#i fucking hate the city and how it rips loving human connection out with its fast paced lifestyle

[auntopossum]

In a crowded public space, when you are alone and still, in a sea of strangers coming and going, having someone ask you to watch their stuff feels like an absolute honor.

[sondrawr]

Where Monsters Dwell

“What kind of place is this?” “The kind of place where fairy tales live and monsters dwell.” —Smoke Bitten

Adam Hauptman is intimately acquainted with fear. It was born in a jungle in Vietnam and never quite left him. Even in his happiest moments—of which there were many, especially recently—it lurks in the fringes. Lying in wait.

When he sees Mercy broken on the burnt grass, seemingly dead, he feels that fear claw up his chest and strangle him. He blacks out for god knows how long, his worst fear playing like a feedback loop in his mind. It isn’t until Samuel, still wolf, bites him in the arm that he finally comes to.

That’s how Adam finds himself, naked and half covered in blood, cradling Mercy’s body. His pack huddles around him, worry creasing their faces. He feels the stink of his fear billowing out of him like smoke, choking everyone around him.

“She’s alive, damn it!” Gary finally manages to gasp. He is panting, voice raspy. How long had he been trying to tell him?

Adam reaches down into himself and feels for that thread-thin bond that connects him to his heart’s mate. It’s there, flickering. He grasps it in both hands, wrapping it around his wrist, anchoring himself to sanity. To her.

Mercy survives that night, like she has done so often before. But one day her luck will run out; his fear whispers the words he knows too well. She’s not like Coyote—damn the man—who resurrects like the sun every morning.

Adam hates beyond telling that her unconquerable spirit is wrapped in such an insubstantial thing as human skin and bones.

:::

Adam first met Mercy Thompson in Montana when she was about thirteen years old. He was up on business, Alpha of a New Mexico pack and newly engaged to a blonde, 22-year-old coed named Christy.

Mercy at the time, before the deaths of her foster parents robbed her of childhood, was still all scraped knees and awkward arms of adolescence. Jutting chin and slumped shoulders—defiant and bored.

There was a ghost of a bruise on her face from the accident where she wrapped Bran’s brand new sports car around a tree. He had heard of that incident within hours of it happening, as he suspected most wolves did, even across the ocean. Mercy’s antics were already famous.

She sat on a chair outside Bran’s office, the scuffed toe of her sneaker knocking into a leggy console table nearby. Looking at him sidelong, she had the air of someone waiting their turn at the principal’s office.

When the door finally opened to let him in, he asked, “What did she do this time?” He stepped around Bran to enter the office.

Bran’s mouth pressed flat in an irritated line, while Charles smirked in the corner. He was the one who answered: “Something about chocolate Easter bunnies.”

“She poisoned a group of boys at school,” Bran snapped, closing the door a little too roughly behind Adam.

“Really?” That seemed a bit extreme for the young girl, whose reputation for pranks were mostly harmless, if effective.

“She injected several chocolate Easter bunnies with ipecac,” Charles explained. “And then warned the boys not to steal them, or ‘they would pay.’ They, of course, did not listen. Apparently the boys had been in the habit of stealing the younger kids’ candy for a while.”

Adam laughed despite himself.

“She wants for discipline,” Bran said with a frown.

“Mercy has plenty of discipline,” Charles answered. “It’s the focus of it, that’s the problem. Her interests are too narrow and she has an overdeveloped sense of justice.”

“And her foster father can’t do anything?” asked Adam.

Charles smirked. “If Mercy were a wolf, I wouldn’t be surprised if she outranked him. Any good she does is out of love for Bryan and his mate, not because of fear or intimidation.”

That was, Adam realized, the principle by which Mercy lived her life. It was the driving force of all she did for her family and friends—the pack she forged for herself, not with magic ties but by fierce loyalty and reckless love.

:::

It has been months since she recovered from her devastating injuries. Injuries that Samuel said at first would be the end of her. Her survival is nothing short of a miracle and, Adam suspects, a bit of Coyote’s magic.

Now night holds new terrors for him. He lays in bed at night just listening to the steady beating of his mate’s fragile, mortal heart. Dreading the day when it would inevitably stop.

:::

Mercy was twenty-three when he next saw her in the middle of a Washington desert. Alone in the world but still causing trouble. The first order of business for his newly arrived pack was eliminating the rogue wolves who were harassing her. Saved without so much as a thank you.

Was it coincidence or conspiracy that brought her to the Tri-Cities when Bran had ordered Adam to move his pack north from New Mexico? Coincidence on her part probably, but definitely not Bran’s, whose machinations were wide reaching and infamous.

That Adam bought the property behind her trailer was pure, ornery spite on his part.

She had marched up to him on the first day of construction and stuck a finger in his chest. “Tell Bran that I don’t need a babysitter,” she told him, eyes flashing. “I’ve done fine for eight years without his help—I’m done with wolves.”

“Good to know,” he answered, because he knew that response would drive her crazy, and turned back toward the construction of his pack house. He imagined her making faces at the back of his head and smiled.

:::

He kisses a line down her body, pausing at the shiny-pink of each new scar. Scars she earned in defense of his pack—in defense of him.

And he knows his love is killing her.

Oh god, would her life be better without him? Yes, the fear—the monster—inside him says. Yessss. We will kill herrrrr.

Panic like bile rises in his throat, and he gulps it down. Beneath him Mercy tenses, sensing his change of mood. He murmurs quietly, nuzzling her, lulling her back into softness underneath him. His lovely Mercy. His mate, for who he would willingly lay down his soul, let alone his body.

Whom he would kill for. Without question.

This. This will be his goodbye, then.

He presses a kiss to her inner knee, to her neck, and then presses into her, drawing a sigh from her lips. With his own he continues his careful ministrations, whispering a benediction against every mark on her skin that dares to be there because of him.

:::

His touch is a disease. His touch is a curse.

He can’t bear lying next to her and not touching her, so he doesn’t. He stays late in his office. He sleeps in the spare guest room. It’s killing him, but every day she’s alive, and it’s worth it.

It’s killing him that she wanders the house with those empty eyes, a line of concern between her brows, the hurt and confusion that clearly marks her face.

But at least she is alive. And soon, it will be over.

:::

Adam’s favorite memory of Mercy—the one he thinks of before he puts the gun to his head—is of her in the wedding dress too fancy for the church reception that his pack and daughter put together. She’s dancing with Jesse, at the heart of the people he loved most in the world, swaying to a country song blasting from the church’s ancient speaker system. And she turns to him and smiles.

He can see it as clear as if it were right in front of him. There was so much love in her face then. How different are those faces, the one from his memory and the one Mercy wears at this moment, when she finally sees him for the monster he is.

But she is not disgusted and horrified, as he feared she would be. She is furious. She throws a barrage of words against him, her unfettered anger like a battering ram.

In the years Adam had known and loved Mercy, he has become intimately acquainted with her many moods. Sneaky, playful, worried, content. They were as familiar to him as the feel of Mercy’s calloused hands in his.

Her white hot rage was something entirely new. And through clenched teeth she seethes a truth so utterly profound, that in that moment it shatters the madness that grips him. He lowers the gun in his hand.

Three simple words they had spoken to each other again and again. Whispered in passion and in play. Promised—sworn.

“You are mine.”

:::

He believes her. And for now, so does the monster.

You are mine.

You are mine.

You are mine.

He follows her home, to bed. And though he can’t make love to her like he wants, he worships her body with oil and hands and mouth.

It isn’t until she is completely sated and asleep when the monster rips through his body again. A monster that he now realizes is the ugly marriage of his own fear and self loathing, and Elizaveta’s death curse.

But instead of hurting his mate like Adam fears, the monster scrabbles out from beneath the covers and huddles in the corner of the room. It sits there watching his mate, the covers rising and falling to the rhythm of her breathing.

Within a few minutes, the even breaths stutter and stop. “Adam?” she calls, voice rough with sleep.

It’s the monster that growls in response, and Adam waits. It didn’t work, he thinks. The monster is still here. Will you finally leave me like you’re supposed to?

And still he remembers her promises: You are mine. You are mine. You are mine.

“For fuck’s sake,” she says sounding annoyed. “Get back to bed. I’m cold.”

Oh, my Mercy.

After a moment, the monster cautiously approaches the bed, and it creaks under the sudden weight. It wraps itself around her, tucking her head under its chin. She draws up the covers over them both, and they settle to sleep.

For the first time in a long time Adam prays. Let this be enough. This love. Let me be enough to keep her safe.

If God is kind and he is lucky, maybe it will be.

Maybe the monster will love her, too.

[certifiedceraunophile]

Hi! A fan of your writing here. I just love the way you write Caroline. An Avoidable Heart is my comfort fic and I am constantly in awe with the way you write and craft the dynamics in that story. Caroline's inner monologue is just priceless and God! I just love that intro scene where Caroline is walking into the Mikaelson compound with vampires and hybrids in the surrounding ready to pounce on her.

I would love to hear how you would have visualized Caroline crossing over into TO or not? Like in what season and why? How it would have likely gone?

Thank you!

First of all lovely anon gimme a moment to breathe, asdfghjkl why are people so lovely 😭😭🥺✨ It means sooo much to me that you’d take the time to jump into my inbox and send these kind words, like please I’m not worthyyyyy, But you make me smile and feel really freaking warm so *handcuffs your hand to mine* you aint leaving 💖✨💞🙃

But OK ALSO oh my god dude THAT CAROLINE WALTZS INTO THE COMPOUND AND TAKES ON A COUPLE HUNDRED VAMPIRES BY HERSELF SCENE???? Ughhhhh I’m sorry but I have SUCH a boner for Caroline in that, like my badass -I admit kinda op- QUEEN IS HERE and she’s fucking shit up, I’m sorry but I love that scene so much it’s so dear to me I was killing myself over how self-indulgent and grossly Over powered Caroline is but like idgaf man it’s such a hot scene and Caroline is practically invincible and we just love to see that, so seriously lovely anon, you telling me you LOVE that scene??? Puts the biggest smile on my face and reassures me a LOT bc I was whining and cribbing over how absolutely unbalanced that scene is to literally everyone BUT LIKE YOU JUMPING OUT OF NOWHERE and pointing that exact scene UGHH…...meant to fucking be the both of us 💖💞✨

And ALSO Caroline’s monologue is quite honestly the easiest inner monologue out of the three voices I wrote for that work, Klaus’s is the real pain in the ass tbvh like it is NOT easy writing pretentious besotted losers with a Kardashian complex especially when you need to make them sound cool when they’re the lamest OP dude bros to ever exist - and no I don’t hate Klaus although I seem to try my darndest to convince ppl I do- I just personally believe that a feral fucker like that with a thousand years of existence under his belt can grow a pair and graduate from his kindergarten level of emotional maturity to adult sometime soon, But then on the flipside he’s so grossly adorkably smitten and feral for Caroline plus hella horny for her all the time that its usually easy to write the trashed and devoted idiot he is into something pretentious and powerful and potent when relating to his unflappable arrogance and his narcissism, but sometimes I also need him to be *deep* and ffs profound for the sake of the plot and jfc my muse just wont work with me on that, she’s like I’m sorry I’m not about to bust my ass to make this mongrel intelligible like no sir all I wanna do is make him uncomfortably horny for Caroline and leave him like that.

So smh yeah the struggle is real….but lmao Caroline is just so precious and fiercely protective and just so achingly lonely in that story, so desperate for connection and trust and intimacy yet so guarded and impervious to everyone like it hurts me to write her like that but it really challenges me as an author to balance out her inherent light with the “void” I create in her and through her, so yeah it’s a very fulfilling task and I wouldnt change it one bit, and also I had to balance out her physical op-ness w half a millennium of the ugliest emotional trauma lol so I guess that figures, but the point being….once again I am overjoyed knowing that you liked a facet of the story that I tried so hard to make as authentically Caroline and achingly real and moving as I can and I cannot possibly feel more accomplished than rn for it so ty ty ty ty for reaching out to me and telling me *tackle hugs* It makes me GIDDY knowing that you enjoyed that particular part of the story like ugh stab me please you're too sweet.

And ok NOW, coming to The Originals part of the ask, (also please note that when I say TO headcanon; Hope does not exist, Hayley is a dead in a ditch and ofc Klaus will stop being that lil bitch they tried to pawn off as Klaus in TO) 

HEADCANON 1

Honestly my biggest headcanon when it comes to TO crossovers somehow always include non-humanity!Caroline like it’s just so perfect to me?? The opportunity to make shit BLOW UP b/w them like imagine the DEBAUCHERY, the heat, the SEXUAL TENSION, the repression of one Klaus Mikaelson, the EXPLORATIONS, and omg the role reversal when Klaus has to be the voice of moral reason between them and not bc he believes Caroline would not be able to stand herself if she does something heinous and monstrous but bc he wants her to be completely and utterly herself, and yk *aware*, when she DECIMATES ppl to the ground and is in full-on predator mode, like he wants her monster to come out and play with him when no part of Caroline is locked away or suppressed, so obviously when she is w/o her humanity KLAUS exercises restraint on her behalf, like can you imagine that, Klaus restraining himself and being the vague, extremely broken and just largely inaccurate moral compass between the two of them for ALL the wrong reasons- and the entirety of NOLA just standing there watching him herd this baby vampire who seems to be intent on riling him up and angering him when all she is doing is giving him a massive hybrid hard on, like IMAGINE THE GOODNESS of non-humanity Caroline wrecking NOLA and Klaus letting her wreck it bc he is helpless in the face of Caroline Forbes and also bc he is quite honestly *enjoying* the debauchery himself so why put a damper on the festivities.

