#he is standing right there and you know he is going to die

[slitheringghost]

I think this post is missing the point that it's specifically Lily that Voldemort is terrified of, not James, because Lily is the woman who vanquished him. Voldemort in fact speaks of this very extensively in this scene:

“You stand, Harry Potter, upon the remains of my late father,” he hissed softly. “A Muggle and a fool . . . very like your dear mother. But they both had their uses, did they not? Your mother died to defend you as a child . . . and I killed my father, and see how useful he has proved himself, in death. . . .” “You all know that on the night I lost my powers and my body, I tried to kill him. His mother died in the attempt to save him — and unwittingly provided him with a protection I admit I had not foreseen. . . . I could not touch the boy.” “I miscalculated, my friends, I admit it. My curse was deflected by the woman’s foolish sacrifice, and it rebounded upon myself. Aaah . . . pain beyond pain, my friends; nothing could have prepared me for it. I was ripped from my body, I was less than spirit, less than the meanest ghost . . . ” “I wanted the blood of the one who had stripped me of power thirteen years ago . . . for the lingering protection his mother once gave him would then reside in my veins too. . . ." “Harry Potter escaped me by a lucky chance. And I am now going to prove my power by killing him, here and now, in front of you all, when there is no Dumbledore to help him, and no mother to die for him.”

Voldemort was blown up and nearly killed by Lily in an extremely painful way, was nothing but a powerless wraith for 13 years because of it, she's already protected Harry once from beyond the grave in PS, and then when Voldemort has finally regained a body and tries to kill Harry again, suddenly Lily's ghost inexplicably comes out of his wand? Of course he's terrified. Voldemort says "there's no mother to die for him" this time... and then said mother appears.

This is reiterated in the fact that this was the original version of Priori Incantatem, before the editors changed it, and so it's truer to JKR's intention:

“Your mother’s coming…” he said quietly. “She wants to see you… it will be all right… hold on…” And she came… first her head, then her body… a young woman with long hair, the smoky, shadowy form of Lily Potter blossomed from the end of Voldemort’s wand, fell to the ground, and straightened like her husband. She walked close to Harry, looking down at him, and she spoke in the same distant, echoing voice as the others, but quietly, so that Voldemort, his face now livid with fear as his victims prowled around him, could not hear... “When the connection is broken, we will linger for only moments... but we will give you time... you must get to the Portkey, it will return you to Hogwarts... do you understand, Harry?”

Harry described how the figures that had emerged from the wand had prowled the edges of the golden web, how Voldemort had seemed to fear them, how the shadow of Harry’s mother had told him what to do, how Cedric’s had made its final request.

There's also a lot of important symbolism around Lily specifically in this scene - I've elaborated on that here (section 2.1) and here.

The significance of the Voldemort - Lily connection is highlighted in several additional ways in this scene, including the fact that Voldemort brings up Lily in the middle of when he says “Who will be brave enough to return when they feel it?” and “Listen to me, reliving family history. My true family returns”… and then Lily's ghost returns. Because Voldemort and Lily are portrayed as familial, as brother and sister, exactly the way Harry and Voldemort are "brothers" - you can read about this more here.

“And he came… first his head, then his body, tall and untidy-haired like Harry, the smoky shadowy form of James Potter blossomed from the end of Voldemort’s wand, fell to the ground, and straightened like his wife. He walked close to Harry, looking down at him, and spoke in the same distant, echoing voice as the others, but quietly, so that Voldemort, his face now livid with fear as his victims prowled around him, could not hear…”

-Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Priori Incantatem, pg. 667

I need to talk about this quote. We never talk about this enough. Prior to this, Voldemort only shows shock. But after James and Lily Potter arrive, Voldemort shows fear. The only wizard Voldemort is truly known to fear is Albus Dumbledore, one of the greatest wizards ever to live, yet the arrival of the Potters strikes fear in him.

I think this speaks to how powerful the Potters truly were. Not only were they able to defy him three times and live, while most wizards couldn’t manage to do it once, even after he killed them, Voldemort is still wary of James and Lily Potter. There’s a reason that he asked both James and Lily to join him, despite being young and blood-traitor/Muggle-born. There’s a reason Voldemort had Peter spying for over a year before he made his move. There’s a reason that Voldemort specifically chose the moment where they were the most relaxed, and therefore the most vulnerable, to attack. There’s a reason he did not dally and torture the Potters, though he probably would have got a sense of satisfaction out of it, with how much they’d defied him. 

Because Voldemort believed, in my opinion, that James and Lily Potter could pose a threat to him in a fair fight. If they’d had their wands or a chance to prepare, or even a few more seconds to come up with a plan of escape, it would have been a very different battle in Godric’s Hollow. Voldemort did not just fear Harry Potter, ‘the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord,’ Voldemort feared his parents, and what they would do to keep him safe.

[mariasont]

House Rules - A.H

summary: bimbo!asssitant!reader hasn't been answering her phone all day, hotch needs her to clarify something about a case report, or at least that's what he tells himself when he shows up at her house

masterlist

pairings: aaron hotchner x bimbo!assistant!reader

warnings: reader wearing some skimpy pjs, pre-relationship pining, hotch trying to act like he's not madly in love with reader

wc: 3.3k

Hotch wasn't sure why he'd expected your house to be normal. He chalked up his misjudgment on the haze of old injuries, the kind of logic that gets muddled when you've bled out on too many occasions. Because standing on your porch, staring at the pale pink door with a glittering Home Sweet Home sign dangling from the handle, he realized how spectacularly wrong he'd been.

It suited you, he realized. He could almost picture you hanging it there, humming to yourself and adjusting it three times before deciding it was just right.

It wasn't a social call. At least, that's what Hotch told himself repeatedly, as though the words might drown out the irrational knot of worry in his stomach. You hadn't answered your phone all day, and that was strange for you. It was your day off, yes, but normally you were over-communicative to a fault, texting emojis when a simple yes would have sufficed, or leaving voicemail messages that somehow turned into tangents about your neighbor's cat, your favorite polish color, or the iced coffee you'd spilled that morning.

But today? Nothing. No texts. No calls. Nothing.

His rational mind told him you were fine. Phones die, phones get left behind, people turn them off to take a break. But when it came to you, the rational part of him always seemed to lose ground to the side of him he didn't care to admit existed—the side that careful just a little bit more than he should have.

He knocked.

After a second, he heard the unmistakable sound of your voice yelling a muffled coming!

The door opened, and there you stood, wearing something that could only be called pajamas by the loosest of definitions—shorts that left far too much skin exposed and a matching top that hugged your chest like it was afraid to let go. Your hair was loose and slightly messy, framing your face, and your bare feet peeked out from under the door.

"Oh!" You froze and looked at him like he had fallen from the sky. "Hotch! What are you doing here?"

Hotch cleared his throat and he tried, tried, to keep his eyes glued to your face. It was harder than it should have been—his brain wasn't helping, already memorizing every detail of your appearance that he knew he shouldn't have noticed.

"Do you always answer the door like this?"

"Like what?"

"Dressed like..." He hesitated, jaw clenching as he searched his vocabulary for a word that wouldn't sound entirely inappropriate. "Dressing like that. Without knowing who is on the other side."

"Hotch," you said, smiling slightly. "I could tell it wasn't a stranger."

"How?" he asked flatly, raising a brow. "Because if you tell me it was a feeling, I'm going to be very disappointed in you."

"So what are you doing here?"

You ignored him, smiling innocently as though he hadn't spoken at all.

He almost started to lecture you—about answering doors, about caution, about everything—but the words died before they reached his tongue. You were fine. Perfectly fine. Not injured, not in danger, not lying in a hospital bed or worse—just standing there, unharmed, while he tried to shake off the residual tension of imaging all of the worst-case scenarios he'd been wrestling with the past hour.

"You weren't answering your phone." His voice came out sharper than he meant, but he didn't correct it.

You stared at him before letting out an incredulous laugh. "Okay, but like... that's usually not cause for a wellness check."

"It's unusual for you."

His own voice sounded defensive in his ears, and he winced inwardly.

Your lips shot upwards as if you had discovered his game, leaning on the door frame with your arms crossed. "Aw, were you worried about me, bossman?"

His response didn't come as quickly as it usually did, his eyes scanning your face like he was trying to decipher something. "I needed to confirm something about the case report."

"Sure, you did." You tilted your head, smile widening as you let the words linger. "Well, since you're already here, might as well come in. I'd hate for you to leave empty-handed."

Hotch hesitated. The professional part of him—the one that lived and breathed protocol—told him to stay outside, finish his excuse, and leave. Normally, he wouldn't have thought twice about saying yes to an invitation like this. He'd done it for Morgan, for Emily, even Spencer without a second thought. But this wasn't them. This was you. But then you gave him that look— raised eyebrows, half a grin, daring him to prove you wrong—and against better judgment, he stepped inside.

The inside of your house was... well, it was you.

It wasn't messy, but it wasn't neat either. It was softer than he expected. Fluffy throw blankets over the couch with heart shaped pillows. On the coffee table, a collection of framed photos—pictures of you with friends, family, and even what looked to be an embarrassing prom photo.

"So?" You moved across the room, draping yourself onto the arm of the couch like a cat in the sun, one leg swinging lazily. "What's the big emergency, Hotchner?"

"I told you," he replied, squinting his eyes at you as if that would somehow change your attitude. It wouldn't. He knew from experience. "The case report. You stapled the wrong attachment to it. I need to know where the correct file is."

"Uh-huh," you said, squinting your own eyes back as if to mock him. "And this couldn't just wait until the morning? You sure you didn't just miss me?"

His brow furrowed. "Why would I--"

You were on your feet in an instant, wagging a finger at him like he'd crossed a sacred line. "Don't you dare finish that sentence, Hotchner!"

He blinked, staring at you like you'd just started reciting Shakespeare for no reason.

"You'll hurt my feelings," you said matter-of-factly. "And then I'll have no choice to pout. You'll feel guilty, you always do. And to make it up to me, you'll bring coffee tomorrow. So honestly, let's just skip all that and pretend you never wanted to finish that sentence."

He exhaled through his nose. "I was going to say, why would I miss you when I see you nearly every day?"

"Good." The smile was back on your face in a way that, annoyingly, made him feel better. "Because it's my day off, and you're forbidden from being mean to me on my day off."

"Are you implying I'm mean to you on your regular days?"

You tapped your chin as if seriously considering it. "Not mean, exactly... maybe a little grumpy sometimes."

Hotch huffed. "I'm grumpy with you?"

"Sometimes," you said with a shrug. "But it's okay. I like all your sides—even the grumpy one."

"I'm not grumpy with you," he replied, shaking his head. "If anything, I'm nicer to you than I should be."

"You big softie."

Hotch felt his lips twitch, and he hated how much effort it took to keep from smiling. He was not a soft person. He wasn't the type to let people get under his skin, and yet here you were managing to do it with a single sentence. Worse, he didn't exactly dislike it. In fact, it felt... oddly welcome.

It was different from how you were at work—though, in fairness, you weren't exactly buttoned-up in the office, either.

"Did you make those?" He glanced briefly at the tray of cookies in the kitchen.

Your face lit up and you practically bounded over to the counter, grabbing the tray and holding it up like a trophy. "Yep! Chocolate chip. Want one?"

Hotch hesitated for a second, then followed you into the kitchen, his gaze sweeping over the space despite himself. He didn't mean to do it—it wasn't intentional—but the part of him trained to notice every detail, every inconsistency, was already at work. Old habits die hard, or something like that.

The kitchen suited you. Soft pastel hues and floral details everywhere. Pink pots and pans hung along the wall, a lace-trimmed over mitt dangling from a hook shaped like a star. Fresh flowers—peonies or roses—he wasn't sure, sat in a vase on the counter.

He shook his head, trying—and failing—to shut off that instinct to analyze. But it was almost automatic, his mind piecing things together, like the organization of the baking tools and the open cookbook, pages slightly smudged.

"Are you just gonna stand there, or are you gonna grab one?"

He looked at you, then at the cookies, and finally took one with a small nod of thanks. "You bake often?"

He didn't really need to ask—you felt far too comfortable in this space for the answer to be anything but yes.

"Oh, all the time," you said, turning to put the tray back down. "It's, like, my stress reliever. Plus, it makes the house smell amazing. Not that I'm, like, stressed or anything--just saying. It's a hobby. A cute hobby."

He bit into the cookie, ignoring the sweetness for a second as he glanced around again. The pink gingham tablecloth on the island, the mugs arranged by color.

"Anything else you need? Or can I get back to my cookies and reality TV?"

He glanced toward the TV, where some kind of dramatic argument was unfolding on screen, and then back to you. "You should charge your phone."

"Yes, Daddy," you said, before going stiff. "No! I didn’t mean—like—not that Daddy. Just… regular Dad."

His body went rigid, his jaw tightening as he forced himself not to react, shoving the thought out of his mind before it could take hold.

"Right," he said finally, voice rougher than usual. "Charge your phone."

Hotch stepped toward the door, his hand already reaching for the handle when your voice stopped him.

"No, Hotch's don't leave!"  you said, your voice dipping into a whine that should've been annoying. "I'm bored!"

Keep word—should.

He turned back, brows lifted. "Bored?"

"Yes, bored," you said, flopping back onto the couch with a dramatic sigh. "I've already watched two hours of reality TV, ate like, five cookies, and had an entire conversation with myself while I folded laundry. And now you're here, and I haven't had company in forever, and you're just gonna leave me all alone?"

“Forever,” he repeated dryly. “So the 24 hours since I saw you at work?”

"That doesn't count. Work doesn't count as, like, real social interaction. It's work."

He gave you a look—one of those deadpan, unreadable stares that was meant to shut down further argument. That obviously didn't work.

"You're really going to leave me all alone? In my time of need? I thought you cared about me, Hotch."

"You're not in your time of need."

"Emotionally, I am," you said, crossing your arms and leaning back like you’d just made the world’s most convincing argument. "Please, Aaron? Just hang out with me for a little bit. One show. It'll make my whole day."

The way you said his name—Aaron—hit him in a way that felt decidedly too intimate, too casual, too... something. He clenched his jaw briefly, trying to shake off the sensation as he shot you another look.

"Since when do you call me that?"

"Since now," you replied with a shrug, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "It suits you."

His brows furrowed. "It's my name."

"Exactly," you said, leaning forward. "We're not at work. You came into my house. It's all casual here. You're Aaron now. Just go with it."

“I’m pretty sure that’s not how it works,” he replied, though his voice lacked conviction.

"It does now," you said, patting the couch beside you. "So, Aaron, are you gonna sit down? Just ten minutes."

With a reluctant sigh, he lowered himself onto the couch, his posture still stiff.

"Wow," you said, scooting so close that your thigh pressed against his. "I didn't think that was actually going to work."

You leaned across the coffee table to grab a blanket, shorts riding up with the motion. Hotch's eyes darted away immediately, landing on the far corner of the room as though it held something deeply fascinating.

His hand clenched into a fist on his thigh, nails pressing into his palm. His knuckles whitened slightly as he tried to force his thoughts back into neutral territory, focusing on his breathing instead of the shape of your ass.

By the time you turned back, oblivious, and tossed the blanket over both of you, he'd managed to school his face into its usual unreadable expression—though he couldn't quite fix the pressure building in his chest.

"So," you began, holding up the remote, "what's it gonna be? Reality TV? A baking show? Or, oh, those ones where they renovate houses, but everything goes horribly wrong."

"You pick." He shifted, trying to put even an inch more space between you, but you didn't seem to notice, too preoccupied with tucking the blanket around you both.

"Okay, but don't blame me if you get hooked. I'm just saying, this stuff is addictive."

He leaned back shaking his, but his focus never really landed on the TV. Instead, it stayed on you—laughing at the wrong moments, gasping dramatically at plot twists, and making snarky commentary under your breath.

"You know," you said suddenly, glancing over at him with a sly smile, "you're kind of cute when you're pretending to relax."

"Do you ever stop talking?" he asked, though the lack of bite in his tone made it sound almost too fond.

"Nope," you said cheerfully, pulling the blanket tighter around you. “Consider it part of the package.”

