#how many ribs did shadow break

[ghostpebble]

sonic movie 3

When violent characters are gentle and tender & when gentle characters are violent and unhinged

[nataliasquote]

Can’t You See This Is Breaking Me? | n romanoff

Summary: Natasha isn’t quite ready to give her entire life for the woman she loves

Warnings: injuries, blood, stitches, no happy ending

wc: 5.2k

note: this idea was given to me by @katyaromanoffpetrova (love you 🤍) and she’s fuelling my love hate relationship with angst. Also, this was so hard to condense, so I’m sorry if it’s lacking detail. I tried to cram three years of a relationship into 5k words :)

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It was no secret to anyone how little regard Natasha had for her own life. Even since her very first Shield mission, she’d been a force to be reckoned with, partly down to her pure destructive nature. She didn’t care if taking down Hydra agents meant coming away with a bullet wound or two. Or if destroying an enemy testing laboratory meant four broken ribs and a cracked collar bone. As long as the job was done, that was all she cared about.

Nick Fury was getting tired of how many lectures he had given a young, 25 year old Natasha in his office when he’d read her completed mission report. He knew why she had such a blatant disregard for her life but it didn’t make it any easier seeing one of his best agents beaten and bruised each week. The redhead barely flinched when her wounds were inspected, but to be honest she didn’t really react to anything.

She was more of a ghost really, a pale figure soundlessly walking the halls at night. If her injuries didn’t let keep her awake at night, then the nightmares gladly took their turn, drenching her entire body in a cold sweat and leaving her shivering in her tangled sheets. But if the dark circles under her eyes looked worse, her friend and mentor Clint didn’t utter a word.

The structure and routine that manifested week by week kept her grounded and focused. Wake up, train, eat, surveillance, sleep. Missions were a welcome break from the otherwise monotonous rhythm Natasha had found herself in. She much preferred working solo as opposed to in a team, but Shield was all about team work so she had to suck it up.

A lot of the time she found herself alongside Clint Barton who weirdly offered her a feeling of comfort. She liked how he never pried too much into how she was feeling, or her past, but kept a look out for her whenever they were together. Her icy demeanour slowly melted away thanks to his warmth that he never failed to show her.

He showed her how to let people in, how to not keep her heart so tightly guarded in fear of actually feeling something about someone. And as much as she would hate to admit it, he was right. It did feel better knowing people cared about her. But it also terrified her at the same time. Vulnerability wasn’t her strong suit.

Yet somehow she had managed to let her tough exterior be pushed aside just long enough for a certain someone to wiggle her way in and take up permanent residence inside the redhead’s mind.

Y/n Y/l/n wasn’t really anyone compared to Natasha. Sure, she was a shield agent, and a high ranking one at that, but that was nothing compared to an Avenger. She’d spend years in their shadow, always looking up to Natasha Romanoff. I mean, who wouldn’t? She’s pretty badass.

But the young agent thought her relationship with said Avenger would end at idolisation and daydreaming. She never expected to suddenly be living amongst them in the compound. But when an empty training room was suddenly disrupted at three in the morning, it was a sign things were to change forever.

Y/n relished the silence that the training room at night brought. Most of her colleagues preferred to train in a group at 7am, but insomnia often brought her into the gym a lot earlier. She loved it though; a way to clear her head and exhaust her body whilst maintaining peak physical fitness required in case of a last second mission.

Lost in a world of music playing through her headphones, Y/n failed to notice the door slowly open, caught up in her boxing routine on the punch bag. She should have been more aware of her surroundings, like she’d been trained, so that she didn’t nearly jump out of her skin as a voice cut through her music.

“You’re gonna get a sore back if you keep using the wrong form.”

Without having ever met in person, Y/n would recognise that voice anywhere. She whipped around and quickly pulled her headphones off around her neck, cheeks flushing as she took in the woman in front of her.

A black sports bra and navy sweatpants was all that adorned Natasha’s toned body. She stood there with a hand on her hip, the other holding a small towel, a water bottle and her own pair of headphones. Y/n desperately tore her eyes away from the widow’s toned abs, feeling her own insecurities creep upwards. She itched for her sweatshirt that lay discarded on the bench just out of reach. That was the last time she ever trained in a sports bra.

“You keep twisting your back as you punch. You need to move from your hips.” Y/n just looked at her with surprise, not fully processing that they were having a conversation at all. “Do you want me to show you?”

“Yeah, sure.” That snapped her out of her trance. Y/n took a step back and allowed Nat to place her things down before she packed a swift punch to the bag, sending it swinging slightly on its stand. Y/n couldn’t lie, she looked really good, arm muscles tensed as she threw a few more punches. Her form was impeccable, but of course it was.

“When you swing round you have to rotate your hips for momentum. Just turning from your back will cause injury.” Y/n nodded, mirroring her stance on the punching bag beside Natasha. “Unless you’re doing lots of smaller ones, then you need to keep your hips still. That just comes from your shoulders.”

Nat threw a few more punches before Y/n copied, missing the small smile that broke out on the Russian’s lips as she observed. Fast learner, she noted, nodding in approval as Y/n turned back to her.

“Very good.” She bent down to grab her things, back muscles on full show to Y/n who just could not stop staring. You’d think she was used to the sight of toned bodies after working out everyday, but there was something different about Natasha and she couldn’t quite work it out.

“Thank you. I’m Y/n, by the way. I work in-“

“I know who you are,” Natasha said casually, looking the woman up and down. “You work with Hill. She talks about you.”

Y/n’s eyes went wide. “She does?”

Nat smirked. “Yeah, why? Does she not talk about me?”

“No, she does- we do-“ what happened to calm and collected shield agent she once was? Reduced to a stuttering mess of words in front of a pretty redhead. God, Y/n cursed herself for not being able to talk to women.

“I’m joking, don’t worry.” Natasha gave her a soft smile before walking off to the weights section, her headphones shutting out the world so she could focus.

Y/n however, could not focus on anything except that brief interaction. It was probably so small in Natasha’s life, yet it would consume Y/n for at least a week, if not more. Maria was going to have a field day with this.

Except it wasn’t small in Natasha’s life. The flustered agent had left quite a mark and Natasha found herself creeping down to the gym at 3am most mornings, hoping to see the woman she’d grown to love so much. And, more often than not, Y/n was there, punching away at the bag and pausing when Nat came in.

Over a course of many weeks, both had changed their training plans to match each other. It felt nice working out with another, Natasha had to admit, and Y/n was so easy to talk to she set the redhead right at ease. They talked and laughed and Y/n noticed how the usually uptight Russian had come out of her shell a lot more since that very first night.

However, one night didn’t go so smoothly. Y/n was in the training room first, of course. She sat on the bench and adjusted her socks, keeping herself busy until Natasha arrived. The past couple of nights had been just her as the redhead had been on a mission, but Maria informed her that she would return tonight, so Y/n anxiously awaited her return. She was more worried about Natasha than she let on, but they had no relationship outside of those four walls so she bounced her knee, willing her new friend to walk through the doors.

And she did. Except this wasn’t the confident Natasha she usually knew. No, this Natasha was walking stiffly, almost as if she was in pain.

“Nat?” Y/n asked, standing hesitantly at the sight of her. Small cuts and bruises littered her face and what skin was exposed under the neck of her tactical suit. Agents always had to report to medical following their return from a mission, but by the looks of Natasha, she hadn’t done that. “Why- what are you doing here?”

“Can’t miss training with my favourite girl, now can I?” She tried to sound upbeat but it fell flat, her pain evident even in her voice.

Y/n pushed aside the butterflies that erupted in her chest at those words and sprung up to help her, guiding Natasha to the nearest bench and forcing her to sit. She took note of how Natasha’s hand tightly clutched her side and she feared the worst.

She thought for a second, feeling Natasha’s eyes all over her face. “May I…?” She gestured to the zip on Natasha’s suit and the redhead nodded, stiffly manoeuvring her arms out of her sleeves as Y/n tugged it down to her waist. The agent had switched to processional mode and ignored how close Natasha’s bra clad chest was to her face as she inspected her side.

“What happened?” She asked, crouching down with a hand gently resting on the redhead’s knee as she gently felt the skin around the wound.

“Some stupid agent snuck up on me and threw his knife. Shit aim though.” Of course she tried to make a joke, but Y/n wasn’t laughing as she looked into her eyes. The redhead almost wanted to roll her eyes, and she would have done if anyone else looked at her with pity like that, but Y/n was different. Safer.

“Why didn’t you go to medical?”

Nat looked down, averting her eyes. “I didn’t want to. I hate it there.”

Y/n knew not to push. She didn’t know much about Natasha’s past but knew enough to know that it must have been horrific to endure. She sat back on her heels and bit her lip in thought.

“Will you let me sort it? I keep a suture kit and supplies in my bathroom.” She caught Natasha’s eye and gently squeezed her knee, trying to establish enough trust between them to let her accept the help. But Natasha was stubborn, so there was truly no way of knowing which way she’d swing.

“Ok.” That was not the expected answer but Y/n was happy to hear it. She knew not to help Natasha up, the redhead probably would have punched her, so she collected her things and led them both back to her apartment, walking a bit slower than normal to help Natasha keep up.

Her room was nothing special and probably looked identical to Natasha’s as they both had Shield issued rooms. Although Natasha’s would be fancier thanks to Tony Stark and his upgrades.

There were no personal items on any of the surfaces, not even in the bedroom. Natasha looked around with a frown, not liking how bare everything seemed. Not homely, that’s for sure. Even the bedside cabinets were empty, not even a picture frame for decoration.

“Take a seat anywhere, I’ll be right out.” Natasha chose the couch by the small coffee table and sank down onto it. The couch wasn’t anything special and neither was the table, ring marks displaying its age and use on the surface. The overhead light was dim but brightened up as Y/n stepped back into the room, a medical kit tucked under her arm.

She worked in silence, only broken by a hiss of pain from Natasha as the alcohol stung her wound. Y/n muttered an apology under her breath but kept working, fingers brushing gently over the soft skin as she made light work of stitching it closed. They weren’t the neatest but they’d do the job just fine.

“Thank you for this,” Natasha spoke into the silence, her eyes fixed on her fingers that rested on her lap. “You didn’t have to.”

“Maybe not, but I wanted to. I don’t like seeing you hurt.”

Natasha stayed silent for a moment, trying to organise her thoughts. She had people who cared about her, the Avengers, but not quite like Y/n had. She didn’t care who Natasha was, or how well she could take down enemies. She just enjoyed her presence and cared for her as a human being, something she rarely felt like she was.

“Can I make this up to you?” She tentatively asked, the strong Black Widow now a weird mess of nerves. What even was this?

“No, you don’t have to-“

“Come out with me on Saturday, into the city. Can I buy you lunch?”

Y/n stifled her smile and hid her face whilst packing up her equipment. She knew Natasha was asking her out on a date, albeit in a very roundabout way. It warmed her heart though, seeing her so soft. It was a side very few people ever got to see.

“Ok, sure. I’d really like that.”

Natasha smiled. “Now I know where you sleep, I’ll come pick you up.”

Y/n scrunched her nose at the odd phrasing. “You had to make it weird.”