-I might wanna add that I favour this headcanon a lot bc I genuinely do not even remotely *like* the idea of NOLA as Klaus's chosen place to set his roots so like I would love Caroline going to NOLA and destroying everything there just bc I detest NOLA and the storyline behind it in TO. (yes is it petty? Obvi, but like I am a petty soul and I make no apologies ma’am)

HEADCANON 2

So yeah that’s my main TO headcanon, but my other one being, one I talk about very frequently, scream about in tag rants to an obsessive level, and like this is a cracky one but still very valid, where Caroline rolls up to NOLA humanity intact and all, finds Hayley preggo and is just laughing her fucking ass off bc anybody ANYBODY, with half a brain and a two minute convo w klaus would know how UTTERLY stupid the entire baby shit is especially when it’s with an immemorable one night stand, and Caroline’s just losing her shit about how like an entire city is obssessed w this baby and she just straight up tells Klaus he’d SUCK as a dad (which he really does tho like he was a shitty fucking dad canonically too) and Klaus is just like *sigh* girl tell me about it. I mean basically he’s finally relieved that someone is on his side about the whole baby thing and how he definitely does not want his entire millennium of life to finally sum up to this one squalling leaking stinky infant/unicorn Hayley is apparently baking in her oven, and I say this headcanon is cracky bc klaus would never have put up w this mess long enough for Caroline to come in and sort it out, there’s this preferred method of disposal of his called heart ripping that would've been employed quite early on and honestly saved us all a lot of brain cells and minused years of life, bc let’s be real any Klaus who’s NOT a lil snivelling bitch wearing a Klaus skinsuit would’ve yeeted the baby and the mama first chance he got, and that’s just how I see it.

Lmao I really hope I didnt scare you away w my *strong* opinions Ik they can be a bit much but I enjoy having them so theyre not going anywhere, anyways this ask answer got WAYYYY too long but I’m hoping I answered your question well with this or atleast left you slightly confused and bemused over my feral screaming....either ways I’m really really really happy to have got your ask and the chance to rant so much bs, Twas cathartic and honestly I had nothing to do today so I was more than happy to dish this baby out for you. Thank you so much sweet anon for putting a smile on my face today I am absolutely HONOURED by your words you’sa cutie 💖💞✨🗣🗣

[novannna]

Same Sea, Same Soul, Same Heart

Danna is the daughter of a noble in Gatlon city.  Gatlon is ruled by King Hugh and King Simon, members of the Renegades, the gruop that saved it from the anarchists and Ace Anarchy.  Nova is the niece of Ace Anarchy and is the worlds most feared and dangerous pirate.  She kidnaps Danna as ransom, and while they travel back to Danna’s father the two girls begin to realize they weren’t so different after all…

Nova must finally exchange danna for her ransom, and both girls struggle to leave eachother forever

link to masterlist

link to chapter 5

wc:2876

Moxie clambered aboard, breathless from rowing across the choppy sea.  

“Well?”  Nova demanded.  “Any word?”  they had been waiting right out of view of a coastal town for almost a week now, waiting for Danna’s father to write back.  

“Yes!”  Moxie handed Nova a letter.  “And even better, I heard the servants talking in the manor.  Apparently his Grace is here already.”

Nova grinned.  “Excellent.”  Slipping a dagger out of her pocket, she slit the envelope open.  

The letter had been written in a hurry, several ink blots, and smudged words on the parchment.  

“What’s it say?”  Genevieve asked, joining them on the deck.  

Nova smiled grimly.  “He agreed.  He’ll meet us on the dock, alone, tomorrow with 10,000 gold pieces.”

“You really think he’s going to obey those instructions Nova?”  Viv asked nervously.  

Nova scoffed.  “Of course not.  The entire fucking army is going to be there.”

“So… what’s the plan?”  Moxie glanced at Nova nervously.  

“Stays the same.  We go in with Danna, we leave with the gold.”

“Nova, once they have Danna, they are going to kill us.”

“I’m well aware of that Moxie,” Nova said.  She slipped her dagger back into its sheath and slipped the letter into her waistband.  

“Then how are we going to get away?”  

“They won’t catch us.”

“Umm, Nova?  We can’t stand up to them, and expect to survive,” Viv said nervously.  “How are we going to survive then?”  

“Simple.”  Nova grinned.  “We change the meeting time.”  

Realization dawned on their faces.  “We don’t let him come to us…” Moxie breathed.

“We’re going to him,” Viv finished.  

“Exactly.”  Nova tilted her head back and smiled in the sun's light.  

“So… when are we leaving?”

“An hour.  Wake up Miss Bell.  She has an important meeting I would hate for her to miss.”

Viv nodded, and hurried off.  

“Hey Nova?”  Moxie asked cautiously.  

“Yes?”  

“Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

Nova looked at Moxie, surprised.  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Well… it’s just that you and Danna seem close.  Connected almost.”  

Nova burst into laughter.  “That’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever said to me,” she snorted.  “Me… and Danna?”  Nova gasped for breath, tears in her eyes.  “That’s actually hysterical.”

“Nova, I’m serious.”  Moxie actually looked concerned.  

Nova straightened.  “Look, you don’t need to worry about me and Danna.  She’s the epitome of everything I hate.  A rich noble.  A Renegade.  She could be dead, and I wouldn’t care.  Understand?”  Nova stared at Moxie, her eyes burning holes into the other woman.  

“Yes captain,” Moxie sighed.  “I understand.”

“Good.  Viv’s are coming with me, you stay and watch over the ship.”

“You're only bringing two people?  Is that smart?”

Nova raised an eyebrow.  “You forget who you're talking to.  We’ll be fine.”

Moxie nodded, then pulled Nova into a tight, bone crushing hug.  “Please keep my wife safe,” she whispered.  

Nova nodded.  “I will.  I won’t let anything happen to her.”

“I know you won't.  But Nova, take care of yourself too.  I know you want us to believe you're invincible.  But you're human too.  You have your limits.  Don’t push them too far.  We need you back.  We need our captain.”

“I’m Nightmare,” Nova said.  “My limits won’t be a problem.  I built myself up from nothing.  If anyone is unstoppable, it would be me.”  Nova bit her lip, and looked at the endless sea.  “I need to get ready.  I want Miss Bells wrists secured, and a bag over her head.  She’s a risk I don’t want.  Clear?”

Moxie sighed heavily.  “Crystal, Captain.”

---

Danna sat in the swaying boat.  She tried not to panic, but it was hard when all she could see was darkness, and her wrists were bound against each other, a hard rope chafing her raw skin.  

“Comfortable, Miss Bell?”  Nova’s clear voice asked.  

Danna tried to control her breathing.  “Perfectly, thank you.”  She had no idea where they were going, only that Danna wasn’t able to see anything.  

“Good.”  Danna could almost see Nova’s lips curling up into a smirk.  Her blue eyes twinkling, like the sun on the sea.  Danna could see Nova in front of her, clear as day.  It hurt when Danna opened her eyes, and the dark greeted her instead. 

“Where are we going?”  She had asked at last.  Danna didn’t expect an answer, but it didn’t hurt to ask. 

“Unfortunately, your time on the Nightmare has come to an end,” Nova responded.  “You’re on your way to be reunited with your father, and we’re on our way to get a lot richer.”  

No…. Danna was going home.  She was going back, away from the pirates. Back to normal life.  So why did she want to stay?  A part of her yearned to stay on the sea.  In the few weeks she had stayed on the ship as a prisoner, Danna had experienced more freedom than she had ever known.  She didn’t want to go home.   But that wasn’t all.  Part of her wanted to stay with Nova.  A foolish, idiotic, stupid part of her body wanted to stay with Nova, and be free. Her heart wanted Nova. 

But Danna refused to acknowledge it. She hadn’t fallen for the notorious pirate captain, the king of the seas.  Had she?  In her mind, they seemed like two separate people.  They were two separate people.  

Noah Artino, the dreaded Nightmare, terror of the seas was not the same person as Nova Artino.  They couldn’t be.  But as Danna felt the rough rope chafing her hands, she knew that she had overlooked all of Nova’s faults.  She had forgotten why the stories about Nightmare had scared her when she was younger.  She had seen the real person, and forgot the legend. Forgot that Nova had two sides.  Forgot that Nova and Nightmare were the same person.

“Finally,” Danna said lightly.  This was good.  She was getting home, safe and out of danger.  “It’s about time.”  

She could see Nova’s smirk in her head.  

“You’ll miss us, won’t you my lady,” the captain sneered.  

“Of course not.  I’m happy to finally be leaving your clutches,” Danna replied, trying to keep the tears from spilling out of her eyes.  She was glad they couldn’t see her face.  Her eyes were screwed shut tight, and her mouth was curled into a grimace.  She was in pain.  

Nova was completely right.  Of course she was.  Danna was going to miss it all.  She would miss the sun on her face, and the wind in her hair.  She was going to miss the smiling faces who genuinely wanted to be with her.  They didn't care for power.  She was going to miss the feeling of genuine friendship.  But… most of all she was going to miss Nova.  The dry humor, and witty comments.  The grace the captain moved with, and her lethal skill.  SHe was going to miss the captain’s dark hair, and sparkling sea eyes.  She was going to miss her warm hands, roughened from years of hardship.  She was going to miss the girl who hated her more than anything else.  It was ironic really.  The same person who hated everything that Danna stood for, was the same girl Danna loved with her entire heart.  Danna realized with a start that she really did love her.  She had known for some time, but she realized it now.  

She loved Nova.  Danna Bell was in love with this pirate.  And Nova didn’t love her back.  She never would.  That was just the way life would work.  

They were about to part, never to see each other again.   Shouldn’t Danna be grateful?  She was never going to be in danger again.  She was going home.  Back to the life she knew.

But she didn’t want to.  She wanted to stay on the sea with Viv and Moxie and the rest of the crew.  Danna wanted to stay with Nova.  She never wanted to see her family or the court again.  She wanted the one thing she could never have.  She wanted Nova Artino.  

And Nova Artino didn’t want her.  

The boat bumped against something and Danna jolted backwards.  

“We’re here.”  

Danna felt Nova’s arms snake under her, and yank her up.  

“I can walk on my own,” Danna said frostily, trying to ignore Nova’s warm skin on her body.  

“Can you?  Then, by all means, walk.”  Nova laughed softly.  

Danna didn’t move.  She couldn’t see anything.  

“That's what I thought.”  Nova yanked her forwards, settling her onto a soft surface.  Sand trickled between her toes.  “Lets go,” Nova growled, and pulled Danna forwards by the hands. 

The sand quickly changed to a hard packed dirt road.  Danna hissed as her toe kicked a rock.  

“Careful My Lady,” Nova said dryly.  “Don’t want you to get hurt, now do we?”

“What do you care?”  Danna asked.  “I know you don’t give a shit about me.”

Nova inhaled sharply.  “I don’t want to have your value decrease,” was all she said.  

Danna bit back a sigh.  Why did she keep hoping Nova was going to change her mind?  

All Danna was to her was a pile of gold.  Nova only saw her as a source of profit.  Nothing more.  Why did Danna keep hoping Nova would not give her away?  She was only hiring herself more.  

“Where are we?”  Danna asked.  

“Quiet,” Nova hissed.  “We’re at the edges of Gatlon.”

“But my father doesn’t live anywhere near here!”

“He’s staying in your vacation home.”  Danna could hear the scorn in Nova’s voice.  “That's where we’re going.”

“Oh.”

They halted.  

“Viv, go ahead and take out as many guards as you can.  Then stay as watch.  You know the signal if something goes wrong?”

“Yeah,” Genevieve responded.  “I’ll meet you back here then?”

“Yes.  Good luck,” Nova said curtly.  

“You too.  It was a pleasure, Miss Bell,” Viv said.  Danna pictured her sinking into a small bow, a playful smile on her face.  

“Likewise,” Danna responded, a smile on her own lips.  

Nova ripped the bag off her head, and Danna blinked in surprise.  Nova wore an outfit almost identical to the one she had been wearing when they first met.  A long black coat with shiny gold buttons.  A black hat that covered her face and hair.  Her waist was lined with swords, guns and knives.  She looked like Noah Artino, dreaded pirate lord.  She looked anything but Nova Artino, the girl of Danna’s dreams. But still Danna ached to be close to the girl.  

“I’m going to need you to behave,” Nova instructed.  “I can’t lead you.  So follow me, and we all get home safe and sound.  Got it?”

Danna nodded.  “Got it.” 

“Great.  Follow me.”  Nova hurried off through the shadows.  They were a block away from her house.  She recognized the houses, decked in gold and mosaics.  The beauty that once awed her now disgusted her.  How many lives could that have saved if the money had gone to people who had actually needed it?  How many people would have never starved or been killed?  Danna’s lip curled.  

“Hurry up!” Nova hissed.  

Danna jogged to catch up.  Her long legs carried her over to Nova.  

She couldn’t help but gasp when she saw the gleaming manor.  

It was so familiar.  How many times had she stood in this very spot?  

“Ready to go home?”  Nova asked, smirking.  

Danna breathed in, and out.  “Yes.  I can’t wait to get back to civilization,” she said haughtily.  

“Of course you do.”  Nova shoved her forwards.  

“What are you doing?”  Danna asked.  “Are you just walking in?”  

Nova scoffed.  “Of course not.  That would be rude.  We’re knocking first.”

