and elves do not frighten like these little boys do. Tell me your name and I shall tell you mine.”

The weight and attention of four other gazes suddenly settled on Nyssa, watching her. She knew she ought to be wary, even frightened of this girl, but instead, she was simply curious. The aura of her magic was unlike anything Nyssa had felt in the Circle. The girl carried fragments of wild, untamed magic about her, as though she’d never cleansed her staff or her clothing of residual energies even once in her entire life. It was so different than magic in the Circle, where the Templars were constantly doing mana cleanses and dispelling lingering magical effects whenever possible.

Something within her was drawn in like a magnet to steel, like a moth to a flame, even as another part of her whispered that she ought to be wary. This girl was an apostate, a rogue mage separated from both Circle and Chantry. The priests and Templars would call her a maleficar merely for existing and practicing unregulated magic. She was everything the Circle and the Templars had taught Nyssa to avoid. She was dangerous.

Yet Nyssa was not afraid.

“Nyssa,” she answered the girl. “My name is Nyssa Surana.”

The girl smiled, as if pleased. “You may call me Morrigan. And if you wish to retrieve what was so poorly hidden in that chest there, then I suggest you follow me. I can take you to the one who currently has them.”

“It’s a trap,” Daveth hissed, at the same time that Jory said, “I dislike this. We cannot trust her.”

“Who has them?” Nyssa asked, ignoring them.

“My mother,” was Morrigan’s mild reply.

Alistair scoffed. “Your mother?”

She cut her eyes toward him with open disdain. “Yes, my mother. Did you assume I spawned from a log?”

“A thieving, weird-talking log, perhaps,” Alistair muttered.

“Why does she have them?” Nyssa asked. They needed to stay on track. And, she had to admit, she wanted to know. How did Grey Warden treaties end up in the hands of a young apostate and her mother living out in the Wilds?

Morrigan shrugged. “I know not, but you may ask her yourself, if you please. I daresay she is curious enough about you to indulge you.”

The others shifted uncertainly. No one seemed eager to make a decision. Not even Alistair, who had more or less been leading their group around from place to place. Morrigan’s offer to take them to her mother still stood, however.

Velle stepped closer to Nyssa, lowering her voice to a near-silent murmur. “She’s weird, but I don’t think she’s trying to trick us. What do you think? Do you believe her?”

Nyssa considered for a moment before nodding. They didn’t have much of a choice if Morrigan’s mother had the treaties they needed. They had to get them back somehow. And if this was a trap, why would Morrigan lure them away to a different location? This ruin was secluded, and she was a mage. It wouldn’t take much for her to cast a spell to incapacitate them all and then call for others to kill them, if that was her plan.

Perhaps she was just being naive. But she believed that Morrigan was telling the truth about where the treaties were. Even so…

“Do you promise that you will do no harm to us while we retrieve those treaties?” Nyssa asked. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Alistair shoot her a look, eyebrows raised, but she kept her eyes trained on Morrigan. She wasn’t expecting much of a promise, but maybe it would soothe the others’ nervousness to hear the “witch” agree.

If she agreed.

Morrigan smirked, amusement glittering in her strange-colored eyes. “Of course. You have stirred my curiosity, so you have my promise. Does that suffice?” She flicked her gaze to the others.

Daveth grumbled something under his breath, but there were no open complaints. Seemingly satisfied with the lack of response, Morrigan stepped over to a path, little more than a thin worn line through the swamps, and beckoned to them all.

“Follow me, then, if it pleases you.”

The five of them were relatively quiet as they followed Morrigan through the swamps. She was a sure-footed among the wetlands, navigating with ease down paths Nyssa couldn’t see even when she was walking along them. The rest of them crashed clumsily along behind her, with Nyssa once more at the back, quietly pondering the mystery that was this Morrigan of the Wilds.

Who was she? What was she doing out here in the Korcari Wilds? What was her mother like? More importantly, was Morrigan just a simple hedge mage, a relatively harmless sort of apostate, or were there darker things at play here?

Of course, Nyssa had answers to exactly none of these questions by the time they reached Morrigan’s mother. But she pondered them nonetheless.

The moment they stepped into the clearing where Morrigan’s home stood in the distance, the air shifted around them. None of the others seemed to notice, trudging along behind Morrigan, but Nyssa paused at the edge of the clearing.

Strange…the air felt thinner here, in a way that she had only felt in Kinloch Hold or at the main camp at Ostagar. Not colder, but as though the barrier between this world and the Fade, the Veil, was worn thin by time and magic. Curious, she called magic to her hand, drawing on the energies of the Fade. The energy came easily to her, dancing across her fingers with green and blue light, more easily than in the midst of the Wilds where it had taken more concentration to shape magical energy into spells.

She didn’t know if it meant anything. Perhaps this place was simply old. She frowned, but dispelled the magical energy with a quick wave of her hand, then hurried to catch up to the others as they moved toward the building in the clearing and the woman who stood outside.

Morrigan’s mother, she presumed.

She waited outside of a hut that looked as though it had been patched together two centuries ago and was only standing now through sheer force of will. Around the hut, more ruins lay crumbling, half-sunken in marshy pools, the stones bleached white by ages in the sun. It was difficult to say what was older, the ruins or the hut…or to which era Morrigan’s mother belonged.

She stood, arms folded, watching them approach as though they were late to an event she was hosting. Like her daughter, her eyes were a strange gold color, dimmed slightly by age, but there, much of the similarity ended. Whereas Morrigan was dark-haired, pale, and youthful, her features accentuated by the dark stain she had added to her lips and her eyes, her mother was wizened, her nose slightly crooked, her gray hair rough-cut and swept back out of her face. She narrowed her eyes at them as they drew nearer.