“You know me,” she replied with a wink.

~~~

That date was a catalyst for many more to follow, and many midnight training sessions too. It took six more months of flirting and secret meet ups before Natasha pulled her heart out and wore it on her sleeve, asking Y/n to be her girlfriend.

The agent wasn’t stupid, of course she said yes. And at first their relationship was purely in the honeymoon stages; sneaking kisses in the hallway, comforting touches underneath the table, more midnight training and also moving in together. Natasha’s apartment was bigger than Y/n could ever have imagined and she adored the bed, starfishing face down on the mattress the first time she saw it.

But that was two years ago. Sure, they were still very much in love but something had shifted between them, creating a rift that Y/n had started to notice more and more. She knew what was causing it too.

Natasha was going on missions every other week, for days at a time. And she’d fallen back into her old habits, putting the job and the result over the safety of herself. More times than not did she come battered and bruised, open wounds bleeding as she walked into the bedroom. Y/n begged her to stop, to stay home more, to reduce the amount she went on even just to one a month, but her desperate attempts were met with a slammed door and a wall in Natasha’s mind. But she still persisted, trying again the next time Natasha came home. But it was useless.

Y/n always waited up for her though, the nerves of what state Natasha would be in when she returned making sleep pretty much impossible. Whatever she imagined, somehow it was always worse. She used to quiz Natasha as she led her into the bathroom and patched her up, placing kisses on each bruise that she found.

But now they barely said a word, Y/n almost running on autopilot as she cleaned cuts on Natasha’s back for what felt like the millionth time. It was draining her, anyone could see that, and being on edge all the time had made Maria notice.

“Take a week off to clear your head,” her supervisor had ordered, not taking any protests into consideration. “I don’t want to see you in this office before next Thursday, Y/l/n.”

A week off would have been great for anyone else but her. Natasha was away, again, which left Y/n with no ways to fully distract herself like she usually did to cope. She spent the first day in bed, holding onto Natasha’s pillow as her tears soaked the pillowcase. She hated how out of control she felt when Natasha was gone. It was her job, yet Y/n often wished Nat would retire, or at least pull back from constantly being in the field. But that’s what her girlfriend loved, so she had no choice but to respect it.

But on the third day of very little sleep and increasing stress levels, Y/n hit breaking point. She stared at her ghostly reflection as she splashed her face with some water, trying desperately to snap herself out of the lie she was feeling. But under the glaring lights all she could focus on were the heavy bags under her eyes and her discoloured skin, pink blotches littering her cheeks and forehead. She’d been picking at her skin to cope, but it did nothing but make her look worse.

She remained a zombie all day, curling back under the covers at 7pm to shut out the world. There was no telling when Natasha would return but part of her didn’t want it to be yet. She didn’t want to see the state she was in, the mess that she’d have to clean up. She loved Natasha, she really did, but with no contact allowed on her missions and no updates from the team, Y/n was starting to question if their relationship was even working.

She flicked off the light and turned to face the wall, images flashing in front of her as she worried herself stupid about her girlfriend. What if she wasn’t coming home? What if she’d been kidnapped? What if-

The apartment door opened.

Y/n held her breath, pulling the covers tightly under her chin as she waited. She knew the sound of Natasha’s footsteps based on her different moods, but the assassin stepped so lightly it was hard to tell. She felt footsteps getting closer and closer and she squeezed her eyes shut, not wanting to face the horrors to come. She wanted one more blissful moment, but her heart was racing in her chest and her throat was getting tight.

The bedroom door opened.

Light from the living room flooded in through the small gap as Natasha stepped through, brows furrowed at the darkness. It wasn’t that late, but maybe she’d missed something. Wasn’t like she was around much.

“Y/n?” She whispered, not wanting to turn the light on. But she didn’t need to worry about that when suddenly the room was bathed in light. Her girlfriend was sat up in bed, eyes blotchy as she stared at her with a hand on the light switch. “What happened?”

“What hurts?” Y/n asked, sliding off her side of the bed and padding over to the bathroom. “Stitches? Probably bruising too.” She was talking to herself more than Natasha, hands working to gather her supplies. But she was stopped when a pair of rough hands gathered hers inside them, tugging her away from the sink. “What are you doing?”

“I’m ok,” Natasha said, removing one of her hands to gently cup Y/n’s chin, tilting her eyes to meet her own. “Just a couple of bruised ribs, but that’s nothing.”

“At least let me look at them.” Natasha knew she wasn’t going to take no for an answer so she unzipped her suit and pulled it to her waist, revealing the nasty colourful sight. It was swollen and tender and Y/n cursed under her breath. She grabbed the tiger balm and gently applied it, trying to steady her shaking fingers as they touched Natasha’s skin.

“How have you been? How’s work?”

“Its fine, thanks.” Y/n wasn’t going to admit that Maria made her take a week off. She avoided Natasha’s gaze as she worked, even though there wasn’t much she could do for bruised ribs. “I’ll get you an ice pack when you’re dressed.” That was Natasha’s dismissal cue and she took it, but not without lingering in the doorway to watch Y/n for a moment.

By the time Natasha was dressed in an oversized t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, Y/n had wrapped the ice pack in a towel and handed it to her. There was an uneasy tension between them and Natasha could see something was on Y/n’s mind, just waiting to be said.

“Y/n-“

“This is your last one, right?” She couldn’t help herself but blurt out. Somehow she found the confidence with her back to Nat, sitting on her side of the bed. “Please tell me it’s your last one.”

“Of what?”

“Your missions, Natasha.” She bent one knee and tucked it beside her as she turned her body to face Natasha who was still standing in the middle of the room, ice pack pressed to her ribs. “How many times are you going to keep doing this? Coming home in a state! I never know if one day you’re just not going to come home at all.”

Natasha bit her bottom lip. She knew this was going to happen, it always did. And shutting Y/n down didn’t exactly get easier with practice. “Don’t do this again Y/n, please. You know what my answer is.”

“No, Natasha. I’m not gonna accept that anymore. I’m not asking you to quit all together. I just mean reduce the number you go on, take up desk work or surveillance, just something, anything, to get you out of the firing line.” Y/n ran her hands over her face, trying to keep herself together. But the more she spoke, the stronger her emotions got. “I can’t live like this anymore!”

Natasha had placed her ice pack on the bed, not feeling the need to hold it up right now. She couldn’t move, even though she wanted to run to Y/n. “I know you don’t like it-“

“I hate it.”

“Ok fine, you hate it,” she held her hands up in defense. “But that doesn’t mean I suddenly have to stop.”

Y/n stood up from her position, not wanting an ache in her back from turning so much. She and Natasha were now at eye level although the redhead’s stoic face was a lot more composed than her own.

“You’re not listening to anything I say. I never said you had to stop. Ever. Because that would be hypocritical coming from me.” Natasha pulled a ‘sounds about right’ face which Y/n just ignored. “I’m just asking you to reduce the amount you go on. Once a month, maybe? You can still be in the action, still do everything you love, but that way you’re safer and you’re here more. I hardly see you.”

Natasha shook her head. “Our line of work isn’t safe Y/n, even you know that surely.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She was getting defensive, having reached her limit of Natasha trying to shut her down.

Natasha was too stubborn to give up, even when she knew she fucked up. She just couldn’t let it go. “You rarely leave this place! Always stuck in the same office, the same four walls going insane every day! I don’t know how you do it! I’d rather quit than do that.”

“I do that because I can still contribute to the missions without the risk of getting blown to hell,” Y/n spat, taking full offense to Natasha talking down about her job. Sure, she didn’t go into the field as much as the other agents but she preferred to be in the chair, handling everything from above. “And you know damn well those missions you love don’t work without someone like me.”

“And that’s great, for someone like you. But I can’t do that, you have to understand me. I can’t be behind the fight, I have to be in it.”

“No one else goes on as many as you do, Natasha. Don’t you think that just once, someone else can take a mission-“

“I don’t care Y/n!” Natasha may be a passionate person but she never raised her voice. So her elevated tone made Y/n’s jaw clench, her innate response whenever someone shouted at her. “You don’t get to dictate my life! That wasn’t our agreement-“

“Agreement? What, so this is, are we some kind of, I don’t know, contract that you’re obliged to?”

Natasha scoffed, her eyes rolling back at the pure ridiculousness of her statement. This whole argument was pointless really but she entertained it, too stubborn to give in or let Y/n win. “Oh come on, you know I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I’m just sick of lying here in fear every week wondering if you’re actually going to come home or not! I can’t keep doing this Nat.” Y/n was having a hard time keeping Natasha in her vision as tears blurred in her eyes. But she wouldn’t let them spill. Crying meant Natasha won and she was done with backing down.

“We can’t keep having this conversation, Y/n,” Natasha grunted, running her fingers through her hair and tugging out the messy braid. “You know I can’t stop. This is my life, it’s what I was made to do. I can’t live without this job!”

“And I can’t live without you!” Her voice cracked and a tear slipped down but she fought the urge to wipe it, praying Natasha didn’t see. But she did see. Of course she did. The Russian noticed everything.

Natasha went silent. That was the last thing she wanted to hear. In this line of work, relying so heavily on someone wasn’t a good idea. She knew that, it had been drilled into her since she was a child. But Y/n didn’t, and that’s where she slipped up.

“Don’t say that.” Heavy emotions and Natasha Romanoff didn’t really mix well. “You have to, one way or another. You can’t just rely on me Y/n.”

“Nat, I am in love with you but lately it feels like all you care about is your job. When is it going to feel like you actually want to be here? With me?”

“I do Y/n, I do-“

Y/n dropped her head. “I know there’s a but coming.”

Natasha looked at the defeated form of her girlfriend and winced. She never thought she’d ever be in the position where she had to choose between family and her job. But she knew what her choice would be, what it always had been. Long before she even had a family.

“This job means everything to me. I didn’t choose this life, like you did, I was forced into it. It’s part of who I am, and I can’t just stop doing that to be with you.” The second those words fell from her lips Natasha knew that was the wrong thing to say.

Y/n adjusted the collar of her shirt and started to pace. If she was sitting down her leg would have been bouncing all over the place.

“What, that’s it? You’re just gonna call this whole thing off because you can’t take a break from your job?”

“What ‘whole thing’?”

“Us, Natasha! Us!” Y/n stopped in her tracks, gesturing between them both. They were on opposite sides of the room, a clear divide in space and opinion. “Unless there isn’t an ‘us’ anymore. Maybe I’m just the girl who keeps your bed warm and stitches you up in the middle of the night, no questions asked. Occasionally gives you head if you are really in the mood-“

“Stop it Y/n.”

“Stop what? It’s the truth, isn’t it? That’s all I am to you.”

“‘No, you’re so much more.” Natasha’s fingers were fidgeting with each other and they’d stumbled across a small cut on her palm that they were now playing with, the pain trying to keep her grounded. “But you have to understand that I can’t just take a step back. I love this job more than anything because I actually get to do something good with my skills that have been used for the opposite my whole life. I just need you to understand that, please!”

“You’re not gonna stop, are you?” Natasha just stared at her, chewing on her bottom lip. “No matter what, you will keep coming back here in a mess and I will keep fixing you up and we will keep having this conversation. Is there an end to this?”

“I won’t come here then.” Natasha stated simply, eyes darting momentarily to the bathroom door. “I’ll go to medical, where I should be.”

“You hate it there.”

“You hate me here.”

Y/n sighed, her breath shaky. This was the longest they’d ever fought for, and fighting Natasha was mentally exhausting. She had an answer to everything.

“I don’t hate you here, I just wish you’d fucking listen to me for one goddamn second!” Natasha nodded, almost challenging her to speak.

“I am.”

“I didn’t want to say this, but you haven’t exactly given me much of a choice. It’s me or the job, Nat. You choose. And you know what? If you choose me, you still keep half your job! But if you choose the job, you don’t get to keep half of me.” The last part sounded stupid but Natasha knew what she meant. She only had half of Y/n right now. The half that slept in her bed and fixed her wounds. If she chose her, she’d get the other half she fell in love with back.

But she couldn’t, could she? Natasha looked down, not wanting to watch Y/n’s face respond. “I’m sorry…”

“Get out.” It was barely a whisper but Natasha heard it. “Get. Out.” Y/n didn’t want Natasha to see her cry but when their eyes met again, Y/n’s were flooded with tears. She didn’t care, how could she when the green ones staring back at her were so cold. Natasha didn’t say a word, only grabbing her sweatshirt and slipping out of the room. The faint jangle of her keys sounded as the door slammed shut and only then did Y/n allow her walls to come crumbling down.

She collapsed onto the bed, only this time hugging her own pillow close as she choked out her sobs. They echoed around the room and her gag reflex kicked in from how hard she was crying. But all she could see was Natasha’s emotionless face staring back at her, not a hint of remorse visible in her eyes.

Reaching to flick off the light, Y/n caught sight of something that made her cry harder. Her bedside table hadn’t been empty for two and a half years. A single picture frame now sat there. And it was in that moment that Y/n wished it had just stayed empty.

[n0tamused]

A/n: I sort of strayed a little with this one I feel like, but thank you sm for the request, and I hope you enjoy this!

Contents: Mortefi x GN!Reader, jealous reader, reader is very stubborn I must say, not proof-read. lemme know what you think!

Words: 3059

It’s suffocating. Uncomfortably warm and slimy. This feeling that roils within your chest and throat, you’re sure you’re about to start feeling sick from the thoughts spiraling within your mind. And the lab papers in front of you and the endless sound of the machine’s beeping is not enough to distract you.

Beep-beep-beep.

Have you done something wrong? What could it be? Only minutes prior were you looking at these papers with some sense of pride, imagination running wild with the possible outcomes of this hypothesis, positive ones. Yet, they were so easily shattered when Mortefi breezed by, catching a glimpse of the words printed on top, leaving several comments of where you could improve - how you should improve if you want to go through with this. Had you had a clear mind you would’ve done as he said, taken his words as helpful advice and not as an attack on your work. But his tone remained the same as always, it didn’t soften nor did it grow warm. So it made you wonder what he meant, or rather - what he really felt towards you. The latter was a question that occupied your mind for a long time.

He moved past you to the center of the lab, nearing one of the many lit computers, just where Baizhi stood. From afar you could see them greet one another and begin to talk. And that feeling in your chest only expanded further, pawing at your ribs and making you frown at the helplessness. Mortefi looked interested in whatever their topic of conversation was, and it lasted some odd few minutes. Odd minutes you couldn’t keep your focus until both of them left to their own stations, and far out of your sight. 

A heavy breath fell from you, irritated but also… sad. 

With your mind in a strewn about yarn, threads hanging, you began to think if this work was even worthy for you. God knew you wanted it, you signed up for it, you spent nights studying and working to be better and get better than that but all that effort seemed to fall short and small within Baizhi’s shadow. And you don’t even blame her, she is excellent in her work, you don’t hate her. But you’d give a questionable amount of things to have a fraction of that sweet attention Mortefi was giving her. Perhaps you were being unreasonable, irrational - and you don’t argue with it - you’re seeing green and red everywhere, and with hasty hands you collect your papers after making small adjustments, crossing out lines of text and noting down new words. And moments later you’re off to another part of the Academy, away from Mortefi and Baizhi.

What little glimpse Mortefi caught of you as you left shows disappointment and, and in the way you held yourself he saw traces of turmoil that he didn’t fully understand from that one look. He remained at his station, engrossed in his research and unaware of the burden you carried in your heart. 

It wasn’t until the time for your report came and went. And when your break time came and went. And you were nowhere in sight.

That made an odd feeling settle in his chest, a vibration of an unknown bass playing amidst the bones of his ribcage, waves of it washing up to his neck. Unable to ignore it any longer, he bid farewell to his station for the time being, one hand buried in the pocket of his lab coat, playing with the lighter. Flick..flick..

There was not one spot in this wide and vast Academy that you could hide from him, not when he wasn’t particularly looking for you and even more so when he was specifically looking for you. He could spot you in a crowd by one lone look, to him you stood out like a flower amidst grass, how could he overlook you? Following the path familiar to him, he comes into a lab room smaller in contrast than the others, hidden away from the hustle and bustle of the center room and the halls. It is clean, it is comfortable. His eyes land on your back, your nose buried in your papers, your hands hastily fiddling with the apparatus in front of you. You barely acknowledged his presence.

As if to avoid startling you, Mortefi clears his throat, but he fails and watches as you flinch at the sudden disturbance. 

“Mortefi? Uh- What are you doing here? Did you need me?” the questions tumble out from your mouth out of habit rather than genuine curiosity. You turned to face him, brows lightly knit together and eyes regarding him with a mix of feelings and inquiries. 

“I grew curious as to where you vanished off to. Has your research been so indulgent that you forgot to eat or report in? It’s been 3 hours and some odd minutes since you began on this project this morning” he began, the nail on his thumb grazing underneath the lid of his lighter within his pocket, keeping still, yet tense in his hand. His sharp gaze moves from your eyes and down to the table you were working at, noting the sharpie marks across your paper and thinner lines from your pen, and giving a small nod at them he said: “You made those adjustments I told you about, I trust”