Danna couldn’t help but laugh.  “You kidnapped me.  You broke into my house in the middle of the night.  You can’t possibly be worried about manners.”

Nova smiled slightly.  “Ah ah.  That wasn’t me, that was my crew.  I would never be that callous.”  

“Nova?”  Danna said gently.  

Nova’s grip tightened on her, but she didn’t say anything.  

Danna breathed in deeply.  Chances were she would never see Nova again.  Better to say it, wasn’t it?”  

“Look, Nova, I know you hate everything I represent.  And I understand, I really do.  I hate me too.  I just… I want you to know that I don’t hate you.  I could never hate you.”  Danna bit her lip and looked down.  

“I could never hate you either,” Nova said tightly.  

“Then don’t make me go back!”  Danna said quickly.  “I can’t stand my life.  The time I’ve spent with you was better than anything I had ever known.  I can’t go back!  It will kill me.”

“I have a job to do.  I’m sorry, Danna.  But this is goodbye.”  

Danna nodded.  “I understand.  I just wanted you to know, Captain.”

“You can call me Nova,” she whispered.  “It’s nice to know that someone outside my crew and my family remember me.”  

“I could never forget you… Nova Artino.”  Danna attempted a smile.  “Let's just get this over with, yeah?”

Nova nodded, and breathed in shakily.  “It was nice knowing the real Danna Bell.”  She stepped forwards, and knocked twice on the door.  

“I’m sorry,” Nova whispered to Danna, and jabbed a needle into her arm.  “This is the only way.”

Danna collapsed, her head lolling backwards.  The last thing she saw was Nova’s sea blue eyes full with tears.  

--- 

Nova held a knife to Danna’s throat.  The girl lay collapsed against her.  

Nova felt terrible.  She was a terrible person.  How could she be doing this?  Danna didn’t deserve this.  She was forcing her to go back to a life she didn’t want when it was so easy for them to run away together.  But she was too scared to disobey Ace.  She couldn’t bear to see his disappointment when he saw that his niece was in love with a noble.  

The door opened, and Danna’s father stood in the doorway, fear on his face.  

Nova pasted a smirk on her face.  This was her way of life.  She could do this.  

“Hello, Mr Bell,” Nova said.  

“Danna!”  He said.  “Oh thank god, you're alright.”

“Not quite.”  Nova tilted the blade up.  “Where is my money?”

“What did you do to her? Our agreement was that you would meet me at the dock, tomorrow.  And she would be safe and unharmed.”

Nova grinned despite the tears threatening to spill over her eyes.  “Never trust a pirate to keep his word.  Especially me.”

“What do you mean?”  The duke trailed off.  “You’re Nightmare.”

Nova winked.  “I am.  And your daughter is fine.  She’s just drugged.  In a few hours, she’ll be fine.  Ish.”

“Nightmare doesn’t take prisoners…”

Nova groaned.  “I don’t have time for this!  Give me the money.  Or else I kill your daughter here and now.”  She pressed the knife against Danna’s throat, cutting a small line of red.  Nova tried not to wince.  

Danna’s father nodded shakily, and whistled.  A servant appeared, and the man whispered something into their ear.  

“You’ll get your money, Noah Artino,” he hissed.  

“I’m counting it,” Nova replied coldly.  “It’s not like you need it, anyways.”  

They stood there, glaring daggers into each other. 

The subtle rise and fall of Danna’s chest comforted Nova, and she fought the urge to brush a strand of hair out of her face.  

Finally, the servant reappeared, carrying a huge chest.  Their face was bright red from the effort, but Danna’s dad didn’t care.  

“Trade me Danna, and you get your treasure,” he said.  

“How do I know you won't attack me from behind while I’m busy carrying the chest.”

“You have my word.  And unlike you, I actually mean it.”

Nova shrugged.  “Fine.  If you attack me, you will regret it.”  She laid Danna down on the ground.  Her hair spread out, a halo around her face.  

“Set the chest down, and back away.”

“No.”

Nova pulled out her gun, and placed a finger on the trigger.  “Would you like to rethink that?”

The man shakily backed away.

Nova whistled sharply, and Viv melted out of the shadows behind her.  

Danna’s father gasped.  

“Carry the chest,” Nova hissed under her breath.  “I’ll cover.”

Viv nodded, and hefted the chest up as if it was nothing.  

“Nice meeting you!”  Nova called out as they hurried away.  She kept her gun trained on the man.  

“It went alright?”  Viv asked.  

Nova nodded.  “Yeah.  it was fine.”  The look of pure betrayal was still fresh in Nova’s mind though.  The way Danna had looked at her while her body fell onto Nova.  

Nova never should’ve let herself get so attached to Danna.  It had come back to bite her in the ass, and Nova’s chest felt like there was a gaping whole in it.  

“Fine?”  

“Yes, fine.  Hurry up, it won’t be long before the Renegades come after us.”  Nova looked back over her shoulder anxiously.  “We have what we came for.”  

“Do we?”   Viv looked at her, concerned.  “You seem…”

“I am fine!”  Nova screamed.  “Hurry up, or I’m leaving you behind.  We did what we needed to do.”

“Yes, Captain,” Genevieve said heavily, and hurried after Nova.  “You know best.”

Tag list: @novissa @thepurpledragon4444  @phobidawg @janisarkisian  @rvbell @redassassin @styeenza @ifyouhadntbutyoudid (let me know if you want to be added/taken off!!!)  

[bigskydreaming]

Y’know, I’ve posted before about how important it can be to survivors to be in charge of determining when they disclose what happened to them and to whom in what ways.....and thus how the trend of Dick’s ‘secret’ (what happened with Tarantula or Mirage or both) being found out by his family or friends despite his wishes or even his active efforts to keep it secret, and he’s forced to confront it and deal with all of them knowing before he’s ready and made any kind of peace with it himself, and this is often framed as being what’s best for him and its better now that everything’s out in the open and its like....no, that’s not how it works, you can’t FORCE people to recover on YOUR time table, and it happening in a way that gives them no agency or control over it is often a SETBACK instead of like....to their benefit, because while at its heart, disclosure is a relatively simple action, it can be hugely empowering to survivors because its the first time they’re able to definitively take what happened to them and DECIDE what happens next, to take back some of the CONTROL that was ripped away from them by the event and sent their life into a tailspin ever since.....

Ahem. Anyway. Like I said, y’know how I’ve posted before about....all of...well, that?

LOL.

Yeah, so anyway, I’ve been thinking lately about an ideal ‘counter-trend’ that I think could add so much to the view of these parts of Dick’s narrative and character and to discussions about them....and it also IMO is one of the most likely and in character ways that Dick WOULD be likely to disclose what happened to him and make it known to family or friends.....WHILE letting him retain full personal agency over making that choice HIMSELF, for his OWN reasons....

And that’s like.....letting them all find out because Dick makes the personal decision to open up about that to a survivor or recent victim he sees struggling in the aftermath of their own assault. 

Exposing his own vulnerabiltiies and hurt in order to HELP someone, to make something from his own pain, which is one of the key ways IMO that Dick tends to his own trauma and recovery.....using what happened to him as an opportunity to better help others, be there for them, connect with them and give them an easier time of it or more tools to help in their own recovery than he’d had himself. When he’s able to say and do the things a victim really needs to here right then and there, because he’s been there himself and he’s just saying or doing what he wishes someone had said or done for him but hadn’t known at the time he needed or wanted or even had someone available to ask even if he were able to.

I’d love to see a Dick Grayson who finds the strength and will to open up about his own secrets and traumas even if it means people close to him finding out and maybe pitying him (which he hates and I think is one of the primary reasons he doesn’t tell people when something bad happens to him oif he can help it) - and who does so because its the strength someone needs from him in that moment, and Dick’s personal call to heroism is the need, the drive, to be what someone needs in order to save them if its at all within his capabilities. That’s why he’s a hero: he doesn’t know how to NOT intervene in a situation where he knows his unique talents and skills could help protect or defend someone, save them from pain or loss or dying. He doesn’t WANT to know how.

Gimme a Dick Grayson who swallows down his fears, straightens his shoulders and defiantly tells his primal reptile brain “Fuck his secrets” - he couldn’t save this person from having this thing happen to them, but he can still be a kind of hero to them, for them, by CONNECTING with them, revealing that even he, a bonafide SUPERHERO, can and has been hurt that way, and it sucks and its painful and it wakes him up sometimes in the middle of the night, but he’s still here, he’s still the person HE chooses to be, someone who still laughs and cries and has friends and goals and dreams and bad days but good days as well....show me him being their own personal superhero by cutting straight through the shit their own demons try to convince them of - that this is their fault or they deserved this or it wouldn’t have happened if they were stronger, smarter, BETTER - because when freaking Nightwing, son of the Batman and leader of the Titans and someone superheroes the world over speak of in glowing terms....

When THAT guy looks you straight in the eye and tells you none of that is true, that he knows this because it happened to him too, and it had nothing to do with strength or weakness or deserving it or wanting it......its a HELL of a lot easier to believe coming from him. To internalize. To take in and make a mantra in your head that you can summon forth to remind yourself of whenever doubts start to sneak up on you again. That you can call to mind whenever you have a PTSD flashback or a panic attack - that memory of him standing tall and strong  even as he relayed his own story of being struck low, and offering you a hand to help you up when he saw you trapped in a place he recognized, a labyrinth he’d found his own way out of. 

That image of him smiling at you with no trace of the pain you’re feeling now, or so much as a hint of judgment or pity as he’d said:

“I get it. I was there once too, lying right where you are now and unable to even imagine a day when I’d be able to stand up again. But in time I did, so I could be here when you needed me to be, when you needed a hand extended from just the right height and not an inch higher. Something for you to grab onto and just use to steady yourself as you regain your feet and stand on your own, rather than a puppeteer dragging you upright by unwilling strings, legs extended but still completely incapable of supporting you on their own, ensuring dependency on that puppetmaster to prop you up from behind and move your limbs the way they think they should be moving as tell themselves they helped.” 

“Maybe so I could be here keeping you company when you’re afraid to be alone, or just be here to be a mirror until you’re ready to face someone and look them in the eye.....a mirror in whose reflection you see your past behind you, and a glimpse of a possible future, one with hope. One with joy. With good days as well as any bad ones, and confidence and security in yourself and your ability to stand on your own.” 

“Maybe so I could be here when you need someone to stand beside you when you’re ready to face society again, so you don’t have to depend on the kindness of strangers whose faces only reflect a pity for your past, their eyes always straying to where they expect to see it anchored around your ankle like an albatross that will only ever let you rise so high, never able to venture further from it than that anchor’s chain will allow.'” 

“Or so I could be here when you need a guide who’s familiar with this road and has walked it before, can help you navigate the hidden dangers a little more safely, head in the right direction a little more confidently. Or maybe you could use a comrade in arms to back you up when you’re in the thick of that struggle, that personal war that countless others have fought their own versions of before. Each of them knowing just how hard it is and how fiercely you have to fight just when it feels most hopeless. And many of whom are ready and willing to return to the fight and battle alongside you if that’s what you need instead. Like people say, there’s strength in numbers....and there’s also strength in others’ stories of their own past victories, in knowing that people before you have won that war or found some measure of peace somewhere away from the battlefield, that its happened before and it can happen again, maybe even to you. Or hearing in their tales inspiration��for your own tale of triumph, and even just a single flickering thought, there and gone in a single moment but still there, still counting....of an After where you could someday be one of the storytellers giving someone strength with your own.”

No matter how simple or eloquent the words he uses, even the prettiest words only have as much substance as the actions behind them. Anyone can say those things, anyone can coach you to say those things to yourself, but believing them is another story entirely. And if that belief isn’t there yet, won’t come when you call.....when you’re not quite ready to believe in yourself again - well, that’s when having a hero to believe in can come in quite handy.

And if you need a hero to believe in? To believe when he says he’s been where you are and where he is now is where you could be someday too....its hard to do better than Nightwing.

(This is where things kinda got away from me and turned into a very experimental thing I didn’t intend to write or realize I was writing until I finished it and I’m still not entirely sure what exactly it is. Oh, me.)

Because Nightwing flies, he soars. No matter how low a depth he launches himself from, there’s very few who can claim to ever rise to his highest heights. 

They say he’s the first Boy Wonder, the laughing sprite in brilliant red and green and yellow that stood out in stark contrast to the violent backdrop of Gotham’s darkest nights. A human light source, a mortal star that shone so brightly he powered a whole city’s hope for the future by himself - a singular focus for an entire population’s belief in the strength and power and spirit of youth. Standing at the very forefront of the heroes of tomorrow, first out of even their initial vanguard, the frontrunners who unrepentantly choose a headstart to saving the world and race into the future’s unknown dangers and uncertainties well ahead of the starting gun. Even among his own peers, he was the one to launch the opening sally, to rally the others to arms, all by pitching his flag in Gotham of all places. 

The first shots of the war for the future were fired in a city famous for its dead. And its’ Dark Knight’s famous antipathy to guns aside, it was his brightly laughing Robin who pulled that particular trigger. Oddly fitting, despite any initial bemusement that might raise - its those trapped in the darkest of places who need the brightest lights if they’re going to see which way they should go.