Hotch didn't respond, his attention shifting back to the screen—or at least, that's what he told himself. But as the minutes stretched into fifteen, then twenty, he realized he wasn't in any hurry to leave.

You fell asleep thirty minutes later.

Hotch wasn't surprised. Between the pile of blankets, you'd wrapped yourself in and the way you'd curled up on the couch like it was your safe haven, it was a miracle you'd lasted that long. He'd noticed your eyelids drooping about five minutes earlier, your commentary fading into soft hums of acknowledgment as you sank deeper into the cushions.

The room was quiet now except for the sound of the TV. He shifted in his seat, glancing over at you. You were entirely still, your breathing slow. Your hair had fallen across your face, and the blanket had slipped off your shoulder, leaving your tank top askew.

It was weird, seeing you like this. You, who were always moving and talking and saying things he never really knew how to respond to. Now you looked so soft, completely oblivious to how much space you were taking up in his head. 

He told himself to leave. Just slip out, lock the door, and let you sleep. That would’ve been the smart thing. The right thing. But he didn’t. Maybe it was the thought of you waking up, groggy and alone, wondering where he’d gone. Or maybe it was the realization that you were still his responsibility, even outside of work.

He leaned forward reluctantly, one hand brushing the blanket back over your shoulder. He told himself it was just a gentlemanly gesture, the kind anyone would do, but the second his fingers grazed you, he froze.

You murmured something under your breath, unintelligible really, your head shifting as you face turned toward him. He snatched his hand back like he'd touched something scalding. 

"Come on," he muttered under his breath. He slid one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back, lifting you easily.

Your head fell against his shoulder the second he straightened. He swallowed. Your bedroom. Where was it? He glanced down the hall. Left or right? The door slightly ajar felt like the most obvious choice, and sure enough, when he nudged it open with his foot, he found himself standing right where he anticipated.

Pinks, florals, lace-trimmed, well, everything. The bed was covered in more pillows than he could count in every possible shade of pastel. It smelled like you—roses and vanilla, with something sweeter lingering underneath, like sugar from a bakery.

But then his eyes snagged on the rack of nightgowns against the far wall, like it wasn't about to cause an existential crisis. 

Lace. Sheer. Satin.

He shouldn't be looking at them. He knew he shouldn't be looking at them, and yet... he couldn't stop. The imagine of you wearing one slipped into his mind before he could stop it. That was a problem—he could see you in them, and now he had to wrestle with that mental image while pretending to be a gentleman.

He bit down on the inside of his check, hard enough to sting, and forced himself to look back at the bed. This wasn’t the time—or the place—for thoughts like that. Hell, there wasn’t ever a time for them. 

He eased you onto the mattress, his hands far softer than he thought himself capable of. He straightened, watching as you instinctively curled into the covers, your hair fanning across the pillow like some picture-perfect cliché.

Then you stirred, eyes fluttering open just enough to meet his. 

"Hotch?" you murmured, your voice thick with sleep.

"It's okay," he said softly. "Go back to sleep."

You blinked slowly, gaze still hazy. "You're still here?"

"I didn't want to leave you on the couch. You looked too uncomfortable."

Your lips curved into a small, sleepy smile as you sank back into the pillows. "That's... sweet. I didn't think you did stuff like that."

He huffed softly, shaking his head. "There are a lot of things you don't know about me."

Your smile widened lazily, your half-lidded eyes sparkling with amusement. "Mysterious and chivalrous. You’re gonna ruin my whole perception of you.”

"Sleep," he said firmly, though there was no real heat behind the command.

Your gaze shifted past him, landing on the rack against the wall.

"Did you see those?" you asked. He hesitated—too long for it to go unnoticed—and your grin turned sly. "You did see them, didn't you?"

"They're hard to miss," he admitted, his voice carefully neutral.

"Bet you weren't expecting that, huh?" you teased, leaning your head against the pillow. “So? Thoughts?”

"I think," he said evenly, "you ask too many questions when you’re supposed to be sleeping.”

You laughed softly, the sound trailing off like a dream. “You’re dodging, Aaron. I didn’t know you could dodge.”

He sighed, stepping back as though the distance might save him. "You're good at this."

"Good at what?"

"Pushing buttons," he replied. “You’re a natural.”

"And yet, you're still here."

He didn't have the words for that. Because you were right, and he didn't know what to do about that.

Your eyes fluttered closed, your body slackening into the bed, and he thought you were asleep.

Then you spoke again, quieter this time, as if testing the words before committing to them. “Why’d you really come here?”

He stilled. "I told you. You weren't answering your phone. The case report."

The explanation felt flimsy, even to him, and he hated how obvious it sounded.

"That's not it," you whispered, your eyes still closed. "You could've just waited until tomorrow. You didn't have to check on me. But you did."

Hotch didn’t move, his breath catching as he studied you. Your face, relaxed and peaceful, gave no indication whether you knew what kind of mess you were making of him in that moment.

“It’s okay,” you mumbled, the faintest hint of a smile brushing your lips. "I think I like it when you worry about me. Feels nice."

You didn’t say anything else, your breathing softening as sleep took over again.

Hotch stayed where he was, rooted to the spot. Your words replayed like a deadly loop in his head.

He finally tore his gaze away, stepping back and slipping out of the room with careful movements. He closed the door behind him as softly as he could, but even then, the sound felt too loud.

For a second, he lingered in the hallway, staring at door like it might offer him some form of an answer. He'd drawn a line with you a thousand times in his head, a boundary he vowed not to cross. And yet, like you said, he was still here, standing in your home.

He shook his head and turned toward the front door. He wouldn't cross the line—but gods help him, staying on the right side of it felt harder every time.

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[crimsonnsstuff]

𝓓𝓾𝓶𝓶𝔂

Warnings: slight bimbo reader, degradation, dumbification, p in v, gunshots mentioned, spit, unprotected sex

Ever since you’ve been put into this shithole, Thanos has been fucking with you. He flirts with every semi-attractive girl that he sees. Even tho he was a complete idiot, you were terrified of him, but he loved the way you were so scared of him.

In red light green light, you watched him push three people, which got them killed, right it front of you. You were thinking about it ever since, if he would do it to you if he had the chance. You were completely clueless.

You were in Gi-Huns group. Thanos tried to get you to join his, but In-ho stopped you from it. He knew it would end up badly, probably with them talking you into doing drugs.

It was now time for the next game. You walked through the game haul, behind Gi-hun and In-ho. You felt safe with them, you felt safe with any nice older man.

You walk into the game. It was a colorful room, with a carousel in the middle. There were about up to 50 doors, each one a different color.

“Mingle!” Gi-hun exclaims. Your eyes light up. You use to play this game all the time in school. You look across the group of people walking in and see thanos. “Mingle mingle mingle!” He shouts, laughing.

You lock eyes with him and quickly look down. You hear the PA speaker turn on. “Today’s games rules are simple. The speaker will call out a number and you have to get in a group with that number. And if you don’t, you’re eliminated.” The female voice calls out.

That damn voice. It was probably gonna be in your nightmares when you get out of here. All the players get on the platform and it starts to spin. The first round goes by, and a couple people die.

Now it’s the second round, and the platform starts spinning again. It stops. “3 players.” The voice calls out. You go to run into a room with Gi-hun and In-ho. But you get grabbed. “Hey!” You shout, getting pulled into a room.

You realize it was Thanos and Namgyu. “What the hell!?” You shout. You run up to the slot in the door. “Gi-hun, In-ho!” You shout, but you don’t see them. You hope and pray that they found a 3rd person. You flinch as you hear gunshots.

You cross your arms, not wanting to talk to Thanos and Namgyu. Thanos grabs your arm, turning you to face him. “Come on, brat. They’ll be fine.” He growls. Another player runs up outside of your door, pounding on it before getting shot. You flinch.

—————————————————————————

Now it was almost lights out. In-ho and Gi-him ended up finding a third person, and lived. You sit on your bed, fixing the sheets and pillows before you lay down, humming softly.

Suddenly, the lights turn off and everybody heads to bed. You let out a soft sigh. Suddenly, you feel someone press against you from behind, covering your mouth so you can’t scream.

You feel yourself being pulled away. Another hand comes up to cover your eyes. You can hear yourself being pulled into the bathroom. You get thrown on he floor and suddenly both of the hands are removed

You look up and see Thanos, making you immediately scramble into the corner. He groans and runs a hand through his hair. “What makes you so fucking scared of me, huh!?” He shouts.

You don’t answer. He storms up to you, grabbing your hair and making you look at him. “Huh!?” He shouts. You sniffle. “R-red light..gre-green light..” you manage to get out. A lightbulb flickers in his head, realizing what you were talking about.

“Oh, grow up! You act so scared of me when you know that deep down you’re just a slut that wants fucked!” He growls. “That’s not true!” You shout back. “Oh yeah?” He gets on his knees to your level. His voice drops to a dangerous whisper. “Wanna test that?” He growls.

He stands back up with a soft groan. He grabs your hair, pulling your head so your face is in his crotch. You hold onto his thighs, trying to keep yourself up. You inhale his scent and he throws his head back with a groan.

He yanks your head back, slowly slipping 2 fingers into your mouth. Your eyes tear up and he pressed his fingers down on your tongue. He pulls his pants and boxers down. He grabs your face, holding it in place.

He rubs his cock against your cheek, making you whine as pre-cum drips onto your cheek. “Slut..” he mumbles under his breath. He grabs you, yanking you to your feet.

He presses your back against the wall. He yanks your pants and panties down and throws them aside. He hooks one of your legs up over his arm, opening you up.

He slams into you and starts thrusting roughly, giving you not time to adjust to his size. You wince at the stretch. He spits on your face. You bring your hand up to wipe it off but he stops you. He tuts.

He slams into you harder and tears stream down your face. “So fucking pretty.” He growls, burying his face in your neck. “But so fucking dumb.” He adds.

“The whole reason Gi-hun and In-ho let you into their group is so they can probably fuck you.” He groans. “T-that’s not true!” You whine. “Maybe..be lucky it’s me fucking you, imagine what they would do, especially since they’re older. All old men just wanna shove their dicks in your pussy.”

“But I’m the lucky one, I get to fuck you, you’re mine.” He growls, wrapping a hand around your throat. “Say it.” He says. “Say it!” He shouts. He quickly tried to calm down. “I-I’m yours..” you choke out.

At those words, his thrusts get more sloppy. “Oh shit!” You shout. “Aw, is dummy gonna cum?” He coos. You nod eagerly. “Say it. Say you’re a dummy.” He whispers. “I’m a dummy! I’m a dummy!” You shout as you cum on his cock.

He groans and cums shortly after you, filling you up with his thick cream. He runs a hand through his hair. He lets go of your leg, causing you to fall to the floor. He tucks himself back into his pants.

He walks over to the sink, pulling a few paper towels out of the paper towel dispenser. He tosses them at you. “To clean yourself up.” He says before walking out.

[mythicalsymplegma]

As an anthropologist and art historian this historical misrepresentation pisses me off.

So the piece of art that is going around “claiming” to be evidence of the so called “Roman salute” is this one:

Oath of the Horatii

By Jacques-Louis David

Made in 1784

(Currently housed at the Louvre)

All the news sources claiming “Roman salute” are saying that that is the gesture they are making here so it proves Roman’s did it…which is completely ignoring the actual history of the art itself and the reason it was commissioned.

The story in the painting:

According to Wikipedia (I know but i didn’t have time to fully dive down the resources rabbit hole), the story behind this painting revolves around a dispute between Rome and Alba Longa:

The tldr is essentially these three brothers are volunteering to be tribute to fight this small battle to win the war, and they’re just stretching out their arms to reach for their swords their dad holds, in determination.

It is just THAT. The determination to fight for their city, and reaching out to their father, who holds the swords a loft, knowing 2/3rds will die, but they want to fight anyways.

They’re JUST reaching for their swords it’s not that deep.

Additionally the history behind the commission of this piece ISNT EVEN ROMAN.

Jacques-Louis David was fucking French!

Living before and during the French Revolution

Poor guys was just influenced by the times he was living in and the political tentions of the world around him.

The determination to fight, and to stand up for one’s loyalty to one’s country was the boiling water under his feet that caused him to paint this.

It was partly patriotism but mainly the determination to stand up and fight for what you feel is right.

TLDR: It’s not a fucking “Roman salute” that’s utter bullshit. It’s just three guys wanting to get their swords from their dad who’s afraid they’re going to die. It’s also a tad bit of determination from the FRENCH revolution.

Anyone claiming “Roman Salute” is just a Nazi.

Just in case anyone needs a history lesson:

The nazi salute IS the roman salute. Because. They specifically chose to use... the roman salute. To invoke the grandiose and history of the roman empire. Like. That was a specific choice they made when they were creating their empire. They didn't call it a nazi salute. THE NAZIS CALLED IT A ROMAN SALUTE.

They did not happen to create a salute that looks identical. They said "we like the roman salute because the romans created the idea of fascism, so we are going to use it." Fascism, if you didn't know, is derived from the ROMAN word for a symbol called the Fasces. It represents the ultimate power of a single leader over their subjects! I wonder why that would be really appealing for them as a symbol!

They were ALSO taking a little inspiration from us, Americans, because we were also using it in the early part of the 1900s!

Because Americans ALSO liked the whole "connection to the roman empire" part! If you think white people NOW have a boner for the roman empire, you should have seen them a century ago!

Americans, understandably, stopped using it, because we got in a war with the only other people who were using it more than we were and were creating some real fucked-up associations with it: THE NAZIS.

[moody-alcoholic]

Cross My Heart

Part 5 - Should Have Gone To Med School

Summary: eventual poly141 x reader. Enemies to lovers, mini fic.

CW: Medical stuff, descriptions of wounds, description of medical procedures, medical inaccuracies, blood.

AN: Why does everything I write turn into a medical drama.

Previous parts - masterlist - next AO3

Enjoy <3

You hide the scalpel between the mattress and the bed frame. No point in getting caught with it. You’ll help Price but you won’t take them over the border. It’s too risky, you need them to trust you at least for now. Besides you’re about to maim their captain, or at least you assume he’s the captain. Gaz called him cap. 

He ordered Ghost around and you thought he was incharge. 

“Hey.” The voice at the door makes you jump. You turn to see Soap looking at you. He’s unarmed for once, maybe they are starting to trust you. “Sorry, I wanted to say thank you.” 

“For what?” You ask heading out the room. He blushes running his hand through his hair. Christ, what's he nervous about. He moves to the side to let you out into the hall. 

“For back in the vets with Ghost.” 

“So he told you?”

“Yeah, he’ll never say a proper thank you. He’s a bastard like that sometimes. But you could have let him die.” He seems nervous, you have no idea why. Maybe Ghost didn't want anyone to know he let his guard down. Probably not the best look that a seasoned SAS soldier can get jumped so easily. 

“No I couldn’t. Then you would have killed me.” You smile at him and head down the stairs. 

Maybe you should have let him die, and run. Where though? Back to Konni? To Al Qatala? You shake your head pushing the thoughts away. You'll patch Price up then you’ll part ways. No need for you to stick around longer than you need to. Fuck the asylum in the UK, you don’t believe that would happen anyway. 

Ghost is not around but Soap follows you down the stairs and Gaz is sitting on the coffee table talking with Price. He goes silent when he turns to see you, standing up and moving behind the sofa. His eyes dig into you. You swallow the nerves going over to the bag you dumped down when you came in. 

“Are you sure you want to do this?” You ask him one last time. He looks up and nods. 

“It’s worse to leave it in, right?” Price asks. 

“Yes and no. It’s going to hurt. There’s no anesthetic.” You say gripping the handle on the bag. 

“I’ve been through worse.” 

“Cap, are you sure?” Gaz leans down to whisper next to his head. You feel like you’re interrupting something.

“If you need time-” You don’t get time to finish. “No. I’m ready.” Price says sitting up straighter on the sofa. “It’s fine Gaz.” He waves the other man away but he doesn’t move, just stands back up crossing his arms.

“Take your shirt off and lie down.” You say putting the bag on the coffee table and bending down next to the sofa. 

“Do you need a chair or somthin’?” Soap asks, you turn to him and shake your head. He smiles. You look through the bag, you think you have everything. You recognise everything, you managed to grab a lot. But you only have 2 pairs of sterile gloves, which means you only have 2 chances to get this right. You will get it right though. 