This pulls your attention from him and at the papers, and taking his words as some sign to move freely you begin to stack pages back on top of another. “Yes. I made the necessary changes to it all. I just need to put it all into practice and, hopefully, get the results I want” you respond, clearing your parched throat. His gaze is intense, you can feel it at the back of your head like two sharp points of a stick. 

“You’ve been pushing yourself today, unnecessarily so. I sense some growing frustration from you” he says, leaving the topic open ended, expecting you to explain yourself, but where do you even begin without looking like a fool? Like a child? 

You sigh, looking around the table yet searching for nothing as you shrug your shoulders. “No, no.. I just haven't been sleeping too well lately, and it seems that all is catching up to me” you offer a empty excuse, before reaching for a blank sheet of paper, a part of you yearning to keep him here, and the other wishing him to leave you with your own emotional burdens. “If a report is what you need, I can only offer what I have from the experiment thus far, but it is not concluded, I apologize”

“Ah, yes.. sleep. One thing that is most underestimated in its importance” he mused out loud, tone flat and ignoring your latter statement for a moment too long. He was pressing deeper into the crux of the matter, not letting you shift the topic too easily. “The report for an unfinished work will not be necessary, it’s much more preferable if you take a bit longer to get end results than to hand over a half-baked product”, he sighed, pushing his golden rimmed glasses further up the bridge of his nose. “Your dedication is admirable, but we can hardly expect progress if you're operating on insufficient rest and mental fatigue”.

You have to stop yourself from either chuckling or spinning around to stare at him as if he was speaking backwards. But no matter what you tried, you couldn’t stop your heart from hammering in your chest.

“Perhaps you should have Baizhi take a look at you. She can prescribe you some soothing medication to help you sleep. But as for work.. You’re done for today” he stated plainly, looking to the side and barely missing your shocked eyes.

“What? Are you dismissing me?” you blurted out, suddenly afraid you have done something wrong or that you offended him in some capacity. He’d never send you home, especially not when you were in the midst of a project. 

“It's not a matter of dismissiveness, but rather a practical decision. If your exhaustion is hindering your ability to perform optimally, what benefit is there in insisting on your presence here?” he replied, his tone cool and detached. You blink at him owlishly, confused and, quite frankly, afraid. Previous anger, sadness and jealousy all melting away from your bones like wax over a flame. The flame being Mortefi himself. An eternal blaze that swallowed everything in its wake. You were wondering how it didn’t engulf you by now.

But in that thought alone you missed the point of it all. His flames didn’t touch you, didn’t scorn you because he willed them that way. The warmth of them kept you warm, kept you alive, kept you in this field and as his coworker, a place most others wouldn’t be able to handle. He would soften it all if he knew how, to show you he cares.

Sensing a shift in your emotions, Mortefi softened his gaze, a subtle nod of understanding replacing the usual aloofness he carried. He saw the confusion and fear in your eyes, and it pained him that he had inadvertently caused it. He knew that his words could often come across as cold and dismissive, but it was never his intention to harm or offend.

“Rest is not a punishment, but a necessary part of the work process. To push oneself to the point of exhaustion is unproductive. It only inhibits progress. Trust me when I tell you this."

Softness is undeniably present in his voice now, and your mind goes blank. Your mind was still stuck on this morning, on your project, but here he was breaking all illusions and thoughts by simply being kind. 

“I can’t say I don’t appreciate your concern, but..” you look up at his eyes only to find a scowl curling the corners of his lips, and you sigh again, looking away in embarrassment. “I can’t argue with you either, can I?”

“No, you cannot. Now, go pack up what you have. I’ll go contact Baizhi and see if she can get a check up on you before you leave”

“No, no, that won’t be necessary..” you wave your hands before you, shaking your head simultaneously to deny the offer with your entire being. “I already have some tea at home that can help me with this, no need for a check up. I insist” you try, but only get a cocked brow from Mortefi, you can already tell what he’s thinking. 

“Tea alone cannot be sufficient in treating issues related to poor sleep. Besides, it goes without saying Baizhi is well versed in medicine, and her prior check-ups of your health have been of great help to you, have they not? If tea was that simple of medicine, why have you not seen improvement?” he shot back sharply and you grew quiet, not wishing to prolong this argument further, but staying silent wouldn’t be the way to go either.

“I don’t want to see Baizhi right now” you said plainly, tone low and softened involuntarily. Your reply was met with a skeptical look, Mortefi’s head tilted in question. “And why not? Do I need to pull you to her office myself? You’re not a child, (Y/n)” he countered, not low on his arsenal of words and snappy remarks. He approached you closer, closing the distance between the two of you until he could peer into your avoidant eyes, making your heart skip a beat.

“I just.. Mortefi, I don’t know. I don’t want to see Baizhi and that’s final. Don’t make me go see her. I’ve seen enough of you two this morning” It slipped from your mouth sooner than you could pull it back, and immediately you regretted your choice of words, cursing the ability to speak. “Uh-”

Mortefi froze in his tracks, his sharp eyes widening subtly in surprise. The mention of Baizhi and himself seemed to strike a chord in him, and his stoic façade cracked just enough to betray a hint of confusion. “Hm? Have we done something to offend you to this degree of avoidance? I wasn’t aware of any discomfort inflicted upon you” he knitted his brows, looking at you for answers, his turn to feel on edge now. Were you implying he was acting out of line with Baizhi? He knew of how he behaved around others and he saw no flaws in his dealings with other colleagues, so it all left him in a more twisted maze. 

You swallowed the lump in your throat, lips pressing into a thin line. “Mortefi- no. You haven’t done anything to offend me, I am not offended. I just.. uh.. No, it’s all too silly. I just meant that you two just seem to be too busy with your shared workload, and I just got tired of seeing it all” It’s a badly written lie, and the truth is bleeding through the cracks in neon colors. You’re cringing at yourself, really.. The lies you were uttering, however poorly woven, were evident in the way your face creased. He could almost hear your thoughts, almost see the jealousy and insecurity that plagued you through the lies you were trying to hide behind.

He paused for a moment, considering the situation carefully, before responding. "Is it really about our workloads, or is there something else that you're not telling me?" He asked calmly, his voice low and measured.

A pregnant pause befell your ears, only being interrupted by a distant hum of a machine outside of the room, and the footsteps of other workers in the halls. He does not push you to answer swiftly, instead he waits, patient as ever with you.

“I suppose…”

“You suppose..?”

It’d be a lie to say he wasn’t taut as a bowstring, ready to hear you out, anticipating your reply. His heart was squeezing painfully in his chest.

“Ugh..I just.. Promise me you will not be angry at me, and that you will not think ill of me after I tell you?” 

“Well, this must be big if you’re asking that of me” he breathed out. Your hesitation was palpable, and the silence between them dragged on, only adding to the palpable tension. Finally, the words came, and he felt a strange mixture of anticipation and trepidation.

“I'll promise no such thing will come from me. Your words cannot change the way I feel about you” he replied, his voice tinged with a touch of irritation.

With a heavy breath you closed in on yourself, arms folded over your chest. “I was just.. watching how close you and Baizhi are this morning and for a long time now. You always spend so much time together, and despite you and I being direct coworkers and more than that outside of this Academy, I feel.. left behind”

“You are jealous?”

“If you wish to put it that bluntly - then yes. I am”

Mortefi’s coldness and stiffness seemed to melt, the answer finally clearing up the brain fog that had started to develop in his head. Things were looking clearer at long last, and with that he also felt as if he failed you. He has failed to make you feel appreciated as you deserved, and that makes his gut twist in on itself.

“I fail to see why you’d be jealous of Baizhi, even with the time we spent together. Baizhi and I are strictly work colleagues and nothing more. You are the one that gets to be in my presence, sharing stories and desserts after work hours..” Mortefi says out loud, moreso speaking to himself than you, as if trying to figure out your point of view. He wasn’t dismissing your emotions, but he failed to grasp them within his own two hands. He had been so preoccupied with his own work and responsibilities that he had failed to notice the toll it was taking on his relationship with you. His focus had been so singularly on his research, on his partnership with Baizhi, that he had unintentionally neglected the depth of the connection he had with you.

“I do have to apologize” he cuts you off before you can speak. “This.. area is not within my expertise, per se. If I had neglected you, I would’ve liked if you openly communicated this with myself” he offered, and the lighter in his hand feels like it will break apart under pressure.  “And while I can’t limit my time with Baizhi, as it is all just work, I can accommodate you as well by spending more time with or around you, if that will help you feel more.. at ease” 

There is clarity ringing its bell over your head as he speaks, already offering solutions to this problem you made out of irrational thought. Bless his heart, for all he is cold and aloof he is ten times more kind. Snappy as he is, he means well.

“Mortefi... Mortefi, I am sorry too. I did want to keep this with myself, it shouldn’t have come to this point where you try to resolve my issues by yourself”

At that he scoffed, almost chuckling but no laughter came from him. One hand perches itself on his hip and he looks at you with a look that screams of his desire to see this through. 

“Oh, but how can I ignore it now that it is in front of me? No, that will not do. Especially since it is you who we’re talking about. You go ahead now, I’ll think of something until the end of my shift. I’ll give you a call later this evening”

Afterwards your company would leave his presence and the lab, having left with more reason than conflict, and with a mind full anticipation of his words.

And just like clockwork, by the end of his shift he’d give you a call, telling you to come meet him at your favorite dessert place. 

Mortefi is special in his way of showing affection..

He is yet to learn his way with words when it comes to sweet nothings, but until then he can take care of you and help you out with work. Whatever helps you see that you, indeed, do matter much to him. 

Ⓒ n0tamused. Do not repost, translate, edit, and/or copy any of my works. Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated.

Tags: @pinksaiyans

[mediumgayitalian]

The satellite dish at Camp Half-Blood would be better suited as a cereal bowl.

It hardly works. It catches a grand total of nineteen channels, twelve of which are news stations, and the final seven almost never have anything playing that’s actually worth watching. But the DVD player only ever works every third month, and the strawberry plants have to be watered, so on rainy days, the sixteen of them cram into the rec room of the Big House, organised, fight-reduction seating for as long as Nyssa can tiredly maintain it, and squabble over the remote.

“It’s my turn! Give it to me!”

“Quit whining you little twerp —”

“Will! Make her give me the remote!”

“Snitch! Snitch! Sherman, beat him up —”

Nico narrowly dodges Kayla’s dirty sneaker, sniggering to himself as Will and Sherman share, for perhaps the first time in either of their lives, an identical sigh of endless suffering, each grabbing one sibling and yanking backwards. They’ve really dug their claws in, so it takes a couple tries.

“Kayla,” Will warns, both hands clamped around her ankles, “if you don’t let go in three damn seconds —”

“Ellis sucks at picking channels!”

“Everybody sucks at picking channels! We got maybe four to choose from!”

“Seven,” correct several people at once.

Will rolls his eyes. “Forgive me. I forgot about the three toddler channels the rest of y’all babies are so enthralled by.”

“As if you don’t watch Sesame Street with as much childlike glee as the rest of us, Solace.”

“Can it, Diaz. Kayla, remove your nails from his face!”

A hand tugs on his sleeve. Nico glances over to find Austin’s big, pleading eyes, and since he is a massively weak loser, apparently, he sighs, mouth twitching when Austin wiggles happily, and plunges his hand into the nearest shadow.

He digs around for a second, trying to orient himself, and smirks when he sees his hand reappear across the couch, right in between Kayla and Ellis’ heads. He waits, watching for a break. Austin watches carefully next to him, hands still around his other wrist, and when the timing is right — a twitch in Kayla’s knee indicating an oncoming kick that even Will won’t be able to stop — he squeezes. Nico darts between them, snatching the remote for himself. He passes it to Austin with a wink. Austin points it to the TV immediately, clicking it to what everyone has aptly named the ‘Grandma Channel’ — twenty-four-seven footage of gardening set to quit jazz.

Thirteen groans — one cheer by Miranda, their lone ally — sound at once.

“You’re weak as all hell, di Angelo,” Billie informs him, obviously a fake gardener. Shame.

He makes a face at her.

Despite their troubles, the peace of the Grandma Channel does not last. In what can only be a coordinated attack, Nico and Austin are lulled into a false sense of security, entranced by a particularly satisfying timelapse of a grape vine, and when their guards are down, they are ambushed. With a deafening war cry, Harley is flung bodily on top of the two of them, landing with two gleeful elbows to Nico’s shoulder and Austin’s ribs, rendering them breathless and perhaps even close to death.

“No maiming,” Austin protests, wheezing.

“I’m telling Chiron,” Nico agrees, similarly struggling to reinflate his lungs. He glances at his medic boyfriend, also known as Judas, who only shrugs, smirking. His thumb is notably smeared with grease, a consequence of touching Harley no matter how many times Nyssa forces him to shower. Traitor. “No maiming is, like, the only rule here.”

Harley climbs off of them, elbows once again violating the rule on the way off. Nico actually feels his spleen compress into the size of an atom.

“Tough!”

The little twerp hands his prize to his big sister, who points it at the screen gracefully, as if she did not just use said brother as a weapon against two innocent people. Constantly innovative, those Hephaestus children.

Nyssa, on account of having hands like steel wires and a right hook that could make Muhammad Ali fall crying to his knees, is left peacefully alone with the remote. Nico glares at her, as he often does, with equal amount of hatred and awe. His emotions are widely replicated across the overstuffed couches.

She clicks rapidly through the channels, as she always does, fast enough that the sound echoes like static along with the rain.

breaking — jump! — traffic — learn — George — crayon — soil — sale —

She hardly rests in a channel for more than a second, cutting in the middle of sentences and even words, images flashing rapidly across the screen, swirling colour and skipping melodies, steadied by the roll of thunder, the patter of raindrops, the roar of wind and away of bending trees.

kids! — buy — gun — bridge — add — spade — colour — nine — east —

Austin sighs from beside him, sinking into the couch. Nico breaks away from the hypnosis for a moment to glance at the rest of the room and finds everyone else similarly entranced; eyes half-lidded and unfocused against the still-swirling TV, heads tilted back, curled into each other, limbs slow, fingers tapping quietly.

run — neat — rose — pasta — schools — closure — Sola — bumper —

“Wait,” Will murmurs.

gym — roll — climb — bush — accident — bud —

The old couches creak as Will shifts, Kayla pushed gently to the side as he moves forward.

“Nyssa, wait. Go back.”

The rain seems to mute itself. Nico is aware, quite suddenly, of the stiff set to Will’s spine, the odd quality of his voice. Nyssa, too, must recognize it, because she glances over at him, then slowly back to the TV, pressing the channel button once and setting the remote carefully on the coffee table in front of her.

No one grabs it.

“— terrible tragedy,” says a news anchor. “Unbelievably, really, Barbara, and something so sudden —”

“No,” Will says.

“Yes, Dave, always something you read about in old newspapers but never remember happens in real life —”

“No. No.”

He reaches for the remote but misses the first time, patting blindly on the table, and the second time, too, eyes glued to the bright screen. His hand scrabbles, nails digging on the old wood, increasingly desperately, but his eyes won’t move, face won’t pivot. Nico swallows, pushing back the sting of bile crawling slowly up his throat, the dullness in his ear, muffled like his ear is turned to a soundproofed wall. The hands he tells to reach over and hand the remote to Will don’t work.

“— almost makes me think of James Dean. That’s Naomi Solace, for those just tuning in, currently in critical condition from a head-on collision with a semi in Savannah, Georgia —”

Nico’s ears white out completely.

Will’s knees hit the floor.

———

next

[fxckn-sxck-fr]

❗❗ HEY ❗❗ I SAUR YEW ADD BUCKY BARNES TO YOUR MLIST 🫵🫵🫵 YOU AINT SLICK ❗❗

anywayssss would you be willing to rank your comic book men on least to most willing to kill for their darling? i know we got your opinion on dick but i wanna see how it compares to everyone else

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐂 𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐌𝐄𝐍 𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐌𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄𝐋𝐘 𝐓𝐎 𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋…

!!! GN reader, mentions of death/murder, violence, breaking bones, intimidation, threats, manipulation, general mental issues, biochemical attack (how the fuck did we get here), mutilation, self-harm, can be translated as either romantic or platonic.

Help, why did the beginning of this ask trigger my fight or flight for 0.2 seconds, LMAO. I dropped my phone like I was caught red-handed or some shit.

So, I initially made an oath to not answer any more asks until I either finish Life With Older Brother IV or my secret side project, but then I got this ask and figured I could use a little creative break. I’m hitting some brick walls right now with all of my writing projects, sobs.

So!! Here we go. Remember, this is in the order of least to most likely in a general sense. Featuring some new faces because I’m finally confident in depicting their comic book counterparts, yippee!!

Jaime Reyes: Obviously, if the scarab had its way, anyone who poses as a threat to Jaime’s beloved would be neutralized. But we’re talking about Jaime. As long as he’s in full control, he’d probably do everything in his power to not kill anyone, even if it’s for you. He knows he’s fucked in the head. No matter how hard he tries to convince himself it’s still just the scarab preying on his anxieties, it’s getting harder and harder to distinguish Khaji Da’s thoughts from his own. This spiral into insanity around his own morality and guilt would have him cling oh-so desperately to the idea that he’s still a hero. To him, the no-kill role is the only way to know for sure he’s still (kind of) himself.