(There’s a kind of tragedy in how few will ever truly know what a fitting champion for Gotham he’d turn out to be. The worst of its villains tried to claim the hallmarks of childhood, of joy - of circuses and spectacles for his calling card. And in turn, it was a joyous child straight out of the circus who would return those to their rightful owners. Who made a hero’s covenant with an unsuspecting city the first time he stood in some forgotten alley helping up an almost victim who will never know the significance of it being the first time that boy refused to let their brush with violence be the last and most vivid memory they carried on from that night, and so who instead provided something unexpected, something memorable, something powerful - the strange miracle of a child laughing in the same shadows that only minutes earlier had hidden terrible dangers, proof positive that no matter what horrors the dark corners of Gotham hide.....there can be joy and happiness and laughter found in those same places too.

The Joker may have laughed first, taking something good and warping and twisting it into a celebration of sadism....but its the children of Gotham who will laugh last.)

But this is about the credentials of Nightwing, when offering comfort to survivors. About proof of the power backing up his words when he extends a hand and says this too shall pass.

Because Nightwing is who that boy became, grew into, the shape that promise of the future poured itself into on the day that future finally arrived. Who made himself a hero even among heroes, the Pygmalion of his own inspiration, that he in turn passed on down the line. A brand-new mythology born into a world that thinks mythologies only belong to the dead; a creation story that just so happens to double as Gotham’s ultimate success story: 

Once upon a time, a monster murdered a child’s parents and innocence with a single vicious blow. That alone would definitively see to this being shelved among the Tragedies - but its not in Gotham’s nature to resist an opportunity to double down. Thus rather than help him find a new happy ending, the champions of justice who claimed to have ridden to his rescue instead just dropped him into the worst of Gotham’s filth; no way out in sight, even upon the most distant horizon. 

And even when Gotham’s own darkest of angels (the only kind she’d allow past her gates) even when the Batman himself reached a hand down to help lift him out, the boy chose to stay down there at his side each night instead. Because there were others stuck in the swamp still, see. Others not so different from him. Why should he hide behind clean, austere walls when he had two hands that could help lift others out just as well? And he waded through the endless swamp for years without ever letting it drag him down. Slogging determinedly through it no matter how hard it made it to keep lifting his feet. 

They say back then he was so small, even the smallest wave in that sea of corruption should have crashed far above his head rather than breaking upon him like a shore. Should have drowned him in Acheronian waters of wailing and woe with even just the sheer weight of their vastness. But he just kept forging his way forward, as if it were the Styx and the river’s violence only made him stronger instead. He was so tiny, they said, he should have succumbed to being dragged down to its depths by a Gotham that tried to sing him into eternal sleep like it was a siren with a repertoire of lullabies. 

By all accounts, the boy Robin who seemed to have sprung forth fully formed from Batman’s shadow, already a warrior ready to wage war from the moment of his birth - he was a paradox, a contradiction to himself. The figure they told stories of, the height they lowered their hands to when describing him with tales twice as tall as the hero in them....well. Gotham is a graveyard for bright lights, not the wellspring that births them. It should never have produced even a grimly avenging hero like Batman, let alone the cheerful champion at his side. By all rights, the Boy Wonder’s only destiny should have been to be another statistic lost in a war of attrition against Gotham’s signature entropy. One more casualty to its chaos as it inches ever closer to its own demise: an inevitable implosion of its own making, the serpent that eats its own tail.

But the wonder of the Boy Wonder is that despite all expectations, despite all logic, despite all the reasons his only fate should have been to fall....he grew up. Rose up. Flew to heights most lack the context to even dream of. He was another Icarus, one who’d learned nothing from the fate of the first; determined to fly even higher while everyone else cried warnings of already being high enough. But he was an Icarus the sun welcomed as a kindred spirit instead of a trespasser, rejuvenating him at the apex of each flight he made rather than burning the wax from his wings. 

He lasted...and that alone already made him a legend. From his first flight as Robin, everyone had expected his story to end as a mere cautionary tale. And slowly but surely Robin taught them to expect the unexpected.

(Not quite as fast as they could’ve, however. You’d think the citizens of Gotham would have taken a note from seeing their Robin live past even the longest odds that’d been laid against his longevity, bets made and never paid because he just wouldn’t die. But the stubbornness that keeps Gothammites rooted in Gotham is a double-edged sword. They made fresh bets when a new Robin took to the sky.....and again, most people defined “Robin” as an inevitable word of warning spoken to anyone who might follow  But if bookies called it a nightmare when the first Robin stayed alive and a success story from the city who hated seeing an underdog succeed, they ran out of ways to curse the second Robin when he proved that Robins can double down too, and screwed their bets all to hell. But after all, what did people expect? There’s no better sequel to the boy who refused to die, than the boy who died and refused to stay dead. But that too is another story entirely.) 

But in this story, the story of Robin the first - that story turned out to be just the first chapter. The Robin that sings Gotham into a new spring with nothing but his refusal to stop singing becomes the Nightwing who hunts with all the grace and strength of any bird of prey, both by day and all through the night. He’s the man that grew out of the seeds a Robin planted in the memory of his home, and then nurtured with his own light. Who blossomed thanks to roots that may have been transplanted from a far distant garden, but still took to new soil so vigorously, so firmly, it didn’t matter how much the city tried to wash away the ground beneath his feet......his footing stayed level and steady as he kept moving ever forward.

Year after year, head always held high - and only rising higher and higher as he grew taller with the passage of time. Making him all the more visible even to those further and further away, until finally he reached the end of the path he’d stuck to even through the roughest neighborhoods of a childhood done Gotham’s way. But the end of that road was no more an ending than the last page of Chapter One. 

Because where others might have seen a wall, Robin saw a springboard and the possibility of any number of new roads on the other side of that wall, just hidden from sight. And so he just stepped right up to it, on it, and he bent his knees and leaped into the air and flew. High enough and bright enough he could be seen no matter where you stood below. Free as a bird, with feathers who refused to be stained by the oil and garbage that Gotham tried to paint him with, every day of the childhood it had tried its hardest to knock him off his chosen course and force him down another path. With wings that had refused to be clipped, refused to get caught and trapped by deception, by corruption, by defeat. By whatever the city could find to throw at him in its attempts to stop him in his tracks, to keep him from going any further, or better yet, to turn him around and sent in the opposite direction. Because Gotham is a city who likes its stagnancy, likes its despair. Likes having a strong brand with a clear message for the rest of the world: that Gotham is the city where even hope goes to die. That you’d best abandon hope all ye who enter here, because the city will find some way to destroy any that gets smuggled across its borders anyway.

And Nightwing. Well. Nightwing is the the proof that Gotham is a liar.

Nightwing is their child hero Robin, the embodiment of youth’s hope and potential and self-determination, now reborn in a new image and with a new name. Gone to spread his light to a new city desperately in need of illumination, but never forgetting where he came from. Never flying so far away that he couldn’t swiftly make the return journey any time Gotham’s citizens needed him once more. Needed that bright and carefree grin to again shine defiantly through the shadows like a lighthouse that stands strong and sturdy and impervious through even the worst of storms. That stays on task as it tunnels through the darkness and makes its point of origin the light at the end of the tunnel for all in desperate need of one. Confident in its walls’ ability to remain unmoved by even the most vicious and violent winds throwing themselves bodily against them. Certain the ground beneath it will remain unshaken by any attempt to erode its foundation. Trusting the worksmanship that crafted the roof to keep the pounding rain shut out and nothing but an offbeat melody overhead. Powerless to douse the life-saving, hope-birthing, reliable, consistent light. 

Nightwing is a lance of light and the one hurling it like a javelin into the night, both at the same time, two parts in one. A brilliant spear that cleaves through any and all darkness, no matter how thick a blanket of it Gotham hurls over rooftops in its need to stamp out any and all light before anyone can see it and take hope. But in that it is its own undoing, because its been trying that trick since Nightwing was just a tiny little Robin, and every attempt to dial down that brilliance and reset it to dim - they’ve only ever prompted and spurred the Gotham-forged hero to shine all the brighter, refusing to be beaten down or snuffed out. 

(And his flight to a new city, a second city - well, that was probably always inevitable, in hindsight. After all, in the fullness of his realized potential, the mature wings of the Robin that was once just tiny little spark - now they spread too wide to be contained by a single city. Gleam with a brightness too blinding to be focused on just one city, especially one more accustomed to living in shadow.)

And whether he called Bludhaven or Gotham home, whenever Gotham was most lost, he was always right there and ready to light that lighthouse lamp the moment the sun goes down. Its guiding, inspiring, hopeful light leaping forth with that same youthful exuberance that had stayed the signature of their Robin through all the years he grew. A brilliant arrow fired from the bow of a champion taught by the best archer in the world how to always hit his mark....unfailingly burning through any fog and confusion that tried to get in the way of that fearless beacon shining on despite the vastness and inevitability of night. As it guided people through tempest-tossed waves, no matter how distant the shore. Remaining lit for as long as it took them to reach a safe port they could take shelter in and ride out the chaos. Weather it until it was safe to come out again.

If Gotham was a crucible, Nightwing was both the weapon it forged and the flame it fueled, the inferno it unleashed. If Gotham was the city where even hope dies, Nightwing was the hope so enduring, so willful, it simply....refused to die. If Gotham was a city of men and nightmares, Nightwing was the boy who learned to fly in defiance of all physics, all the reasons mere mortals were meant to stay earth-bound. All so that all his fellow mortals could point to him in the sky and say this. This is the reason we still dream of the impossible anyway. And yet he’s also the man who still held on to his dreams despite all the times and ways life tried to convince him that dreams are meant to fade in time, to grow distant and indistinct with age. That the death of dreams was a strength, that it was freedom...rather than the very things that once convinced a boy he could fly.

Because the impossible is simply possibilities that haven’t happened just yet. Something that is only unreal until the day someone or something does it first.

And then suddenly, it turns out it was possible all along.

That’s the truth behind any words he speaks, the reason they can’t help but ring as true in your ears when you’re face to face with an ordinary man who somehow kept pace with gods when he was still waiting on growth spurts.

That’s the bedrock he’s standing on, when he’s standing beneath someone about to fall saying don’t be scared, that he’ll catch them. That’s the iron hidden beneath his frame that makes him into an Atlas prepared to hold up the sky, if that’s what needed to be sure he can keep his word, that his footing is sure and his stance won’t waver an inch.

That’s the superpower of the man with no superpowers, the paradox of being the impossible made possible and for whom no possibility is too high to reach.

Plus, you’re pretty sure he’s like, literally saved the world.

So when Nightwing stands before you and somehow feels at your level rather than like he’s looming over you right when you’re at your worst....when its Nightwing who looks you straight in the eye and you can actually see the sincerity in his eyes even though the whited-out lenses that are technically hiding his eyes from sight.

When Nightwing offers you his hand and says its just for support, for you to use to pull yourself to your own feet. When he says its not going away, that it’ll be there until you’re ready to use it, that its up to the task and so are you.

When its Nightwing who tells you that once it was him in your place and that someday it could be you in his place instead. When he says everything you’re feeling right now is real and valid and earned, but to remember that whatever those feelings are they coexist with facts and the facts are you once stood on your own using nothing but your own strength before you were knocked down, and being knocked down isn’t proof you can’t do it again when you’re ready.

When its Nightwing who spreads his arms wide and says here he is, proof of concept that there’s life after this just like there was life before this. That there were your good days and your bad days then and its no different now. That here he is existing, here he is living, here he stands as a survivor and living proof that this can and will be survived......

Well.

Its a lot easier to believe any and all of that, when its Nightwing that’s saying it to you. Its a little bit easier to imagine taking that hand and actually climbing to your feet, a little less of an impossible to picture feat when a living legend tells you that his offer of a hand only means he knows he could have used it once and so its there whether you need it or not. That everything you do here and now is entirely up to you. 

When a man who has ordered around actual gods stands there and says this is entirely up to you, you call the shots here, he’s just here to play back up....you think......maybe I can do this. Maybe I can move on from this.

Clearly, stranger things have happened.

No matter how impossible it feels right now to imagine a day when everything doesn’t hurt, everything isn’t terrible, when you don’t see monsters lurking in every shadow and a knife for your back in every stranger’s hand, no matter how certain you are that if it were just you right here you’d probably just lie here forever, that you don’t even have the strength right now to sit up on your own. No matter how fake and trite and Kitten Posters on the Walls of the Guidance Counselor it feels when people tell you that you’re strong enough to do this, beat this, get past this, whatever the hell this actually is...

Sometimes the thing that can make all the difference is a hand that’s just there in case it becomes necessary or welcome. Someone saying its okay if you can’t believe in yourself right now, I’m going to do the believing in you until you’re ready to take over again.

Sometimes the who of the hero is irrelevant, and the only hero you need is someone there to tell you that you are hurting, its real. That someone hurt you and that’s why you’re hurting, that the effect of how you feel has a cause and its not in your head. That everything has a cause and effect, even if its not a step by step road map, and the road to the end effect of saying here I am living, I’m standing here now as proof I survived - all it needs to get started on that road is a cause. Even if that cause is just you saying I want to see what happens next. Maybe its better. Maybe its good.

Sometimes a hero is just the person who says I’m here solely to be a somebody who’s in your corner, and I’m going to be there while you see what happens next whether it does turn out good or not. Someone who is ready and willing to say it as often as it takes for you to believe it.

Sometimes the pain is too great and the thoughts-that-lie are too loud in your ears. You can look at a bonafide superhero standing strong and heroic in front of you, offering a hand and telling you you’re strong enough to take it, and still not buy it, still not believe a single word out of their mouth and its not because you’re broken its because the world is often good at lying and its burned you often enough that being cautious around what might turn out to be fire is not only warranted, its the very thing you need. Before you’re ready to take that next step, whether that’s taking an actual step yet or not. Maybe you think you were wrong about someone being trustworthy and that’s why this happened, and maybe now what you need is to be wrong about someone not being trustworthy and for the sky not to fall, for being wrong to come with no consequences, before you feel safe trusting someone again and hoping this time you’re right.