Gaz helps Price take his shirt off, you look at the bandage on his stomach. Now you’re calmer, getting a better look at it, it’s not as central as you thought it was. 

“Did you have a vest on?” You ask. 

“Yeah, went right through.” Price says as he lays back on the sofa. 

“You’re lucky the bullet didn’t shatter.” You press on his side where he showed you yesterday, it's starting to bruise. It really must be closer to the surface then you think.

“Lucky the guy missed.” 

“Some would argue he didn’t miss.” You say, tipping your head and turning back to the coffee table. You lay out your instruments, double checking everything. What should you be worried about? You think to yourself. It’s been years since you’ve done something like this on a dummy let alone a real person. 

Shock, he could go into shock if the pain is too much. He’s fit and healthy, well other than the hole in his stomach. 

“I can take the bullet out and stitch both the wounds. What would you like me to do first?” 

“Which will hurt less?” He asks scoffing. There’s the nerves, the break in his demeanor. You ignore it, you’d be shitting yourself too. You don’t really know how to answer that. The stitches will have to be deeper on the entry wound, but would that be more or less painful then slicing his skin open and fishing around for a bullet?

“They’re both going to hurt,” you say, it’s the truth. He sighs looking behind you at Soap. 

“Stitch the entry wound first.” A gruff voice behind you says. You don’t need to turn to know it’s Ghost. Price nods and you kneel up pulling the bandages off. As you begin to undo the tape fresh blood drips out and you need to reach over to start dabbing it up. Before you take the steri-strips off you lay out your sterile gloves and reach into the bag for one more thing.

“Here.” You hand him some wooden tongue depressors. “In case you need to bite down on something.” He takes them, raising an eyebrow. 

“I’m tougher than you think.” he says. 

“It’s not about being tough.” You snap back. Now your nerves are showing, you take a breath. “It’s so you don’t bite your fucking tongue off and bleed out.” 

He nods. You start pulling the sterile gloves on. You can do this, it’s just stitches, you've done this before, you can do it again. You turn back over to him resting the tray on his chest and pulling the last of the bandage off. It would be easier if you had 2 people, you don’t want to ask any of them for help, besides you need them around to keep an eye on him. You take one last breath getting comfy on your knees. 

“Ready?” You ask turning to look up at him. 

“Ready.” He says. You angle the needle squeezing the tweezers in your hands. Now or never. You say to yourself and plunge the needle into the skin. 

He lasts longer than you thought he would before he makes his first audible groans. You snap to look up at him quickly when you’re done with the next pass. His eyes are squeezed closed, sweat building on his forehead. 

“Almost done.” You lie mopping the blood escaping from the fresh wounds. He’s going to need at least 6 more stitches before you can tie this off. It came back to you in an instant, as soon as you made the first pass through. It’s like riding a bike you never really forget. 

“Want to take a break?” Gaz asks. 

“No.” He grits through his teeth. Good, stopping now wouldn't be smart, you’re over half-way done. 

“You can have a break when I'm done.” You say passing the needle though again. It’s not perfect but it will hold, paired with the bandages it’s all he needs until he can get to a proper medic or a hospital.

“Would kill for a whisky.” He says trying to keep still. That makes you smile. At least he’s still joking, talking. At least he's conscious. You feel like you can hear people shuffling uncomfortably behind you, hushed voices you’re not paying attention to as you concentrate. You’ve been biting the inside of your cheek trying not to show your true nerves, you hope they can’t tell. 

“Almost done.” You assure him.

“You keep saying that.” He says, his breathing picks up. This is going to be the worst part, you saved it till last. You speed up as much as you dare, you want to get this over with before he starts to freak out. You don’t like how shallow his breathing has become. 

“Last stitch.” You say pushing the needle through the skin one more time. You let out an audible sigh of relief as you reach over for the scissors. “Done.” It’s all you can manage. You tie off the tread sitting back on your knees. It’s done. You look over at him, his eyes open again his head tipped back against the sofa pillow. 

You reach over for the bandages and dress the wound. You get up to your feet. 

“Take a break, maybe get something to drink. Water.” You say, swallowing the nerves rising in you. You need to clear your head. You need fresh air. You make a b-line for the front door pulling your gloves off as you pull it open letting the cool night air hit you. 

You feel sick bending over and bracing your hands on your thighs. 

“Holy shit.” You say pushing as much air out your lungs as you can. That really just happened. You just stitched up a fucking SAS officer with no ansathetic. And you’re still not done, he still has a bullet in him. 

The door opens making you jump. You straighten yourself up crossing your arms as goosebumps rise on your skin. You turn to look, it’s Ghost. He hands you a bottle of water.

“Thanks.” You say reaching out and opening it. 

“You did good.” He says after you’ve taken a few sips. 

“It’s just stitches.” You say trying to not let your confidence falter. Can’t have them losing confidence in you. 

“Are you sure taking the bullet out of him is the best option?” He asks. You turn to look at him finishing the bottle. 

“The bullet could move if he does, it could hit an organ, cause internal bleeding. It���s close to the surface though, it could just be stuck below the skin. I have no way of knowing until-” the word catches in your throat. “It’s safer to remove it.” You walk up to him and hand him the empty bottle, he nods. 

When you get back in the building you’re surprised at how warm it is, you’d never noticed that until now. Price looks fine inspecting the bandage on his stomach. 

“Looks good.” He says. He seems perked up. Gaz looks like he hasn’t moved although now he’s holding a glass of water. 

“Thanks.” You say cleaning up the stuff you’ve used and setting up the new stuff you need. The scalpel seems heavy in your hand for some reason. Your mind wonders the one upstairs. 

“Ready?” You ask looking up at Price again. 

“This one should hurt less right?” You squirt alcohol solution over the sight. It’s better than nothing.

“Yes.” You say pulling a mask over your nose and mouth. Maybe if he believes it it will hurt less, like a placebo effect or whatever they call it. You pull the sterile gloves on and pick up the scalpel. You let out a breath looking down at the skin. 

This is not going to be fun. 

“Hey.” John calls, you look up at him. “Don’t look so nervous, what's the worst that could happen.” 

He could die. 

“I’m not nervous.” You bring the blade down. “It’s going to be hard, but try to keep still.” 

You press the blade into the skin. A groan leaves his mouth, his head presses back into the sofa pillow again. You have to act fast, mopping up the blood as it spills out. You thought you’d cut deep enough but apparently not. You squeeze the skin fleeing for the bullet. It’s still there, it's not moved. You make another incision going deeper. 

You’re through the fat and it must be stuck in the muscle. You reach over for your tweezers, using your other hand to try and isolate it. 

“Christ.” Price says as you dig around. 

“I know, I'm sorry. Slippery thing keeps moving.” You say frowning. You manage to find it reaching for the clamp, if you can keep it still you can cut down to it. 

“Got it.” You say after a few seconds of poking around. Thank god you don’t have to dig much deeper. You take the tweezers and pull it out. “Look.” 

Price looks up, when he sees it he smiles.

“Free souvenir.” Soap says. You reach around dropping it with the tweezers on the coffee table. Now you just need to stitch this up. Easier said than done. 

“How’d you learn to do all this if you’re not a doctor?” Price asks, you're surprised he's talking. He looks more relaxed, you look up, he's squeezing Gaz’s hand. Poor Gaz. 

“I would hang out in the skills labs with the surgical interns when I was at the hospital. My father would be in surgery, my mother working. They would teach me. I used to enjoy it as a kid, playing with fake skin watching them work.” 

“What happened? Why did you move away from medicine?” Gaz asks. “I got bored, wanted to do something other than be stuck in a hospital all my life.” You look up at him, he hasn’t moved. “I saw how hard my parents worked. I didn't want a life like that.” 

“Is smuggling easier?” Price asks, raising an eyebrow.

“No but it's more fun.” You hear Gaz scoff, he drops Price’s hand crossing his arms, he hasn't moved but he hasn't taken his eyes off you either. 

“Ever thought about the army?” Price asks. You laugh, shaking your head. 

“I don’t like being tied down. I’m not into all those rules.” 

“I think you’d do good.” “I think it's all bullshit.” You say trying to not snap. You focus on your stitching, you can’t get it out of your head though. Like the military is so great. 

“Where’s your rescue anyway? I would have thought the UK would be desperate to get 4 SAS out of here.” No one says anything. You look up at Gaz, then over at Price. 

“We’re helping Farah.” Soap says.

“Ah, that makes sense. They’re classed as a terrorist organisation right?” You look over at Price, he nods. You’re almost done, you wipe the blood away reaching over for the scissors. 

“Why do you need to get into Russia if you’re helping Farah?” No one says anything. You sigh, tying off the thread. “I can’t help you if I don’t know why.” 

“I thought you didn’t like to know details.” Ghost says. 

“We need to find Alex first.” Price says. You pull your gloves and mask off bandaging up his wound. 

“If you lost him on the border Konni will have him.” You say as a matter of fact. Standing up and picking up the trash. No one is saying anything, you throw it in the bin. 

“You work for Konni right? Your last job was for them?” Price asks, sitting up on the sofa. 

“Yeah, well, not anymore. Thanks by the way I wasn’t really in the mood to be getting an ear full from Makarov this week.” You stand back up looking round the room. They look different, shocked, all the colour has drained from Price’s face. 

“Makarov?” He asks.

“Yeah. I mean he’s in town for something. Like I said I don’t ask, but whatever it is it’s important. Those people you killed were important.” You look round the room. 

“Holy shit. You’re after Makarov.” You say as a matter of fact. No one says anything. You scoff picking the bag up off the table and throwing it over your shoulder. You shake your head again. “Look I hate to be the bringer of bad news but even if I could get you over the border. There is no way on earth you’re getting into Konni’s compound.” 

“We don’t need to get inside anymore.” Price says. He stands up with a groan, pressing his hand on the side of his stomach. Gaz’s eyes follow him, his hands coming out to support him. You want to tell him to sit down. He needs to rest. 

“You work for whoever pays right? How about a job so big you could retire.” Price says taking an unsteady step towards you. You swallow hard, not sure what he’s about to say. 

“Help us kill Makarov and you can name your price.” He says smiling. You frown at him and shake your head. 

“You’re out of your mind. What can I do?” You drop the bag and throw your hands up. “I’m not an assassin. I don’t kill people for fun.” 

“Yeah, I know that. You’ve had plenty of opportunities to kill us, flee. What stopped you?” He asks, taking another step. You freeze, you’re not sure. You don’t kill in cold blood, you’ve always told yourself that. Self preservation, that's what it is. 

You could have let Ghost die. Let him die in the vets and run back to the border, told Konni about them, they would have been captured but you didn't. Maybe you believed them when they said they could get you out. 

Maybe you trust them. 

“I think you’re better than all this. You want peace in your country, you want the war to end. You need to pick a side to do that.” He reaches behind you, someone passes him something. You don’t turn, you're nervous all of a sudden. Maybe they’re about to kill you. Making you lower your guard so you’re an easier target. 

He brings the object into view. It’s the scalpel, the same one you hid in the bed. 

“I think it’s time you pick a side.” He holds it out for you to take. You could take it from him right now and slit his throat. How did they even find it? Shit. Soap must have seen you. You look up at him, he has a smile on his face. He already knows what you’re going to do. You reach out and take the scalpel.

next

Banners by plum98

[tomriddlehyperfixataion]

Through time and space; you're Mine.

Summary; Alt end to 'The girl who shattered time!' instead of staying, (y/n) goes back to her time, only everything is different. Way different.

warnings; Tom Riddle(way more on point in this version), obsessive Tom, possessive Tom, referenced murder and implied murder, horcruxes used to make 'kids' so Tom can have 'you.'

i like how this came out, its not long! hardly even 2,500 words! but it feels good so i left it where it was~ the requester of the girl who shattered time did request an alt end but their idea was different and i wasnt, really into it? so i did this instead because this feels...more like Tom. enjoy!

=

“Please stay,” he said, achingly, pleadingly, his jaw clenching horribly as he stepped towards her-she stepped back-he stopped.

“What?” she asked, and she watched as the sound of her voice made his eyes flutter and he took a deep breath, holding the diary with both hands.

“Stay. Please.” He said again, begging. “Don’t go back to your time-don’t go back to…that war. Don’t go where I can’t follow.” He whispered, looking up at her.

“How can you ask that?” she whispered, clenching her jaw, fists tight at her sides. “You saw it all, you know why I can't stay, you know why I’ve been avoiding you-why I want to go back.”

Tom’s eyes were hard yet sad-anger, not at her, filling his face.

“I won't stay with someone who becomes…him.” (y/n) said, not even daring to say the name and Tom nearly flinches, his eyes going back down to his diary, trembling.

“If you go back. I’ll find you.” he says, voice low and dark with promise, looking up at her-his gaze intense. “I'll find you, no matter what-I’ll track you down.” He steps closer and (y/n) backs away, gasping as he grabs her wrist and pulls her close- the diary falling to the floor, his eyes locked onto hers.

“I’ll make you mine again, I don’t care what I have to do, who I have to get through-I will find you, and we will be together again.” (y/n) shakes her head,  panic filling her whole body, she does not want to be with Voldemort, she didn’t want him-she didn’t want this.

She slaps him with her free hand and his head snaps to the side-his eyes going wide, before turning back on her as she runs back towards the dorms. “You can’t escape me (y/n)!” he roars, knowing he couldn’t chase her into the girls dorms, the barrier keeping him away from her. “I will find you! you will be mine again! Dark lord or not-I will have you!”

He loved her. And he would never let her go.

-

She rushes out of the Slytherin common room before sunrise, panting heavily as she books it down the hall towards Dumbledore’s office, tears in her eyes as she rapidly knocks on the door and he opens it. “ah-I have yet to leave for the ministry Ms-are you okay?” Dumbledore's voice turns to concern as (y/n)’s shoulders jump with a sob and she slumps into him as the weight of everything crashes into her.

Tom’s ‘promise’, the threat of the war, returning to a world where she’d be hunted down-it’s all too much.

But still-she wants to go home. She wants to see her friends again, and if need by-die next to them.

Dumbledore hugs her and after the sun rises, he goes to the ministry through the floo network, (y/n) curled up on the seat in front of his desk until he and a ministry worker returned-holding the time turner that would send her back. “Okay, you traveled back in the defense class room right?” the ministry worker asked, following Dumbledore to the DADA classroom.

(y/n) nods, quietly standing beside Dumbledore as he unlocked the DADA classroom and the three entered, the ministry worker handing her the time turner. “All right, here you go, just finish the loop and it’ll send you to your time, and then to send it back to us-just take it off and leave it in a safe spot and the time turners fail safe will send it back to us. Understood?”

(y/n) nodded again, putting on the time turner and lifting the two ends in her fingers, twisting it to complete the loops and she felt her stomach turn as she was sent forward in time-May 2nd, 1998. She landed in the DADA classroom-it was untouched by the chaos that sent her here in the first place so she quickly took the time turner off and put it in a safe spot-near the book cases, far away from where she’d gone back the first time.

She looks at the desk that she’d knocked over that held the original time turner, sneaking over and opening all the drawers-eventually finding the time turner that had sent her back. She looks up as she hears someone approach the door and quickly hides. Except…there's no blast of magic or chaos of battle.

Instead, there’s hushed whispers, and light laughter. “Go go-“ a voice whispers, one that is vaguely familiar. (y/n) peeks around her hiding spot, seeing herself sneaking into the DADA classroom, a group of girls-her friends from this era, including Luna, oh goodness it’s so good to see her-all watching her sneak in. (y/n)’s brows furrow, why was this so different? It should’ve been the same, right?

She’d expected to return to the battle of Hogwarts but…there seemed to be no battle…What changed?

She looked back at her past…alternate self and she tripped in the darkness, knocking open the desk drawer and it slid out completely-making a loud noise and then things began to whirl around-past/alt (y/n) gasping and then she was gone-the broken time turner sending her to the past.

…HUH?!

(y/n) stared in shock-this was not how it happened at all! She’d been chased and blasted into the room by snatchers! Not dared to sneak around and then accidently knocked the desk over!? What happened?! What changed so much! Her friends all rushed into the room-whispering out her name in worry and (y/n) winced, coming out of her hiding space.