Bruce Wayne: He’s The Batman. Of course he doesn’t kill. Sure, he may be a bit more violent towards potential threats when it comes to you, but he still doesn’t kill. It’s a core belief that he’ll stick to for as long as evil lurks in the shadows of Gotham. Besides, why would he need to kill when cracking a few ribs gets the message across just fine? Most people don’t even want to fuck with him in the first place; both as Bruce Wayne and especially The Batman. In many cases, simple intimidation will do the trick. It’s much neater than violence. Though violence is definitely still on the table when he’s in a mood (Alfred, for the last time, he does not need a therapist. He’s perfectly functional).

Clark Kent: Whereas Batman doesn’t kill, Superman can’t kill. Meaning, Clark is well aware of the image he has to uphold as the ever-so hopeful Man of Tomorrow. Which is actually fine by him. Due to his strong sense of morals, the thought of blood on his hands makes him sick to his stomach. But there are some cases where that dark voice in the back of his mind whispers he could easily snap the neck of that weirdo talking to you. Of course, this is clearly just a strange intrusive thought, and he guiltily shakes it out of his head the moment it appears. He’s Superman, for heaven’s sake! He’s better than that! Stooping to that level is simply not an option. But you know what is an option? Gripping people hard enough that their bones shatter. Accidents do happen, after all…

Wally West: The chances of him killing are very slim. Believe it or not, he’s not against the idea or anything (only when it comes to you), it’s just he doesn’t see the need to get his hands dirty. There are enough tactics in his arsenal that the thought won’t even cross his mind. A silver tongue can work miracles on its own, and standing at 6 feet tall, Wally can be surprisingly intimidating in his own right. Should there be any threat agains you, he’s more focused on getting you out of harm’s way than beating the shit out of anyone (that comes later, away from your prying eyes). At worst, anyone who pushes their luck will get fractures and road rashes as a result. Killing just isn’t an impulse Wally has. But if it absolutely has to happen… well, wouldn’t that be a shame?

Dick Grayson: As mentioned before in a previous ask, killing is off the table. Dick’s still a hero, and heroes don’t kill. It’s just that he miiiight accidentally lose control if he sees you in a critical state. The ask goes into much deeper detail than this, but to sum it up, he would feel devastated afterwards but eventually justify it to himself. It was to protect you… if he didn’t do it, god only knows what would’ve happened. Otherwise, he’s not one to get his hands dirty like that. The most he’ll do is deliver a very ominous threat that doesn’t outright mean he’s going to kill anyone, but the implications aren’t very pretty. And, if he can help it, he’d rather if you’re not in earshot. Unless if he somehow sees it as a good manipulation tactic. Then sure, you can hear all about how he’s going to drown someone in their own bathroom.

Peter Parker: He has a strong aversion to killing. Now, is that an outright no? As much as he’d like to think so, there are situations where no-kill is optional. Most of them involve you being in active danger. While he doesn’t go out of his way to kill anyone, he sure as hell isn’t thinking about the survivability of his rampage to make sure you’re safe. Causalities would be collateral damage; unfortunate, but possibly necessary. He also has a habit of threatening people’s lives when he’s particularly pissed off. As long as you’re not in some sort of critical state, he usually doesn’t follow through with them (and may even feel guilty afterwards). That being said, hearing your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man deliver a cold one-liner about wanting someone dead is still hella scary.

Steve Rogers: Listen, it’s not at all what he wants. He wouldn’t advocate for murdering your problems away both with or without the shield. But sometimes — just sometimes — it’s necessary. Of course he’d kill someone that posed as a threat to your personal safety. That doesn’t make him a terrible person or anything; most people would do that for their loved ones. Where the line starts to blur, however, is when there isn’t any immediate danger. Does that weirdo who was looking at you for too long count? God— no, Rogers. What is wrong with you?! But… then again, there was this look in their eyes… something’s just so off about them. Ultimately, Steve wouldn’t go through with it, but the thought does cross his mind. Not that he’d ever admit it, of course.

Hal Jordan: The answer is yes, but mostly because he’s a Lantern. Sometimes, neutralizing the threat is necessary. He would absolutely kill if it meant saving your life. Is it ideal? Absolutely not. Is it cathartic?… Lowkey. Hal’s not afraid to abuse his right as a Lantern to “neutralize the threat.” But keep in mind that this is a rare occurrence that depends on his mood. Really, he only considers it for situations you’re extremely distressed by, like some piece of shit giving you the creeps. He wouldn’t kill for his own personal gain, as much as he sometimes wants to; this is all about you, not him. I also don’t really see him having regrets. If he wants someone dead, he absolutely means it.

Remy LeBeau: It’s simple; if he’s gotta do it, he’s gotta do it. He’s got not moral hang-ups when it comes to killing. He doesn’t do it often, but he’s willing to clean up a mess or two if needed. The need to kill ranges from your personal safety to just not liking someone’s vibe. If that were the case, he’d give the poor sucker more than enough hints to leave you alone. Murder would be a last resort should they not listen; which is totally on them, by the way. Gambit can’t help it if they’re not the sharpest tool in the shed. Is kinetically charging someone’s car to explode not enough of a warning or something? Man, what is wrong with people these days…

Tim Drake: Okay. Tim is just so versatile. Yes, he’s absolutely morally opposed to killing. Yes, it’s a necessary evil. Yes, the thought of it makes him want to throw up. Yes, he’d do it in a heartbeat for you. Somehow, all of these thoughts coexist in his sick little head. What makes Tim a threat is the fact he’s extremely unstable. One day, he’s got himself in check; god, he would never kill anyone, why would he do that?! Then the next day, he seems to have a change of heart; if anyone even looks your way, he’s dumping anthrax in their cereal. His preferred method is something clean, but if he’s in a particularly bad mood, he may revert to some mutilation with his nails. On those particularly violent days, he’d much rather harm himself than others, but there is something cathartic about scratching at someone else while sobbing about minute problems. Though that’s one hell of a “did I do that” moment when it’s over.

Scott Summers: Yes. And he’ll fucking do it again, too. When it comes to you, this man has killed people by accident before. Did he give a shit? Absolutely not. Why would he care if someone doesn’t know how to protect their spinal column when taking a blow; especially if it’s someone who dared to lay a hand on you? And, yeah, he’s supposed to be a good role model for mutants all over the globe, but a good leader knows how to take calculated risks when needed. Your safety is his top priority, meaning he’ll do whatever he deems necessary to keep danger away. Man, is it just absolutely brutal watching someone’s skin melt away from the friction of one continuous optic blast. Who knew he could cave in skulls with that shit?

Bucky Barnes: Let’s be honest, is anyone surprised? Yeah, that’s what I thought. You could simply point to someone you hate and they’d be gone within the next 24 hours. Bucky isn’t here to fuck around. While he may regret any kills he was forced to carry out, he sure as hell doesn’t regret the ones he’s actively choosing to do. If anything, his conditioning has left him no other way to show his total devotion to you. Yes, this means you he leaves fresh human hearts at your doorstep. Yes, this means he strings up the remains of your annoying colleagues where you can see them outside. Yes, this means he watches you sleep while caked in blood and guts after every nightly kill. Some small part of him knows it’s wrong, but he really could not give less of a shit. So much for trying to reform him…

[novankenn]

So if Jaune survives the process what happens then? Does Salem try to make him join her? Goes to convert the rest of the blood family like Saffron, the other sisters and Adrian? Blame Opzin thinking he hid this?

Answer: I'm not sure... let's see what my brain comes up with!

Original Post : You Look... Familiar... OP Follow-up: You Look... Familiar... Confirmations?

You look... Familiar... End-Result

Jaune's eyes were wide with fear as he watch Salem approach with the bowl in hand. He twisted and thrashed, but it was of no use. Salem with but a wave of her free hand summoned more shadow-hands to hold him still. Soon she was standing over him. Her face impassive... completely emotionless.

Salem: I would wish you luck... but honestly don't care. If you survive you will be mine wholly, if you do not... it's one less insect to crush.

With those words Salem, tipped the bowl over spilling the sludge like fluid over Jaune's face. Jaune wanted to scream as he felt the black slim, move. First was fear and then there was absolute pain. HIs back arched off the floor as liquid tendrils invaded his eyes, nose, mouth and ears.

His body contorted, and thrashed as the pressure of the invading substance let way to a searing pain flooding through his entire being.

Salem: Interesting.

Jaune's heart slammed against his rib cage as his mind twisted and fragmented. But Salem did not see that, change, no she only saw his blanching skin, bleaching hair, and the black veins of Grimm essence snaking through the places where his flesh was exposed.

Salem: So she did survive. That is quiet unexpected, but useful. Yes it would be useful, so much more than recruiting the dregs I am forced to associate with.

The shadow hands retreated back into the floor, as Jaune's writhing calmed. Salem was impressed with how completely her tainted Grimm essence melded with her distant descendant. It was if it was meant to be. Jaune's eyes fluttered open. The azure blues that had Pyrrha swooning in life... were gone. Black and red looked up at the embodiment of evil.

Salem: You're perfect! Rise my child. Rise.

Jaune said nothing as he rolled onto his side and slowly crawled to his knees, before finally climbing to his feet. He turned and faced the Queen of the Grimm. The twisted being that had tainted his very soul with her poison.

Salem: Tell me. Where is you family? How many are there of our blood?

Jaune: ...

Salem: Answer!

Jaune: ...

Salem: Impudent child! I am your mistress you will answer me!

Jaune: ...

Salem: If you won't volunteer the information I'll rip it from you head myself!

Salem moved forward intent on using her powers to shred Jaune's mind in search of answers, but she never was given the chance. Jaune's fist connected with her sternum sending her sailing through the air to crash into one of her ancient tables. Slowly she rose from the debris and snarled.

Salem: I... will break... you...

Jaune: You... can... try...

From the shadows of the room, a pack of Alpha Beowulf emerged. Called to being by their mistress. Though she wouldn't admit it, she was impressed that the young gimmified man standing in defiance of her didn't even flinch.

Salem: I do not have to try.

Jaune's snaped out with each of his hands, releasing twisting tendrils of dripping black and white ooze, that impaled the several Alpha's surrounding him.

Jaune: You will never touch... my family...

Salem: How is this possible?

As Salem and Jaune stared each other down, their respective creations tore into one another with ruthless and reckless abandon...

[skiitter]

Ellana looked for Solas everywhere, in every shadow and alleyway of Thedas, at every ephemeral border of her dreams. She hunted him through time, through the annals of her own ancestral history, down through the last long decade of her too short life. She searched for even the echo of his presence in places too old and too broken to be named. And in every corner, through every door, across every dusty room, she found nothing. He was a ghost of a memory, something she stole and kept pressed to the edge of her ribs, just painful enough to remind her it happened.

As the years and the emptiness of her life shuffled on, Ellana's loneliness blossomed outward, consuming the gentler parts of her, until all that was left was bitter and ugly, the refuse of all her wasted hope. And so, for the sake of what life she had life, she set aside that aching desire, and refocused her grim determination on solving problems that he created. If Solas would not have her now, just as he did not keep her then, then so be it. He broke her heart, but she would not let him break the world.

She never expected to see him again, not in this life anyway, and most certainly not in the face of a stranger, in a tavern far, far away.

"This," Morrigan said, "is Rook."

Afterwards, her hand shook for want of something to cling too. The wolf statue she'd given to Thedas's newest champion was all she'd brought on her journey, and so it was to her own miserable shock she was forced to clutch.

"So, what did you think of her?" Morrigan asked upon their return to the south.

'I hate her' was the very first thought in her head, but Ellana pushed it aside for something appropriate, something fair. "She's so young."

Morrigan nodded. "Tis true, she is. But so was the Warden Amell, so was Varric's beloved Hawke," she paused. "So were you."

Ellana felt every second of her 36 years hit her all at once and she failed to keep the grimace from her face. "She's not Dalish, despite her name. I was expecting her to be more..." She could hear the word 'elfy' in Sera's voice as clear as day. "It must drive him mad."

"Oh, I'm sure many things about her do. She's quite obstinate, I'm told." Dorian stepped through the Eluvian after them, brushing imaginary fade-dust from his tailored robes. "Harding says she reminds her of you, all spitfire and stubborness."

It wounded like nothing had in a decade. It was a feeling so far removed from her repertoire of emotions, she didn't dare name it until safely alone in a room, far from prying eyes and clever sight.

Jealousy.

It's so base, so sincere in its immaturity, Ellana smiled despite the revelation. Jealousy, now, at the end of the world. How small it felt before the onslaught of things sure to come, how useless. But it was felt all the same. What a ruin the last decade had made of her pride, the irony of which she was unable to ignore. It would be better, she knew, if she did not love him. It would be easier, she knew, if she hated him. And yet.

And yet.

"El, darling, I've brought you some very expensive and fancy wine that you will pretend to enjoy and I--" Dorian trailed off at the sight of her hunched over in bed, sobbing quietly into her hands. "Oh, Ellana." He did not ask, no one ever did anymore. Instead, he sat down and drew her to him.

"It's not fair," she said into the crook of his neck. "It's not bloody fair."

"Love never is."

"It should be me, sifting through his fractured thoughts, demanding answers and receiving none. A decade of my life, Dorian. A decade. And it's just some--some girl instead." Ellana scoffed in disgust at her own fallible heart. "Her people, they live in his--his home--they--they are sat among his things. They--" She scrubbed at her face, pulling away. "I am so sick of missing him, of wanting answers to a question I asked years ago."

"I know."

"Does this make me foolish? All these years, and I'm still so heartbroken. I'm responsible for the safety of a thousand people and one man, one stupid and prideful man, has weakened me so utterly I cannot help but hate what I've become." Ellana looked at him. "I hate that I hate her. I hate that she was able to succeed where I failed."

"She's only where she's at because of Varric--"

"I spent years thinking of ways to make him stop, for just moment, to just listen to me. And now, she's got him trapped. Trapped and unable to run and I cannot even demand an audience after all this--this searching. He's just as unreachable to me now as he's ever been."

Dorian was at a loss for words, as nearly everyone was when presented with the ugly wound of her heartache. She did not begrudge him such things, nor did she push away his attempts to comfort. Instead, she cried for a while more, just for the posterity of feeling.

"Sorry," she scrubbed at her face after some time. "It's been a long day."

"It's been a long decade," he said gently. "Would you like some company or is this a 'wallow in your own loneliness' sort of evening?"

In response, she grabbed the bottle from him and took a heavy swig. It was impressively dry, like all Tevinter wine. With a grimace, she handed it back. "Company, definitely."

Several cups and not enough food later, the two of them sat before the small fireplace, having lapsed into companionable silence. He had just finished telling her of his recent run in with Vivienne and at the mention of their old friend, her thoughts were inevitably cast back in time to the Dread Wolf.

"I can see him in her," she said softly. "I see Solas in her expression, in the way she carries herself. It's...it's agonizing."

Dorian reached out and took her hand.

"She's so young and the weight of the entire world is on her shoulders. I know that feeling, I know how hard it is going to get," Ellana sighed. "I cannot begrudge her for things wholly out of her control."

"It is okay to hate her, even if it is only a little bit," he replied. "I won't tell."

"I know." She gave him a sad smile. "Maybe at the end of this, on the other side of all this carnage, I can ask her to tell him that I..." There was no word to properly encapsulate the sumtotal of everything she felt for Solas. "That I miss him, even now. And that if he ever wanted to talk, I will always be here to listen."

"He doesn't deserve your heart, Ellana, he never has."

"I know, but it's his anyway."

[theconstellationprincess]

Whumptober day 8: Sleep deprivation

There are far too many things to get done in a day for a herald of the High King. Elrond favours work over sleep, and quickly realizes the consequences of doing so.

—

Life in Lindon was chaotic, for although all elves liked to portray themselves as wise and composed, that was often not the case outside of formal events. A banquet was being held in two days time, and Elrond had a heavy hand in the preparations, as it was hosted by High King Gil-Galad.

The planning had gone smoothly, suspiciously so, and Elrond was not surprised when everything fell apart once it had been put into practice. He had not slept in a matter of days for more than a few hours, which may be enough for an elf, but he is not a full elf. Exhaustion plagues his movements, and he can only blame himself when he trips over his own two feet and hits the floor, barely managing to toss his hands out to catch himself.

He is dizzy, as he rights himself and continues on his way, albeit more carefully. Dark spots dance on the edges of his vision, but he pushes onward, because it is only another hour or so before he’ll be able to take a break.

Various other elves rush past him as he goes his own way, greeting him with a nod that he returns. There is a solidarity in being part of the staff who coordinate everything from behind the scenes. A hand catches his sleeve as he swiftly walks down some steps, pulling him off balance. He jerks back, wobbling precariously on the edge of a step as he looks towards the elf who had grabbed his sleeve. He blinks in the face of his High King. Had he gotten turned around somehow? He was attempting to deliver a letter, and if his recollection of Gil-galad’s schedule today was correct, than he was nowhere near where he needed to be.