A hero will stand there regardless, or maybe take a seat if you prefer. Showing up when promised just so they can keep their promise and be proof that promises can be kept. The person who doesn’t dream of saving you, because they’re busy dreaming dreams where you save yourself. Who is there to be there even if all you end up needing them for is their hand and just for five seconds....and who’s still glad to have been there, to have been nothing more than a five-second hand for you to pull yourself up by. Because if its what you needed them to be, their performance as the five-second helping hand is the only starring role they needed or wanted for themselves.

They can be family or they can be a friend, they can be someone you never thought twice about before or someone you hated in third grade. They can be a professional or a total stranger to whom you’re a blank slate. 

They can even be you.

Maybe the real hero all along turns out to be one of those stupid fucking Kittens Who Care calendars on the wall. A dumb cliché whose only superpower is being the exact thing you need to hear at the exact moment you need to hear it. The reminder that in the here and now, even at rock bottom, even if you’re all by yourself, that just means that your past isn’t there in that moment with you, and your future is still up to you. An awareness that the thing about rock bottom is no matter how far down you fell before hitting the floor....it is, in fact, a floor. And a floor is a thing you can stand on. A floor is what new things can be built upon.

The great thing about heroes is even the strange magic of hearing a child laughing when you can’t imagine laughing yourself, that might all you need to save you. A recipe for a brighter tomorrow, that reminds you that here you are, still alive, and with an undetermined future: the only ingredients needed to make a possibility, a chance that somewhere ahead of you there’s a day when you’ll laugh again.

The cool thing about a hero with the superpower of achieving the impossible is its the one power that doesn’t need to be a superpower to exist.

Because all the impossible is is a possibility that hasn’t happened yet, a performance still waiting backstage before making its debut. All a possibility is is anything and everything that has yet to be proven impossible.

There’s another word for that superpower. For holding onto a dream no matter how unlikely it is. For aiming for heights that are still possibly in reach until the day its proven for sure that they’re not. For believing that the memory of a time you couldn’t imagine ever being in this much pain....even that can be your tool, even that you can somehow make yours. Presenting as evidence that the flip side of that coin is none of the pain you’re feeling is proof there’s not maybe a day still to come, that’s full of more happiness and joy than you can possibly conceive of here and now, in this time and place..

Another word for that is hope.

Hope is the only power that can always claim to be the thing that saved the world again.

Because as long as it exists, you exist, life goes on....a better future, a future where the day is saved, its still a possibility. And no matter what ultimately claims credit for saving the day, it didn’t do it alone. Hope played a part too.....its the machinery of potential, the forward momentum and the reason it exists. Its the origin story of every wizard and scientist to ever try something with the sole cause of thinking they might get an effect that is new, is unexpected, that surprises.

And when you’re at your absolute lowest, one hundred percent convinced this is as good as it gets. When you can’t imagine or picture any future where things could possibly improve...

You don’t need Superman. You don’t need Wonder Woman. 

You need whomever and whatever it is that you can look to, and in them, from them, because of them.....somewhere in all of that is something you can find, can see, can make into a reason to hope.

After that?

The sky’s the limit, and the only really limit is on the other side of the sky.

Its all up to you, and whatever it is that you decide to do next.

[moonloredraws]

What tyepes and how elves do you have in your homebrew d&d??! Like the worldbuilding is huge, and hope I don't bother you by asking.

I don’t mind the questions, honestly! But be ready for an INCREDIBLY long read because I love elves and I might as well go into detail with them, and most of the information and brain thoughts can be found under the read more!

Anyway, I have 3 different realms. Manala, which is my Homebrew D&D world, The “It’s an Odd Kind of Fairytale Universe” which... is my webcomic’s universe (I still haven’t named the realm OTL) and Ozarathan, which is the Elf Only Universe. 

Manala is the one I’ll focus on since you asked D&D homebrew but I’ll touch on the other two as well. Ozarathan’s elf types are a mix between the Manala and IAOKOFT elves but with SOME differences.

Now... onto my D&D elves!

Manala has 10 types of elves. Here, we have 9 pictured, and those are the actual playable races. I’ll get to the last ones once I’ve explained these ones!

Manala has 2 categories of elves. True Elves and False Elves. False Elves are Wood Elves and Sea Elves, the rest are all True Elves. The reason for this categorization is that Wood Elves came to be when Eladrin mixed with Amali (beastfolk, essentially kemonomimi) and Sea Elves came to be when Eladrin mixed with Triton. They have plenty of elven blood, but they’re removed enough that they have their own cultures and are not as afflicted by The Hunt as True Elves are.

The Hunt is something all True Elves suffer from and it’s an innate bloodthirst. Elves on Manala are incredibly unhinged, especially Eladrin and Shadar Kai, who were the first Elves to be created onto Manala, and Shadar Kai especially just tend to start eating prey while it’s still alive. The others at least have the decency to kill the thing before starting to eat it. Most elves enjoy raw meat, and if it’s still warm from the hunt that’s even better.  

That being said, High Elves (so Sun Elves, Moon Elves and Drow) try to move away from being so overcome by the Hunt that they immerse themselves into practising the arts, and most modern High Elves don’t even experience the Hunt anymore... unless they actually go out to hunt. Which they don’t, because they either raise livestock or assign certain individuals to hunt so that not everyone turns into chaotic bloodthirsty morons. Sea Elves have no remnants of The Hunt, and Wood Elves experience it in a completely different way. They don’t revel in the kill, they revel in the hunt itself and a hunting party can spend weeks away from home tracking down some kind of behemoth, running it ragged until it dies from stress. 

True Elves also have mostly matriarchal societies, and most men dress in very revealing ways. Piercings and Tattoos are common across all True Elves, and preference of Fabric depends on region and subrace, with High Elves and Eladrin enjoying silken and loose flowing fabrics that move well, and Shadar Kai preferring leathers and wool to fight away the harsh cold of the Shadowfell.

Now... onto more specific explanations of the races!

Shadar Kai. Shadar Kai are one of the two Original Races of Elves. They were created alongside Eladrin, and at first were put into the Material Plane before the Creators decided to split the Material plane into 3, which resulted in the creation of the Shadowfell and Feywilds. Shadar Kai are definitely the most unpredictable of the elves, The Hunt is incredibly strong in them, and as such they get very distracted by that need to go out and kill some poor beast. Because of this, the Shadowfell is relatively safe where Elven societies exist, pretty much anything that’s deemed a danger is ripped apart. Their Shadowfell sister-race, the Shadow Orcs, keep them at an arm’s distance, but even if there’s surface bickering, but the two races are very close and if a larger enemy comes, the two team up and their combined forces easily dispatch any dangers.

Shadar Kai are the largest of all the elves. Stronger, more ferocious, and definitely way more extreme. Their society employs very Art Deco styles, unlike the other Elves who prefer the more fluid Art Nouveau looking styles. Shadar Kai have tons of piercings, and as they come of age, they get large geometric tattoos that cover their entire bodies to separate the youngins from adults. Shadar Kai do not have very colourful natural colours. Their eyecolour ranges from all tones from white to black, and occasionally very pale colours of any kind. Their Sclera tends to range from grey to black. Skintones range from black to white, and this is true for their hair too. The exception is with Ghost Shadar Kai, who are born pure white except for their sclera, and the result is a very jarring humanoid. They have feathery growths adorning their skin, mostly on the face, but down the back, on the shoulders and neck, as well as forearms is also common.

Up next are the Eladrin, who are really crazy and obviously very very horny because they ended up creating the false elves all on their own. They’re native to the Feywild, but very often travel to the Material Plane, so Eladrin are much more common than Shadar Kai. Like their Shadowfell counterparts, they have growths as well, but it ranges wildly from individual to individual, and even their season. 

Eladrin can be pretty much any colour, and often have skin markings. They’re a colourful bunch. Eladrin men tend to be VERY ostentatious, and the less actually properly covering their skin, the better. But don’t let the bright colours, horniness and smaller size distract you, because the Eladrin are only marginally better than Shadar Kai when it comes to dealing with the Hunt. They’re a bunch of party animals but will definitely rip your throat out if they feel threatened.

Surface High Elves are the best at taking care of their Hunt instinct, and actually have it so under wraps that they have extensive cities filled with so much art of all kind that they make other races forget that Elves are actually nuts. Surface High Elves developed after certain clans of Eladrins began losing their connections to the Feywild after spending extensive amounts of time on the Material Plane.

(Elerath isn’t a Sun Elf but he presents himself as such)

The men dress a LITTLE more sensibly, but the sheer variety of High Elf fashion can lead to some... weird clothing choices. Surface High Elves don’t have the jewel tone range of their Eladrin cousins, but still come in all kinds of skintones, hair colours and eye colours. They do not have any growths of any kind, and actually have super soft skin! (poking elf cheeks is super satisfying) The main difference between Sun and Moon Elves is mostly their colour schemes and sleep cycles. Sun Elves are diurnal, Moon elves are nocturnal.

Drow developed from an offshoot of Surface High Elves when they travelled into the Underdark to protect the Surface from Aberrations that had started migrating to the surface and causing chaos. Unlike canon Drow, Drow on Manala are not as bad with their overwhelming misandry and the whole “treating men like garbage” thing doesn’t exist. They’re still strongly matriarchal, and men are held to a different standard, but in a completely different way. Drow men are THE most beautiful group of elves in the entire world, and most high ranking ladies have harems of handsome men who they protect with such overwhelming ferocity that it almost rivals that of Shadar Kai. So I guess Drow men still get the short end of the stick but hey, at least they get pampered?? (But if you’re a handsome man, your chances of getting out into the world is... almost nil)

The Drow are zealous worshipers of The Spider, the Archfey of Weaving, Protection and Good Fortune, and due to this, they work in tandem with various Drider, who in this setting are natural Fey creatures, not drow dudes who fucked up a weird and complicated ritual. (Can you tell that I hate canon Drow culture? Because I really do. Drow have such great potential so here I am, turning things on its head)

Drow skintones range from white to charcoal, and sometimes have a slight purple tone. Eye colours tend to be jewel tones, but yellows, oranges and greens are very uncommon. Hair ranges from white to black, but can also be bright purple.  The exception is with ghost drow, who are pure white. Even their pupils are difficult to distinguish from their iris so they look super jarring.

Wood Elves are a fun bunch. They don’t mingle with other elves as much, not do they associate with Amali much, but they have good relations with both. Most Wood Elf cities are hidden from the world at large since they tend to just keep to themselves and protect nature from other races, and to protect the other races from whatever lurks in the forest. 

They have ears with extra lobes attached, and many also have fur on the tips and the back of the ears. Some individuals even have furry manes that run down their spines! Their colours are basically any shade of brown you can imagine. They span the entire human gamut, also include greys, and sometimes are a little too yellow or red toned to be completely right. They also sometimes have stripes or spots on their skins!

Then there’s the Sea Elves! Unlike other elves, Sea Elves are not mammalian. They lack breasts, and their young can eat fish pretty much as soon as they’re born. Sea Elf Babies are born very small, but more developed and take a while longer to get to their adult sizes since Sea Elves are quite large when it comes to elves. They have patches of scales on their skin, and gills. They can breathe both above and underwater, and most large Sea Elf societies are underwater, built into cliffs by the coast

Any colour a fish is, they can be. As such, Sea Elves are seen as very striking individuals if they come from more tropical seas, and they become very sought after courtesans.

Elves in general are really horny. Unlike most media where elves are seen as aloof and standoffish and holier-than-thou because of their beauty and long lifespans, on Manala, ALL elf subraces are pretty easy to seduce. They enjoy the attention, and as a result, the entire realm is filled with half-elves of ALL kinds of mixtures. Also, gender is so fluid in elven society. An Elf picks how they present themselves and because of the ease at which magic is available, they can sculpt their bodies to fit how they wish to be seen. Elves said Trans Rights.

Now... there’s one type of elf I didn’t touch on, and those are the Aetherians. The Aetherians don’t play much of a role on Manala because they’ve actually left. Aetherians are essentially Space Elves and they have WEIRD crazy powers. They’re the creators of the realm, but after they deemed their newest project complete enough, they left. Well. Most of them did. Two of them remain in the Realm but I’m not going to reveal their identities.

Aetherians are HUGE. They’re like. 9-10 feet tall, and have geometric grooves in their skin that glow. They also have floating crowns of shards above their heads. They’re a mystery, and were involved in the creation of the world, but aside from that almost nothing is known of them.

So uhhh yeah. Those are my D&D elves.

I’ll add a little bonus section of the Ozarathan Elves here as well because that’s fun:

I haven’t finished drawing the lineup so the anatomy is whack on some of these here’s a general idea of their sizes??

(Also in IAOKOFT) The Solarians – slightly scorched skin, tanned, warm grey/brownish sclera, live in high mountains, art deco style, very isolationist.

(Also in IAOKOFT) The Umbrals - Reskinned Manala Shadar Kai and Ghost Shadar Kai, cousins to Umbrals, very similar aesthetics

The Vokorians- Reskinned Manala Wood Elves. They have the same fluffy ears but also have tails.

The Hush-Hush – Reskinned Manala Drow and Ghost Drow, but also have tails.