“uh-something went wrong.” She said and the girls all screamed and jumped-eyes wide as they looked at her.

After a long moment, and some panic-(y/n) was able to explain, sorta. She explained that she’d been sent back in time by a broken time turner and she’d just gotten back from the 1940s, only to see how she got sent back in time but-differently.

It was a bit confusing to explain but her friends, especially Luna, took it in stride and soon (y/n) was back in her dorm, lying her ravenclaw bed-finally her bed.

Things had changed in this world.

After some digging from her friends-who took her questioning in stride since the timeline (y/n) knew was now gone.

There was no Boy who lived. That was a shock to see her friends be confused when asked about Harry Potter-to them, Harry was just a regular boy, no lightning scar, no dead parents-captain of the quidditch team and all.

“what-what about-death eaters?” (y/n) asked and her friends looked terribly confused.

“What In the world was happening in your timeline?” her friend Ruby asked and (y/n) slumped back onto her bed, eyes wide.

No death eaters. No boy who lived.

…no…Voldemort? She sat up, asking if they heard that name before-their reaction this time was different.

“oh yeah-Minister Voldemort? He’s been minister for magic for nearly 30 years now,” Irene said and (y/n) nearly fell out of her bed.

Minister for Magic Voldemort-not dark lord. What in the actual fuck?!

“I need to sleep.” (y/n) croaked and her friends agreed, Luna giving her a hug and a necklace to keep the wackspurts away. “Thanks Luna, I missed you.” (y/n) said softly, hugging her friend back and Luna hummed, floating back over to her bed, brushing through her wavy hair.

(y/n) laid back in her bed, struggling to sleep.

What had changed? Tom had said he’d find her-and yet it seemed this world was so much better. Voldemort now minister for magic-but she’d have to find out if this was a good thing or not in the morning.

She needed sleep.

-

She heads right for the library in the morning, clad in her Ravenclaw uniform once more and her bracelet from Julia feeling strangely heavy on her wrists. She pours over recent history textbooks, finding newspapers from the last 50 years in search of finding what changed.

1943-a girl dies in the Hogwarts bathroom; rumored to be killed by the Chamber of secrets monster, a student is expelled-blamed for the girls death, an accident. Prefect Tom Riddle is praised for his heroism in finding the culprit.

(y/n) swallows harshly, looking at the picture of Tom, he looks angry, beneath the proud look on his face that seems forced. Anger that simmers beneath the surface, heartbreak.

She looks through more newspapers.

1945-world war 2 ends, Grindelwald is defeated by Dumbledore.

1950- a woman named Hepzibah Smith is poisoned by her elf

1954- Tom Riddle-youngest to run for ministry for Magic, supported by the rich and famous pureblood families-such as the Malfoy’s, Black’s, Lestrange’s, Flint’s, and Rosier’s.

1955- Youngest Minister for Magic; Tom Riddle.

1960- Minister Tom Riddle; while no interest in marriage, reveals newborn son, named after him. Tom Riddle Jr.

1961-Tom Riddle once again elected for Minister of Magic.

1970-Youngest Minister for Magic changes name to Voldemort, support from purebloods is great for Voldemort ‘abandoning’ his Muggle birth name.

1968- Voldemort is elected as Minister once again.

And so on and so forth.

(y/n) rips through newspapers like a wild animal-searching for anything that can tell her why things changed so much. Had Tom really given up on the whole ‘dark lord’ thing? Instead going for a more diplomatic way of taking power? Becoming the minister for magic?

She pulls up another newspaper. 1982- Minister for Magic proudly announces his Grandson, Tom Riddle the third. She looks at the picture, it’s Voldemort, uncomfortably human looking-a silver fox if one to describe him, though he has a slight…oddness to him-standing beside him was his ‘son’ Tom Riddle Jr; who was in his early 20’s, hardly even 21 actually-holding a newborn boy.

All three looked exactly the same-like they weren’t truly born, but copies.

(y/n) looks at the date again. 1982. January.

Something nags at the back of her head-telling her something was wrong.

She looks through the papers again. Her heart freezes.

1982-Headmaster Dumbledore passes away, Deputy Headmaster McGonagall to take his place. Cause of death unknown, found dead in office on the morning of June 15th-only days before the school year ended.

That was the exact day Dumbledore died in the original time line-except more than 10 years earlier. Voldemort had been the one to order his death before-he must’ve waited until Dumbledore's guard was down to kill him-this time also having a new vendetta against him-for sending her back.

She leaned back on her heels, newspapers everywhere around her, the one about Dumbledore's death tight in her hands.

Voldemort was minister for magic-he’d had two copies, one son and one grandson, the grandson her age.

She didn’t know how, but this was all a way to get to her-to find her and have her. He knew she’d never accept her as Voldemort, but if he had copies-younger versions of himself, one the exact same as she left him-then she’d have no choice.

“You seem antsy,” A chillingly familiar voice came from just next to her and she glanced-yelping at the sight of Tom’s face in hers; almost the exact same as she left it not a day before-but for him? Almost 50 years ago. “Woah, jumpy much darling?”

Tom teased, picking up newspapers with a flick of his wand-this one dark brown in color, snakes and (fav flowers) carved into the wood.

“Wha-how-you-“ (y/n) panted, back pressed against the table edge of a bookcase as Tom stalked towards her, his eyes almost…red under the dim lighting.

“Oh, my love-did you really think I wouldn’t find you?” Tom said softly, almost eerie-he traps her against the table, arms on either side of you. “You’ve read it all, haven’t you? Seen what we’ve done for you?”

Tom whispers, forehead against hers, his eyes intense and terrifying as he slowly grips her face in his hand-it’s cold. “You feared the dark lord, feared to return to war and death-I stopped it all. Can't you see? You don’t have to be afraid anymore. Not of me.”

“How are you here?” She asks-voice cracking from the swell of emotions she feels and Tom smiles-its unsettling- pressing a kiss to the corner of her lips, his arm wrapping around her to keep her close.

“Oh, my dear, Horcruxes can be used for so much more than immortality.  I was the first.” He pulled out the diary from his uniform inner pocket, pressing it to her upper chest, his eyes still intense on her. “I made this, so when I found you again-I had all my memories of you. Voldemort, or as everyone thinks him to be-my grandfather, birthed me from a simple-allowed me to be born with you.”

He kissed her cheek, soft but it felt wrong and (y/n) pushed at him, but he didn’t budge. “Don’t you see my love?” he whispered against her ear, the diary achingly cold against her neck as he pushes it up against her throat. “I did this for you. I split my soul for you-to be with you. You don’t have to fear me, or Voldemort-we did it all for you.”

“You’re insane.” (y/n) spits at him and he coldly smiles, thumb brushing over her lip-pulling at it slightly.

“I’m a man in love, insanity is only the tip of it.” he whispered, eyes on her lips, flickering between deep brown and red. Snake-like. “we did it for you-there is no war, there is no boy who lived-I kept peace, for you.” he said, his lips connecting with hers in a cold kiss, his hand leaving the diary to cup her head, not letting her pull away.

Her eyes snapped closed-tears burning-her hands fisting into the fabric of his uniform sleeves.

She hates that it still feels so good to kiss him. He pulls away, feeling her tears on his face and he wipes them gently with his thumb, kissing them away. “Don’t be afraid my love-there's nothing more to fear. There is no dark lord, only me.” Tom murmurs and (y/n) sniffled, allowing him to brush her bangs back-both her eyes now on him. His thumb runs over his scar-which was growing fainter as time went on.

“He never touched you.” Tom whispers, her brows furrow-unsure of what he meant and Tom smiles-still intense. “Your uncle, he never touched you-i-or well ‘my father’, killed him before he could even think about touching you.”

(y/n)’s breath stutters in her chest as Tom holds her close-now in a hug, his head tucked against hers. “no one will hurt you again. Including me.” He whispers, clutching tight to her robes and she gasps for breath, unsure of how to handle-anything that was going on.

“I’ll never let you go.” He whispers, a finality to it.

She knows that he’d make sure to keep that promise, whether she wanted it or not.

-end of alt end-

[admirationandromantics]

A Traumatic Event to Bring us Closer

Okay, so this was not a request (though I know someone in the request box have asked for angsty Josh fics, I promise, they're coming soon), but I fiddled around with a Psycho-Josh character ai-thingy, and wanted to do something inspired by that. A little longer than what I usually write, but the words started flowing and I couldn't stop.

Warnings. This does include mentions or the fear of dying, torture, and so on (all of these are scare-tactics and will not happen). Obsessive and possessive Josh. This also contains reader getting severely injured as well as blood and extreme stress... Aka ANGSTY. What I'm trying to say is if you can't read that, then I would advice you not to!

Anyways, it starts right after having seen Josh die to the construction of the Psycho, and now, the others have ran, and you try to catch up with them.

Word count: 5,5k

I run out of the shed, trying to catch up with Ashley and Chris. As soon as they saw the Maniac inside, they ran, hoping to get away from him. I was busy crying, mourning Josh… My Josh… Who this psycho cut in half with a saw. 

When I saw him, my panic rose, heart throbbing in fear and heartbreak. He was wearing overalls, a shirt and a scary clown mask, slowly walking towards me. This made me turn on my heel and go, taking me to my current position: running for my life. I keep on the path, not a lot of snow underneath after everyone who walked there. The air is freezing, making my wet faze unbearably cold. My hand goes to my cheeks, trying to brush away some of it while keeping up the pace. I look behind me, seeing the man running rapidly after, his legs longer and faster, slowly catching up to me. 

“Ashley! Chris!” I scream, hoping some of them hear me, but I wouldn’t count on it. They started running a while before me, leaving me with this madman. As I look forward again, my foot gets caught in a root, making my body slam down into the ground harshly. My head hurts, ringing while I try to stand up again. Suddenly, I feel something grab my ankle, and I look down to see him again, bending down while holding onto me. 

I fight against him, kicking and screaming while trying to rip my foot away from him. But his grip is strong, and he keeps holding on, a low, scary chuckle sounding from under the mask. Even his shoulders move up and down from his laugh, and how entertained he is. I try to scream for help again, listing everyone I know who are up on the mountain. This seems to bother him, and he drags me further towards him, slowly working up my body while I struggle. 

His face comes closer to my ear, one of his hands grabbing my hair roughly, yanking me backwards, making me sit up on my knees as he drags me. I wish I had the pain tolerance to fight back, but his hand in my hair and the other around my neck. I oblige, letting him pull me up on my feet, my back against him. My hands go to the one around my neck, silently begging him to loosen the grip. I use the last air I have to conjure a few weak words. 

“Get off me you maniac!” 

This seems to get on his nerves even more, yanking my hair harder and tightening his grip around my neck, making an involuntary plea escape what’s left of my throat. I hear his dark chuckle again, how he enjoys the situation, liking to be in control of me. 

Suddenly, the hand leaves my neck, and I take a few deep breaths, trying to regulate myself. Instead of choking me, his hand grabs both my wrists, placing them behind me, the previous hand in my hair moving to my stomach, pulling me deeper into him. I can feel his hot breath on my ear, his face coming too close for comfort. His exhales come out quickly past each other, annoyingly like he’s amused by my resentment. 

“What’s wrong you coward? So ugly you don’t even dare to show your face?” I taunt, pulling at my arms with all my might. After what he did to Josh, there was no way I was going to be nice. He killed my love, and when he kills me too, I’ll put up a fight. 

At my remark, his hand moves up to my face, grabbing my jaw and pulling my head back on his shoulder. I hum, looking up in the cloudy sky, still trying to free myself. But at the end of the day, there’s no use. He overpowers me easily, both in size and strength. His irritation seems to be growing, but he still keeps up that amused tone in his dark voice. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know, Princess” 

There’s something oddly familiar in the way he calls me that name. There’s actually something familiar in his voice alone, but I can’t place it. His hand moves slowly down my neck again, pushing down slightly, making me let out a painful wince. I stand still, hoping that he’ll not be as rough with his next movements. 

“That’s what I thought, now keep that pretty mouth of yours shut, just like good old Josh did” 

The comment sets something off in me, a rage I didn’t know I had. My chest burns unlike before, but I don’t know if it’s due to the cold or my anger. Maybe a combination. 

“All quiet and whimpering while in the hands of a scary man like me…” He taunts, and I start squirming, trying to free myself. 

“Scary man, where? All I see is an ugly fucking coward” I state, stopping my movements. Every time I try, I get reminded of his strength. He grips my upper neck tightly, tilting my head in his direction. A displeased huff escapes his mask, hot breath coating my neck. He makes me look up at him, seeing blue eyes through the holes of the mask. I make sure my distaste for him is shown through my stare. 

“You’re not the one in control here, I am. So you better watch that damn tongue, Princess” he growls, his voice still not recognizable. 

“Or what, you’ll kill me? Just like you murdered Josh?” 

I can basically feel his sick smile under the mask, struggling to keep in that little laugh from the mention of his name. The action makes my blood boil. How dare he.  

“You better behave yourself, or else-”

“Or else what?” I interrupt him, making his grip on me harder. But I can still take it, so I keep up my insults. “Struggling to threaten a girl, huh? Easier with an unconscious guy who you could do whatever you pleased with?” I spit out, reminding him of when he took Josh. It’s safe to assume he doesn’t have the strength to have held him like this, and probably gassed him down like he did with Ashley. He grunts in response, done with my shit. 

“Think you’re such a smartass, huh? If you keep this attitude up, I’ll have no other choice than to shut you up” 

“I’d like to see you try” I counter, breathing heavily and starting to feel my energy drain. 

“Oh… would you now?” He teases, moving us both. I follow, not having enough energy to fight a losing battle. He turns me around, holding my wrists above my head, my back meeting a tree. I feel a small branch making contact with my lower thigh, hurting it. I try to keep my poker face, not having time to think about a small scratch. I look him up and down, now seeing his outfit in the light. It’s bloody and dirty, his mask horrid up close. 

“Sick fuck” I whisper, not giving in easily. He squeezes my wrists harder, making me let out a small whimper in pain. Another chuckle escapes him, finding pleasure in my situation. 

“Not backing down yet, aren’t you tired Princess, just give in” 

“I’ll be a pain in your ass until you kill me, might as well get it over with” I say, standing firm on my ground. At least the ground I can reach from how high up he’s holding me against the tree. He shakes his head, clicking his tongue a couple of times as if he’s disappointed. I take this as a time to shout for the other, hoping that someone will hear me. 

“Ashley! Chris! I’m here, help me!”

My yells are interrupted by his gloved hand coming to cover my mouth. I keep up, struggling against his grip while still shouting, though they only come out as muffles beneath him. 

“Stop your damn fighting, just give up already. You’re wasting your energy” He complains, strengthening his grip on me. I stop, taking a deep breath and completely relaxing on him, being as silent as a mouse. 

“That’s it, you look so much better when you’re not struggling like some wild animal in my arms” he compliments, hand on my mouth being slowly removed. 

Just as I feel his grip loosen just the slightest, my knee comes up to kick him in the balls. I fail, but it still hits him hard in his lower stomach, making him let go and slightly bend over in pain. I don’t hesitate, starting to run down the path while he throws curses at me. 

“Fucking bitch, get back here!” 

I look behind me for just a second, seeing that he’s already recovered and is running a little further behind me. I shout for the others, but no one answers. I continue down the path, trying to remember all the slippery parts, doing my best not to fall on them. 

“You’re not getting away that easily!” He shouts, voice closer than before. He’s got long legs, it will not be long until he catches up to me. I take a right, seeing the lodge in the distance. This gives me hope, and I keep my pace up, trying to get there in time. My heart’s beating in my throat, rapidly, chest burning from exhaustion. 

I jump up the small set of stairs, quick to open the door and get inside. I see him arriving, and I lock it, hoping he won’t break it down. I take a breath, pulse high as I watch him pound on the door. I still don’t feel safe, so I run further inside, taking a quick look to see if the others are here. I can’t see them, but I decide that barricading myself in my own room must be the best option. The pounding has stopped, and I can imagine he’s working on getting inside another way. He wouldn’t know which room was mine either, and would probably think that I moved down to the cellar, knowing there’s a network of tunnels down there. 