“Elrond." Biting his lip in contemplation, he left the spinning realm of his own head and rejoined the world he physically occupied. Gil-galad was staring at him, expectant, and Elrond realizes he must have missed a question. It would only frustrate Gil-galad to have to repeat himself, so Elrond determines the most likely questions and decides to answer them all.

“I’m busy.” Spills out of his mouth, exhausted and flat, instead of the eloquent response he was trying to form in his head while it felt like it was full of cotton. And then he takes a step forward, forgets that Gil-galad is still holding his arm, and promptly falls down the remaining ten steps of the stairs.

“Ow.” He mumbles, chest aching painfully as he draws in careful breaths. He landed flat on his back, and is grateful because it keeps Gil-galad out of his vision. He had just made an utter fool of himself, he is well aware, and for a moment he longed for Elros, who would certainly be laughing at him and break the horrible awkwardness Elrond can feel settle over the stairwell.

He blinks slowly, because it has been many hours since he last laid down, and the marble floor is comfortably cool. He needs to sit up, return to work- oh the letter! Pockets, which pocket did it end up in- still there.

Elrond breathes a sigh of relief and cringes as his ribs protest the motion. With any luck, they would only be bruised, and he would not need to visit the halls of healing. There is a shadow blocking his vision, and there is a small hope in his heart that it is Maedhros, come to check on him after he fell. But he is not a child, and the shadow is Gil-galad, because he is an adult with responsibilities that do not include being stuck in the past that he was never supposed to have loved.

“Are you injured?” Gil-galad sounds worried, and Elrond frowns because he knows that his High King is stressed enough. Heralds are supposed to reduce stress, not add to it. One of the guards helps him sit up, and then pulls him to his feet. Elrond dusts himself off so he can figure out how to formulate the least stressful response.

“I will be bruised, but nothing has broken. I apologize, High King, I am simply in a rush. Do you require me?” That sounds much more like him, the herald, the messenger, the banquet planner, than the exhausted peredhel he actually is. He is not build to work the hours of the average elf, though he has noticed many of the others who have been assigned to work on the banquet have been struggling as well.

Gil-galad puts his hands onto Elronds shoulder and looks deep in his eyes. Elrond blinks, maintaining the eye contact for as long as he is able, but eventually he looks away, diverting his gaze downwards. His head is aching, though he isn’t sure if it is from the fall or the tiredness that seems to have gotten even worse the longer he’s been standing here.

“Come, I will escort you to the halls of healing. You must get looked over, at the very least.” Elrond opens his mouth to protest, he is far too busy for this, he will go later when there is more time (… if there ends up being more time), but Gil-galad gives him a stern look. “I insist, Elrond.” And he does not try to protest again.

The walk is long, and he knows it is mostly his fault, as he is placing his feet very carefully with every step to avoid another incident. They seem to grow heavier with every passing moment, and his vision darkens further at the edges. His heart beat is loud in his ears, but he pushes forward, if only out of the petty desire to prove Gil-galad wrong. Elrond does not need to be fretted over, he is managing quite fine on his own, even if it is draining him and every morning feels a little bit harder. He will overcome his barriers in due time.

He perhaps sits down a little heavily on a bedwhen they finally enter, grabbing at his cloak to stop his hands from shaking. One of the guards fetches a healer for him, and Gil-galad explains the situation. He feels the slightest bit like a child, being talked for in a situation like this. Elros had done it for him, as Elrond’s voice had failed him repeatedly for many years, until Maglor had, for a reason he had never explained, taken it upon himself to strengthen Elrond’s voice and teach him to sing. His voice had rarely failed him after those lessons.

The healer was gentle as she checked him over, clicking her tongue when he flinched as she prodded his ribs. “They are not broken,” she says in accented Sindarin, a different accent to his own but one nonetheless. It makes him feel a little better. “But he would benefit from some rest.”

Elrond cringes again, those were words he dreaded to hear. He cannot rest, he still has not delivered the letter! Gil-galad dismisses her and turns back to Elrond, glowering at him with narrowed eyes. "You will be the death of me, Elrond.” He sighs with what Elrond hopes is fond annoyance. “Go rest, I will find another to handle your responsibilities."

“High King I assure you I can-“

“Elrond. Rest.” He stresses the last word, cupping Elronds face in his hands and staring deeply into his eyes. “Your High King commands it.”

Elrond frowns, but gives in, pouting when Gil-galad gave him a smirk. He lays back in the bed and shuts his eyes, breathing slowly and deeply. He expects Gil-galad to leave, but he does not, and though Elrond would be terribly embarrassed to admit it out loud, he sleeps a little easier knowing he is safe under the watch of Gil-galad.

[thechaoscryptid]

my writing warm-up today got a little out of hand so pls enjoy some Tav/Astarion (reads gender neutral but you can see my Tav under the cut) hurt/"Astarion's best attempts at comfort but they don't land real well bc he's still not sure how to Relationship and Tav is Unsure About Their Status Generally" from after clearing the Waning Moon (did I accidentally trigger the fight, yes). Takes place before The Hug Scene, but he can have some touching, as a treat.

"I don't think the fire's going to give up any secrets, dove, but you can keep glaring if you'd like." Astarion piles himself at your feet, hesitating only slightly before leaning back between your knees. The camp is silent save for the echoing, animal chittering in the surrounding forest, but you know the tension that lines his shoulders—he does not trust the quiet.

To relax is to bare your belly for gutting; to be vigilant is to survive.

By now, you have had enough of survival to last a lifetime.

The flames crackle, and the embers that dance their way down to the dirt do little to catch your bleary eyes. Exhaustion sings through you, echoing off of your ribs like a dirge from cathedral ceilings.

"Darling?" Astarion's fingers are cool against your ankles. They ease the ache that's built up over the last several days of sprinting across gnarled roots and crumbling brick. The Shadow-Cursed Lands take no prisoners, and though you are by far the weakest among your not-so-merry band, you will not be the link that breaks the chain.

There is too much at stake to fail.

Your dry mouth works as Astarion twists to look up at you, but no words come to mind. The furrow between his brow deepens when your fingers tremble atop his head.

"You're practically falling over," he accuses. "How in the hells do you expect to make it to bed? Why haven't you gone already?"

You shake your head once, mouth twisting in a smile that lands like a slap. "I took first watch."

"You—" He scoffs. "Gods, is everyone in this damned camp a fool? Don't answer that," he continues when you take a deep breath. "'We're all a team, Astarion; we need to look out for one another, you prick.' You've made the point so many times that I think about it when I trance." Draping himself across your thigh, he reaches up to cradle the plane of your throat. "How much magic did that...that beast take out of you? Wretched creature—you should have taken the drink, you know."

"All of it," you rasp. "And quite a few scrolls, in addition."

Astarion curses. "And everyone's all left you alone."

"I volunteered."

"They have eyes. They should use them." Astarion rises, all fluid grace and towering ire as he looms, carding a hand through your mussed braids. "Let me guess—you told them you were fine."

Though you butt your head into his palm like that cat at Last Light he was so enamored with, your eyes narrow as you glance up. "I am. Look, I can stand."

And you do, admirably steady for all of half a second before he pushes your shoulder and your calves knock against the felled tree you've dragged in for a bench. The sudden stop when Astarion grabs your elbows and pulls you into him sends a jolt down your already-frayed nerves.

"Anyone could walk up and take you, and you'd be defenseless," he murmurs. His hands slide down the length of your forearms, and then skim up to your jaw. You allow him to tip your head from side to side, but cannot meet his eyes—you've always found it hard to reconcile their emptiness with his professed concern.

You say, "Is that what you want? To take me?"

And he says, "No."

"Are you hungry, Astarion?"

"Not for you," he says, and he sounds so disgusted that you flinch. "Oh, not—" He clicks his tongue, then sighs. His whole body sags as he attempts to meet your eyes. "Look at me, darling. Chin up."

Though his touch is gentle, there is a poorly-concealed tremor in the fingers that curl in the hollows below your jaw. You look at his mouth, though it's impossible to read when it's lying.

"Oh, you are haunted by something tonight. I'm sorry, if that makes a difference. I only meant I want you strong tomorrow."

You list to your left and whine—it feels pathetic, even on a night such as this—at the undercurrent of sincerity in the apology.

"Come to bed," he says, softening. "Rest. I'll take watch."

"I promis—"

"Look around—no one's going to come for your throat about taking a night off." The world whirls as he twists you in his arms, then wraps them around your stomach as he nuzzles against your pulse. "I might have to get territorial if they did, you know. I do appreciate your willingness to offer it up; I'd hate to see it ruined. It would be a dreadful mess to clean up around camp, wouldn't it?

"And..." he continues, abandoning your neck in favor of walking you a few steps forward, away from the fire and toward his tent. "You sleep so soundly in my bed. I enjoy watching you come alive in the morning."

Your face heats, and you mumble, "Not that soundly."

"You snore."

Smacking lightly at the back of his hands, you squirm back around to face him. What you see does nothing to untangle the tight knot of feeling lashed to your chest: wide eyes gone soft with concern, a hint of mirth in the lines that frame them, and the beginnings of true fondness in his smile.

"What?" he asks when you avert your gaze.

You bite your tongue against the confessions borne on the leaden wings of exhaustion; this is not the place to delve into desires. It is easier to choke down I want more and I love you and We are the same shape of broken—to let them fester where they're branded on your bones—than to watch his eyes shutter against the words.

"I'm tired," you say instead, and it is the truest truth you've ever uttered, "of having to protect everyone."

"So don't." Astarion bends to rest his temple against yours. "Let me be your sword and shield, if only for the night. Rest, dove—you've more than earned it."

Bonus: my Tav, Kestra! She's a human sorcerer specializing in necromantic and cold damage, and based off of one of my original novel characters 🥰

[misstycloud]

Not-so-serious ask but more offff how would stalker! Yan react to seeing reader singing very vulgar/sexual songs? They do the dance moves and say every.single.word. Absolutely no shame in them.

(Songs like: “slut me out”- NLE choppa) thank you for your time!💖

Oh, god. Oh god. Oh god. Oh god!

The stalker covered their mouth with their hand to stop them from gasping out loud. They couldn’t have you hear them.

If you did, you’d notice them sitting in that tree you never liked right outside your window. It destroyed the view, you thought. Not that there was much to see anyway.

They had planned out their evening perfectly, go to your house, climb the tree as they’ve done so many times and snap a couple photos. Nothing more, nothing less.

Just a normal night for them, really. What they hadn’t expected was to see you through your living room window, singing a not-so censored song.

Inside your home, you repeated the lyrics of the song perfectly. You knew it like the back of your hand. “Ayy, rip off my shirt if you love me.” while singing, your body seems to have a mind of its own, throwing your arms out and stepping to the beat.

With shaky hands, your stalker lifted the camera up and pressed the button, a click emenating from it. The way you swayed your hips, and the way you told them to rip your shirt off. Oh, they could just die at the spot!

“(Y/n)~” they groaned your name and placed their palm over their heart; feeling how it vigoursly slammed against his ribs.

“Spit in my face when you fuck me.”

“I could never do that to you, my dear!” the stalker cried, “you’re too good for me, but if you want you can spit on me.” they said even though you had no way of hearing them.

“Play with my gooch, while you suck me~”

“Yes, I’d love to!”

“Eat the dick like you was ugly”

“Ah, I’m so terribly ugly compared to you!” a shamefully red blush dusted they’d cheeks because of your vulgar words, though there were not directed at them.

“Why you being so weird to me?”

The watcher froze up in the tree, together with all the green leaves as company. “I-I’m sorry, it’s just that…I like you so, so much…!”

You continued the song, unknowing of the dark shadow looming right outside your window, who had perfect sight of you and every single thing you did. You kept going, but they themselves appeared to be stuck on that line.

“I can’t help it! I like-no- love you! I love you. So, so, so, so much, you have no idea!”

It was the truth, they really couldn’t love anything or anyone as much as you. You were their entire world. Nothing mattered compared to you. You were their sun, the thing that brought colour and light to their otherwise bleak world.

That’s why they acted in a way most would consider…odd.

The things they acted upon wasn’t exactly what the majority of couples did. Normal couples don’t jot down their partner’s whole schedule. Normal couples don’t follow each other around constantly, without any concern for the hour. Normal couples don’t collect every single piece that had touched their partner’s body in any sort of way.

And normal couples definitely don’t print out photos of the other to cover their entire wall.

But it was all in the sake of love! Nothing harmful about that, surely it is all alright. Who could deny a young citizen with their entire life ahead of them a chance of loving something else other than their phone.

The stalker’s heart continued to thump loudly in their chest, making their ears drum at the feeling. They had taken all the pictures they needed for tonight and settled to listen. You had now gotten to the end of the song.

“Slut me out!”

Thump

“Slut me out!”

Thump

“Slut!-“

They leaned forward to get a better view of you since you’d began moving back in your home, making it somewhat harder to see you clearly.

“Slut!-“

They didn’t hear the crack sounding under them.

“Slut!-“

It was too late, disaster was inevitable.

“Me!-“

After another cracking noise, they glanced down to discover the branch breaking under their weight.

“-out!”

‘Crack!’

You jumped at the sound and quickly ran to turn off the music. You approached the windows and looked outside, but there was not a single would out there.

Only a tree with a broken branch.

[kinglazrus]

this isn't the beginning (but it's a start)

An AU where Portal Danny went missing his senior year of high school, and he's back home twenty years later.

Ch. 2 | Masterpost | Read on Ao3 | Cover art by @lil-yardstick | Glass figures by @what-even-is-sleep

Chapter One: Oblivion

It was always going to hurt.

Words: 2085 Warnings: mild gore

The star is dying. Tiny flares stretch into the darkness, fiery tongues lapping at the air until the thread of light tethering it to the whole breaks and the heat is lost forever as it dissipates. The star grows smaller with every burst. Dimmer. Colder.

It’s dying, and he might be dying with it, but that feels trivial in comparison. He dies every day.

It always starts in the burial ground, where he roams between the graves. Most of them are little more than mounds, gentle slopes in the grass where something is buried underneath. But others have been tended to so carefully, marked by stone with flowers laid upon them, as if to show there can still be life there.

It’s a nice sentiment, if a bit mistaken.

His memories are buried there, interred deep beneath the dirt and beyond his reach. Most are lost to him, and the few he knows, he knows only by the words carved upon their tombstones. They’re stories he’s been told, faces described, names repeated so many times they should be burned into his brain, but somehow manage to slip away from him again.

But he always wanders, and digs and digs and digs, until his nails are torn and his fingers bleed, and still there’s nothing. If there are any caskets here, he’s never seen them. He lays at the bottom of an empty grave, hands folded over his chest, mud clinging to his fingers as the damp seeps into his clothes and hair. He closes his eyes and wishes the dirt would pour over him. Sometimes it does, stinging his eyes, filling his mouth and nose. Pressing down on him until his ribs creak. And another piece of him dies as he goes stiff and cold.

But he doesn’t get to stay dead. When he wakes, he has to claw his way back up, remind himself who he is and why he’s here. And the next time he pitches forward into darkness, it happens all over again.

So, he’s used to dying.

Then why does this hurt?

It was always going to hurt.

A whimper pulls from his throat, and he holds the star even closer.

He could cradle it in his arms, before. Curl around it as he was enveloped in its light and warmth. Now, it’s caged between his palms, casting soft shadows that sink into the creases of his knuckles as he tries to hold the light in, but it just streams through his fingers while the space between his hands shrinks. Maybe he’s killing it faster. Squeezing the life out of it. Suffocating it. Or maybe, if he lets go, the cold surrounding them will rush in and snuff the star out. Or, without his hands to contain it, all the fire will burst out in one brilliant flash that leaves him blind and aching.

Another shudder ripples through him, and as his head bows toward his clasped hands, a drop rolls from his eye, carving a path down his cheek. It touches the corner of his mouth, seeping into the cracks of his dry skin. When he licks his lips, he tastes iron.

He mistook the blood for tears, at first. Tried to blink it away when he felt his eyes growing wet, and stared down at the polka dot napkin in his hand as his vision went fuzzy. Pretty pastel flecks—yellow, pink, blue, green—scattered like confetti across the paper, except where it was already smeared with red.

He pressed his thumb against the wet spot, wondering how it got there.

“Hey, put that back,” an older woman said. She stood just in front of him, not too close, but enough that he was backed into a corner between her, the wall, and the row of lockers beside him. Her frown deepened the wrinkles around her mouth as she took his hand in hers, raising it up to his face and pressing the napkin against his cheek, just below his eye. She held it there for a second, then squeezed his shoulder.

“Do you know what we did today?” she asked.

“I don’t...” It wasn’t meant to be an answer, but she took it as one. Rightly so. He wasn’t sure what he was doing right then, much less earlier in the day.

“What about the date?”

He blinked at her slowly.

“Okay.” She worried her lip, then ran her fluttering hands over her hair, which was pulled back into a tight bun. “Okay, hon. Go sit down.” She grabbed his shoulder once more and tugged him forward, nudging him toward a nearby doorway. “I’ll get your bag and be right back.”

She lingered another moment before heading down the hall, walking so briskly that each step kicked at her long, flowing skirt. She wasn’t quite running by the time she turned the corner, but it certainly wasn’t a walk.