“Greetings, Mother,” Morrigan said breezily. “I bring before you five Grey Wardens who—”

Her mother cut in with a brusque, “I see them, girl.” She tapped her chin as she studied them, her eyes trailing slowly from one person to the next. “Hmm. Much as I expected.”

Alistair raised his eyebrows. “Are we supposed to believe you were expecting us?”

“You are required to do nothing, least of all believe,” she said, a cynical smile suddenly on her lips. “Shut one’s eyes tight or open one’s arms wide, either way, one’s a fool.”

Nyssa and Velle glanced at one another. What? Velle mouthed. Nyssa could only shrug.

“She’s a witch, I tell you!” Daveth said, his voice low and urgent. He looked even more nervous now than he had been before. “We shouldn’t be talking to her!”

Jory elbowed him hard in the side. “Quiet, Daveth! If she’s really a witch, do you want to make her mad?”

The old woman chuckled. “There is a smart lad. Sadly irrelevant to the larger scheme of things, but it is not I who decides. Believe what you will about me.”

Jory’s eyebrows drew together at the woman’s strange proclamation. Daveth, meanwhile, tightened his grip on the hilts of his daggers, which he kept unsheathed but at his sides. Alistair continued to look wary, but not necessarily threatened. It was difficult to tell what was going on in his mind, beyond the obvious distrust he harbored for both of the women before them.

But the old woman didn’t wait to hear what the men thought. She turned and appraised Velle and Nyssa with interest.

“But what about the two of you?” she asked. “Do your elven minds offer any insight? A different perspective for what you believe?”

Velle took a step back and shook her head. “I think you’re both crazy,” she said, pointing to the woman and Morrigan. “A pair of batty shems having too much fun with mud and magic. Leave me out of this.”

The woman snorted. “Is that all? And you?” she asked, her gaze now on Nyssa. “Is that also what you think?”

A whisper of warning brushed featherlight against her mind. It was a simple question, asked without a hint of serious weight in its tone, yet it felt like a trap. Or perhaps a test. Something in this old woman was familiar, her gaze too sharp for someone who pretended to be merely a madwoman, even a mad mage woman.

A chill worked its way down Nyssa’s spine as she realized what was so familiar about her. Her stare, the coy smirk on her lips, the stillness with which she waited for Nyssa’s answer—it was as though she was facing the pride demon she’d encountered during her Harrowing all over again.

Keep your wits about you, mage, he had whispered to her. True tests never end.

Just who was this woman?

Outwardly, she appeared little more than an old woman in patchwork clothing. Yet Nyssa couldn’t deny what she felt when they had first approached the hut. It went beyond the Veil being thin in this place. Something about this old woman herself suggested magic, older and deeper than anything Nyssa had encountered in the Circle, as though she herself carried ancient magic within her rather than drawing it from the Fade.

Maleficar. Demon. Abomination. The words came easily to mind, bringing with them a nervous trepidation that sank like a stone in Nyssa’s stomach. But she didn’t know whether any of those labels were necessarily true or accurate. The old woman seemed all of those things and none of them at the same time.

Whatever she was, it must be something very old, very powerful, and very dangerous. Morrigan was a curiosity. Her mother, however, was something unknowable.

“I…I don’t know what to believe,” she said at last. “Yet.”

The woman broke into a crackling laugh like a crow’s cackle. “A statement that possesses more wisdom than it implies! An open mind, not yet made of mush. Or am I merely complimenting you? We shall see.”

She tilted her head and tapped her chin, examining Nyssa, then Velle, then Alistair, and back to Nyssa with narrowed eyes and a cat-like smile. “Hmm, yes. So much about you three is uncertain, and yet…I believe.” She paused briefly and then, as if to herself, or to someone within herself, “Do I? Why—it seems I do!”

“Wow,” Alistair said. “So this is the dreaded Witch of the Wilds, huh?”

And just like that, Morrigan’s mother was back to being a strange, slightly batty old woman. Another laugh cackled from her throat. “Witch of the Wilds, eh? Morrigan must have told you that. She fancies such tales, though she would never admit it. Oh, how she dances—”

“Mother,” Morrigan cut her off. “They did not come for your wild tales.”

“Ah, true, true. They came for their treaties, yes?” She turned and retrieved several scrolls from within the satchel at her waist. They were smaller than Nyssa expected, curled tightly around smooth wooden rollers, wrapped with thin leather coverings to protect the parchment, and tied closed with cords. She handed these to Alistair. “And before you begin barking, your precious seal protecting them wore off long ago. I have protected them since then.”

Alistair blinked, staring down at the scrolls he now cradled in his hands. “You—protected them?”

“And why not,” she said, shrugging. “Take them to your Grey Wardens and tell them this Blight’s threat is greater than they realize.”

Again that lingering feeling of this woman being more than she appeared—a demon, an abomination, a maleficar—needled Nyssa’s mind. One moment she was rambling nonsense, and the next she seemed to predict the future. Maybe it was all nonsense, but…it made Nyssa nervous, nonetheless.

“How…do you know all this?” she asked.

Another mysterious smile crossed the old woman’s lips. “Do I? Perhaps I am simply an old woman with a penchant for moldy parchments.”

Nyssa very much doubted that, but she kept silent. The woman merely chuckled.

“Oh, do not mind me,” she said. “You have what you came for. Morrigan?”

Morrigan sighed. “Yes, very well. Come with me then, and I shall return you to your camp.”