I run up the stairs, legs almost giving out from exhaustion. As I arrive outside my room, I take the handle silently, working on getting myself in quickly, without making a sound. I lock it, turning to the side and dragging one of the smaller closets in front of it. After I’m done, I breathe out, a little tension leaving my body. The adrenaline starts wearing off, and with that, the pain in my leg gets worse. 

“Smart move, Princess…” 

My body freezes before I can turn, knowing the voice from before. My breathing quickens yet again, making my chest hurt, sore from the cold and all the running. I turn around fearfully, seeing him sit on the chair beside the bed, leaned back and relaxed. Before my brain can follow, I grab the closet, dragging it back. He stands up, taking hold of my arm and dragging me away from the door, easily pushing the furniture back in front of it. 

“N-no, get away from me” I try, but my voice breaks, all the yelling, and the cold temperature having ruined it. It sounds weak, defeated. He chuckles, a smile behind the mask, his eyes mad. He grabs both my hands, throwing me down on the bed. I whimper, feeling my thigh hurt as it makes contact with the sheets. I look down quickly, noticing blood running down it. I try moving it a little, making sure that there’s some pressure on it. He doesn’t notice, and continues to manhandle me, collecting my wrists above my head, his other hand caressing my cheek. I turn away, earning a cackle from him. My body stops fighting, knowing it’ll worsen the bleeding and the fact that I’m no match for him in my weakened state. 

“Please leave me alone, what do you want?” 

“Oh, I want you, Princess” 

The nickname makes me sick, and I do my best not to look at him, his clothing, or at his mask. I look to the side, seeing the door, barricaded by no other person than me. I can’t jump out the window, since it’s the second story, so now, I’m completely trapped. 

“And what are you going to do to me?” 

“Anything I want…” he says, voice lower and not as tense. I don’t fight, I can’t fight anymore. I just want Josh, I want him back. There’s no point in anything anymore. This trip was a chance for me to finally confess, to tell him everything. And instead, I watched him die. Die to this psycho man. I feel tears form in my eyes, rolling down the sides of my face, warming me up after being outside. 

“Why are you doing this to me, why did you kill Josh?” 

He stays quiet for a few moments, his head leaning down to me, his mouth beside my ear, finally answering. 

“He didn’t deserve to live after what he put me and my sisters through” he says, an amusing tone to the statement. I look up at him, confused. 

“You and your sisters?” 

“Yes, me and my sisters?” 

“He would never do anything to hurt anyone” I counter, not believing him. What could he have done to make someone hate him so? And hate his friends as well, wanting to hurt them. 

“Who are you?” 

He chuckles in his distorted and dark voice, keeping himself close as he speaks. 

“Now, where’s the fun in that? Keeping you clueless gives me such a thrill” 

I wiggle against his arms, trying with the small energy I have to free myself. He hardens his grip, not letting me move an inch. 

“Still trying to escape?” 

“You’ll have to kill me to make me stop. Just like you did with Josh” 

He laughs, gloved hand caressing my neck, fingers gracing over the place he choked me. I wouldn’t be surprised if the area was red already. Luckily, it doesn’t hurt. 

“You keep bringing him up, was he really that important to you?” he teases, and I give up fighting again, trying to regain some of my energy. Maybe I can do the same I did in the forest, but doing that, I needed to control myself first. 

“I’ll make you pay for what you did to him” I state, voice still weak, but not faltering. 

“Oh? And how do you plan on doing that, Princess?” 

“By killing you” I say again, voice steady and firm. I want to hurt this man, I want to kill him. 

“Wow, and tell me, how will you do that?” 

I imagine it, having him being beat up by the boys, before opening up, letting me use a knife and carve stuff into him, slowly cutting him up while he’s still alive. Hearing his pleas while keeping up the pace. Maybe I am insane, but I’ve never in my life had such violent fantasies about a person. Up until now. 

“With a knife… slowly, painful” 

“How exciting, but I don’t think you have it in you. You don’t seem like someone who can kill another human” 

“Good it’s a monster I’m killing then” I counter, the reply coming faster than my brain can process it. But he doesn’t get mad or irritated though. Instead, he lets out a condescending laugh, shaking his head. I keep prying, still curious. 

“Who are you?” I ask again, wanting an answer. 

“You’re right, I am a monster” he says, his free hand moving down to my waist. I lean back, broken and defeated. This was not worth it, none of it was. I could’ve stayed home, not knowing about Josh, not being in this situation. 

“Aww, too tired to fight me, but you were so fiery a while ago” He taunts, but I don’t bite. I stay silent, not saying or reacting in any way. That’s what he wants after all, reactions. Wasn’t that the point of having me watch him kill Josh?

“Just kill me, please” I plead, hoping he does, and hopefully quickly. I can’t imagine doing anything differently than now. I just want to see him, to hold him. To be in this room with him, both of us giddy and happy. 

“Tell me, why would you rather die than live?” he asks, sounding oddly curious, head tilting beside me. I can feel the fake hair of the mask running over my collar as he moves. 

“Let me see Josh again…”

He leans back, almost surprised by my answer. He lets go of my hands, standing back on the floor, watching me. I try sitting up, my whole body aching in pain from the small movements. I’m not going to make it out of here, not alive anyhow. If he doesn’t kill me, then my movements will probably open the wound on my thigh again, making me bleed out. I already feel a bit pale and dizzy. 

“You’re in a woman’s worst imaginable situation, and you would die… to see Josh again?” He asks, voice full of confusion, not as scary as before. Maybe it’s because I don’t care anymore, but he seems so surprised he falls a bit out of character. Who is he under that mask? 

I nod my head to the question, tears still flowing. But the funny thing is, I don’t feel them anymore. My mouth acts before my brain, and I blurt out the secret words I’ve been holding on to since last year. 

“I love him” 

“A bit honest now, are we?” 

“Doesn’t everyone get honest when their lives are about to end?” I counter, shaking my head a bit. At least that’s what I’ve heard. 

“Yes, I suppose they do” 

“Aren’t you going to take advantage of me? Hurt me? Kill me?” 

He sits down on the chair again, watching my face intently. I don’t move, after all, everything hurts. Everything and nothing at once. Because of him, because of Josh. 

“No I will not, now tell me, before you die, is there something else you wish to be truthful about?” 

I shake my head, not knowing why, but I can’t stop myself. I need to have said it out loud at least once, telling the world the things I should’ve said before. My voice is emotionless as I start, not knowing what to feel. 

“I love Josh, I always have. I wish I told him while he was still here, before he was killed… by you” 

I look up, but the mask is making it hard to see his expression. At the thought of his death, I feel my anger flare again, but my body is still too weak to act on it. 

“Honestly… admitting your feelings, displaying wishes and regrets. Now tell me, how long have you had these feelings? And how long have you wanted to tell him?” 

“The only one I’m telling those things to is Josh” 

He snickers, that nasty dark voice back. As if he deserves to know my secrets, the extent of my feelings. 

“Of course you’re refusing to tell me, too shy? Or what, Princess?” 

“I imagined everything would be different than how it turned out this year” I admit, not bothering to answer his teasing remarks. He’s making fun of my pain, and I’ll not answer that. 

“Oh, you were thinking that you and Josh were going to be the ones in your room? And doing what? Feeling each other, kissing? Well, we can’t have that, can we? If I didn’t kill him, I wouldn’t have you all to myself” 

I look up, but I can’t bother trying to show my contempt. I’m so tired, so exhausted. Even making faces and harsh comments take their toll on me. I speak, but it’s slow and emotionless. 

“I know that statement is meant to fill me with a bunch of questions, but I don’t care about them” 

He hums, nodding his head as he takes it in, knowing his method didn’t work. I still keep my posture, not moving myself from it. He stares at me intently, looking deep into my glossy eyes, still wet and red. 

“You just don’t care anymore what happens to you, do you?” 

I hum, not giving a verbal answer. He sits himself forward, hand rubbing together, as if in thought. 

“You admit it? The fact that you’ve lost all care?”  

I hum again, not knowing where he’s getting at. 

“Completely broken, completely empty” 

I sigh, sick and tired of his mind games. I know what he’s playing at, it’s the same banter I’ve heard people try to use before. 

“You know you’ve basically said the same thing three times now? Josh was a lot more original with his wording than you” 

I can feel his smirk grow from under the mask, a small laughter escaping his lips as he sits up again. He tilts his head, his distorted voice sounding from under there. 

“Making comparisons, are we?” 

“You can’t compare an angel to a demon” I answer, thinking back about him. What would he say if he were here? He would’ve saved me at least. I don’t know if he’s stronger than this man. Truth is, they’ve got quite the similar build, so I don’t know. If I helped him, we might be able to. 

“I’ll take that as a compliment” he says, and I don’t answer. He can think about it however he likes, I’ll not sit here and explain it to him. Another chuckle comes over him, enjoying the change in my attitude. I keep my eyes on him, not as afraid anymore. My adrenaline is not pumping as much anymore, and the pain starts worsening. 

“Not answering anymore, Princess?” 

Again, here’s something strangely familiar with the nickname as well. I can swear that someone I know has called me that before, but only a few times, not as much as this guy does. How does he know me?

“The only one I want to talk to is Josh… when I see him again” 

“Josh, Josh, Josh… Why would you only talk to him in particular?”

I let out a small scoff. This madman is not that dumb. He’s been collecting information about all of us, so my declaration did not go over his head a couple of minutes ago. 

“You already know, because he’s the love of my life” I state, not having said exactly those words before. It’s true, since we were kids, I loved him. Platonically at first, but it evolved, and got stronger. And now, it’s too late. 

“Finally, someone’s being honest with themselves” 

I lower my eyes, looking over at his piercing stare. His eyes still got a hint of amusement in them. I want to change that, I want to hurt him, kill him. 

“I’m the only honest person in this room” I state, trying to seduce him into talking. 

“I guess I haven’t told you much, but do you really expect me to?” 

“I want to know something before I die” I lean forward, ignoring the striking pain in my thigh. That movement definitely opened my wound again, and I feel streaks of hot redness running down my leg. 

“Ask anything, and I’ll see if I can be honest with you” 

My question is ready, it has been since the first time I heard his voice. The anticipation and wondering is driving me crazy. 

“Who are you” 

He smiles under the mask, there’s no denying it, already having heard the same question several times before. 

“My identity? All you want to know is who I am?”

“Yes” 

He nods his head, amused by my straight forward request. I try to keep my reply short, after all, getting this information out of him means no side-tracking. 

“Well, since you’ve been so cooperative for the time being, I’ll be honest” 

I wait, trying to hide my curiosity. It’s not hard to mask it, pain overtaking me anyway. 

“Are you sure that’s what you want to know? Not going to guess, make some assumptions?” 

“No” I state firmly, not taking any more of his bullshit. 

“I am… an individual who doesn’t always feel like himself” 

I sigh, hand going to my thigh, trying to slow the bleeding. 

“Are you that much of a coward? Can’t answer a simple question?” 

“Fine, okay, okay… I’m someone who doesn’t always feel… human” 

I sigh again, a small part of me realising that we might not come to an agreement. I try a different direction, mumbling something underneath my breath, just high enough that he can hear it. 

“If you’re that ugly, you can just say so. I won’t judge” 

“What did you just say?” 

And he took the bait.  

“Nothing” 

His head shifts to me, sitting straighter. He’s offended, I know he is. If I can continue playing on his ego, maybe I’ll get my answer. 

“No. ‘If you're that ugly, you can just say so’, is that what you said, Princess?” 

“I don’t remember” I lie, shaking my head weakly. 

“Excuse me? You suddenly don’t remember, as if I’m supposed to believe that” 

“I’m sleep deprived, haven’t had water in many hours, body exhausted from running, and I’m bleeding out. All factors can lead to struggles to remember things” 

He nods his head, suddenly stopping and looking up at me. 

“You’re bleeding?” 

He looks over me, seeing my leg, covered in red. It’s still oozing out, but it will still take a while for me to die from it. His body starts twitching, as if panicked. 

“Why didn’t you say so?” he asks, sounding a bit worried. I’m taken by surprise as he runs over to the closet grabbing a few sheets and ripping them up into smaller pieces. Has he been in the lodge before? Maybe he uses it when the Washingtons aren’t here. He comes back, kneeling down, starting to wrap them around me. I stop him, pushing his hands away. 

“I’ll ask you one more time. Who are you?” 

He looks up, meeting my eyes through the mask. They almost look sad, guilty. 

“A monster…”

He shifts his gaze, turning his attention back to my wound. He reaches behind into another drawer, pulling out a pair of scissors, starting to cut up my pants, making the wound more exposed. As he rips the fabric off, he throws the sharp object out the open window, with surprising accuracy. Probably to keep me from getting my hands on it and stabbing him. 

“Does this monster have a name?” 

He sighs, finishing up wrapping my thigh, stopping the bleeding. 

“My name is… Josh” 

My eyes widen, shaking my head as I try to push myself away from him. I can’t, my leg hurting too much to move. This is another sick trick to mess with me, to mess with my feelings. He notes my expression, my shocked eyes and disgust. 

“What, don’t you believe me? Don’t you think I’m being honest?” 

“This might seem funny to you, but I saw you kill him you fucker. Don’t you dare taint his name like this” I state, fury rushing through my body. He chuckles darkly again, the sympathy that once was there for me, gone. 

“You really don’t believe me. I’m your childhood friend, your high school crush and college study partner. I’m Joshua Washington” he whispers, coming closer to me. I can sense the amusement and glory radiating from him, and it makes me sick. 

“You’re not, you’re hiding behind that damn mask of your like a coward, trying to make me believe your lies”

“Don’t want to accept the truth, huh?” he asks, voice a bit less disoriented. He’s changing his voice as he speaks, but I won’t have it. 

“It’s not the truth, he’s dead, you killed him!” I scream, leaning closer to his face, as much as I can in my condition. 

“Oh princess, I’m right in front of you” 

“The only thing right in front of me is a monster. A psychopath in a mask, claiming to be Josh, my Josh. You’re not tricking me”

He laughs, his voice changing more and more, getting less darker and more real. Shaking his head and clicking his tongue, he looks up at me again. 

“Are you really that hard-headed?” 

“Why should I believe anything you say? You have no support for your claims, you’re even down in negatives, because he is dead!” I shout, voice still broken and hoarse. My throat hurts, feeling like I’m ripping off a bandaid every time I form a word. 

“Oh, you want evidence?”

“You don’t have any”

He chuckles, hands going up to the base of his mask. He takes a breath, slowly pulling it off. I watch as he does, waiting patiently while he drags it off his head. Finally, he reveals himself. 

I can’t believe my eyes, and I furrow my brows in confusion. This doesn’t make any sense, this doesn’t work, no. How can this be? I saw him die, I saw him get cut in half by a saw. I’ve been running from a crazy maniac who was going to kill me, and it was all him. I’ve poured my heart out, thinking I was going to die, and he’s been sitting here, laughing at me. 

“Surprise, princess” 

“No” 

“What do you mean ‘no’?” 

I shake my head, seeing his smile as he keeps nodding, contradicting me. 

“You’re not real”

“I’m sitting right in front of you” 

I reach my hand out, fingers gracing over his cheek, feeling his skin. His hand comes up to mine, pressing it further in on him. He leans on it, still a smile on his face. I feel tears start to flow down my cheeks again. He’s alive, he’s here. 

“Y-you…”

He nods, urging me to continue, but I don’t. I can’t use my words, I don’t know what to say, so he talks instead, voice beaming with pleasure and delight. His eyes are not like I remember. There’s a sort of darkness to them, insanity. 

“Yes Princess, it’s me, no more games, no tricks, no lies. It’s just me, just Josh”

I shake my head, pulling my hand away from him, earning a hurt look back. These words, these explanations, these events. This is not the Josh I know. 

“You don’t sound like yourself, you don’t behave like this” 

“You’re right! So much has changed in the last year, oh I can’t begin to tell you all my plans for the others” he exclaims, walking around the room, being happy. 

“What?”

“Well, this was all a traumatic event to bring us closer, right? The relief in your eyes when it was me. You needed to lose me to finally be able to tell someone, so why not tell me yourself!?” 