He wondered what her name was.

Then he blinked, flinching in surprise when his eyelashes fluttered against a napkin pressed into his hand, and pulled it back.

Hm. Polka dots. Like confetti. Marred by two bright red stains. He started raising the napkin back to his face, because she had told him to keep it there.

Who?

He paused. That’s right. Or wasn’t right. He was alone.

That’s okay. Everything is fine.

His head throbbed. He crumpled the napkin in his fist and stumbled toward a nearby doorway. Everything spun as if balanced on a point between his eyes, and he could really use a moment to sit down. As he stepped through, the world tilted around him. His shoulder struck the door frame, and he would have pitched forward if not for the door itself, into which he stumbled as his knees went weak. He braced himself against it, leaning heavily on the doorknob while squeezing his eyes shut, and didn’t move until the world settled enough that he could look without feeling a swoop in his stomach.

Identical tables took up most of the room, their chairs poorly tucked, tops strewn with empty chip bags and paper cups. A few crumbs here and there, and some spilled juice that hadn’t dried yet. Along the wall beside him, a row of hooks overflowing with jackets and backpacks. On the far side of the room, a solitary desk accompanied by filing cabinets and a shelf crammed full of books.

One of the fluorescent lights above his head, the second from the left, flickered, clicking and buzzing as it flashed on and off. He stared at it until the stripes of light were burned on the back of his eyelids, and he tore his gaze away.

He looked to the tables again, to the crumbs and empty wrappers, and the crumpled napkin in his hand, and knew had forgotten.

The first shiver brought him to his knees.

It’s okay. It’s okay.

He gasped, clutching his shirt while tears poured from his eyes, but the drops that hit the tile beneath him were red. A howl filled his ears, keening and desperate and echoing all around him. Or maybe it was him. He could barely hear anything above the noise, but somehow a single shout broke through, and his head whipped up to see a woman in the doorway.

Oh, her.

The last thing he saw before the shadows rose up to meet him was the shape of his name on her lips, and then he was swallowed. Plummeting into the darkness and spat out here, before the dying star.

So it hurts.

Because he might be dying, too. Really dying.

He can’t remember what that feels like, but he imagines it’s something like this. With a heat building in his chest while his hands shake from a chill seeping even deeper. Trying to swallow past the lump in his throat as his tongue scrapes, like sandpaper, against the roof of his mouth, and every muscle in his body constricts until his head is bowed toward his knees in a mockery of confession.

He grasps his throat, fingers wrapped so tightly that he might have been choking himself.

“No.” It’s barely a word. A croak. A wheeze. The smallest moan pushed between his lips. Maybe it’s not a word at all, but he knows what he means to say as the iron blooms across his tongue. “Please.”

He can’t breathe. He doesn’t even need to, but now he can’t, choking as something wells in his throat. Guilt, maybe. How much has he pushed this mind away this past year? It’s not like he didn’t feel it. The pull. At first, just the brush of someone reaching out every couple weeks. Then a firm tug every few days. Then every day, as the gentleness gave way to desperation and pokes and prods that made him snap his teeth.

He wanted to answer. Wanted nothing more than to sink into this dream and see that familiar face. He’s sure he would be received with a smile, despite turning his back on it for so long. But he couldn’t. Not until he was ready. Did he even notice when it stopped reaching out? He tries, now, to recall the last time he felt that nudge against his mind.

How long ago was it? A few days, a week, a month. He can’t say. Time is such a difficult thing.

And now...and now...

He tries to reach back. Presses the star against his chest and wills the dream open, waits for the light streaming into the darkness to coalesce into the shape he knows so well. Instead, heat blooms in his chest, as if all the warmth the star lost has found a home behind his ribs. A spark catching and settings his organs on fire as it tries to burn him out.

So maybe he’s choking on his guilt, or it’s maybe just the mass squirming in his throat. He can’t feel it against his hand, but it’s there. Wriggling as it tries to dislodge itself. Scratching against the muscle. He imagines his throat splitting open and a fleshy mass spewing into the stars, squirming amongst the gore as it drifts into space. But no blood wells beneath his fingers.

He wouldn’t even care if it did.

He tries to gasp out, “Please, no, please,” but his chest squeezes and crushes the words before they can form.

No, that’s not quite right. It’s not a press in, but out, grinding the plea against his rib cage. A fullness, like when you eat too much and your stomach stretches to its limits, except the feeling rises from a place deeper within him. Where his heart used to be, where his core now resides beneath layers of ozone and ectoplasm that he moulded in a facsimile of flesh. A little too much swelling against the limits of this body and pulling his skin taut, something that should not be possible for a being who contains galaxies.

His mouth opens, though no sound falls out. He’s not even sure which of them he would be crying for, now, if anything but blood were pouring from his eyes.

Don’t go. Don’t go. Don’t go, please.

The stars around them blur. Not dying, just swallowed by the spots dancing at the edge of his vision. His eyes want to fall shut, but he refuses, afraid that if he even blinks, the star will disappear while he’s not watching.

It’s slipped from his grasp while he was thrashing and gritting his teeth. Flares burst off it in every direction as it shrinks smaller and smaller. He reaches toward it with one hand while the other clutches at his chest.

Stop this.

How?

Get it out.

The thing in his throat squirms and slips further down.

Get out!

Cracks spread along his chest. His skin burns as it splits open along old wounds, up his neck and across his jaw. He digs his fingers into the cracks, reaching inside his chest until he finds something soft and fleshy, and he squeezes.

Lightning rips through him, setting every nerve on fire, and his jaw snaps shut. A crack rings out as something in inside him gives. The sound echoes through his head. Blood oozes alongside the ectoplasm as he withdraws his hand, and the cracks along his skin seal once more. The heat rushes out of him, and though the throb in his chest is still there, it’s ebbed slightly, and he finally goes limp.

At the same moment, the star goes out.

—

Masterpost | Next chapter

[missbubblesoda]

early in the morning, especially when it rains, and a little before noon. (11)

erwin x fem!reader

chapters: (1) | (2) | (3) | (4) | (5) | (6) | (7) | (8) | (9) | (10) | (12) | (13) | (14) | (15) | (16) | (17) | (18) | (19) | (20) | (21) | (22) | (23) | (24) | (25) | (26) | (27) | (28) | (29) | (30)

summary: I basically took Isayama’s work, forced it into a romance story, and made Erwin the love interest. Commander meets cadet and they fall in love (not instantly though)

notes: very berry canonverse (but some events were modified to fit my narrative), wasn’t intended to be this long, but it all is in the details right?

content warnings: smut where it fits (or where I make it fit. Also, reader is NOT underage, so likewise, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, please.) slow burn (I really mean it. I’m not olympic diving into any form of smut for the first chapters.) no angst. I dislike angst. I would never. I could never. (Although angst can be somewhat subjective so take it with a grain of salt?)

wc: 3.4k

“I’m not sure I should.” He pulled his hand away and if it were anyone else, you would have been surprised, a little offended even; but with him, this was expected and very much in character.

“What’s wrong?” You whispered softly, even though you had a pretty good idea of what this all meant. “Am I not desirable enough, commander?”

“That’s not-” The words froze on his lips the moment you started to unbutton your shirt, eyes boring into his, as your fingers worked on revealing skin and silk lace alike. His attention drifted between your face and the soft, plump skin of your breasts, somewhat visible through your lingerie. As you stepped out of your shoes, your fingers helped with your skirt. It was just one button this time, so you knew it would be very easy. And it was.

As your long skirt fell to your feet, you couldn’t help but think about your parents, and how disappointed they would be if they knew that their daughter, their darling daughter, was stripping in front of a man, a man who happened to be her boss and not her husband. And you knew that he was thinking something along those lines as well. You knew that was probably what was stopping him too.

For years, your parents had been scouting at elegant parties and fancy Sunday gatherings, scouting for a suitable gentleman you could be promised to. For most girls, it all starts the moment they turn 16, but your parents had been thoughtful enough to wait until you were 18. You remembered those times all too well, especially the itchy gowns and boring dinner conversations, where nobody had been as uninterested and impassive as you and the poor young man sitting in front of you. Over the years, you had become good friends with many of them, but a friendship wasn’t what your parents were after. They had been tirelessly looking for someone your father could proudly ‘give you away’ to, for someone who, on your wedding night, would finally claim you as ‘his property’, as tradition stipulated. And any deviation in this path would see you casting a shadow of disgrace over your family.

You stood there in silence, looking at him, waiting for an answer, a faint twitch, an indication, for something. The lingering cold of the winter, somehow sneaking through the walls, hit your bare skin, as your chest rose and fell heavily. Any other man would slide his hand into your underwear and give you what you desired, craved, and needed. They would already be touching and kissing every patch of exposed skin, which right now, was pretty much all your body. Any other man would. That’s right. But he wasn’t just ‘any other man’.

“Just say you don’t want me and I’ll get dressed.” You spoke firmly, your heart threatening to break your rib cage. “Just tell me to leave. Commander, just give the order and I’ll get dressed and leave immediately.”

“I do want you. You know that.” You did. And, in case you didn’t before, the tightly clenched fists falling to his sides were giving it away. They were trying to hold back from you. You knew it all too well, because that’s what you had been trying to do for the last few months, every time he was around you. “But like I said, I’m not sure I should. No, in fact, I know I shouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because if I touch you, I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop.”

“But I don’t want you to stop.” You cupped his face with both hands.

“What about your fam-”

“It’s not my first time.” You looked straight into his eyes while you confessed to the worst imaginable crime any fine lady from Mitras could ever commit, and yet you couldn’t care less. “You don’t need to hold back. Commander, I’m not a little girl. I stopped being one a long time ago. I know what I want, and that just so happens to be you. So please touch me.” You begged again, not really caring about how shameless you might sound, and then waited in silence for a reaction. A reaction that came in the form of a faltering hand, slowly reaching towards you, but an invisible barrier seemed to stop it the closer he got to your skin. So you took his hand and placed it exactly where you needed him the most. And this time, he didn’t pull it away, instead you felt his fingers tentatively brushing the fabric of your underwear. And you weren’t surprised to discover that the slightest touch of his fingertips on your cotton covered clit was enough to make your mouth open in a silent moan.

As he caressed you over the fabric, you could feel your panties getting moist with every stroke, which were gentle, just as you had expected from him. He made your whole body feel like the night sky on a fireworks show, and you were torn between closing your eyes to enjoy the sensations or keeping them open to enjoy the view, the sight of those inviting lips slightly parted and those piercing blue eyes staring so intensely into yours as he felt you, as he got to know you in your most intimate form, in the most intimate of ways.

He looked so focused, sporting that same seductive look he had every time he sat down to plan a strategy or read one of those old history books he enjoyed flipping through on rainy afternoons. His eyes were scanning your features, studying your face to see what movement was correct. One could say he was like a musician tuning his instrument. And you came to the conclusion that everything he did was fucking perfect. Every circling motion of his fingertips against your clothed clit felt incredible, and just as delicious as you thought it would. You had been right in assuming your fingers could never provide you with the pleasure his could. Every single motion was deserving of a moan, that you gladly conceded. It was your way of complimenting him on his ability to make you delirious. To make you delirious when his fingers hadn’t even entered you, when they hadn’t even touched you directly. He was so talented that no direct contact was needed and you were already coming undone. And after making a mental note of asking him if this skill was natural or acquired through years of practice, you took his lips in a slow, and intentionally sloppy kiss.

The way his lips moved against yours contrasted the pace his fingers were beginning to pick up down there. He savored you in a way that stirred more than your imagination, so your fingers diligently worked on unbuttoning his shirt. And when you finally uncovered his chest and your palms felt the skin underneath, you had to pull back for a second. You were sure this was what gardeners feel when they find there is still lemonade left in the jar after hours of working under the sun, what kids feel when they find there are still presents left to unwrap the morning after their birthday. Because just like them, what you found was even better than what you had imagined.

His chest was broad, hard, well-defined, and most noticeably, lushly covered with light brown hair, except for some areas where tissue had scarred. He put any other man you had seen shirtless before to shame; maybe they had been too young, or looked too inexperienced in comparison. And you suddenly wondered how old the commander was. You realized you had never asked him. But before you could start guessing, he pulled you back in for another kiss, and as much as you wanted to admire his chest, you didn’t feel like complaining. And when his forefinger slipped under the soaked fabric of your panties and teased your entrance, your legs almost gave in. Luckily for you, in that moment, he turned you around and held you against his chest. Strong arm wrapped around your waist, while his hand kept busy between your legs.

From the position you were now in, the only thing you could see was the fireplace, the chessboard and the door to his room. That was before you felt his lips on your neck, the overwhelming pleasure forcing your eyes closed. And, as you tilted your head to grant him full access, you hoped he left marks, lots of them, so you could prove to the pages of your journal that it hadn’t been a dream. You would figure out how to hide them from your parents later.

“Commander.” You moaned when he added his middle finger and entered you gently. “That feels so good.” His lips on your neck were exceptionally pleasing, just as his thumb was on your clit. His hot breath hitting a sensitive spot on your ear, as well as the sudden realization that you finally had his thick, manly fingers inside you made you moan even louder. “Please do that again.” He obediently started licking your ear, as he fingered you at a deliciously addictive rhythm, making it increasingly harder to breathe. As his lips feasted on your skin, you lifted a hand and placed it on the nape of his neck, bringing him even closer to you.

As wet sounds and pleased hums filled the room, you pressed your thighs tightly against each other, effectively trapping his hand and, in response, he fingered you even deeper, your hips instinctively pressing harder against his body. And that’s when you felt him: swollen and eager. Both your mouth and your slit watered at the thought, and you realized that you had never wanted to open your legs so bad for anyone before.

He was rock-hard and you were soaking wet, and there was only one logical conclusion to draw from this: your bed would remain cold and untouched for the rest of the night. And you confirmed this when his fingers reached deeper into you and his free hand went to cup one of your breasts. You looked down and were happy you did, because not even your wildest dreams could compare to what you saw. Both skilled, manly hands working to pleasure you, one squeezing your breast and the other, lost between your thighs. And something about such sight made you feel as if you were his. His to touch, to play with, to entertain and satisfy himself with.

“Touch me all you want, commander.” Something about the way his hands were holding you in your most intimate places made you feel as if you were his property. “Anywhere you want. In any way you want.” And you didn’t care how dirty and impure you sounded. “I’m all yours, commander. So do everything you want to me.” You said between heavy breaths, before turning your head to look at him once again.

He answered by kissing you. And the awkward position your neck was trapped in felt far from comfortable, but you didn’t mind, not when the feeling of your mouth stuffed with his tongue and your slit, with his fingers was there to numb all the pain. You pressed your ass desperately against his bulge, which caused him to rub your clit even harder in response.

You knew it would be obscene to come from just that, to orgasm from only two of his fingers and the wet sounds they were making, but that’s exactly what your body was going to do. You arched your back and clenched around him even tighter. And he must have felt it building up too, because suddenly, he pulled his fingers out and turned you around to face him, succeeding at making every single cell of your body feel neglected in one single move.

“I want our first time together to be more than this.” He looked into your eyes as he spoke, and you were pretty sure he meant he wanted to take it to his private room, where he could make you orgasm from his cock first. But you obviously didn’t mind, so you nodded eagerly. And not long after that, he was pushing the door open, your legs wrapped around his waist, and your face buried in the crook of his neck, kissing and leaving marks everywhere you could.

His room wasn’t that much different from his office, except for the presence of a double bed, which was the only thing suggesting it was a bedroom and not an extension of his office. Bookshelves covered the walls, and nestled between them was a wooden desk, smaller than the one in his office, and also messier. Although you rarely complimented yourself, here you had too, for never letting his workspace get like that. The desk was facing a big window, where the bitter wind could be heard knocking on the glass violently. But that wasn’t a concern, because inside his room the air was warm and pleasant, thanks in part to the softwood burning slow and nice in the fireplace; but mostly because of the strong arms now placing you on the bed. His bed.

He took off his shoes and unbuckled his belt, but when his fingers went for the remaining buttons of his shirt, you called his attention by tapping on the empty space beside you.