As the others turned to follow after her, Nyssa lingered, hesitant. “Thank you,” she said, directing her words to the old woman. It seemed like the polite thing to say.

But the woman merely arched an eyebrow at her, unimpressed. “Do not thank me yet, girl. We will see one another again soon, perhaps. Then you may think about whether you wish to thank me.”

With those words serving as her farewell, the woman turned away and returned to the hut. Nyssa swallowed the questions burning on her tongue and hurried to catch up to the others before she got left behind. Morrigan and her mother puzzled her, but she had no desire to linger any longer than she had to.

[whotookcheesuschrist]

Most of you (mutuals) probably don't know this, but there was a time where I had a real fear of Richard Dawkins. A lot of the militant atheists and such, too; the mere namedrop of them or atheistic themes had a tendency to provoke severe anxiety attacks within me, leading me to a spiral of existential dread about life's big questions so severe I was pretty damn close to committing self-harm regularly. Understand, it's not something that atheists in general or the Big Atheists (TM) are the cause of or at fault of. No big-ass "check mate, atheists" crap or accusations or anything, that tripe is left behind. It had to do with some deeply personal stuff within me that just flared up into impairing mental health issues, triggered by hearing about them or stuff related to them. There is such a thing as oversharing, so I won't go into all of the details, but one of the things that this probably related to was growing up with a narcissist father; smug people being Right Forever was the worst possible nightmare for me having grown up under that, seeing or hearing folks talk like that over something so grand felt like it meant that I conversely was wrong forever, a diminished little person who needed to get in line as someone who was always meant to be taking orders from people smarter or "bigger" than me. They were Right (TM) which meant that their brains were just too big for me to be able to catch up with, ever, so whatever life they (pre)determined for me was just Fate with a Big F and that was the end of it and there was no discussion to be had about that. I didn't matter. (kind of ironic, too, considering dad is some sort of self-proclaimed Christian)

Immensely irrational. I know. It also meant that I could never survive seeing much of House MD or the like because it felt way too damn close to that. I still just get tired if I have to be exposed to something like that over much more than half an hour at incremental intervals.

But, as time went on, I tried to expose myself somewhat to people and stuff like that, really taking grips to come to terms with some of the more important things that they were saying. Admit to myself the things they said I needed to learn from and also come to grips with the parts about my own worldview that is not going to change, stuff that I myself believe in and just. Do, despite hearing how much folks as such would disagree with that. I know that Richard Dawkins has kind of, uh, fallen from grace in the eyes of the public, more specifically amongst people who by and large superficially should be sharing his worldview. I no longer feel schadenfreude about that, I choose to leave that, too, behind. It's a commitment I've tried to make to myself personally to take the best lesson that I can from anything or anyone that might for some reason cross my path in one form or another. Then today, what do my eyes see in the papers? Well, nothing more than the news that he has written a new book, hot off the presses. So I decided to test myself and read the interview with him as written there. When folks like him pop up I don't feel even a hint of the same as I felt before, so now I could (and in theory, can) hear what folks like him have to say on a calm and rational level. Then I open the paper and-uh

"I don't aim to be controversial, but I tell things as they are, not as people wish to hear them."

I have never seen someone immediately disqualify themselves from being taken seriously that fast in my life.

I read further down and I learn that among the groups he's started beef with are other atheists (who have a life), religious people (because duh) and one I wasn't actually aware of until now: socialists. Because humans are animals. All of this within the first paragraph, which ends with another quote that says: "I wonder if people wish to get hurt? I don't wish to be controversial - it's just that I have strong feelings for truth."

I quickly decided that you know what, I don't need to finish this article. He is an assclown and I cannot believe I ever felt an even remote, irrational need to be afraid of him.

[mountain-lion-gremlin]

sometimes I feel like the old community that built up the alterhuman / nonhuman community has been forgotten.

Like everything has been so humanized, our identities are no longer deep because we don't teach the newer ones to try and understand it.

Sort of now feels like a game of "what feels like you the best?" And obviously, that isnt bad nor has it even been a problem. I've just been having this gut feeling that the whole community is becoming more and more human and forgetting what brought us here in the first place. Why we even feel these sorts of things. Like being a part of yourself is just a side blog, just something that is an add on and not something that is apart of you if that makes sense...

I feel lonely a lot, because I can rarely find anyone who connects with their nonhumanity as deeply as I do.

Rven though I'm currently not practicing being nonhuman and focusing on my shifts - no, not practicing, releasing. I haven't been releasing recently due to life and existing really lol. But either way, I just feel like this emptiness from being human is leaking very deeply into these places that once went to these places to hide from that.

Maybe others understand what im getting at and feel the same lol. I know others can't tell the difference, but I certainly can. And of course being human for some is an important part of their identity! I mean like I love being human - there's so many neat cool things and it's so great that I can even write this out so other creatures and decipher my thoughts and gain meaning out of them.

I just feel like the older, deeper, and more core primal part of the nonhuman community has been shunned and forgotten because of the bad reputation it has. And it's dying, and it's just mournful to see people wander onto these alterhuman places that don't connect with them, and talking about something that this other group completely understands, but has been completely lost and forgotten about.

Its scary to think that the p-shifting community is dying. But people don't want to believe in things that challenge the rational world now, and that's okay. Perhaps it needs to die. I'll always be a p-shifter through and through though. I'll always be a shapeshifter, even if nobody knows or understands what that is anymore.