“What the hell, Josh” I whimper, head hurting from it all. 

“Oh, but this is just the start! Now, it’s time to get revenge for my sisters, and after that, we can be together, right? I mean, I never meant for you to get hurt, but it's okay because now you can stay here while I play out the other things I’ve got planned. As long as you stay here, you’ll be safe, just as I want you to be” 

I stand up, pain shooting through my body as I do. I feel desperate, too desperate. I need the others, and my voice is almost all used up. He watches me intently, hands going around my body to steady me. I shove past him, walking over to the door, starting to push the dresser. He just watches, wondering if I’ll be able to do it. Luckily, I manage, standing on my only good leg. I unlock the door, which makes him walk over, taking hold of me. 

“No, we can’t have any of that, get down again” he commands, sitting me down on the bloodied bed again, walking over and locking the door. 

“What are you going to do to me? Just do it now and get it over with, shoot me, dissect me… Please” 

He laughs, looking at me as if I’ve made a joke. 

“Oh, Princess, you’re not afraid of me, are you?” 

I’m silent, not daring to answer. He stops laughing, noticing my expression. He then shakes his head, standing up and walking around the room again. He looks troubled, and a little worried, like he’s fighting a battle against himself. 

“No, there’s nothing to be scared of, I’m making sure that you’re safe, so nothing happens to you, you understand, yeah you do! Think about that while I finish up the prank, okay? I’ll be up to check on you in a while”

He walks to the door, taking the key from inside, opening it, and locking it from outside. I look around, his skull-clown mask on the ground, bloodied fabric, bloody bed and the open window. Crisp, cold winter air flowing inside. I don’t know what to do.

[curlysfist]

04. Bass Fugato

Coda

Synopsis: Eventually, the bile rises back from his throat, smears his teeth, and burns him whole. (tw suicidal ideation, unethical medical practices, curly’s misogynistic + trad awakening, manhandling, likely ooc curly. MINORS DNI.)

Word count: 2.5k

Chapter Navigation: [1] [2] [3] [4]

Notes: hehe. this is what i was building up to write... i love you misogynistic curly my beloved.

Call it an impulse, call it a consequence, or the price of free will.

Curly didn’t know what exactly called him to scale the abandoned parking lot; nor did he understand why he was so compelled to stand on the rooftop, feet planted on the very edge of it. It’s not like he wanted to die. He hadn’t a single suicidal bone in his body.

But he was curious, what stood between where he was, and the plummeting depths below. A conclusion to his lifetime of cowardice, probably. Likely something more, beyond the bleak loneliness of space. 

You were at home, sleeping. He was rougher with you, in all the places he hadn’t before. You seemed to take it well, enjoy what was never in his nature. 

Fuck. Just what did any of this mean? And why was he so compelled to find the answer to this stupid question? It was only a step and a short fall away. Maybe everything he’d wanted in his life would be there. His past would be meaningless. 

But was it cowardly to abandon what he had now, or cowardly to forego a future possibility?

He closed his eyes, feeling the wind tug at him, daring him to let go. A part of him wanted to. But a deeper, quieter part whispered something else—stay. Not for you, not for love, not even for the hollow comfort of familiarity. Stay, because nothing else had worked, and maybe, just maybe, there was something left to try.

With a sharp exhale, Curly stepped back from the edge. All this will be a reliable end if that ache gets worse. It’s all it should ever be. 

It’s as good a day as any could be.

He’d finished with what little he had to do early: went on a run, did some pumps that bit his muscles in all the right places, and made breakfast. He even cleaned up after himself. It was only 9 AM. Not much else to do.

Curly rolled his shoulders, feeling the pleasant ache settle in his muscles. For a fleeting moment, there was a quiet satisfaction in the routine, in the control of it. But the moment passed quickly, leaving him restless, an itch under his skin that had nowhere to go.

His feet carried him without thought, wandering through the apartment, past the things that were once his, now softened by your touch, your choices. He found himself outside your study, the door ajar just enough to peek inside.

He hesitated.

It wasn’t like he was snooping. Just looking.

The desk was cluttered, as it always was. Your laptop sat open, but it was the papers strewn across the surface that caught his eye. 

His name. Over and over. Scattered across the desk like the pieces of a shattered mirror, each page imaged detailed pieces of himself to form a dirty, wounded reflection. Curly stepped in, his stomach twisting with a visceral unease. He reached for one of the papers, fingers brushing it like touching something dangerous, and scanned the words before his brain could keep up.

‘Unresolved attachment issues. Aversion to emotional vulnerability.’

His jaw tightened. He shuffled through the stack. Psychological assessments; evaluations of him.

‘Need for control rooted in a lack of foundational self-worth.’

‘Reluctance to assert needs or boundaries due to chronic validation-seeking behaviour.’

It was accurate. Too accurate. But as he read, that accuracy only made it worse. Every carefully worded observation, every neat, clinical summation of his entire fucking life reduced him to a collection of symptoms, carving away anything human until all that remained was a hollowed-out list of defects. His life—his essence—is compressed into bullet points and diagnoses. 

A project. A broken thing to be analyzed, studied, fixed.

It didn’t say anything about the nights he stayed up with you, laughing at dumb movies. It didn’t mention how he still carried the lessons he learned from falling on his ass a thousand times, or the times he made people feel safe just by being around. None of that was here. Just deficits. Weaknesses.

‘Subject exhibits passive tendencies that indicate a deep-seated need for external guidance.’

Subject. Subject.

His grip tightened on the paper, fingers curling so tight the edges crumpled. Is that all he was to you? A case study? A puzzle you were piecing together in your spare time?

His eyes landed on another section; this one made his stomach twist.

‘Potential paths for improvement: Encourage assertive behaviour within a structured environment to counteract learned helplessness.’

Learned helplessness. Fuck.

His breathing grew uneven, heat rising to his face. Is this what you thought of him? That he was just some helpless thing trailing in your shadow, waiting for you to guide him to salvation? His fists clenched at his sides, muscles twitching with restrained anger.

And then, there it was: the final blow.

A note, scrawled in the margins, like an afterthought.

‘Sometimes I think he doesn't even know what he wants. Maybe he never has.’

Curly’s heart slammed against his ribs. He swallowed the lump in his throat, but it did nothing to smother the sick, simmering feeling inside him.

This wasn’t just disregard. This was everything. Every ounce of himself, every scrap of pride and autonomy he had left, compressed down into a neat little file for your convenience.

He let the papers fall from his hand, his pulse a steady, pounding drum in his ears.

You thought he didn’t know what he wanted?

Curly’s lips curled into a humorless smile, something dark and bitter rising inside him.

He stood there for a long moment, the papers scattered at his feet like the remnants of something he should have seen coming. His hands flexed and curled at his sides, itching for something—anything—to ground himself. But there was nothing. Just the quiet hum of your study, the soft scent of your perfume lingering in the air, and the sharp, suffocating realization that you’d been dissecting him like some kind of fucking specimen.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, running a hand down his face.

Alright. Fine.

He turned and left the room without a sound, but each step felt heavier than the last. He could feel the tension coiling inside him, wrapping tight around his chest like a wire about to snap. Every second, every breath, the weight of it pressed harder.

By the time he found you in the living room, curled up on the couch with a book in your hands, he wasn’t even sure what he was going to say. But it didn’t matter, because the second you looked up at him, eyes soft and warm like you hadn’t just shattered something inside him, it all came rushing out.

“Is that what I am to you?” His voice was low, rough, edged with something. “A fucking case study?”

Your brows knit together in confusion. “What?”

Curly’s jaw tightened, and he took a slow, measured step forward. “Don’t do that.” His voice was sharper now. “Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

You blinked at him, setting the book down. “Curly, what—”

“I saw them.” His words cut through your sentence, and the shift in his tone made your lips part slightly in surprise. He scoffed, running a hand through his hair. “The psych evaluations. My life—my mind—spread out like some kind of fucking school project.” He took another step forward, and this time you leaned back slightly. “Is that what I am to you?”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out at first. When you finally spoke, it was quiet, careful. “Curly, it’s not like that.”

He let out a breathless, bitter laugh. “Then what the hell is it like?”

You hesitated, and that hesitation was enough. It was all he needed. His patience, his restraint—whatever fragile thing had been holding him together—shattered in an instant.

Before you could react, he was on you, hands gripping the arms of the couch on either side of you, caging you in. His face was inches from yours, his breathing heavy, controlled, but his eyes—his eyes were something else entirely.

“You think you get to decide what I need? What’s best for me?” His voice was a low, dangerous rasp, the weight of it pressing down on you like a physical force. “You think I don’t know myself well enough, so you had to do it for me?”

Your lips parted in protest, but he cut you off again, his voice rising just enough to make your breath hitch.

“No. Not this time.” His grip on the couch tightened, knuckles white. “I’m done letting you make the calls. I’m done being your goddamn… pet project.” He leaned in closer, his lips almost brushing yours, but there was no tenderness in it—just the sharp, electric tension that had been building for too long. “If you want to stay in my life, you do it my way. Do you hear me?”

Your breath trembled against his skin, and for the first time in a long time, he saw something other than certainty in your eyes. Doubt.

Good.

After a moment, your fingers hesitantly found his shirt, grasping it tightly as your face pressed itself into his neck. He doesn’t waver, and he doesn’t breathe a word, even when your hands tremble, and dampness smears the skin of his neck.

He lets you breathe for a moment, a small mercy he allows, before sitting on the couch and dragging you right onto his lap. His instincts war against the rational part of his mind, leading to a palpable stiffness in his limbs as he struggles to not hold you too tight. For all your indifference and unwavering nature, you always have bruised so easily.

But was it wrong that everything felt so fucking right, seeing you tremble on his lap with the uncertainty that plagued him, weighing on your shoulders? 

Thumbing your cheek with a calloused thumb, coaxing you to shamefully meet his gaze, he spoke quietly.

“You don’t respect me.”

“I—I do—”

“You don’t do this to a man you respect.”

“I just wanted to help you.”

“You didn’t. You made everything worse,” he muttered, pinching your cheek gently while the other hand settled on your hip, squeezing the flesh. You don’t push at him, instead shifting your hips to sit more comfortably on his lap, straddling his thighs. 

Curly’s hand on your hip, though tense, wasn’t threatening anymore. It felt like an anchor, like he was trying to keep both of you from spiraling into something neither of you could come back from. His fingers dug into your skin, but the pressure was different now, not out of anger, but as if he was grounding himself—and you.

He leaned closer, his breath warm against your cheek, his voice a quiet command. “Just stop talking.” His words weren’t laced with venom, but with something harder—something like control. He’d taken the papers, the clinical assessments, the theories, and thrown them out the window. His being isn’t a collection of issues. 

“You think you’re the one who’s been hurt in this, don’t you?” Curly’s voice was low, steady

You opened your mouth, but he cut you off, palm pressing to your lips.

“You’ve been so busy trying to make everything right that you’ve lost track of what really matters,” he continued, his voice rough but calm, measured. “What matters is us. And you don’t get to decide what that looks like.

“I want kids. I want a small home near the woods. Away from the noise of this stupid fucking city. We’ll get married, we’ll pack our shit, and we’ll leave. On my dime.”

Your head bows, nose brushing against the stubble of his jaw. A pause, and then you spoke. 

“You’re serious?” The words barely made it out, caught somewhere between disbelief and something darker you didn’t want to name. You were so close now, so tangled in the warmth of his presence that it was hard to tell where you ended and he began.

“When have you ever known me to joke about something like this?” His voice was calm. Calmer than the turmoil in your mind.

You leaned back just enough to look at him, your eyes searching his face for cracks—some sign that he wasn’t as steady as he seemed. But his expression was unyielding.

“Curly,” you began, your voice softer than you intended, “this isn’t something you just decide on a whim. People don’t—”

He cut you off, his head tilting as if he were observing something small and fragile. “People don’t what? Make decisions for themselves? Take control of their own lives?” His lips quirked, not quite a smile. “Sounds exhausting, being the one holding the reins all the time. Maybe you should try letting go.”

“That’s not what I meant.” The words rushed out, defensive, but they felt hollow even as you said them.

He let out a quiet laugh, low and bitter, his gaze locking onto yours. “Of course not. You never mean anything, do you? You just... guide. Shape. Mold. All for my own good though, right?”

“Don’t twist this,” you snapped, though your voice trembled. “I’ve always been trying to help you.”

“Help?” He scoffs softly, his hand slithering to cup the back of your neck, then gently tugging your hair, goading you to look at him. It was hard to. “You mean help me become the version of me that fits your description? That’s not help.”

You opened your mouth, but no words came. There was something about the way he was looking at you now that froze the thoughts in your mind before you could grab hold of them.

“I let you steer for years,” he said, voice steady but cutting. “Told myself it was safer that way, easier. But letting someone else lead? It’s never where you need to go. It’s always where they think you should be."

“I didn’t—”

“Didn’t what?” He leaned in, close enough that his breath ghosted over your skin, close enough that his presence felt overwhelming. “Didn’t mean to strip me down piece by piece? Didn’t mean to leave me feeling like nothing I do is ever enough?”

“That’s not fair,” you whispered, but the words carried no weight.

“No,” he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous softness. “It’s not. But fair doesn’t matter, does it?”

The air between you felt too heavy, oppressive, and you realized too late that he wasn’t waiting for a response. He wasn’t asking.

“Curly—”

“No. Enough. I’m sick of your voice. I made myself clear. Once I get some things put together, we’ll start preparing for a baby and move into the countryside.”

Again, you opened your mouth to speak, but he tugged your hair again, a little rougher.

“Enough.”

You fall quiet.

“...Good. Good girl,” he sighs, softening the slightest bit, cupping your jaw, fingers digging to the soft of your cheek. “I get that in your field, drugging your patients is the key to happiness. I wouldn’t be surprised if you eventually would’ve tried to prescribe me something.

“...”

“Hundreds of years, societies found happiness in their homestead. The answer doesn’t need to be some bullshit established just a couple of decades ago. So be quiet, and I’ll bring us somewhere peaceful. Spiritually and physically, because God help me, I’m done with this shit.”

A pause. You contemplate.

Then, with uncertainty, you nod quietly. With a huff of a laugh, he kisses your forehead.

“I knew you’d understand. You’ve always been smart.”

[skibasyndrome]

"please, speak to me" for the prompt thingy?🫶

Tinaaaa!!! Thank you so much for sending me this prompt! I'm extremely sorry for taking forever to write this, but here it iiiis.

Because I simply couldn't leave them in their messy little fwb situation, this is a follow-up to this drabble here.

Hope you'll enjoy! 💜💜💜

For the first couple of days, Wille is so caught up in replaying his last night with Simon that he doesn’t fully notice to which extent he’s being avoided. When he does, the realization hits him square in the chest.

Wille doesn’t think that, during the admittedly relatively short time they’ve known each other, he’s ever gone this long without speaking to Simon. They just clicked, right away, became friendly very quickly, became… more than friendly equally quickly. And up till now they’ve never gone this long without speaking, at least a little bit. Wille misses his friend’s presence next to him during the one lecture on postmodernism they normally attend together. And he misses the stupid jokes they tell each other in the cafeteria during lunch breaks. Wille texts Simon twice during the week following the incident. Both times, Simon answers quickly, but the conversations die down just as quickly. Wille knows he’s busy with exams, but this is different. Simon won’t admit that anything’s wrong, continues to throw Wille a quick smile every time they cross paths on campus. But before Wille has the chance to approach him, he’s gone again. It feels like something ended between them. And Wille doesn’t know what to do about it, let alone what to say. He can’t suggest they have sex again. Well. He would like to, but he won’t. Every time he thinks back to Simon storming off, he feels like an idiot. But any other suggestion feels almost more ridiculous. He can almost hear Simon scoff at him whenever he thinks of something new to say. They’ve never done anything else, they’ve been friendly at uni, then spent their time back in the dorms fucking. Anything beyond that feels like an imposition. In front of his mind’s eye, Simon is rolling his eyes and shaking his head at Wille’s suggestion for brunch on Sunday or a couple drinks Thursday night. And so he keeps them to himself, his silly suggestions. But by week two, Wille feels like he’s going to burst if he lets the scenario play out inside of his head another fucking time. He needs to figure this out, needs to fix whatever there is to fix. Right whatever wrong it was that Wille did. Even if this arrangement, whatever it was, is over for Simon, Wille wants them to part on good terms. And not have Simon think badly of him. He feels more than a little silly as he finds himself walking through the halls of the music lecture building. And even while he’s waiting outside of the room he knows Simon’s choir is practicing in, he almost gets up and leaves again two times. Scrolling on his phone is barely enough of a distraction. Especially when, from time to time, a few beautiful notes hit his ear, coming through the large door. This would be a lot easier if he didn’t immediately recognize the beautiful voice. or Or if he didn’t remember what other beautiful sounds that voice is capable of producing, under the right conditions. 