“Let me do it.” A playful wonder built in your lower belly and found its way to the smile you now wore. Once he did as you asked, you sat on his lap, eagerly straddling him. When your weight fell on his strong thighs you couldn’t help but feel proud of yourself, because whatever you had been doing for the past few months, you had clearly been doing it right. It had gotten you exactly where you dreamed to be.

For a few moments you only stared at him, doing nothing but basking in the sensation of your asscheeks spreading out comfortably on his firm, muscular thighs, and your fingers tangled in golden strands of hair. His face was as close as you had always wanted it to be, and from this proximity, he was even more handsome, if that was even possible. The first thing you noticed was that his eyes weren’t completely blue, in fact, they had very small speckles of brown near the center. In addition, his eyebrows, which looked even fuller from up close, had fine lines of light, almost blonde, brown hair; and his skin was sprinkled with very subtle freckles.

Your heart gradually became full with warmth as you admired all the details, and then with privilege when you realized that only someone staring from such close proximity would be able to make out all those small things about him. And you felt incredibly lucky you were that person now.

You felt incredibly lucky that your hips were the ones his hands were now holding. They were comfortably resting at your sides, where his thumbs had found a cozy spot under the fabric of your panties. It was so intimate, that position. Strong hands pressed against your bare skin, and his thumbs tangled with your underwear, acting as a reminder that he could pull them down at any moment he wanted.

“Commander, I really want you to make love to me.” You confessed while your hands pushed his shirt down his shoulders. “I need to know what it’s like to feel nothing but you. Absolutely nothing else but you.” Your lips sprinkled kisses on his skin, kisses that were as light as the freckles covering his shoulders. “You inside me. You have no idea how much I’ve thought about it.” He had no idea that you had spent the last couple of months imagining his naked body hovering over yours, and his fingers glistening with your wetness, and his dick buried deep inside you, in so much detail and with so much dedication. And so, believing that you deserved to claim the final prize, your hands reached for his belt. But before you could move a finger, his hands reached for the back of your bra as he said:

“I’ve thought about it too.” His fingertips toyed with the clasp for a moment. “What it would be like to sleep next to you, your head on my chest and my arms around you.” He said before unclasping your bra, finally revealing your breasts to him. “What it would feel like to be inside of you.” He whispered against the newly exposed skin, his hot breath waking up your nipples and the hairs on your body, all at the same time. “Your welcoming warmth, your soft breasts bouncing up and down, and all the beautiful sounds you’d make for me.” As he took your breast in an open-mouthed kiss you let out one of those, one you had never heard yourself make before, and he used his tongue on your nipple to compliment you for it.

One of your hands worked on tousling his hair, and the fingernails on the other were buried deep in the skin of his back. Heavy breaths got mixed in with the wet sounds he was making against your nipples. You couldn’t get enough of his hands exploring your body, of him touching you, his hands slipping under your panties and kneading your asscheeks. And when you rolled your hips against the hard bulge inside his pants, he grunted and squeezed your ass even harder.

“Commander, please.” Fuck me now. “I need you now.” I’m so wet for you. “It hurts so much.”

He answered your pleas by pushing you down onto the bed and hovering over you. He then placed a kiss on your lips, a kiss that felt like an important announcement and tasted like a warning of some sort. And, as he made his way down your body, his lips left their mark everywhere they passed. When he slipped his thumbs under the sides of your underwear you lifted your hips and he easily slid your panties down the curve of your ass. When his eyes landed on the part of your body he had just unveiled, a part of you he had never seen before, they reminded you of someone trying to fight off the urge to bury their face into a rich, creamy dessert. But then, against all temptation, your underwear continued its journey down your thighs, and then past your feet, until it ended up discarded on the wooden floor of his room, exactly as you had fantasized about for so many nights. Then, he stood up and all while holding your gaze, unbuckled his belt, and pushed his tight jeans down his thighs, finally unveiling his briefs as well as the shape sculpted beneath. When you saw it, you couldn’t help but think it was the most beautiful thing you had ever laid eyes on. And not far below, hairy thighs came into view, thick with both muscle and a masculinity that made your legs open on instinct.

As you lied there, wide open, on full display for him, you felt the cold air hitting your folds, signaling you were already dripping. It wouldn’t be hard to take him in, given your current state. You felt more than ready. Or so you thought.

Because when his underwear joined your panties on the floor and you finally saw it, you realized he was all you had imagined and more. So much more. Imposing, curved, veiny down to the pink tip, which was already glistening with anticipation. He was all that, and most notably, he was thick. Very thick.

“I have low pain tolerance.” You found yourself joking, looking straight into his handsome naked form. He just chuckled as he joined you on the bed.

“I won’t hurt you.” He said with a sweet tone that contrasted his deep, husky voice. “No harm will ever come to you. Not as long as I’m here.” Was his promise as he hovered over you. “Not from me. Not from anyone else.” You nodded, something about him, probably the sincerity in his eyes or the gentleness in his voice, taking you back to that day out in the field, beyond the walls. A place and a time that now seemed so far, where despite the columns of black smoke ominously rising above the horizon, you knew you would be okay somehow. As long as you didn’t lose sight of the wings of freedom on his back.

Without looking away from your eyes, he ran his fingers through your wet slit, making you quiver. But he didn’t need to double check, you knew this was as wet, slick and ready as you would get. When he positioned himself to finally give you what you desired, you felt the need to confess something, not knowing exactly why.

“Commander, it’s been a while.” He stopped right at the moment the tip met your folds, looking at you with a hint of confusion. “I haven’t been with anyone in a while.” Virgin or not, it would mean little against someone like him, because with that size, you were sure he would feel like a first time for anyone.

He placed a soft, reassuring kiss on your lips. “I’ll be gentle, okay?” You nodded, feeling both nervous and impatient. “Do you trust me?” He waited for you to nod again before finally pushing inside you.

-

next chapter

taglist: @elnyrae @angelaevangelion @depitaangeline @ynackerman9499 @afatalheat @pumpkin-toffee @velouria17 @gassytritis @goddessinsweats

[pherelesytsia]

Meet me in Doom

Pairing: Thomas Shelby x female/Reader

Summary: Beaten and bruised, Thomas finds his wife in the safe-house, unresponsive and broken, surrounded by death.

Warning: little bit of fluff, guns, death, mices

Word Count: 1.5k

a/n:.This is following there-goes-thefighter❤️ for the lovely´s @zablife's story share. you can find the rest of the story HERE with all the previous parts and I am passing the story onto my dear @cillmequick❤️

The receiver was dangling on the wire. The enemy's blood, darkened and cold, clung to the soles of his polished shoes freckled by mud and grime. A deep voice, nearly mirroring his called out, called him by his name, faint and barely audible, but Thomas Shelby did not answer.

Creatures escaped the rising shadows, ran into the house, rats and mice, screeching and giggling, gnawing at the rotting bodies, drinking blood and feasting on pale skin, screaming for the friends to hasten and feast.

The man stiffened. Swallowing, Thomas loosened the tie around his neck and lowered his gaze to the remains of the dinner on the plate with blueish tendrils on the round notched table with rounded corners and sanded edges. Tears clouded his eyes and pain numbed his senses. He flexed his hand. The first tear fell as the sobs grew louder, pulling him back into reality, realised it was not a dream and the man cruel as the northern wind, dreaded like a wolf failed to stay strong for the woman he loved. Thomas put the loaded pistol away, realised he had pulled it out, knew the men in tattered clothing with outflung arms and broken limbs lying beyond the thick walls bore lifeless eyes.

His eyes had seen much and his ears had heard gruesome news, but he found himself unable to count the soulless shells, the holes in the walls and the wooden floor but a sense of pride filled Thomas at the sight of his wife, the warrior who had raised her weapon against the intruders.

Slowly, as if he feared the sight, the truth, a child fearing the cabinet, the monster under the bed, Thomas turned and faced his sobbing wife. He dried his damp palms on the trousers. He clenched his hands into fists, regretting he had not been at her side, had failed to protect the woman. The question of how she was, did not fall again.

The gashes painting her skin, darkening marks snaking like ivy around her neck and arms, told a tale of death and struggle he did not want to read. The hem of her dress was tattered, the hair dishevelled and Thomas guessed it was dirt and grime, hoped it was not crimson.

Relief flooded his body. His shoulders slumped forward, and he gave her a weak, encouraging smile and walked towards Y/N, paralysed by pain and fear. The last wall of defence crumbled and the last dam broke free and released raging torrents down on the town. Thomas ran, jumped over the destroyed table and fallen chairs. Wood creaked under his shoes. His arms wrapped around her trembling body. Unintelligible, Thomas cried out, uttered a silent prayer, breathed soft promises, too good to be true into her ear and plastered featherlight kisses on her bruised cheek. Shaking fingers sank into her hair, hugged her tighter as the weight of the world, the entire universe, settled on her shoulders and forced her to fall like a star.

            "Everything is alright," Thomas mumbled into her ear.

It was a fact, but it sounded like a question as if he had to convince himself of the sincerity of his own words. Lowering her eyes in shame, Y/N lifted her hands and clawed her fingers into the button down. Gently his battered fingers slid over her exposed arms, back and hips, ribs and neck, on the endless search for a wound, crimson seeping through the fabric, for pain dimmed by adrenaline but apart from trivial yet painful abrasions, bruises of various sizes, the Shelby could find nothing.

            "You are a strong woman. I saw what you did. I don't know many men who could do something like that. I am proud of you," Thomas continued, praising the breaking woman.

Y/N laughed out, chuckled bitterly, and braced herself to answer.

            "It doesn't feel like something I could be proud of. I had to do it. I feel guilty about it." she cawed, the voice faint and roughened by screaming.

Freeing himself from the suit jacket, keeping one hand on her body, he threw the jacket on the floor and lowered Y/N onto the warming fabric. Groaning, Y/N slowly sank to the floor.

            "The men stormed the house. I heard them. I thought I would never see you again, that I will die. I took the gun and killed them all. I had to do it." she sobbed into his shoulders, slurred, but Thomas understood every syllable.

Almost healed wounds tore open. Blood oozed. She sank her teeth into her lower lip. Copper spilt in her mouth. She wanted to scream and curse, cursed the deceased like a witch, but only a croak emitted from her throat.

            "Careful. Slowly. Hold on to me. I won't let you go. I will take you to the hospital, the doctors will take care of you and I will do the rest." he reassured.

His thumb stroked her bruised cheek, wiping away tears and worry.

            "Are you hit?" Thomas questioned.

Y/N shook her head.

            "Please, talk to me." he continued, needed to hear the answer, her voice.

            "Grazed. My arms hurt. One tackled me, tried to knock me out and probably broke my nose." Y/N whispered and pointed to the door, the corridor, to the men facing the other side of the wall.

Thomas nodded with glassy eyes.

            "Your nose is still beautiful. It won't take away from your beauty." Thomas complimented her.

He looked at her as if nothing had happened, as if he had forgotten everything as if she had never disappeared without a word, looked at her like a goddess, a fallen angel.

He pulled an ironed handkerchief out of the pocket, twitched it back and forth, opened it and moistened the almost transparent dark blue material with red decorations with his initials on his tongue, moistened it and washed away the traces of struggle from cheeks and forehead, danced over her skin and Y/N did not flinch in disgust or contorted her face and allowed it.

            "I've called Arthur. You don't have to worry anymore. I will take care of everything. No one will dare to touch you again.", "You're going to leave me?" Y/N questioned with widened eyes.

His heart twitched; the arrow struck his heart and buried deeper and deeper. His lips did not touch, wanting to start a sentence. Soft footsteps echoed through the deserted house. Thomas freed himself from the tight embrace, turned and his right hand found itself on the trigger of the pistol. The footsteps came closer. Shaking, Y/N slid back, heard commotion and cursed like a banshee. Her eyes dilated searched for her pistol, clutched it, breathed a bloody murder as she noticed there was no round in it.

Running, John stepped into his field of vision, gun drawn, ready to kill, and Thomas saw relief in his brother's eyes wandering back and forth from him to the whimpering woman. Sweat dripped down his forehead and carried away the fear and anger boiling in his body. Heaving John leant against the frame, relieved, filled his lungs with air and almost let go of the gun.

Quickly Thomas turned to his wife, jumped back, threatened to fall like a soldier struck by a bullet, put his hand on her body and supported Y/N. Carefully he removed the gun from her, fearing she would injure herself, and shoved it aside. His warm breath brushed her cheek, breathed into her ear that she need not fear, that it was John who had followed him and no one had woken from the deathly sleep.

            "Take care of the bodies. Take them away. Burn them, do with them whatever you want, throw them into the streets." Thomas commanded gruffly, a king sitting on the throne and ruling with iron first over the kingdom.

Nodding, John backed away, turned his back on the pair, put away his gun and did as his brother demanded, saw the seething anger in his eyes, nodded again, and sped away. Thomas watched after his brother and pressed the panting woman closer to his heart. Hushing vows in her ear, Thomas placed his lips between hushed words of love and adoration on her temple while his hand clasped her shaking fingers. Dangerously his eyes darkened, and vengeance, was clouding his senses.

[grapementos]

i don’t wanna break you

aged up kirishima x reader

cw: descriptions of blood, accidental injury, hospitals

night after night, kirishima was plagued with nightmares of the most horrigying, gut-wrenching situations that he was unfortunately familiar with.

the league, rappa, all for one--they invaded his mind and dreams, constantly chasing and drawing him into a corner. no matter how unbreakable he tried to be, no matter how rock solid his skin became, he lost each and every time. he was suffocated, backed into a wall as his worst enemies shrouded him in a darkness he knew all too well.

then, just as they attacked, he'd jolt awake in a cold sweat. frantically, he'd look around the room, controlled only by the overwhelming fear and need to survive. he'd scan the room, but he always found nothing. instead, he sat back against the headboard, his ragged, uneven breathing filling the room.

sleep was impossible afterward, so he started his day the moment he woke up. once he was fully grounded, he'd reluctantly crack open an energy drink and prepare for the fatigue he knew would hit him like a brick wall in the middle of the day.

-

you knew nothing of kirishima's nightmares, for you'd been on a vacation with some friends for two weeks. he'd never had trouble sleeping before--not with you, anyways.

it pained you to leave him for so long, but your friends insisted that you join them on an out-of-state trip to some resort they'd booked. kirishima had also encouraged you to go, so you did. it was a wonderful two weeks of relaxation, but you were so excited to see your beautiful boy pick you up from the airport.

once you exited the terminal and picked up your bags, you said goodbye to your friends and excitedly walked to the cellphone lot. you weaved through groups of people as your suitcase bumped over cracks in the sidewalk, antsy and excited to see your boyfriend.

you looked around excitedly as you reached your agreed-upon meet-up spot, waiting anxiously for kirishima. so many people were meeting up with family, friends, lovers--that was the beautiful thing about airports, you'd found. it was sad at times, but reunions and meet-ups were so wholesome.

your first instinct when someone grabbed your waist from behind was to jerk away, but when you turned to see kirishima, you grinned and hopped up into his arms, "ei! oh my gosh, i missed you so much."

you squeezed him tight, so, so tight.

"i missed you too, babe," he chuckled, his words a little strained as you all but crushed his ribs, "but you're gonna kill me."

"too bad. i just went an entire two weeks without you. you're not gonna get more than two inches away from me." you insisted, but finally dropped down to the ground.

all it took was an actual look at kirishima's face for you to realize that something was definitely wrong. his eyes were heavy and almost half-lidded, a dark shadow casting under them. his entire expression, albeit happy to see you, was exhausted.

"baby, what's wrong? you look so tired." you frowned, bringing up a hand to rub a thumb along his eye bags.

"it's nothing," he chuckled half-heartedly, "just don't sleep the same without you. you sayin' i don't look handsome or what?"

"you always look handsome. but," you snatched the keys from him, "not handsome enough to drive tired. we're laying down as soon as we get home."

he grabbed for the keys, "babe, you just got off a ten hour red-eye. you can't drive."

"i slept the entire ride, now get your handsome self into the passenger seat." you demanded, already walking to the car.

he knew it was futile to argue with you, so he did as you asked and settled into the passenger seat. the entire ride home, you had one hand on the wheel and the other tightly squeezing his hand. despite his deflection, you were pretty worried about him. he'd always slept like a rock, always energized from a full 8-hours worth of sleep.

it was no big deal, you hoped.

-

the moment the two of you were inside, you locked the door, left your suitcase in the living room, and dragged kirishima to the bedroom.

you didn't miss the energy drink cans in the kitchen trash, your worry only growing.

"now, we're not getting up until you're refreshed." you insisted, back to him as you changed into something more comfortable.

"m'not even that tired."

"you were dozing off in the car. quit trying to lie to me, ejirou." once changed, you nestled under the duvet next to him, scooting all the way up to him.

he draped an arm over you, scooting you impossibly closer. your face was level with his, your eyes meeting in a silent conversation of relief. relief that you were together again, relief that you didn't have to sleep separately.

"i missed you so much." he whispered, tracing shaped into your back, "i'm glad you had fun, but it made me think of how we're literally always together."