Perhaps, a new community will grow over these old roots and find new meaning to shapeshifting. Perhaps our flawed ways will be seen and avoided. I want to see a community that isn't dying or dead because someone is a dictator with no actual experience in shapeshifting. I want to see a community where being a hybrid is okay, being unrealistic in your form is fine, that discovering werewolves and shapeshifting through a TV show doesn't make you a faker.

The p-shifting community is flawed. I do hope the old dumpsterfire dies. And I hope to god that we come out on the other side healthier and more alive then ever. I will say though, I have a feeling that no matter what happens the meaning of physically shifting will be lost no matter what we do. It's too taboo, too strange to most, and defies all logic in tiny human brains. That's okay though.

The practice has never been bad, but the people have been. I believe that p-shifting has never been bad (Of course if you apply it correctly. Anything done incorrectly can cause issues, including p-shifting) but the people who claim it, the people who attempt to dictate it, are. We don't need to destroy and harm and ban people because they aren't what you want, because they don't fit your standard of okay cuz there isn't any "science".

ill probably cover that anothertime, I'm incredibly passionate about the issues in the shapeshifting/ werewolf / p-shifter whatever you want to call it community.

But anyways, this is a tiny post about just expressing how I feel about this lack of depth that I feel about alterhumanity as a whole. I feel like they are moving in a direction that has lost the core meaning of being something other than human .

I will say though, it depends on how you view yourself and your relationship with your humanity. Perhaps all along there has been a large majority of people who sort of identify with being not human, but are mostly human. Perhaps the shapeshifter community is just an extreme version of this, that's why there's a lack of depth to it (personally to me)

regardless. Most likely no one will read this lolll

[shreyamistry]

“you’ve been drinking tonight, haven’t you?” + “what did you expect?” for trystan x m!mc ❤️

Pairing: Trystan x M!MC

Prompt: “You’ve been drinking tonight, haven’t you?” + “What did you expect?”

Word Count: 2200+

Summary: Charlie finds himself drunk and alone at the Drunk Tank after the colossal disappoint of Trystan taking the throne. Drowning his sorrows, he’s found himself face to face with the problem— no his lover— no the reason for all of his problems. But Detective Rose always did have a soft spot under all his thorns.

A/N: I’ll be opening requests if anyone is interested!! 🩷 Rules and Prompts here!

Thank you for reading! I hope you liked it! 🥺🫶🏻

* * * * * * * *

Shadows trickle over the Drunk Tank as early morning bar patrons drift from one bar to another in their attempts to recapture their lives, enjoy a night out with friends, or sulk in the pain of their alcoholism. Charlie Rose finds himself once more seven shots in, the soft rhythm of country music playing from the speakers making him almost frustrated by the optimism about love, life, and happiness. Bitterness eating away at the edges of his mental, he wanted peace from the thoughts that weighed down his soul.

So what? So what if Trystan picked the throne that betrayed him over him. So what if Trystan felt it was the right decision, he should’ve seen this coming a mile away. A pretty face and nice body is all Trystan was good for anyways. His detective work needed help, he was helpless, he weighed him down and made his life worse Charlie tried to reason with himself.

He breathes out heavily glancing at his phone that chimes insistently.

Ruby: Hi Charlie, I know you’re not okay. If you need anything please reach out. I feel like we're good friends now so I can say this and it is not weird. I care about you deeply. Luke and I will be here when or if you’re ready.

Marguerite: Charlie please come back to Drakovia. I can’t stand to see the way this is tearing you and my brother apart. You BELONG together. Please just let me know if you need help getting back into the country.

He laughs bitterly. Belongs together, my ass, he reads bitterly. He tosses his phone over his shoulder not wanting to waste his mental capacity reading mind numbing text he won’t reply to. He appreciates their concern, but he’s a lone wolf at the end of the day, he works, lives, and breathes on his own - he doesn’t need other people ruining his flow for no good reason. He doesn’t need a repeat of Trystan. He throws back a shot reaching for another bottle of whiskey, his current one having now been long downed.

He couldn’t care about the consequences or the stern talking to Tommy will give him in the morning. Tommy would understand, he rationalizes to himself, true or not. His chest felt like liquid fire, a burning sensation coating every muscle and fiber inside him. He downs the shot he just poured trying to rationalize in his head everything that happened tonight. A grimace passes his features, sucking down another shot. He couldn’t figure out how many he had at this point, one? Ten? Fifteen?

As he slams the shot glass against the table top he hears the creak of the door, instantly jumping to his feet pulling the taser from his waist hoisting it to aim at the shadow looking at him.

“Charlie?”

He softens for a split second hearing the tone of the shadow’s voice, his shoulders relaxing with comfort. He lowers the taser, his resolution toughening, squaring his shoulders. He clears his throat, setting the taser on the table, feeling nearly defiant or threatening towards one of the few men he’s ever truly loved. Love. He laughs to himself with a sigh shaking his head to himself. He falls into his chair ignoring Trystan’s presence, pouring himself another shot. He fills one of his empty shot glasses with a shot for his lover, the word once felt fulfilling and tantalizing now makes his chest feel devoid of emotion.

“Shot?” His voice was heavy with drunkenness.

“Sure,” He swallows heavily, his eyes traveling over Charlie’s form. He takes a moment to fall into the seat across from Charlie, drinking in the sight of his lover. His heart sinking deep into his chest, he feels it could fall out of his body as they speak. He forces a smile, the one that used to make Charlie melt and agree to whatever nonsense Trystan was about to rope him into. “You still look hot, jet lagged and all.”

“Ha.” Charlie replies sarcastically, “You look terrible.”