He clears his throat and rolls his neck, trying to banish those tempting images from his mind. He’s about to give up and leave again, go for a walk or go find something else to distract him from his own misery, when the door opens and a couple of students start streaming out. Wille immediately gets up from the random chair he’s found sitting in the hallway, straightens up, feeling weirdly caught and weirdly out of place. Before he can wonder if Simon will even notice him standing in the hallway like a lost little puppy, the door closes again. It leaves Wille standing face to face with the man he hasn’t gotten a proper look at in a very long two weeks. Wille raises his hand for an awkward wave and notices too late that he clearly must’ve interrupted a conversation between Simon and his choir teacher, who now looks between the two of them, visibly confused. Even she must notice that this amount of silence isn’t very normal. Giving Wille another once-over, she retrieves her key from where she was about to lock the door and hands it over to Simon. She tells him to leave it on her desk later before walking off. For a gratingly long moment it looks like Simon is about to run after her. When he turns back around to Wille he looks a little less panicked, albeit no less confused. His bag is casually slung over his shoulder, and something inside of Wille’s chest aches at the familiar picture. Instead of dwelling on it, though, he shakes his head slightly, takes a step towards Simon. “Hey,” he starts and tries to smile, but it must be coming off exactly as weird and forced as it feels, because Simon only nods at him. “Hey.” Simon’s own smile is late, seems a little out of place. Maybe there’s still time to run away. But when Simon opens his mouth to speak, a different sense of panic washes over Wille, so he simply has to blurt it out. “I wanted to see you.” The silence that follows Wille’s confession is clearly taunting him. Simon just looks at him with his brows furrowed. “And I wanted to talk to you,” Wille continues, and maybe it’s the way Simon’s gaze darts back and forth between Wille’s lips and his eyes that makes Wille go on.  “Because I missed you,” he says. And because he’s not made enough of a fool of himself.  “Miss you, I mean.” Simon only nods quickly and, for a second, Wille gets caught up in his eyes. It's been entirely too long since he’s gotten a proper look at them. If Wille didn’t know any better, the idea that he’s spent hours looking at them before would sound ridiculous.

Simon is the first to break contact. He clears his throat. “So…?” he starts, then trails off, lifting himself up and down on his tiptoes. “Can we talk?” Wille is practically pleading and, as if on cue, a student pushes his way past, apparently seeing no better path than going between him and Simon. “I mean, maybe…” Wille gestures towards the room and Simon catches his hint. He gives a curt nod, one that Wille can’t read. But he does turn around, and not to leave. He slips in through the door, Wille at his heels. And before Wille has any chance to take in the interior of the room, or think about what the fuck he’s supposed to do now, now that he’s gotten to this point, Simon is on him. Wille's back hits the door with a loud thud, his chest immediately colliding with Simon's. He lets out a strangles sound of surprise when he suddenly has an arm full of Simon. But even his moment of shock is cut short when Simon’s lips are on his. Finally again. Wille quickly melts into the touch, relishes in the way Simon licks into his mouth, almost like he's been plagued by the same desperate need that has rendered Wille sleepless for these past two weeks. Wille's arms close around Simon's middle, backpack and all, and Wille lets out a sigh of… something. Relief, probably, but also pleasure. This is what they're good at, this is a way in which they've always understood each other. This is what makes sense for them. So much sense that Simon has Wille heavily panting against his lips in no time, so much sense that Wille’s hands easily find their way into the back pockets of Simon’s jeans, like they’re two puzzle pieces. So much sense that it takes Wille a long time, many seconds, minutes maybe, to realize that this isn’t what he came for. Not really, not initially. He tries to pull back, not going far with the wood of the door right behind him. But Simon understands, moves back, then takes a big step away from Wille that causes Wille’s hands to slip out of his pockets. He weakly holds them at his side, suddenly feeling really awkward about just standing here. He clears his throat. “I…” It’s like Simon didn’t only take away his breath, but also his speech. Wille tears his eyes from Simon’s face, from the soft reddish hue on his cheeks, from his wet lips. “I wanted to talk about last time, what you said. I-” Simon interrupts him with a groan. “Can’t we just forget about this already?” He sounds frustrated, angry almost, but there’s a trace of desperation. Wille swallows hard, very unhelpfully notices Simon’s taste on his tongue. While every bone in Wille’s body is yearning to just get back to what they were doing, to get back to what’s always felt good, he knows he shouldn’t. Not like this. Not until he’s tried, not until-

Simon groans loudly again and moves towards the handle, trying to get past Wille. His rib cage contracts painfully at the sight, and his last resolve crumbles. “Wait, please, wait, Simon,” he tries, quietly, too quietly, but, fuck, how else is he supposed to say this. Without thinking about it, he goes in for Simon’s wrist, grabs it, squeezes once, then lets go again, suddenly terrified he’s making it worse. He back away from the door, stops blocking it. “I’m sorry, Simon, I don’t-” “Don’t say it,” Simon rushes out. As quickly as he reached for the door, he’s taking a few steps back again. Wille opens and closes his mouth again, entirely helpless. He’s not fucking following. He shakes his head, trying to make sense of it all. “But what you said then, and when you left-” “It doesn’t matter, okay?” Simon is pacing, and there’s too much distance between them for Wille’s liking, way too much. But he doesn’t want to reach out, doesn’t want to overstep, but, fuck he needs to fix this, he needs to understand, he needs Simon to tell him. He can’t keep wondering if maybe, just maybe…. When Simon stops pacing only to go for the door again, it bursts out of Wille. “Please, just speak to me!” He startles himself with his raised voice, and Simon stops dead in his tracks, head whipping around towards Wille. It’s Simon’s turn to gape at him, speechless.

He juts out his chin in defiance and crosses his arms. Wille’s heartbeat quickens when Simon turns towards him again. There’s a fire in his eyes that makes Wille feel like Simon is the one towering over him. For another few seconds, they just stare at each other, neither willing to be the first to break contact. It’s scary, tense, like any wrong move could shatter everything. Wille decides then and there that he’ll keep this up for hours if he has to, if it means that Simon isn’t going to run away again. But it seems like Simon has different plans. With a long, exasperated sigh, he turns away again. Wille watched his shoulders sag, watches him throw his head back in frustration. When he runs a hand up and through his curls, a silly part of Wille’s conscience wishes he could be the one doing that. “Look,” Simon starts, and Wille steels himself for whatever revelation might be coming his way. His eyes never leave Simon’s face, still. “I’m sorry, okay?” Wille feels his face fall. “I’m sorry that this isn’t what we wanted, I’m sorry that I said what I said, I just-” Simon tugs on his hair again and lets out a frustrated noise. “It’s okay,” he says, and suddenly all the fierceness drains out of his voice. When he twists his head to look back towards Wille, Wille’s pulse yet again picks up speed.

“It’s okay that you don’t want the same thing, it is!” Wille has trouble listening with his heartbeat hammering away at his temples. “We can keep doing this,” Simon gestures between the two of them ”I’ll be fine, I swear, can we just not talk about-” Suddenly, it clicks. Oh. “Stop,” Wille says, quietly, carefully, and it must be such a stark difference in tone that it’s unsettling. Simon immediately quiets down, enough for Wille to take a step towards him. To finally close the distance between them. Wille doesn’t think his pulse has ever been this quick without him nearing a panic attack. Once again, he swallows. “You’re saying that you… like me?” Simon presses his eyes shut, lets his head fall back in a movement of aggravation. “Wille…,” he groans, but there’s no edge to his voice, no hostility. He rolls his head back, looks pained, but he doesn’t withdraw, stays where he is. “Yes, I like you. That’s the whole point, that’s why-” Oh. Wille doesn’t waste another second, doesn’t give Simon any more time to misunderstand him. With a fervor that’s entirely new in its intensity, he rushes forward. One hand on Simon’s neck, the other reaching for Simon’s arm, linking their fingers together loosely, Wille kisses him. He kisses him and kisses him and lets out a pathetic little noise when Simon presses back after a moment, returns the kiss with equal force. Fuck. Wille can’t keep it in any longer. A wave of relief washes over him, strong, intense, warm, just like Simon. Wille giggles into their kiss, breaks away from Simon’s lips. When he does, he doesn’t pull away, rests his forehead against Simon’s. And he simply can’t hold back his stupid grin. “I like you too,” he says and fuck, that feels a lot like butterflies. “A lot.”

Send me one of these prompts for a short lil story 💜

[whereubeenloca]

Hallways

Part 5 of the Neighbor! Reader series: Table of contents

Summary: On your way to work you run into someone new...

Pairing: Carmy x Reader

Tags: VERY slow burn, Awkward, Claire mention

Word Count: 1153

Wanna be added to the tag list? Let me know!

Tag List: @criesinlies

The last few weeks had been cold and your broken radiator didn’t help. As the temperature dropped, it became harder and harder for you to leave the warm confides of your bed. It was nearly 8:45 by the time you stumbled your way out the door, 15 minutes later than you usually leave. You give yourself a quick pat-down, wallet, keys, phone, laptop, ready. Just as you’re about to step out onto the shared staircase, you hear footsteps clamor from above. You smile at the sound of steps, it wasn’t often you ran into Carmy on your way to work. You rack your brain for something to say as he walks by, but the words die on your tongue as you’re met with someone else. 

A woman, a stranger. Long black hair spills down her shoulders, a puffer tightly zipped up to her neck. Her skin is pale, eyes big, cheeks perfectly pink. Your smile drops a bit as your eyes meet. Blue eyes flick to yours, her lips flick up into a polite smile, you’re quick to copy it. 

“Sorry.” The mystery woman says softly, you wave it off as she hurries down the steps and out the front door. 

Who the fuck was that.

—

Your mind races as you speed walk to the “L”, a stone's throw away from little miss whoever that is. Oh god, are you a creep? No. She’s the one who’s taking your route to work. You aren’t even following her. God, she’s walking slow. You can feel yourself getting closer, debating if it would be weirder to pass her or stay behind her. You awkwardly weave around her and quickly cut over to the staircase, unfortunately she follows you onto the platform.

You try not to stare at her while you’re on the subway, training your eyes on the window right next to her. She scrolls on her phone as she sprawls out in her seat, you grip the railing tighter as the train sways. He never mentioned a girlfriend before. That’s because you aren’t friends, dummy. Rude, whatever, ugh. You take a deep breath as the man to your left decides to fill the car with blueberry scented vape smoke. You choke back a cough and what’s-her-face decides to look up from her phone. Suddenly, your shoes are the most interesting thing on the planet. 

What do you care? It’s not like you’re seeing the guy. No, of course not. He’s your neighbor and it’s well within his right to see who he pleases. Obviously. You barely even talk when you think about it. You didn’t even know his name until last month. You have no ownership to this man so why, why, does this feel so weird?

You chance a look and she’s back to her phone. Her legs are spread too far apart for a subway this crowded. Fucking hate when people do that, where is she even going? Nowhere, probably- woah, no. Women supporting women, she didn’t do anything to you. No, but that’s rude. We’re like fucking sardines in here and she’s taking up so much space, inconsiderate, fucking- Suddenly she stands, ushering an old woman who just got onto the train over to her seat. Her smile is bright as she makes polite small talk with the stranger. Your stomach twists as your stop approaches. Asshole.

—

The day was longer than you thought it would be. You ended up being twenty minutes late to work completely frazzled, a half assed excuse on your lips. Your mind buzzes as you stare at your outlook, mindlessly filing emails to pass the time. It’s embarrassing, really. Had you left at your regular time you would be none the wiser. You mourn your blissful ignorance as your co-worker pops her head in to ask yet another question. 

By the time you hobble home you’re dead on your feet. The wind whips your hair around you as you fight your way home from the subway. Flurries of snow dance around your head as you unlock the door and shove your way inside. 

“Woah, hey.” You hear a voice call out as you poke your head in. Carmy. 

“Oh shit- sorry.” You half laugh as he stumbles away from his mailbox to make room for the door. 

“No, no that’s my bad.” He says with a smile, envelopes tucked between his palms. 

The door closes behind you with a loud thunk. You busy your hands with the heavy lock. 

“You, usually home this early?” You ask over your shoulder. 

“Nope. Renovations.” He beams, you don’t think you’ve ever heard him this excited. 

“No shit, really?” You smile back, running your hands over your hair in an attempt to look even slightly presentable. 

“Yeah. It’s- I mean, it sucks and it’s stressful… but I think it’ll be really good you know?” He fiddles with the papers in his hands, bending the stack of bills over and over. 

All you can do is nod as you soak him in. Your eyes settle onto his face, a smile is spread across his cheeks so wide it crinkles his eyes a bit. It’s cute, you aren’t sure you’ve seen him smile like that before. 

“Congrats.” You smile softly “When uh- are you guys planning on opening?” You ask as you walk to your own mailbox. 

“Little over a month left.” His words sound more like a sigh as he rocks back onto his heels. “It’s been a lot.” 

“I bet.” You hum back, retrieving your own envelopes. “I loved the food you gave me last week by the way, oh my god.” 

“Yeah?” He asks, cheeks flushing at the praise.

“Oh yeah. If you have any more leftovers please send them my way.” You laugh, lightly tapping the toe of your shoe to his. He laughs at the action, raising a tattooed hand up to his face to cover his smile. 

“I might have to start charging you.” He jokes. 

“Well maybe I should come by.” You respond back. 

A huff of air leaves his lips as the conversation stills. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, teeth digging into his cheek in an attempt to subdue his grin. Despite how much you want to, you don’t let yourself stare. Your gaze flicks to the envelopes in your hands for a split second before meeting his stare. 

“Well uh. I should probably…” You say, tilting your head toward the staircase he’s currently blocking. 

“Oh- yeah, yes.” Carmy laughs awkwardly as he steps to the side. “My bad.” 

“Goodnight, Carmy.” You smile, “Good luck with the restaurant.” 

“Thank you. I uh- will.” He says awkwardly, clearing his throat and thumbing through his mail. “Night.” He finishes, a little too far away. You’re already at your door by the time he decides to say it. 

You smile to yourself as you move through your apartment. 

This is gonna suck.

[into-fiction]

fourth wing

(credit to @c-rose2081 for putting the fourth wing idea in my head btw)

(also lowkey minor fourth wing spoilers)

Elphaba's heart is pounding so hard it makes her newly bruised ribs hurt, but she shoves to her feet regardless and plants herself, spitting out a mouthful of blood.

"Stay away from her," she demands, emerald eyes piercing as she glares at the only boy left standing. One has already run. The other is dead at her feet.

Behind her, the little pink dragon still hasn't moved.

"You're gonna pay for that, Thropp," Avaric growls. Blood seeps through his fingers where he holds them over the cut, Elphaba's dagger having sliced right through his upper arm.

It won't stop him. His sword has more reach, his legs have more strength. Elphaba is already swaying where she stands, her fingers barely holding on to the handle in her grasp.

Terror beats a steady rhythm through her chest, and still- she does not move. If she is going to die, it might as well be to give the pink dragon one last chance at surviving.

There's a rush of motion, a gleam of metal that Elphaba knows she won't dodge in time, and then-

The gust of air is hard enough to send her stumbling, a short cry of pain leaving her mouth as she's forced to put weight on her ankle. Everything hurts, but she's not dead. That's her only thought at first.

Why am I not dead?

Wiping sweat and tears and blood from her face, Elphaba slowly turns around, wondering if maybe the pink dragon finally took flight.

Nope. She's still sitting there, gazing calmly at the scene. But behind her, is a tower of scales so large Elphaba feels her stomach sink to the floor the further back she has to crane her neck.