"i missed you too." you traced lines up and down his bicep, "i know. i'm not used to being away from you so long. we're never separated for more than hours at a time."

he hummed, "is that even healthy?"

"don't care."

"me neither."

the conversation halted there as you scooted down to rest your head against his chest, soothed by his familiar scent and his heartbeat and the cushiony muscle that you loved.

within minutes, the two of you were asleep, breathing steady as you finally felt able to sleep safely. no more hotel rooms, starchy hotel sheets, too-soft hotel pillows. just your kirishima, your bed, your sheets, and your pillows.

you drifted off, a series of dreams flurrying in your mind. they made sense as they occurred, but surely they wouldn't should you try to explain them consciously. you dreamed of the water and a flicker of a face you'd seen at the beach, of talking to members of a live band you'd seen, only their faces were warped into those of your friends, of the meals you'd eaten, only somehow you weren't strong enough to pick up the utensils--because no one's strong or fast in dreams.

suddenly, the dreams turned ugly. the band members--your friends--the people at the beach, the restaurant-goers, they turned against you. they cornered you and chased you until you had nowhere left to run. once they drew near, your abdomen was pierced, a red-hot stinging sensation flooding through your entire body.

your ears rang, but you weren't afraid--it was a dream, after all.

yet, the pain you felt was real, the drip of blood, everything felt so real.

the sensation of actual, realistic blood flow startled you awake.

your first thought was that you'd wet the bed, embarrassingly enough.

just as you moved to check, thousands of nerve endings were set ablaze with pain, making you hiss, "fuck!"

lightheadedness swamped your head, filling your throat with a thick layer of nausea, "ei--fuck--ei!"

your face, arms, torso, legs--everything was on fire. you choked out a pained cry, trying desperately to discover the source of your agony.

you picked up your head, suddenly mortified.

it was kirishima. he was hardened, almost to the point of his unbreakable form. in his sleep.

you had no idea what shape your body was in, but you could only assume the worst considering the pain, and the longer you touched him, the deeper your wounds grew.

"ejirou!" you cried, unable to shake him awake without another wave of excruciating pain rolling through you, "wake up! please, please wake up!"

his eyes snapped open at your cries, afraid, defensive, battle-ready.

he was shaking, breathing raggedy, further worsening your injuries.

the moment his eyes fell on your pained ones, his quirk fell, an indescribable mix of horror and realization dawning on him.

the moment he was away from you, you rolled onto your back, limbs like lead. you couldn't even lift your head to evaluate the damage; your head was far too fuzzy. your vision was darkening in the corners as you choked on tears and oxygen as you tried desperately to gulp in breaths, "911.. call.. 911.." you whispered as your vision completely faded back to black.

-

kirishima was covered in blood in the back of the ambulance. your blood.

it was a blur. he'd been purged with another dream, one so much worse than the rest, and he'd hurt you. he hurt you.

his eyes were unseeing as he sat in the triage room, the nurse asking questions about the circumstances of the accident. he answered like a zombie, only remembering the part where he recommended therapy or sleeping in separate beds.

that stung. he couldn't even be near you without hurting you.

he sat in your room once he was allowed in. they'd given you a blood transfusion because you'd lost almost two entire liters by the time you'd reached the hospital. luckily, you hadn't hemorrhaged, but they needed you to stay over night to keep an eye on embolisms and other concerns he couldn't stomach the possibility of.

as he slouched in the chair beside your bed, he knew what he had to do. as he saw the bandages all over your body, on your eye, your eye that they weren't sure would ever be 100% again, he knew.

-

waking up was painful. the confusion and pain hit you like a tidal wave, forcing a groan from the depths of your stomach, "my god."

you leaned your head back into the pillows propping you up, face scrunched in pain. you tried to muffle quiet grunts of pain, but your body was buzzing with an uncomfortable lick of fiery pain.

"oh, mx. y/n, you're awake."

you peeked an eye open to see a doctor with a clipboard and an extremely dull kirishima who couldn't even seem to look at you.

"what's happening?" you mumbled, suddenly acutely aware that your left eye was covered with a bandage of some sort.

"well," she started, glancing at kirishima, "you're in a hospital. you arrived here by ambulance after you sustained a multitude of abrasions, gashes, and wounds scattered across your body. you lost almost two liters, so we did have to perform a blood transfusion."

your heart rate picked up as you connected the dots, "my.."

"i'm afraid your eye has sustained significant damage. as of now, i am unsure if you will ever be able to fully see out of it again."

warm tears flooded down your cheeks, your chest rising and falling rapidly at the idea of being blind from one eye.

"i'm very sorry. i'll give the two of you some time and then we can further discuss a recovery plan." the doctor dismissed herself, closing the door behind her.

you finally dared yourself to look at kirishima, who was biting hard at his lip, presumably to keep himself from crying.

"are you okay?" you finally stammered out, vision blurred with tears at the news you just received.

"how can you even ask me that?" he asked incredulously, "didn't you hear what the doctor said? i could've k--" he choked out a sob, clamping a hand over his mouth. after drawing in a tight breath, he began again, "i could've killed you, and you're asking me if i'm okay."

"you didn't mean to, ei, you were sleeping." you reasoned, "and you didn't kill me, i'm okay."

"you're half blind, y/n!" he touched a hand to his forehead, walking up and down anxiously, "what if it happens again? what if my quirk goes off again because of some stupid bad dream and i accidentally kill you?"

"you've been having nightmares?"

he just stared at you, eyes wide and red and puffy and breaking your heart.

"we can't be together."

a beat of silence, only ended by the beep of the heart monitor.

"what?"

"i hurt you, y/n. i made you bleed, i ruined your eye. i'm," he stammered out, "i'm dangerous. i can't be with you, i can't hurt you."

"you're hurting me right now, ei, what the hell are you talking about?" you demanded, forcing yourself into a sitting position, "it was an accident, i know you'd never hurt me."

he shook his head, looking down at his hands, "i hurt you. i'm so sorry, y/n. we can't--we can't be together because i hurt you."

your tears weren't from your physical pain anymore, they were from the idea of having a life without kirishima in it.

"ei, please, please--" you reached a hand towards him, begging, "please, just listen to me."

he stopped his pacing, stopped his babbling, and looked at you.

"the idea of not being able to love you, to kiss you, to be with you, that hurts me more than anything. more than a million cuts, more than losing both my eyes, all my limbs, more than anything." you focused a steely, watery gaze on him, "so don't hurt me. we can move past this together. i'll be with you for everything, no matter what."

he processed your words, a crying mess, but shook his head, "i can't, i can't--"

"eijirou." you demanded, "you love me, right?"

he nodded slowly, bottom lip quivering, "more than anything."

"then stay. if you love me, stay."

"okay."

[13thdoctorposts]

Because of all the recent asks about the current series I thought I'd send one about 13 to give you a break. So, in 13's era what are your favourite episodes and what themes or ideas did you find particularly compelling? Just feel free to gush essentially.

lol, I appreciate all asks but I do love to gush about 13 era so let’s do it.

I think many of us love Doctor Who for the theme of found family. What I liked about the 13 era is it shows found family in different ways.

You have Ryan and Graham. With Grace gone and Ryan being 19, they could both choose now to go their separate ways. But they don’t. By joining Yaz and the Doctor, they fix their relationship and become as close as any grandfather and grandson. Joining Yaz and the Doctor helps this, as the four of them become fam. It’s not about blood but actions.

Yaz comes from a stable, loving family. It's not broken. She and her sister clearly rib each other a bit, but they also have a caring relationship. But, what Yaz lacks is making her life have more meaning. By joining the boys and the doctor, she finds people to do that with. They are people she would risk her life for.

The Doctor has no one. She has just lost everyone and is still devastated by the loss of Bill. She has regenerated and is truly alone. But, she falls into the middle of these people’s lives. And while she has something to offer them, all of Time and Space they have something to offer her: companionship. She doesn’t have to be alone. She can see things again with new and excited eyes. Though she tries to keep her shadows hidden from her fam, they are also the rock that keeps her moving forward.

I think the era has many strong arcs. Graham and Ryan get through grief and choose each other. Ryan's relationship with his Dad. Ryan finds confidence in himself and is not let down by his disability. In the end, confidence and friendship on earth lead him to be ready to take on the world on his terms and help his planet. Also, Graham gets his grandson and gets through his grief of Grace, and is able to continue honouring her by looking after Ryan.

We have 13 with all her issues, particularly identity and letting people in. While she deals with her identity, her time is cut a little too short to fully deal with opening up. But, she does open up to Yaz about her feelings for her. I think that’s very vulnerable for this Doctor. And it's far more important for Yaz than knowing the Doctor's past.

Yaz we have mental health and confidence. We have her coming out and Thasmin. But, my favorite arc for the era is Yaz’s Doctorfication. It's really the end of all her arcs and time with the Doctor.

If we think of the kid we meet in TWWFTE she wants to be doing more to help, but she also wants to stick to the rules. She ultimately lacks confidence. She follows the Doctor (which is good for the story) because she doesn't have all the answers and doesn't want to sound crazy to her superiors. Theres a bit about worrying about how she'll be taken here. But, she was also willing to try to stand up to the Doctor. This showed the Doctor her leadership potential, even though she wasn’t there yet. And in a lot of stories she was essentially the 2IC of the team it wasn’t Ryan, Graham or Dan. And that 'flat team structure' was often more aspirational than anything else, lol. At the end of series 11, we know she’s had issues with depression. But, she’s also ready to follow the Doctor no matter what happens. So, even if she dies. 

In series 12, we dive deeper into the mental health. We see the way she reacts in Spyfall when she thinks she’s died. We see her story in Can You Hear Me. Through the season we see her step up and go off in her own, especially in Praxeus and TTC. Graham’s asking who’s going to go through first the force field to Gallifrey first. But, he hasn’t finished his sentence and she’s already walking through. She’s now the one telling people it’s dangerous and they don’t have to come. And we also start seeing those hints of her falling for the Doctor thought the series.

Then, in Revolution, we see her in what looks like a possible men brake or some sort of manic state that lasted 10 months. She slept in a sleeping bag on the floor trying to find the Doctor. When the most logical conclusion is that the Doctor is dead. Losing the Doctor breaks her. So, we see her mental health issues return. We also see how much she cares for the Doctor. The Doctor's friends have moved on, but Yaz clearly loves her and can't. This is after a season of watching her step up more. It's like a great mix of Yaz stepping up to find the Doctor. But, it's fruitless. And, it's also going backwards mentally at the loss. It's really quite interesting to watch the positives and negatives come together. Yaz might be having a mental break. But, she also has enough confidence to think she can still find the Doctor. 

Then we get to Flux and the specials. We open with married couple Thasmin bickering. It's my favorite scene of the whole show. But now we have a Yaz who isn't just letting the Doctor push her away. She's calling the Doctor out while also adventuring by her side. It's the most equal we have seen them. It's probably the most equal a Doctor and regular companion can be, one that's human. If you look at Series 11 Yaz and Flux Yaz we really have gone from a kid to a grown woman. She calls things out and speaks her mind. But, she also does good and helps the universe. In ways TWWFTE yaz could have only dreamed. We start to see more obvious signs of Thasmin and Yaz's feelings. This happens as she leads her own team through the early 1900s. She is now essentally the Doctor of this team. Then we have the specials. She has to confront her feelings. In LotSD, 13 confesses her feelings but says they can't be together. We see Yaz's confidence now ask why, not just accept the Doctor words. Then we get to the beach. It's pure heartbreak. There, we see a mature woman. She knows their feelings are real but they are doomed. Loving the Doctor is always doomed. and Yaz loves her enough to leave it.

Then in The Power of the Doctor, we see peak Yaz. She flies the TARDIS and catches Ace jumping off a building. She takes on the Master and saves 13 many times. She gets everyone home safe, just like 13 would do. We see her lose the woman she loves but in that episode we see her Doctorfication arc complete. But it's a healthy one. She has taken the best parts of the Doctor with her. She isn't burdened by the morally grey aspects. So she is as much the Doctor as a Human can be. She is the true successor of 13 to me. She was The Doctor's best student. She left the TARDIS without being morally compromised and with all the best lessons from 13.

You said to gush... probably didnt think it would be this much. lol

I'm terrible at picking fav eps so I'll do top 3 for each series... this is always subject to change. lol

S11 The Woman Who Fell to Earth, Demons of the Punjab, It Takes You Away

S12 Fugitive of the Jadoon, The Haunting of Villa Diodati, The Timeless Children

S13: Flux War of the Sontarians, Village of the Angels, Survivors of the Flux

Speicals: All of them 

[whatlovelybones-if]

I absolutely adore Salem and if you don't mind and if it's not spoilers, I have some questions. How did Salem and Mc meet and how old was the Mc when they first met Salem?

i’m just throwing crumbs from the actual book at y’all atp smh not that i’m complaining under the cut in case y’all wanna avoid spoilers

a kitten jumps over the fence with a speed so fast that it seemed like a black blur to the passersby. she runs on her little feet, scratches adorning her belly and paws and black fur slightly matted with blood. she couldn’t be more than a month old and looks extra small with ribs sticking out and her big green eyes staying on alert.

two dogs sprint after her, strays with large muzzles and jaws which could break her ribs in pieces if they ever bite down on her small body. the cat knows that turning around or stopping will not end well for her. so she runs. she runs with swift feet and a rapidly beating heart.

she would outrun them today, tomorrow, and however many times she has to. this is the price she has to pay for living in a dog-eats-dog kind of world. to survive, you must run. especially with her size, she was never going to soundly defeat those two dogs.

she knew she had made a mistake as soon as she entered the uncharted territory behind the diner. what was even more stupid was that she decided to dig through the large trashcan anyway, searching for any scraps thrown out by the diner.

it was the smaller dog which noticed her first, immediately growling and giving away his position. the sheer timing of that was the only reason why the cat managed to get out of the way when the other dog pounced on her. to her tiny frame, they were titans armed with big, sharp teeth and aggression. and she was nothing but someone trying to live another day.

the little cat did not go without a fight though. she jumped on the larger dog, scratching one of his eyes and leaving him to whimper in pain. the other dog backs away for a second, before gearing up to strike her. she uses the injured dog as a leverage to jump and leave a deep gash on the smaller one.

he yowls and smacks her away with his sharp claw, causing deep gashes on her belly. she shakes her body, trying to get rid of the sudden dizziness and pain which assaulted her at the impact. when she senses one of the dogs leaning in to smell her, she hisses ferociously with an anger of a lioness and lands another swipe of her claws.

she wasted no time in just running with no destination in mind. the little cat didn’t care where she was going, she just wanted to be rid of her two aggressive pursuers who were still on her tail.

this was when she noticed a manor in the distance, looming like a menacing shadow over its premise. she also saw someone coming out of there, walking to a car parked nearby. the little cat didn’t think any further as she darted towards them, slowing herself down to a pace.

the person stops in their track and tilts their head in interest as she walks closer, meowing and making sure to show off the slight limp in her leg. they frown and immediately crouch down, taking off their gloves to reach their hand forward so she could sniff them and get familiar. the little cat contemplates what to do just for a while before she comes closer and runs her head against their hand after sniffing.

she couldn’t understand it herself but the person exuded a protective and warm aura, despite the coldness of their hands. they coo at her as she gets more confident and rubs herself all over their white coat, purring like an engine going haywire.

“are you hurt, you sweet little thing?” they ask in a fond but worried voice, fingers scratching near her tail in a way which makes her lift her lower half up. she all but meows repeatedly in confirmation.

that is all it takes for the person to gently scoop her up in their arms while taking care not to hurt her. the kitten purrs even louder—feeling comfortable and loved like this was a new but welcomed feeling.

“it’s alright, darling,” the person coos in a reassuring voice, softly scratching behind her ear. “we’ll get you all patched up, okay?”

the kitten meows and paws at their arms, as if making tiny biscuits and it brings a genuinely amused laugh out of them. it abruptly stops when she notices, at the same time as them, the two dogs prowling and watching from a distance. they seem to hesitate, as if something was holding them back. but her nose had always been good, and she could detect exactly what they smelled of.

fear. the most primal kind. fear of what exactly, she couldn’t tell, but it wafted off of them like rotten fish. the mere whiff of it raised her hackles and she hisses at them, this time even fiercer than before.

“i think what she is trying to say here is that you should leave,” the person’s voice was colder enough to freeze hell over. “now.”

“i’m guessing they’re the ones who did this to you,” the person says, examining her and looking over the fresh wounds. “you’re a brave little girl though, aren’t you?”

the pair didn’t need to be told twice as they yelped and ran, tails between their legs in the opposite direction.

the kitten meows and nestles into them further, enjoying their embrace.

“how about a name, hmm?” they scratch her chin fondly. “what about salem? fits you quite well, doesn’t it?”

the kitten, now named salem, purrs in approval. the person chuckles, holding her close and pressing a kiss on her head. salem meows and paws at the collar of their coat playfully.

“looks like we’re gonna have lots of adventures together, little salem.”