“Charlie…”

“Stop. Now.” Charlie brings his shot glass to his lips, his eyes intently staring at Trystan’s before swallowing down the drink with resentment. He coughs deep from within his chest, breathing out a deep breath before dropping the shot glass carelessly onto the table without much thought. He lets his head fall back with exhaustion, dragging in a deep breath before exhaling trying to calm himself down. “What are you doing here Trystan?”

“You’ve been drinking tonight, haven’t you?” Trystan asks with care.

Charlie laughs. And laughs. And laughs. “What did you expect?”

“I don’t know.” He answers honestly, “You to stay in Drakovia with me.”

He snorts. “Give up my career for you to play king in a country that hates you, with family that betrays you and treats you like shit and not to mention tried to frame you for murder twice, for a crown you don’t even fucking want to wear. And that tried to poison me. Hard pass.”

“You don’t understand everything about me and my family, you of all people should know family is… difficult.” Trystan replies, he sighs resting his hand against his forehead. “I have an obligation to myself and to my country.”

“As if that’s ever stopped you before.” Charlie replies, “You ever stopped to care about your country the four years you ran away from home to prance around the world being an entitled dickwad?”

“It wasn’t like that and you know it, Charlie.” Trystan sighs, “I didn’t come here to fight with you.”

“You came here to beg me to come to Drakovia, it’s a wonderful country. You’ll love it. You can be a king with me. We can live happily ever after. Grow the fuck up Trystan. Happily ever after doesn’t fucking exist and you know it. You wasted your time coming here. Call Margurite, get your private jet ready, and go the fuck home.”

Trystan tries to hide the hurt that ripples across his features, his caring smile now a thin line of regret. He wanted to conclude that he shouldn’t have come. He knew Charlie wouldn’t give up the life he lives and he knew Charlie would be brutal; despite it all it’s one of the things he loves most about Charlie. He still can’t force himself to truly, fully regret coming. He wants more than anything to take away the hurt and pain in Charlie’s chest knowing he caused it and there would be no easy way to fix it between them.

He reaches out his hand taking Charlie’s, seeing a flash of pain and love crossing Charlie’s handsome features, making his heartache fiercely in his chest. His finger soothes back and forth against smooth skin, trying to lull him into calming down. Charlie fights to hold back tears, his body on the verge of shaking with sobs he refuses to let out of his bloodshot misty eyes watching Trystan cautiously.

Charlie fights himself to pull away from the comforting warmth of Trystan’s touch. He has flashbacks to the night he left, watching Trystan pull away and detach himself from him. The curves of his body and his firm abs under his fingers as he longingly tries to capture the feeling of heat rushing through his body. His heart burns in his chest, the ache that felt as horrendous earlier felt even worse now with the love of his life holding him. He wants to kiss his stupid face, hold him in his arms, deck him, cry, anything really. Anything to let out the feelings corrupting his brain, burying his heart in a pit of darkness.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” Trystan whispers, letting himself move closer to Charlie, remaining a safe distance away to not overwhelm his lover. His fingers tighten around Charlie’s hand to help him steady himself, watching the way his chest rises and falls. “I’m sorry too.”

“I just don’t understand why.” Charlie whispers. “We’re partners. We have a crew. A home. Our home. Our lives.”

Trystan’s heart shudders in his chest, thinking of his apartment building decked out memories of their time together. Their love and life. He moves to sit beside Charlie, reaching out with his free hand to cup his lover’s cheek with a sad smile. His fingers are warm against his skin, he wants to remember this feeling until he dies. The warmth that radiates off skin and the way that despite himself, Charlie still nuzzles against his hand like he always has.

“I love you, you know that. It’s not easy for me to let go of everything we made.”

“Love isn’t enough. I can’t move with you.” Charlie sighs. “I have Tommy. The team. A life here. A life that you promised to be in forever. It’s not fair of you to ask me to give up everything..and it’s even less fair of me to ask you to do the same.”

“We can move the crew to Drakovia, start it up here. And Tommy would love it here, we can get him a pub, decorate it the way he wants.” Trystan grins, his mind booming with ideas of a handful of American’s in a sea of Drakovia citizens. “It would be life changing for all of us.”

“No.” Charlie sighs shaking his head, “This building means something. You can’t just take the Drunk Tank to Drakovia for the fun of it. And our team has roots here, Mafalda has a family. Luke has family. Ruby does. It’s not that simple.”

Trystan shakes his head standing in front of Charlie, his hands cupping the detective’s cheeks forcing him to look him in the eyes. His finger dragging along Charlie’s lower lip, toying with his lips trying to force them upwards into a smile. Charlie can’t help the melting of his anger, his heart yearning to drop everything for Trystan knowing it's unfeasible. He casts his eyes downwards forcing himself to look away from the intensity of Trystan’s gaze.

“It’s that simple for us.” Trystan whispers, letting his face come closer to Charlie’s, feeling one another’s breath on each other’s cool skin in the air conditioned bar fighting off the New York heat. “Picking us is always easy. Come with me. Run away from this. Enjoy the finer things of life. We can make memories, have a family, and find ourselves. And have so much sex.”

They both laugh sadly at his words.

“I can’t leave my dad behind Trystan.”

“You’re not leaving him.” Trystan quickly replies, “We can solve it from Drakovia. And you can visit New York whenever you want. We have jets, money, and our entire lives to figure everything out.”

“I’m sorry.” He shakes his head no. His hands tightening around Trystan’s, the prince’s grip tightening back as tears fill his eyes. He knew deep down Charlie would say no, but everything inside him screamed that maybe he wouldn’t, that he’d give them a chance. He brings his lips to Charlie’s, taking his breath away as they both meld into one another. Hands moving to grip onto each other tighter, Trystan’s arms strongly bracing the both of them against the table.