There, standing protectively over the pink dragon with his head outstretched and his bared teeth gleaming, is the giant navy daggertail.

Avaric never stood a chance. He's a pile of ash on the ground before he even makes it three steps, and Elphaba's heart climbs up her throat when she realizes she's next.

She'll never get a chance to be chosen, not by the pink dragon or anyone else. The navy is going to fry her where she stands.

Except, beat by beat, seconds pass, and Elphaba is still a trembling, bleeding mess, but she's an alive trembling, bleeding mess.

The blue dragon dips his head down, golden eyes looking right at Elphaba.

Hello, she hears. A deep, masculine voice fills her head, unmistakable in origin. I am Fiyero, son of Marillot and Baxian, descendant of the Tigelaar line. It is nice to meet you, Elphaba Thropp.

A dragon does not speak to anyone who is not its rider. It's an unspoken rule that every cadet knows. Except- she's not a cadet anymore, is she?

Fuck, Elphaba thinks, and she swears she can almost see the dragon grin.

She's a rider now.

***

There's an ominous rumble and a hot blast of air that immediately makes Fiyero regret asking.

I chose you, Elphaba growls. Because you protected her.

Fiyero swallows hard, his gaze shifting to the little pink dragon. Her wings have to beat double time in order to keep up with them, and she looks over at him as though she can sense him watching.

"I- I don't understand," Fiyero says. His grip tightens on the scales in front of him, his eyes still stinging from the earlier acrobatics.

Elphaba snorts in annoyance, a stream of air so hot Fiyero can see it leaving her. The pink dragon tilts her wings slightly, getting so close Fiyero worries for a moment that they're about to crash.

But then, Elphaba stretches her neck out, emerald meeting pink in the air as scales slide across smooth scales, the little one running her snout down Elphaba's lower jaw and rumbling in her chest like a cat. Something pleasant and warm blossoms faintly in the back of his mind.

Oh.

Fiyero finds himself blushing against his will. He clears his throat awkwardly, focusing instead on the way the ground is quickly getting closer, Elphaba angling in to prepare for landing.

Do you understand, now? Elphaba asks.

"Yep, yeah, uh, yes. I understand."

He has a feeling that if dragons could laugh, Elphaba would definitely be doing so. When they land, the pink dragon tucks herself against Elphaba's side, curling her tail around and sitting primly. A large green wing unfolds to drop over top of her.

Yes. Fieryo understands perfectly. His legs wobble when he hits the ground, and he gulps down several raggedy breaths, steeling himself for the walk across the field. People are staring already, and he doesn't want to look weak.

Before he can turn, there's another rush of warm air and a rustle of wings and then- a high, sweet voice in his head.

My name is Glinda, the pink dragon says. Make sure to tell them that, too.

Fiyero gapes, not even bothering to try and hide his surprise. Fuck, he thinks, and he knows Elphaba heard him by the amused curl of smoke that leaves her nose.

Apparently, Fiyero has two dragons. And they're mates.

[holymolyineedtherapy]

My Headcanons with 100yq

Let me start by saying I love fairy tail. It was my first shounen anime that I sought out on my own. (One piece, Naruto, and Bleach just came on when I was little and watching toonami). It is, to this day, one of my favorite shows of all time with Lucy Heartfilia being one of my favorite characters of all time.

So, on to the headcanons.

Lucy and Natsu have an undefined relationship. They call each other their partner and let people take it how they will because they don't even know. Their relationship is so much more than being in love or working together. They would die for the other and pull the other back from the brink of insanity. How can you label that? They have a blind trust in the other and that's all that matters.

Wendy has received some lasting effects from being trapped for 7 years and that's why it appears she hasn't grown much despite being the age for multiple growth spurts to have hit. Her body being in hibernation for so long has left her stunted almost. She's the only one who is was a young child when it happened and is the only one who looks relatively the same after all that time.

It also doesn't help now that she has the power of Irene in her body now as well. That much power isn't helping her at all either. Most of her energy goes to keeping her power in check, not allowing her to grow much.

Erza has almost somewhat dedicated Lucy to be her "right-hand man" while she leads the group. Yeah, it's technically Team Natsu, but Erza and Lucy are the ones who do a majority of the work that isn't fighting. Erza is in charge of the group as a whole, ensuring that everyone is safe, healthy, and on track. Lucy is in charge of the map, finances, and helping with other information.

Natsu and Gray are the weather regulators. If they go somewhere that's too hot, Gray takes over. If they go somewhere too cold, Natsu takes over. That's their main job aside from getting food when they aren't nearby any towns.

I personally believe that they all have some sort of chronic pain or lingering injuries from their fights in the past.

Erza tends to hurt just about all over, but mainly gets head aches due to her eye strain and all the concussions she's sustained.

Natsu doesn't usually hurt too badly, but his scars always bother him whether they're itchy, throbbing, or something. His problem usually lies with his heart. Having died multiple times tends to fuck it up.

Gray has a similar issue with his scar. He also tends to feel very tight in his muscles due to how cold his natural body temp is after learning devil slayer magic so it takes him awhile to get out of bed in the morning. (He loved when the town was underwater because he could easily climb out of bed with no problem)

Wendy usually deals with sore muscles and an odd tingling in her hands and feet. They concluded that it's nerve damage from the Face she and Carla took care of.

Lucy gets random hot flashes from rewriting the book. She also still has scars from it, but they're super faint. You really only see them when she's standing in the sunlight. She also just has really bad knees and ankles but absolutely refuses to wear any shoe without a heel.

Gray and Natsu get under stimulated a lot when they're just travelling, so they make it a point to spar whenever they have a moment. It usually ends with them both getting scolded for going a bit too far.

Lucy still has her little quirk of wanting to collect more keys so anytime they travel somewhere, her first thing to do is find a magic shop and see if they have any. Most of the time she can't. A lot of shop masters tend to say that after the Grand Magic Games, celestial wizards started sprouting up out of nowhere, eager to learn more.

I want to believe that Wendy told Erza about Irene. Wendy felt a lot of guilt keeping it from her so after about a week that they first set out, she told Erza. Erza was more worried about what it meant for Wendy than anything cause wtf my mom that died is living in my basically little sister. It took Wendy a while to explain that it wasn't actually Irene, just her power.

Gray tends to space out whenever they're resting. No one really knows where his mind goes most of the time, but occasionally, he'll get the smallest smile and they'll know it's Juvia he's thinking about.

And for just a bit of Nalu angst, Natsu had a hard time looking at Lucy for a while. He knows Lucy takes a lot of pride in her looks so now that she has scars all over her body, he blames himself for them. She told him multiple times that they don't bother her and she takes a lot of pride in them herself. The scars are proof that she saved Natsu and that's all that matters for her. They slowly started to fade so now, he struggles to watch her stand in the sun. Lucy knows this and tends to make him look at her so he knows it's okay.

[raineandsky]

#139

“Let him go,” the supervillain growls.

The hero is smirking at him from where she’s holding the villain in a vice-like grip. “Or what?”

The supervillain lurches for the hero and she swings easily out of the way, pulling the villain with her like he’s nothing more than a flap of fabric she simply doesn’t want the supervillain to tear.

The villain can’t say he’s used to being manhandled. He can feel the heat burning on his face as the hero’s hold on him tightens, a hand clamped possessively on his arm as she turns back to the supervillain with a shit-eating grin. The supervillain probably thinks he’s just embarrassed about being caught, and he’d rather keep it that way. The supervillain doesn’t need to know that the villain’s kind of into this.

The hero laughs, bright and loud, and the villain can’t help but admire the confidence. “Your attempt to save your poor comrade is commendable, [Supervillain], but I think I’ve earned this catch,” she says, the arrogant smile clear in her voice, “haven’t I, [Villain]?”

The very thought of their little battle is very clear in the villain’s mind. This certainly isn’t the moment to remember how she grappled with him, and definitely not how she so easily flipped him onto his back.

Maybe she won because he didn’t mind losing to her, but he’s not saying that out loud. He just nods to avoid opening his mouth and letting out any telling sounds.

“You don’t earn my friends,” the supervillain snarls. It’s almost animalistic, this protectiveness. The villain’s finding he doesn’t mind that either. “Now let go.”

The supervillain leaps for the hero again, and she’s so busy preparing her cocky response that she realises too late. She moves out of range, but the supervillain grabs a hold of the villain and pulls him to safety.

The villain practically trips into him with how sudden it is. The supervillain wraps an arm around him protectively, his hold tight, and earnestly asks, “are you okay?”

The villain’s mind is running at a million miles an hour. He thought it was bad enough having a thing for his sworn enemy, but this is different territory entirely. “Yeah,” he manages, though it doesn’t come out as much more than an embarrassing squeak. “Yeah, fine.”

The supervillain nods, once, short, and returns his gaze to the hero. “You’re messing with the wrong guy, [Hero],” he snaps coldly. “Let’s put an end to this.”

The villain can’t say anyone’s ever fought over him. But the supervillain and the hero clash, their insults spat over who deserves him, and he can’t help but revel in it a little. He knows he should help the supervillain—they could bring the hero down together, the two of them, a team—but he’s barely in it anymore. The adrenaline of it all, of the fight and whatever the hell is going on with him right now, has worn him out.

The hero leaps for him before he even realises the pair’s fight has swung in his direction. The supervillain grabs a hold of him as the hero’s blade rests itself against his neck. The three of them stand like that for a moment, the villain painfully aware of everything: the supervillain’s hands, hot on his sides, the hero’s glare intense and cutting. Her chest is heaving slightly, and the supervillain is similarly panting a little, his breath warm on the back of the villain’s neck.

It’s a little much, being in the middle of all this.

“I can arrest him,” the hero offers lightly, “or I can cut him open right here. Up to you.”

“I’ll tear your head clean off before you get the chance to do either,” the supervillain says, his voice grating.

“Uh,” the villain starts haltingly, “do I get a say?”

“Do you—” The hero looks at him like he’s lost his mind, like the idea that he decides what happens to him is crazy. “You know what, yeah. Sure. Would you like to be arrested or would you like to die?”

The supervillain scoffs, but his grip on the villain tightens in a way that’s more telling than words would be anyway. Protective, possessive. Wanting the hero to choose him because that’s the obvious choice.

And the hero, her blade speaking of her need for him in a way her eyes are carefully guarding. A need for him to be in a cell, sure, but he wouldn’t mind if she were there, or if the supervillain was there to blow the wall clean off it and help him escape.

He wishes he hadn’t said anything. It’s a surprisingly difficult question to answer.

The villain laughs, the sound too nervous. “You can arrest me if it means you’re putting me in cuffs and bending me over your car.”

The hero’s face contorts into something that’s not entirely disgust, and the supervillain takes the moment to pull the villain out from under her knife and kick him into a run.

It’s a miracle they get away. The supervillain eventually shepherds the villain into a dark corner of the city to check him over, looking for any signs of injury, his hands gentle against the bruises blossoming under the villain’s clothes.

“Good distraction, saying that to the [Hero],” the supervillain says with a laugh once they start on their way again. He pats the villain’s shoulder proudly, a smile warm on his face. “Really threw her off.”

The villain’s not sure how to say that his little distraction was practically a true statement. That, or that he thinks the same thing of the man walking next to him.

The villain has a lot to process after tonight before he says anything stupid like that, though. So he nods with a light smile and simply says, “Thank you for coming for me.”

“You know I always will.”

And it’s thankfully late enough that the darkness around them can hide the villain’s blush.

[planetsnakes]

Honestly we needed to actually see his character motivations a bit more... I'm doing an unprompted character analysis

We all know Uther is willing to overlook magic if it serves his purposes (see imprisoning the dragon or saving Morgana) so it makes sense that Guias would be spared if he served Uther's purposes and maybe promised to give magic up. It's also implied Guias was on the significantly less powerful end compared to others in court (like his one love interest, or morgana's mother).

I get the impression him and Uther's relationship is meant to parallel Merlin and Arthur's given how Uther treats Guias and has literally no other close friends. I imagine that they were close and then when Uther decided to kill anyone who has magic or spoke up and say hey maybe mass genocide isn't the answer Guias decided to survive by not speaking up, by letting people die and only risking it for people he valued or when it's safe.

Merlin's Dad is very much a Guias supporter because Guias helped him and people like him, implying Guias used his position of trust to actually help people but Kilgarrah talks about how Guias stood aside and let his kin die which, yk, asshole move there.

Yet Guias is alive and in court. He has the position to save people (he saved Merlin when he first came to Camalot and broke his one love interest outta jail). He didn't get to stay so close to the king by trusting everyone or not turning people in. He knows never to trust the royal family (I mean it was Arthur's job to kill magicians as soon as he came of age, perhaps he even inadvertently killed some of Guias' friends). He's even convinced himself that it's worth it, that Other deserves to live. He begs Kilgarrah in one episode to save Other because Arthur isn't ready. Really? This man has to believe that it's all worth it. He has to believe that what Uther chose was right because otherwise all this death and carnage and loss was for nothing, otherwise he's serving a tyrant for nothing.

You see this in Merlin too. Merlin tells Arthur to kill Mordrid. Merlin Stands back and lets people die when Uther cracks down on magic (we know this because we see him save one woman when he wants to find out where the druids are) Merlin follows Arthur and makes the decision to kill and kill and kill people with magic to the point he has to rationalize that as it was worth it. That Arthur is worth it and he didn't just do it for his own survival (not even Merlin .

Guias sucked but he sucked because he was applying (and teaching Merlin) survival skills from an era we don't see. I mean I love him because he's our only link to that past and tbh he could have done something more with it but as a character you see him doing his best. He's trying to take care of Merlin and at points even manages to put Merlin's needs above Uther's needs. He's trying to help Merlin complete this destiny he doesn't understand but could be his redemption for all the people that he let die just for having magic (obviously after Uther has died of natural causes tho they're still friends). He doesn't know wtf is going on he's just trying his best

Kilgarrah on the other hand is old enough to know better and can rot in hell for all I care he literally was like "oh Merlin hatch the baby dragon i want friends" and then abandons aithusa immediately and lets aithusa grow up in a fucking well. He could have at any point not been a self serving asshole. "

do you also have a deep hate for Gaius?

Honestly, if Gaius had kept his fucking mouth shut, Merlin would have told both Morgana and Arthur about his magic, and things would have gone so differently.

I find Gaius an interesting character because he does obviously care for Merlin...but after constantly scolding him for being too loose with his magic, every episode is like, 'Listen, Merlin, you're going to have to do magic right in front of the king to save us all, there's no other choice.' He's friends with the guy who genocided his people, but it's ok because Gaius is one of the Good Ones so he got to live. He keeps Merlin isolated by constantly warning him not to trust anyone, especially Arthur, the guy who is supposedly going to be the king who brings change to Camelot by being a better and more compassionate ruler than Uther (but he has to be kept in the dark about everything and can't be trusted to not blindly kill his best friend even though he's shown many times that he doubts the 'magic is always evil and only done by the most evilest of all the evil people' rhetoric and will disobey his father if Merlin’s life is at risk).

I don't hate him, because, like I said, I find him an interesting character, but I do think he bears a large part of responsibility for what happened, and Merlin, quite frankly, should have told him to pound sand up his ass.

[ddeck]

cause of death: thought about commander cody a bit too hard

[runawayfuture]

I think it's funny that Gale, Wyll, Shadowheart, and Astarion all have these moments where they're like "ok, I need to confess something that I've been hiding from you... I'm actually a horrible person because (I'm a ticking time bomb/I made a pact with a devil/I worship a goddess widely regarded as evil/I'm a vampire)" and Karlach is like "uh btw, before you start being too nice to me, the devil who made me into a living weapon might track me down and try to kidnap me back after I escaped from her" and they're all like "so I understand if you don't want to travel with me anymore, I'll pack my little bag and go... wait, I can stay? You mean it? Oh my god thank you, I'll be good just give me a chance to prove myself, I can't believe you're still letting me travel with you" and half of them just expect you to kill them on the spot once they tell you what's going on

... meanwhile Lae'zel has been up-front about all her crazy stuff from the moment you met and she thinks you're either insane or the stupidest creature alive if you don't want her to tag along. what a queen