The Maritimians- Scaled Skin in parts, fins and gills, often have tails. Freshwater and Saltwater varieties exist.

(Also in IAOKOFT) The Zephyrians- Elves with small wings. Often have feathering on their bodies, and also have feathered tails. Live in moving cities that get moved by the wind. Nomadic.

(Also in IAOKOFT) The Uzarians- High Elves, the most typical elves.

(Also in IAOKOFT) The Duneriders- Desert elves. Grey sclera, dark skin, have marks, offshoot of Solarians, but have rounded highly mobile ears.

[florafey]

Thoughts While Reading Crescent City - Part 2

Part one here

Spoilers under the cut

- Something definitely went down that night Bryce and Danika got in a twist with those shifters and crashed their motorcycle

- That something that went down probably has a lottttt to do with the resolution of this book but I can’t for the life of me figure out how

- Aw Hunt’s ordering her food and she isn’t HAVING IT

- Ah shit a ‘slposion 

- Bryce really tired to protect Juniper from the explosion even though Juniper is immortal and Bryce isn’t. This woman is amazing

- I bet a million trillion dollars that Briggs has nothing to do with any of this. I know all signs are pointing to him but that just seems too easy

- AAAAAAAAAND Hunt’s moving in with her. CHA-CHING BABEYYYYYYY

- Nobody hates the Autumn King more than Ruhn does and it’s hysterical. I’m living for the almost blatant disrespect with which Ruhn speaks to him 

- It’s been four seconds and they’re already acting domestic Sarah SARAH what have you done to me

- Fury better make an appearance before the book is over

- Syrinx and Hunt? Pals. I’m calling it

- Okayokayokay I know Bryce has a whole thing with “don’t go all alpha-hole on me” and all that but it was extremely amusing to see her explain that to Hunt and have be like ??? the fuck are you talking about?? and then just shut her down with “I think you may be the alpha-hole here” like Bryce I love you but you needed that

- And then Hunt just picks up from that and starts telling her what to do AHAHAHAHHAH hypocrite 

- I’d rather eat my own vomit than meet Sandriel but I just know we’re going to

- “What’s the deal with you two?”

“We beat the shit out of each other at a party. Danaan’s still sore about it.”

uh yeah I’d be sore about it too, bitch lmaoooo

- Bryce, Hunt, Ruhn, and Lehabah should start their own CSI show. Or Criminal Minds. Or one of those crime shows cause I can’t tell a difference right now

- Group buddy cops except between the four of them, only Bryce and Lehabah get along

- Hunt has an email I’m cryingggg

- Bryce probably fucked that Oracle up, that’s why she won’t go back

- Hunt collectively referring to Bryce and Ruhn as ‘assholes’ is a bold move but he’s right and he should say it

- ah these photos are gonna be a thing, huh? Good. Give it to me

- FUCK ITS SANDRIEL

- atta boy Hunt don’t fucking kneel to her

- Sandriel can catch these hands on any holy day and that’s a fact 

- ewwww Micah come ON

- Wow Bryce really is a Bad Bitch. Doing all that in front of Sandriel?? Telling Micah fucking Domitus ‘not interested”????? Queen

- Okay now I don’t like Micah. He’s fucking Hunt up and he knows it.

- That oracle made me nervous but it went better than I had expected

- Fuck, see, I knew Briggs didn’t have anything to do with it

- I really don’t want Danika to have anything to do with this. It would ruin Bryce and I’m not interested in reading about that

- As we get to know Hunt better, he’s refreshingly human. And he needs a friend just as much as Bryce does. And while both of them are often assholes to each other, they’re also really really good friends when the need to be

- ^^^that’s called growth

- AHHHHHHHHHH the gun range scene????? AMAZING POWERFUL ICONIC on both their parts wowowowowowowowwwwwwwwwwww heheheh they’re such a power couple

- So......hmmm.....okay so Shahar seems to.....not have been that great of a person? Is anyone getting those vibes? idk

- Hunt and Bryce are so normal and I love it. Like sharing worst hookup stories and casually/not so casually asking about current relationships

- Didn’t I say fuck Sabine? Yeah, I knew I was on to something with that

- Ruhn and this medwitch? Could be interesting. I get strange vibes from her, though

- Oh these two will be the death of me. Now we’re changing contact names in each other’s phones?? Okay high-schoolers 

- I LIKE VIKTORIA

- Can I just say that both Bryce and Hunt are doing a phenomenal job at trying to overcome/work through their respective trauma? And they’re learning the best ways to help each other, too 

- Hunt seriously made Bryce crawl into a sewer how rude

- I had heard tell of the Jelly Jubilee scene before reading this book. I have now read it and can say that yes, it is as iconic and hysterical as everyone is making it seem. Wow. I’m going to read it eight more times

- Tharion Ketos is amazing and that’s a fact from God

- ‘Legs’???? ‘Legs’?????? Bryce, if Hunt had called you that you would have smacked him in the mouth

- Oh jeez Bryce lmao chill out you’re at work

- ew I hated the whole scene at the werewolf teritory

- I’m also....unnerved at how the wolves hate Bryce because she hooked up with someone before she ever went on a date with Connor but she was “already his” like ???? guys that doesn’t add up let’s do the math again

- If Sabine does not shut the FUCK UP about her GOTDAMN SWORD I’m gonna seduce Tharion into drowning her and eating her

- So we can drown Amelie too, did you hear that, Tharion? Good

- Micah is now acting shady. Destroying the kristallos before they could search it for an antidote or evidence? That’s called shady 

- A HUG WOW

- FUCK YOU SABINE YOU FUCKING INTERRUPTED THE HUG SESSION

- oop

- Danika ????? Stole ???? Stole the ????? oh alright

- Hunt is again antagonizing Ruhn. This will never get old

- So you know that prophecy about Danika’s sword that talks about one the sword and the knife are joined something about the people coming together? I can’t really remember what it says but I read a theory that proposes that knife as Azriel’s knife from ACTOAR and I’m.....really about that....that would be something else 

- we’re summoning another demon ??? 

- ohhhhhhh the Prince of the Chasm you say ???? I LIKE THIS ONE

- oh shit and Bryce knows him ???? From the past ??? Wild

- lmao look how stressed Hunt is over Aidas

- Aidas had three pages but I’m in love. And he’s a demon so that’s fuuuuuun

- awww look at Bryce trying to make an apology meal there’s def a similarity between this and the soup scene between Feyre and Rhys

- Is....is Hunt going to be her Anchor?? 

- “You said home earlier. At the bar. I know you’re supposed to live in the barracks or whatever Micah insists on, but if we somehow solve this case...that room is yours if you want it.” tears. actual tears. write this on my tombstone, please for the love of god 

- Oh my god Bryce really got scared when he didn’t come home...I’m really gonna start crying again what the hell

- Alright, a tsunami of tears have just been ripped from me. The whole scene when she found him in the shower and washed him and dressed him and put him to bed ???? When he PUT HIS HEAD ON HER LAP ??????? jeeeeesus I’m soft, so so soft

- This is the greatest work of writing I’ve ever held in my hands

- “A child laying his head on his mother’s lap. A friend looking for any sort of reassuring contact to remind him that he was a living being. A good person, no matter what they made him do.” sarah, oh sarah how you’ve ruined me

- So I know we all ship Bryce and Hunt but can we really talk about their friendship? Like the....the pure trust they’ve formed ?? Take that scene above for instance. There’s nothing at all sexual about Bryce washing Hunt in the shower when he was in shock and couldn’t do it himself. Sarah mentions how nervous Bryce is because Hunt is naked but there isn’t anything to that that isn’t normal. And Hunt is comfortable enough with her that he puts his head in her lap and again, nothing sexual. Sarah compares him to a child needing his mother and a friend needing reassurance, but nothing more. There’s something to that, something that wouldn’t be there if the connection was also romantic or sexual. Okay I’ll stop now 

If you’ve made it this far, I appreciate you. Thank you for joining me on this extremely wild and slightly out of control ride. Part 3 will be up shortly.

[weird-incarnate]

A Brief Intermission For Shipping Content

This is the story of how Dr. Valentine and Dr. Afton met.  Dr. Afton belongs to @theho11owknight TW: Sexual Harassment, Nearly getting hit by a bus,  Summary: Dr. Marbus Valentine has  been on Earth for over a millennia now. Somehow she still gets herself into quite a bit of trouble, but that somehow all led up to this. Her first meeting with Dr. Charles Afton. 

Dr. Marbus Valentine woke up to the familiar ache of her body complaining. It’s been a full millennia and her damaged back still complained of the soreness it felt from the wounds inflicted on it. Groaning, she rolled over trying to go back to bed, shivering as the cold air hit her exposed back. She would’ve loved to fall back asleep, she really would have, but Nurse Mortus had other plans, made apparent by the way he kicked open the door and let himself in. “Rise and shine, my Valentine!” He rhymed laughing at his stupid joke. Mortus surveyed the room and clicked his tongue at the scene The computer in the corner of the room had been left on, again, and she had neglected to pick up her clothes off the floor… also again… She wasn’t necessarily messy, no not by any stretch of the imagination. Dr. Valentine actively enjoyed cleaning! Mortus on the other hand, hated anything being out of its place. He had to set up everything just right and it had to be like that the moment he woke up. Dr. Valentine was not like him, made apparent at her snakelike hiss when he opened the blinds. “Oh hush, you have to get to your clinic, and I need to get to the bar,” He scolded, “I’m just waking you up before I leave. Are you able to get there on your own today?”

“Yeah yeah… I’ll be fine getting there Mortus,” She responded grumpily, before shifting and sitting up in bed to rub her back, ignoring Mortus’s complaint at the lack of shirt she was wearing. “You’re in my room you old bastard. You should’ve expected it.” “Still! You’re an angel! Have a fragment of modesty please?!” He begged averting his eyes, and making a bee-line for the door. “I’m leaving to work! Be careful and I’ll see you tonight!” 

Dr. Valentine watched him leave, and waited to hear the front door shut before swinging her legs over the side of the bed and using her night stand to push herself up into a wobbly standing pose. After a couple shaky steps, as per her morning routine, she made it to the bathroom and began brushing her teeth. She spat out blood, most likely leftovers from last night's feast and sighed returning to her computer screen. She checked the news to see if anyone found the bodies of her victim from last night. They hadn’t and she was sad they hadn’t even been reported missing yet. She wondered about their family, their friends, their loved ones. She was struck between being sad and relieved no one had reported them yet, but accepted the relief and rolled over in her desk chair with a push to the dresser.

 It was too early for her to go to the clinic yet, Valentine wasn’t due to be there for three more hours. Still she got dressed, pulling on a turtleneck and a pink skirt, something she had worn for years. It took a bit of struggle to pull the turtleneck over her back scars as they were being angrier than usual today. Once the fabric settled she was able to move easier, and rolled over to her wheelchair in her room. She picked up her black plague mask off of the wheelchair seat and sat down in it after a quick transfer, pulling on her mask. It took her about twenty minutes to get ready in total, not shabby for a bad pain day. Looking around, she located her hat and placed it on her head, before rolling her wheelchair into the living room, and then to the front door. Did she ignore the meds and food Mortus set out for her? Probably. Did that matter to her in the moment? Not really. 

She checked herself in the entryway mirror of the quaint house to make sure everything looked correct on her, before unlocking the front door and rolling out, locking the door behind her. Dr. Valentine began her trek down the street into the city humming a small tune to herself. Despite the normally busy metropolis it was quiet and empty today. She didn’t mind it entirely. After years of living in the city, she did get sick of the noise every once in a while. 

Without much incident, Dr. Valentine arrived at the park, seeing some people walking their dogs, and children playing before school. She smiled at the scene. Normally she hated parks but this one by her house always brought her a sense of peace and joy. It was always so quiet and empty. Happily rolling down the path, she made her way to the duck pond where everyone seemed to be gone. She took some spare bird seed out of her bag and tossed it into the water, giggling to herself as they flocked to the seed, nibbling on it. 

However, she quickly felt a familiar feeling of being watched and she looked away from the ducks to a man on the other side of the pond. Dr. Valentine was taken by surprise at his appearance. Sure, in this new generation, much of the clothes was brightly colored and very different from when she was sent to earth, but only doctors ever adorned plague masks and here she was. Staring at a man in a plague mask. He was quite intriguing at her first glance. He had on a purple dress shirt and black slacks, with a black and silver plague doctor mask. He had what looked like a scar across his neck, and some marking on his wrist as well, but Dr. Valentine ignored all of it. She locked directly onto his glowing purple eyes peering through the holes of the mask. He hadn’t actually been looking at her. He was actually looking at the ducks she was feeding, but when she stopped feeding them, he noticed almost seemingly instantly and locked eyes with her. 

Dr. Valentine cursed the blush she felt tint her cheeks as she ripped her gaze away from him. The blush deepened when she saw him approach her. She damned the angels in heaven by making her a hopeless romantic when she fell, getting ready to roll away in escape, but he stopped somewhat close to her to look at the ducks closer. Despite her usual hatred of strangers, Dr. Valentine spoke. 

“Would… you like to feed them too?” Her voice came out soft and gentle, but nervous. The masked man looked over at her and back at the ducks before nodding. Dr. Valentine couldn’t help the smile that spread across her cheeks as she poured some feed into his hands and let him toss it out into the lake where the ducks quacked and munched away. That should’ve been it. It really should have been, but Dr. Valentine was desperate for human connection. So she started attempting to chat with him. 