Gasping for breath, Charlie breaks their heated kisses. He doesn’t want to stop. He wants to feel Trystan’s body against his fingertips and his lips until he dies. He wants the last thing he ever tastes to be the prince’s lips, the last smell he ever smells to be Trystan’s colonge. He draws his fingers down Trystan’s chest, his fingers brushing under the fabric of his signature black button up shirt, the buttons popping open with each movement. He moves his lips to Trystan’s chin, kissing and sucking the sensitive skin. Delighting in each moan that Trystan lets out.

His teeth nip sweetly at the prince’s pulse point, soothing over the skin with his tongue. His saliva warms against Trystan’s cool skin, his teeth prod and poke at the flesh, Trystan’s moans filling the bar with country music dancing in their ears.

“So this is it then?” Charlie whispers against his skin, almost too silent for the both of them to hear. His lips find purchase against Trystan’s collarbone making him moan out loudly, his hands tightening in Charlie’s hair. “We’re done then?”

“I guess so.” Trystan replies, breathing out heavily as the detective continues to pepper kisses against his skin. He wants to say more, his mind heavy with lust blinded by his desire and the hurt in his chest unable to fully form into words. He breathes out heavily as Charlie pulls away from him looking at him. Eyes that once burned with hatred, now overflow with love as they both hesitate to say anything to officially end it.

“I love you Trystan Throne.” He whispers softly. Charlie kisses him sweetly one last time on the lips, short and sweet. The feeling went away all too soon. “I’m sorry, but this is my home. And I can’t leave until I figure out what happened to my dad.”

“I understand. You can’t run away like I did.” He nods understandingly, “I love you Charlie Rose.”

He sighs heavily.

“Goodbye Trystan Thorne.”

“Goodbye Charlie Rose.”

Trystan takes one last glance at his lover before turning to leave the bar. His heart heavy in his chest, burning to soothe the ache. Leave his family and throne behind for the one man who ever loved him, saw him for who he was, believed in him, made him his partner. His whole world is sitting in this bar about to drink himself to death. He pushes open the door looking back to see Charlie one last time before accepting their fate. He hesitates… his hand holding the door finding Charlie’s eyes in the darkness, the both unable to move knowing they were each other’s forever.

Could they really let each other go?

Could he live with himself after walking out on another lover?

Could he find true happiness with a crown atop his head and his family breathing down his neck pulling him in every direction?

His hesitation grows. Looking at the door handle and Charlie. His lover or his obligations.

[radioactivepeasant]

Fic Prompts: Free Day Thursday

As per Monday's poll, here we have the Prisoner Exchange AU! If I added everything I've got for it this post would be super long, so what I'm actually doing is giving you the angsty bits from the beginning here, and later this afternoon I'll post the later and less angsty part HERE and THERE

_________<________<________<_______<____

"Shift change."

Tomsin couldn't help breathing a sigh of relief. The prisoner -- gods it felt wrong to even think that -- hadn't moved much since the force field went up, but it was still unnerving to sit in the silence with him.

"Thank the Precursors. I'm gonna lose it if I have to stare at these walls another second." Tomsin stood up and stretched, trying not to show how eager she was to escape.

Her relief, Giles, shifted uncomfortably. His arm was still in a sling where Jak had all but snapped it in two. Green eco was rationed, even for soldiers now. It would take a few days for the bone to mend.

"How's he doing?" Giles asked, peering around Tomsin's shoulder at the figure crouched in the cell.

"He was pretty violent for a couple hours, but then he just went quiet," Tomsin admitted.

"Well can you blame him?" Giles shifted uncomfortably and crept closer to the force field.

Jak, their one time hero, huddled in a corner, knees pulled to his chest and staring blankly at the wall. He rocked back and forth, completely silent.

"This feels wrong, this feels so wrong," Giles whispered.

"This isn't what we got the tattoos for."

"I know." Tomsin looked away.

"Heard the stories. But I only ever saw Jak in creature mode, y'know? I didn't think he was this young."

Giles winced at the pitiful figure's silent rocking and let a traitorous thought escape.

"Is this really worth it?"

Tomsin gaped at him. "Giles, this is Torn we're talking about! Loyalty aside, losing him would compromise the whole city! And then Veger would be the governor's second in command."

Giles shuddered. Nobody wanted the pompous nobleman taking Commander Torn's place.

"I know, I know. I just...he can't be that much older than my Rosie. Feels bad."

"It's him or all of us," Tomsin said, but she wouldn't look at either of them.

Giles knew it was to hide the uncertainty in her eyes.

Tomsin signed out and Giles took her seat. Working up his courage, he swallowed hard and called softly, "Hey, hey kid. You hungry? I can...I can get something delivered if you want. You want anything?"

Jak curled tighter -- the first reaction Giles had seen so far -- and barely audibly croaked,

"No drugs."

The words soured and withered away on Giles's tongue. The kid expected them to drug his food? Giles thought of his daughter, twelve and full of pre-teen impudence. His stomach churned, imagining her in Jak’s place.

Are we selling our souls to get Torn back? he wondered.

"I'm sorry, kid," he said quietly. "If...if I had the passcode, I'd let you out."

He was not that surprised to find that he meant it.

"The governor is pretty darn sure those Wastelanders don't want to hurt you but- well. Who ever trusted a Praxis anyway?"

"I did," Jak answered unexpectedly.

He buried his head in his arms.

"Wish I hadn't."

____________<><><><><><><><>______________

In any other context, the morning would have been beautiful. Birds were beginning to fill the empty buildings of Dead Town with their nests, and for the first time in more than ten years, signs of life filled the ruined streets. It was a perfect summer morning, still spared the waves of heat that were already sweeping the western archipelago.

It was, in Ashelin's opinion, deeply inappropriate weather for what might as well have been an execution.

Jak hadn't spoken to her since the night before. Actually, Jak hadn't spoken to anyone since the night before. He glared at the ground, but didn't seem to be really seeing it. His movements were mechanical, a kind of autopilot just quick enough to prevent the Freedom League guards from dragging him bodily to the stretch of land where the exchange was to take place. He looked...broken. Like he'd finally lost his will to fight.

Ashelin wanted to be sick.

"I...I'm sorry, Jak," she whispered. "The Council overruled me. There was nothing I could do."

She tasted the lie on her lips and closed her eyes.

"I know that you're the only person who can get through this, and beat these raiders at their own game. I hope- I hope one day you'll forgive me, Jak."

From his shoulder, Daxter bunched himself up and growled, "Don't count on it."

Count Veger marched out ahead of them and raised his staff to signal the warlord they called The Dune-Wolf.

"Show us the commander, unharmed, and we'll release the boy to you."

"Well look at that," a Wastelander -- Sig, Ashelin thought his name was, Krew's heavy-- jeered.

"A Praxis can do the right thing after all! And it only took a hostage and some blackmail to accomplish."

The Wolf snorted, an echoing sound behind his mask. "Thank heaven for little miracles," he said sardonically, and once again Ashelin was struck by the familiarity of his voice.

She could have sworn that for just an instant she felt the ice in his stare, piercing her throat when he caught sight of Jak and stiffened.

Cold and hard, he hissed, "You bring him to me in chains?"

Jak’s eyes flicked upward for a brief second, meeting his, then they seemed to cloud over again. It was the most reaction he'd shown to anything since they'd taken him from the cell.

Veger hid his nerves better than the soldiers. Better than Ashelin.

"For your own protection," he murmured, feigning deference as he stepped back. "The boy is...violently unsuited to society. Feral, in a word."

"You want feral?" Daxter snarled from Jak's shoulder, "Oh, I'll give you feral-!"

Sig stepped forward at a gesture from his commander and shoved Torn in front of him. Torn stumbled and nearly fell. He sucked in a breath. Jak looked rough. Disoriented. Clearly, this wasn't a willing trade. He looked to Ashelin, to Veger, and knew in his heart that this was always going to happen. But this marked the second time he had betrayed Jak, albeit unwittingly this time. And this time, Jak wasn't coming back.

"I'm so sorry, Jak-! I didn't want this!" Torn croaked.

Jak did not seem like he was even aware of his presence.

When the two prisoners reached the halfway point, Sig all but threw Torn at the Havenites. He grabbed Jak by the arm and yanked him away from the guards as if they were going to change their mind and whisk Jak back into the city.

"Easy, cherries," he murmured, softening his grip, "Y'all just sit tight. S' gonna be okay."

The Wolf tilted his head to watch Jak for a moment. The boy was slumped, listless. Resigned. Slowly, the warlord's posture tightened and tensed until he looked to be a hair's breadth from killing someone.

"Take them back to base camp," he commanded.

"Aye, sir."

Sig wrapped his arm around Jak’s shoulders -- and Daxter by extension.

"Come on, boys. Let's get that wristwear off you."

The Wolf watched as Sig led Jak to one of the ominous looking vehicles behind them. Then he lifted his chin and gestured with his staff at the Havenites in a parody of a magnanimous benefactor.

"The House of Mar thanks you for your...cooperation, Count. Governor," he declared mockingly.

His guards kept their eyes trained on the slack, horrified faces of Ashelin, Torn, and Veger until the Wolf had swung himself back in the retrofitted Hellcat.

[poisonedfate]

Gwen x Arthur

oh, here we go. strap in friends (this is so dramatic of me, please don't take me too seriously)

send me merlin ships

i was quite nervous about getting an arwen ask, because i do talk about them a lot and i do love them, but in the spirit of full transparency - i didn't like them on my first watch. not like. hated them. just didn't feel too strongly about them. but, rei, what changed, you may wonder. and i'll tell you! at first i really didn't know what my issue was, because even as someone who is a big, let's say, merthur shipper, i'm not usually one to dislike already existing or other pairing ships. but as i rewatched the show and could focus on more details i figured it out. (this is about to get so off topic, i'm so sorry) a qualm i have with the series is that the relationship building, especially the intentional kind, often lacks a certain solidness. and this can be applied to so many ships. if anything, arwen are a bit of a divergence, because i love the overall storyline, but where i often think there should be more of something, with them i missed a certain something.

i don't agree with the take that it came out of nowhere, but some lines that were given to either of them didn't feel right to me. as they built their arc, some choices of dialogue felt stiff. there are only a few instances in the series where it gets like that, but it would take me out of the story immediately. clearly, i got over it, chose to ignore it in the favour of their love that is wonderful and so, so, so good. i mean, it's a loser himbo with kindness the size of mountains and the most wonderful woman you've ever seen who stands her ground and loves so deeply, and gets flustered once her rationality catches up to her. it's no secret i see them as potentials for other pairings too, but something about their love is just so light and unwavering. there's no denying they care deeply for each other and they are so stupidly weird around each other, especially mr prince. they are sweet and so caring. there's a lot of give and take between them too, which, really, i don't think gets talked about enough. they're both very smart in their own ways, arthur with something more tactical and gwen with something more emotional, and they keep each other in check when the other gets tangled in something they're less familiar with. i'm quite tired right now, so i'm not 100% sure if it makes sense, but i hope it does. again, as with all, i could keep going forever, but it's getting too long already, s o we'll stop here.

tiers: F-S; rating: 0-100

tier: A

overall rating: 87

[tornsurvivors]

"I learned that mythic creatures and immortality exists ever since I died the first time, but what the fuck was THAT?" Isabel cried out incredulously, heartbeats still POUNDING like hell from the latest encounter they had with a violator-- or rather, violators of humanity. She was breathing hard, wide blue eyes staring at Andy and one of her hands pointing in the general direction where they came from.