“The ducks are always so hungry in the mornings. They would eat my whole bag of feed if I let them,” She mused, halfway not expecting a reply. 

“Do… you come out here and feed them often?” The man asked, seemingly analysing her. His gaze could have melted her alive, if she was the slightest bit weaker. Instead, she ripped her eyes away from him for the second time and looked back at the ducks. “Only when I get the time. I was just heading to my clinic but I had a lot of extra time so I decided to stop by here.”

“. . .Interesting…” 

Dr. Valentine was practically melting in her seat at this point. Looking for an escape, she looked up at him, glad he couldn’t see her face, and offered him the small bag of feed. He looked at it without taking it, so she prompted him further. 

“I have to head to work about now. I don’t meet many people by this duck pond so take this as a gift and feed them for me okay?” She smiled, and even though he couldn’t see it, she practically radiated sunshine through her posture, getting the message across. He took the bag, his hand brushing hers for a moment, and pulling back analyzing the bag. Dr. Valentine pulled her hand back and wished him well before taking off down the pond and into town. 

She cursed herself for chickening out and not staying longer. In her defense, she was useless when it came to her dumb instantaneous crushes. Either way, she hoped he enjoyed her gift to him. Despite her alert nature, she didn’t really get shaken out of her daze until she heard someone whistling at her. 

“Huh?” She jerked up and looked around, her eyes falling onto a tall man, with blonde hair and tanned skin whistling at her. 

“Hey, I’ve been trying to get your attention for like… five minutes!” He laughed, saying it in a chiding tone. 

“Oh uh… Do I know you?”  She asked, not intending it to sound as rude as it came out. 

“No you don’t but I’d like you too baby!” Oh. Oh gross. He was one of those guys. 

“Uh sorry, I’m not looking for anyone to date right now.” 

“Oh really? Are you sure?” 

“I’m not interested.” She snapped at him, fed up with his approach. Dr. Valentine realized her immediate mistake, when the smile on the guys face turned into a snarl. 

“I don’t think a crip like you has the right to be choosey” He answered with an angry tone. 

“Excuse me?! What right do you have to demand I go out with you after you insulted me?!” 

“It should’ve been a compliment you bitch! You should be honored I even considered you!” 

“I… I don’t even fucking know you!!” Dr. Valentine, very quickly fed up with this guy, went to roll away, but was stopped by him grabbing her backrest and forcing her back to face him. Not thinking, Dr. Valentine responded by pressing her foot against his chest and shoving her leg straight as hard as she could, shoving him back. She pushed him away but herself also in the process, causing her left wheel to fall off the edge of the curb. The entire chair tipped over and dumped her into the street, the force of the fall skidding her directly into the driving lane, and right in the path of a bus. 

She was only able to push up to all fours before she saw the bus barrelling towards her. She froze like a deer in the headlights and closed her eyes waiting to be hit. A flash of purple could be seen tackling her out of the line of danger. She heard the screeching of wheels, and felt herself be shoved several feet away, and her back slam against the concrete. She cried out in pain, her mask getting skewed and falling off. She opened her eyes several seconds later, to be greeted with the same masked doctor from the pond on top of her. He had shoved her out of the way and was surveying her for damage and there was a slight crackle of… electricity?

Dr. Valentine looked at him, entranced by his purple eyes, but even when he met hers, she didn’t look away. She noticed the ever slight widening of his eyes, and processed her mask had fallen off and her glowing pink eyes were a dead give away about what she was. Fear filled her body and she covered her eyes expecting some sort of reaction. Fear, hatred, anger, but all she felt was him picking her up off the tough concrete and carrying her back to the side walk, where the man that had caused her to fall was long gone. She fixed her mask back on her face, as she was set down on the sidewalk. The bus driver peeked out of his vehicle to ask if she was okay. She gave a quick nod, and after evaluating if he could trust the man that saved her, the bus driver drove off. 

The strange doctor picked up her half crushed wheelchair out of the street, and looked over at Dr. Valentine. 

“Um.. I don’t think you can use this,” He stated, as he attempted to spin the bent wheels. Dr. Valentine looked at him, then to the wheelchair, and started laughing. She was probably in shock, but something about the situation was so funny to her. He looked back at her laughing form and returned it with a small chuckle. 

“No, I don’t think I will be able to use that,” She giggled, trying to calm her panicked, heaving chest, “I.. uh… thank you. For saving my life.” 

“. . .Don’t mention it.” He said flatly. 

“Hm… Only if you don’t mention my eyes,” She joked before reaching out her hand, “I’m Dr. Marbus Valentine. Who are you?”

“Dr. Charles Afton. And are you sure I can’t mention the eyes?” 

“I’m sure.” She smirked, “Uhm… I don’t suppose you could call a friend for me…? I don’t have any way home.” He responded by pulling out a phone and handing it to her. She didn’t waste any time and called Mortus’s number. After explaining the situation and getting promptly chewed out for nearly dying and fretted over, Mortus said he would be there in ten minutes. Satisfied with the answer, she handed the phone back to Dr. Afton. 

“Thank you again. You’ve been a great help,” She smiled under her mask again and hoped she translated how grateful she was with her body language. Dr. Afton nodded, his face looking thoughtful. 

“I should get going. Are you going to be okay?” He asked. 

“I’ll be just fine,” She replied, getting as comfy as she could on the sidewalk. Her tailbone still hurt. She wasn’t expecting to feel his hand place itself on top of her head in an odd ruffling motion. He pulled away just as quickly as he did it. 

“Take care of yourself,” He said not really as a request but a statement, and walked away. Dr. Valentine didn’t even get time to respond before he turned the corner of a building and vanished from her line of sight

[colbybrocksmolder]

Notebooks – Colby Brock x Reader

To say that either of you were easy human beings to love 24/7 would be such a hysterical lie you’d probably laugh so long you’d forget why you started laughing at all.

You and Colby were that couple that people thought they wanted to be. From the outside the two of you appeared to be one single entity. Moving in unison like you shared one mind. Your bodies almost always connected, even if by just a millimeter of skin. Toes touching under tables, pinkies hooked while standing around, someone’s fingers usually absentmindedly playing with the other’s hair…You could be having two completely different conversations with people and yet your bodies were still communicating with each other’s…Always. You weren’t afraid to let the world around you know who you belonged to. Neither of you were. If your story was told in pictures, it would be beautiful. There would be grand gestures of flowers and sunsets. Adventures under starry nights with initials carved in trees. You were a photographer’s dream. Road trips where the windows stayed rolled down, the wind and the music working together to keep your bodies and your hair moving wildly. Lost voices from singing at the top of your lungs as you watched the city lights fade into the background.

The issue with looking at love from the outside is that you can’t see the work. You can’t see the struggle and the tears. You can’t see the long nights and the bad thoughts and the tear-stained stares into the bathroom mirror. You can’t see that even though you loved each other more than life itself…you never learned to love yourselves. You broke each other’s hearts, in turn. Back and forth. One person falling apart at a time. You both struggled to remember at times how much value and beauty and love the other saw in you, but the good news? The other person was always there to remind you.

Late one night after having tried to get you to talk to him for hours upon hours, an emotionally exhausted Colby grabbed a notebook and started writing to you. He started listing all of the things he wished you’d believe about yourself. The things he fell in love with…the things he falls in love with every day.

Some of them were obvious...

The way you laughed when you were nervous…

The way your eyes closed when you genuinely smiled…

The way you stole one of his rings to wear on your necklace every time he had to leave the city to film…

Some of them weren’t so obvious…

The way you’d mute your computer when ads would play because you hated movie trailers…you thought they spoiled the movie for you…

The way you’d sneakily watch him after he got home from filming something even mildly dangerous because you wanted to make sure he wasn’t hiding a limp or a cut…you worried when he got hurt and he knew it so he often tried to play it off like it was nothing…

The way you’d hide his favorite snacks around the apartment because even though he said he was on a diet you knew he’d try to postmates something at 3am…you didn’t think he needed to be on a diet anyways…

Some of them were ugly things that he secretly loved simply because he was the only person on the planet that knew them…

The way you’d quietly swear at people in traffic with a smile on your face so they didn’t know you were angry at them…

The way you’d break down every few months and buy a pack of cigarettes just to smoke a handful of them and throw the rest of the pack away because sometimes you just needed to feel in control of something in your life…

The way you’d rant about your friends to yourself in the shower so that you wouldn’t snap at them about the things that were bothering you…

After he had written a few pages worth of his thoughts, he slid the notebook under the closet door, where you were hiding, so you’d read it. When you emerged from the closet, you’d found Colby half asleep on the couch. He was sat up watching a movie, trying to stay awake long enough to see you be okay. You’d crawled in his lap, gently connecting your lips. The kiss growing more passionate as his arms tightened around you.

“I’m sorry” you whispered against his lips.

“You never have to apologize, y/n.” He said, breaking the kiss to cradle you against his chest. “We’re both messed up, but I swear on my life I’m never going to give up on you.”

“I could never stop loving you, Colby.” You promised back.

“Then we’re going to be fine.” Colby pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

“Can you read this to me?” You asked, playing with the binding of the notebook in your hands.

“A thousand times.” Colby answered, grabbing the notebook from your hands.

Over the next six years or so, you continued to do this for each other. When one of you were at your wits’ end or so stuck in your head you couldn’t breathe, the other would pull you back. Remind you why life was a beautiful process and that the fact that you existed only made it that much better. The time between mental breakdowns and panic attacks slowly but surely grew. You started letting each other’s love infect you. Gradually believing it instead of just holding on to it until your next fall. You were good for each other. A little codependent? Maybe…but love is messy. It’s messy and beautiful. As the years went by, the two of you had added to what you wrote for each other. Writing down your favorite memories of the other. Describing what the other made them feel. And years after Colby had started this tradition out of desperation, you’d filled about 20 notebooks.

It’s a habit that neither of you ever gave up, but now it was done in moments of joy. Words were written down at milestones and after wild nights with friends and to memorialize how you felt inside of moments that you never wanted to forget. One day when Colby had hopped in the shower, you went to write down some of the memories you made over the last week. When you went to grab the most recent notebook, you found something hidden in its pages. Pulling the envelope out, you could tell there was something tucked inside of it. The front of the envelope said “read my last entry before opening” in Colby’s messy handwriting. Turning to the notebook, you saw that there were tear stains on the paper. That was something you hadn’t seen in one of your notebooks in years. The entry was dated a few weeks prior. Neither of you having written in the book for a while. Finding the beginning of his entry, you began to read his words.

“I broke a promise today. It’s not a promise that you’re going to be mad about, but it turned out to be life changing. Today after having a talk with Sam about the next season of our lives, I decided to go back and read our books. I know we promised we would leave the past in the past, but I had to. I needed to. I started at the very first one and honestly? I am so fucking proud of us. I’ve had you in my life for so long that I forgot what it felt like when I was convinced you were going to leave me. I used to tell myself I needed to take every opportunity I could to touch you and kiss you and hold you because I was just waiting for you to give up on me. I didn’t want to waste whatever time you were willing to waste on me. I forgot how bad we had both gotten at times. I forgot how many times you had to say “I love you” before I started believing it. I know the exact date I believed you, actually. It was the first day I started to love myself. That page is easily recognizable because you can barely read the water-logged words. I sobbed reading your beautiful words, y/n. I must have read them 50 times that night. I remember the week that followed that night…everyone kept asking me why I was smiling so much. Sam was convinced I was hiding some big secret...but I guess I kind of was. You saved my life. We saved each other’s lives. We’re so far away from who we were when we met that it feels like we’re living in a different world. I’ve realized I don’t want to live in any world if you aren’t the one I’m writing my notes to. I want you to be the one I jot down memories with. I need you to cherish these notebooks as much as I do. I want us to keep writing in them until we’re so old our hands hurt too much to put pen to paper. Y/n, I want the next entry you write in this notebook to be about how you felt when I asked you to marry me. Because I don’t want any of this without you. Open the envelope and then turn the page.”

You were silently shedding tears while reading the entire entry, but when you got to the bottom of the text your breath caught in your chest. You reached over to the envelope you had set down next to you and ripped it open. Inside you found a beautifully simple ring. It was a silver band with a single diamond set in it. A few sobs left your chest as you started breathing again. Gripping the ring tight in your hand, you turned back to the notebook and turned the page.

“I love you more than life itself, y/n. It used to be easy to say that I’d die for you. When you don’t see any value in yourself, what’s your life worth compared to the person you love the most? It’s still easy for me to say that I’d give my life for yours, but it means something different now. You’ve shown me what my own life is worth. You’ve been there at every turn to pick up my broken pieces and hold them together until I could hold them myself. So now when I say I’d die for you, it’s with the full understanding of what that means. To you, to myself, to our families, to the irreplaceable family we’ve made with our friends…You’ve shown me my own impact. My own worth. I think in some weird way we are each other’s biggest accomplishment and I couldn’t be prouder. I hope you’re proud of me. Actually, I know you are. You tell me that all the time. And because of you, I believe it. A few rings and a piece of paper seem insignificant in the grand scheme of things when compared to what we’ve already accomplished. When you’ve been through what we’ve been through, a wedding seems obnoxiously normal. That being said, Y/n…I want everything with you. I don’t care if we go to the courthouse with our best friends or if we spend a hundred grand on the most extravagant wedding you can dream of. I just want everything with you. Will you marry me?”

Below the paragraph were the words YES and NO.