It was making her sick to her stomach... the stench of death. The creatures materializing from mists of shadow, they reeked of it. The menacing glow in hollow eyes were going to stick with her for a long time. Though that wasn't the worst part of it.

Andy's response wasn't what Isabel wanted to see. It's the look of deep concern, instead of the calm and rational posture because she's the oldest immortal who had seen everything. The immortal who could offer reassurance and a solution. "It's the first I've seen something like that."

Isabel was an unique immortal -- she developed an ability after her first death. The ability to see spirits all the time, even if there was no intention to show themselves to the living. It was like having the veil between the living and dead ripped right out of it's place. But oh, that still wasn't the worst of it.

It was sudden, another wave of dizziness crashing over her and she stumbled to the side, jaw clenching as she grew violently nauseous. She could still hear the echoes of their screams ringing loudly and taking a severe toll on her emotionally. It wasn't anything like the demon she encountered in the shanghai tunnels.

That ability also came with a hefty price. It takes a little chunk of her every time, in the sense of where she is forced to witness their last moments before their deaths, and after. To hear and feel what they had right before they died. Suffocating terror and unlike them, she doesn't die. She's left with the effects for weeks. Nightmares plague her mind and the danger of it is they could potentially make her numb to humanity. The more it happens, the more she is in danger of going mad.

"But I know someone who will probably know." It wasn't much, but still just enough reason for Isabel to fight harder for the sake of her sanity.

"Off to Switzerland, we go."

Seeing their deaths... what they were murdered by, it was only something that could be described straight out of a nightmare from hell.

~ * * * ~

Not even the breathtaking scenery of Switzerland could distract her, nor could it compare to the immortal Andy introduced her to. The rich energy she felt in the atmosphere was nothing like she had ever encountered. Werewolves were different. Isabel was mesmerized by the glow of sigils that seemed to be burned into her flesh along the sides of her face and the woman's eyes -- they gave an almost unearthly glow of blue.

"Here." Andy simply responded to the mysterious immortal, handing off her phone. Isabel was baffled at how little the woman reacted to the captured footage from Andy's body cam, not one bit horrified. However, she did catch the concern flashing across the immortal's features.

"It can't be." The woman murmured and sighed deeply, returning the phone to it's owner. Her attention flicked back to Isabel then, making the taller woman shift somewhat nervously under her scrutinizing stare.

"Your energy... it's rather unique too, Isabel. I'm sure you probably have a thousand questions, so let me save us the time. My name is Jaina, and I come from an entirely different world from yours. Apparently I was one of the chosen few to contain the evil that may leak from damaged timelines, which is pretty shitty of fate, huh?" That little scoffing chuckle at the end told Isabel that Jaina still retained a sense of humor and strangely enough, it gave her comfort.

She still couldn't help but watch as Jaina pulled back the hood of her shirt and nearly inhaled sharply. Her hair was as white as the snow, but she noted a small streak of blonde. Though what had her attention the most was how the bluish-purple glowing sigils appeared to continue down the immortal's neck. She wondered if Jaina's body was covered in it.

Must be one hell of a tale to share.

"This... however, is something we cannot ignore. If my assumptions are correct, another Lich King - or Queen is likely to rise if they manage to find all the pieces of a weapon that cannot be brought into this world."

Isabel swallowed and breathed out shakily, steeling through the lingering effects of the brutalized souls. Before she could even open her mouth to ask another question... Jaina finished for her.

"It's not your typical terrorist crap. We're talking apocalypse-tier here."

[ possibly a TBC... ]

[cringecomp2014]

ok well not to do some meaning-making on side here but like. one of my biggest life lessons from my going on 3 years of working in a very vibrant gaming and hobby store is that it doesn't actually matter, in the grand scheme of things, how silly the foundational aspect of a community is - people are always people and a community is always a community. just because said community is based on something inherently a bit geeky and unserious - painting miniatures, trading card games, niche fan content creation - doesn't make the conflicts fought, friendships made, revelations had, and emotions felt there any less real or impactful than they would in, say, a church or volunteer network or any other chosen affinity group based on common interests. so even if people's reaction to something that, from a detached observer's prospective, seems overblown or ridiculous - it's still genuine as anything else! the human brain can rationalize all you want but that doesn't make feelings hit you any different from the get-go.

all this to say, i guess, play nice? even as someone who is by-and-large a lurker and always a tag blocker (or at least since maybe around may 2022) when it comes to ofmd this has genuinely been one of the most deeply, relentlessly hostile fanbases i have ever seen lol. like whatever man feel however you personally want about the finale, how they handled a lot of plot threads, whether or not izzy's death or ed's arc was effective or not, etc. but like. have a little bit of fucking grace here lol. or if you don't want to do that at least have the decency not to act like you don't understand why people who disagree with your takes are hesitant to play toys with you after you are straight up needlessly unpleasant to them