You grabbed your pin and drew a heart around the word yes. Turning the page, you wrote out your entry. He said he wanted your next entry to be about how you felt when he asked you to marry him and you tried your best to find the words. Wiping the tears from your eyes, you put the ring on your finger and closed the notebook. You walked to the bathroom door and slid it underneath and waited for Colby to get out of the shower.

You heard the water shut off. You heard the shuffling of Colby drying his body and his hair. And then you heard him gasp. The notebook hit the counter and you could hear him turning through the already written on pages to find the last words…and then you heard him cry. And then you heard him laugh.

You moved to sit in the closet where this had all started. Over six years ago Colby had slid that first notebook under this door. You wouldn’t make him do that this time. You sat on the closet floor, door open, just waiting for him to find you.

“Y/n!” you heard Colby call. “Baby, where are you?”

Hearing him walk in your room, you couldn’t help but smile. “Where do you think I am?” you called out.

Colby walked into view, his sweats hanging low on his hips and his wet hair pointing in all directions. He moved to sit directly in front of you, facing you. His smile was beautiful. “I was afraid you weren’t ever going to write in one of our books again. That ring has been in there for almost a month.” He grabbed your hand, leaning down to press a kiss to the ring that now adorned it.

“I need to remember to keep writing things down.” You smiled at him, moving to sit in his lap, your legs wrapping around his waist. “It’s like you said…It’s so good now that I forgot how bad it was.” Colby’s arms wrapped around you. “I have to remind myself to write things down instead of back when I clung to those books every time I thought my life was falling apart.”

“I was afraid to read them again.” He said, his forehead resting against yours. “It’s why I had to. I had to make sure I wasn’t still somehow stuck there.”

You held his face between your hands and connected your lips. “Colby, if we made it out once, we’d make it out again. My promise still stands. I will never stop loving you.”

“And I’ll never give up on you.” He repeated his promise from the night you started your first notebook.

[nightstung]

     ( anya chalotra, cisfemale, bisexual, she/her ) rome welcomes NETHYRAELYSS ‘NETHYRA ENDSETTER’, an ORIGINAL DRAGON. they are 25/5,000+ years old and have been in the city for 4 MONTHS. they are known to be PROTECTIVE + ABRASIVE, which makes sense because they’re CONFLICTED about the marriages. i heard they’re betrothed to AMY ADAMS, GUGU MBATHA-RAW, RACHEL MCADAMS, ANY 35+ FEM FC - a HUMAN.

      a bitch is excited !! this shit is happening !! okay freaking out aside, i’m admin grey & this here is my first char ( of probs many ), nethyra ! she’s def drogon from game of thrones but like ... make it pretty ... so without further adieu ~

in a land of dragons.

nethyraelyss and her several siblings were ‘born’ the day the earth experienced a huge tremor and its crust cracked open, exposing a number of eggs all a various shade of hue.

nethyra and her twin brother’s egg was a warped color, half black and purple and half ( color tbd by mun ).

the eggs’ colors matched the scales of its dragon/s. for nethyraelyss, she was a impossibly midnight hue, with purple managing to peek through in certain lighting. because of such, she was deemed ‘the midnight dragon’ out of her ‘siblings.’ 

nethyra and her twin were ever close as they grew up. in fact, the clan believed in loyalty to one another first, anything else second. the twins got up to their mischief as all dragons would, creating havoc, humoring human lives, having their fun. 

but dragons were supposed to age out of this wild youth. nethyra’s brother did. however, she did not. nethyra became known for her reckless ways and her selfish pursuit of entertainment. it wasn’t that she sought to hurt her kind, but she felt like something was always missing in her life. boredom crept in and made her starve for all else. 

eventually, realizing she was a risk to them all, nethyra’s twin and her siblings betrayed her. it was around the very late middle ages when this happened. when dragons were told in every tale. they enlisted the help of a witch and pushed nethyra into a deep slumber like death, far beneath the earth’s crust. 

when she awoke again, it was 8 years ago, in the midst of war. her brother had finally freed her from her hibernation, in hopes she’d ‘come to her senses’ and help him and the dying members of their family. and while she did help in some ways, it was more or less because her wrath saw no end to its claim. 

tw death. nethyra burned battles to the ground in her anger and pain. but even she couldn’t stop the death of her original siblings, watching as they fell one by one. and despite their betrayal, she fell into anguish because of it. especially when she watched her twin brother seemingly die on the battlefield. 

she flew away from the scene, fighting throughout the world in her misery and her anger. she became known as the ‘nethyra endsetter’ for her ability to cause panic on any side of the war, due to the fact that she didn’t play favorites when she destroyed. 

which is why she got injured about a year ago. nethyra almost met her own fate but was thankfully taken in by a young ( ish ) werewolf. said werewolf dragged her to the pack and helped her recover from her wounds. it was only then that nethyra realized whose pack it was. an original werewolf’s. namely, the one with the fabled human lover. 

nethyra thought him and his pack foolish for trying to create peace and saving all lives, regardless species. but over time, the dragon watched as the pack’s deeds were done, and how the werewolf’s human lover fought beside him in an act of love despite the backdrop of hate. and it very slowly changed her view of the world and her hand in its affairs, not that she would admit it so openly. when the original werewolf planned on making the sanctuary in rome, nethyra followed - for better or worse - as a faithful friend of his. despite being conflicted about marrying an enemy, or officially ‘settling down.’

the light of the horizon.

nethyra was a brat that never grew up, until she had no one else left to take care of her mess. when her siblings died, so too did most of her selfish ways and her ‘thirst for fun,’ which is how the original werewolf and his pack managed to convince her to start looking for a deeper connection to this world than simply creating chaos. 

she’s sharp-witted, sarcastic, teasing, venomous. she can be your friend one minute, and knock you down a size or two the next. she’s also very guarded because of her family’s betrayal and because of the trauma she faced on the battlefield after barely waking. regardless of her ways, nethyra deeply loved her family and genuinely cares about her people. so to see them fall was a sight that brought her melancholy and guilt. 

even in their ‘human skin,’ dragons can manipulate fire. nethyra is known for hers, particularly because of her chaotic soul and rage. 

in her dragon form, nethyraelyss is a giant amongst dragons. so too is her twin brother. original dragons are the size of mountains. paired with their strength, their power, and their near invincibility, the sight of one on your enemy’s side would make anyone fearful.

nethyra just actually wants love and acceptance and family and she’ll never fucking say that but rip she does. 

she is bisexual, biromantic.

she currently works as a TBD. 

whispers of new faces ( wcs ).

her twin brother 

the werewolf that saved her after her injuries ( on the main )

dragons she knew before her ‘long slumber’ 

enemies of hers during/after/before the war ( maybe one that killed her sibling/s )

people who hate her because of what she’s done 

friends / acquaintances 

her neighbor here in rome 

someone who wanted to be married to her but they weren’t paired 

exes / ex flings 

someone who broke her heart long ago

current flings / one night stands 

loyal followers of hers? they act like she’s some kinda god like they did in olden days

unrequited crush on her 

someone she is protective of for w/e reason

or w/e your damn hearts desire pls msg me w/ ideas!

[gothicwidowsworld]

Declan O’Callaghan #2

A/N I just got really inspired to write this lol hopefully its okay if you haven’t seen Leap Year I advise you do coz its cute af and i’m really not into super romatic romcoms but its 👌

The howling wind and torrential rain abused the dimly lit pub, walls almost shaking at the explosions of thunder. The old yellow stained bulbs giving a cosy feeling to the otherwise harsh wood that provided a form of shelter to those brave enough to face mother nature in leaving their homes for a pint of that liquid gold. The old regulars all crowded around the sticky bar nursing their last pints for just a little longer before they would have to return to their sour wives at least this is what the grumbles were about filling the stale air. Declan leaned against the aging wood damp tea towel in hand making the occasional comment on the football scores and other small events that would come into conversation. Sometimes Declan would join in complaining about wives with the gruff old men to which he would get a quick kick to the butt from Y/N. No matter how comically bitter the old punters were the whole village enjoyed witnessing the young love that Declan and Y/N emitted, in some cases it would even pull in the occasional traveller with a gravitational like pull. 

“You can take the man out of the fish, but you can’t take the fish out of the water.” Paddy stated drunkenly grinning before chuckles burst out from between the men. Nobody really knew what Paddy was going on about half the time but they humoured him anyway. “Um…hello.” came a soft voice from the doorway, the voice itself was unfamiliar so when the owner of the voice happened to be a very wet overdressed lady silence fell over the room. “Are you open” the lady asked tentatively stepping forward wiping water from her face. “Australian” Dermot stated to Seamus semi loudly though it was clear he’d tried to lower his voice. “South African.” Seamus disagreed as he eyed the woman up. “Actually She’s American.” the red headed woman awkwardly pointed out “Anna from Boston.” she continued clearly a little put off that she’d had to identify herself to the strangers before questioning them if there was a bus or train she could get Dermot and Seamus started bickering amongst themselves again. Ignoring the pair Anna turned to the quiet dark haired man that leaned against the bar pen in his hand with a seemingly very unwelcoming expression cast across his features. 

Y/N had left the men gossiping at the bar a minute or so prior to Anna’s arrival to make herself a cup of herbal tea the night taking its toll on the y/h girl. So when Declan came around the corner to the old landline connected to the wall a look of confusion painted on her y/s/c face. With a filthy smirk on his face Declan silently held his finger up to the female, what on earth was he up to. “I’m sorry but we don’t drive American redheads.” he declared before walking to lean against the doorway one arm crossed over his chest causally. “I’ll tell you something about Dublin Anna from Boston.” he began making his way back to the bar that held his newspaper “Dublin.. Is the city of chancers and cheats… And backstabbing snakes. It’s where the worst of humanity collects and poisons this fair country. I wouldn’t drive you to Dublin if you were to offer me 500€” Declan trailed off not even trying to hide his hatred for the city. Declan didn’t always hate Dublin but after Y/N’s heart had been broken by her ex cheating on her and running off to Dublin with the other woman only to dump her by text Declan hated the city for breaking the heart of the most precious woman in his life. It  had taken ages for Y/N to return to the girl everyone knew and loved and even then she wasn’t as happy go lucky as she was before. Declan had saved her and helped her put every piece of her heart back together and he was going to make damn sure nobody ever cause her pain again. 

“Well if one of you could direct me to the nearest hotel or Bed and Breakfast” Anna sighed lightly just wanting to leave feeling like an animal in the zoo due to every pair of eyes in the room being trained directly on her.  Slowly Y/N walked towards the group discarding her tea before proceeding to smack Declan on the arm. “Declan O’Callaghan don’t be such a rude eejit” the y/h/c female hissed appalled by her husband’s behaviour turning to the woman still dripping water from her battle with the elements. “Oh love you must be soaked to the bone. Excuse my Husband. Let’s get you settled in.” taking Anna’s hand and bag before leading her up the stairs Sending the room full of men a deathly glare. “It’s bad luck to piss of an Irish woman…” Seamus stated quietly and for once Dermot didn’t argue with the statement. “Ta be sure its bad luck.”

After getting Anna settled for the night Y/N returned to her tea that was lukewarm at best by this point heading back up the stairs to her own warm bed. Bed sheets pooled at her waist book in hand the y/s/c woman relaxed not even looking up when Declan entered and sat on the end of the bed with a ham sandwich in hand removing his heavy boots. “Really at this time of the night?” she chuckled, honestly her husband really could behave like a child sometimes. Turning to face the woman mouth hanging open bread practically falling out onto the sheets “What” he mumbled working his way up to hug her tightly. Quickly swallowing he kissed her forehead whispering gently “I love you” slipping into their own little world. Suddenly the lamp went out leaving them in darkness, not even the streetlights could give the room a glow as they had gone out too. “Oh for fuck sake” Declan growled jumping up and ripping the door open to give Anna from Boston a piece of his mind!!!

[rawbiredbest]

It’s All in Your Head

Contains: Fluff, Angst, Unconventional Relationships, Telepathy, Demons Fandom: Marvel (comics) Relationships: Stephen Strange/Victor von Doom Characters: Stephen Strange, Victor von Doom, Wong, Boris Word Count: 6103

Out of the blue, Stephen Strange and Victor von Doom find themselves telepathically connected.

No squealing, remember that......

Content warning for canon typical violence, profanity, implied sexual activity, and a single usage of homophobic language by a very bad individual.

Graciously commissioned by @osheets! Wanna do the same? Check my info!

Read here or on AO3!

- - -

The breakthrough comes with rapturous spontaneity. It’s like Victor von Doom has been standing on the shore of a Latverian loch, and in the blink of an eye, the grains of sand have become an orchestra, the surf their masterful conductor, and he the sole audience. He has captured their forms in glass and steel, multiplied ten million fold in the casings of complex machinery, and the entire laboratory sings the path to a bolder, brighter future. In all of his years of experimentation, innovation, desperation, he has never heard this music before. It pours from every screw and bolt, vibrates along every copper wire, thunders out of every piston and valve. The engineers below him, controlling and monitoring the device, are Gods of melody and time. Doom himself has transcended divinity, rising high on sublime notes of praise. He is Emperor, Encapsulated Universe, and his feet do not touch the floor as he glides to the heart of his machine, his veins coursing with silver beauty. Hydrogen atoms dance into the arms of their palladium partners, and their heat is love, love for each other, love for nature, love for him, and it is a primordial force unlocked from decades of ridicule and shame, and he has set it free. Genius. Monarch. Ultimate.

And then it goes. Slowly, a receding tide. It slides from his bones, leaving them aching. He braces himself against a panel, cold sweat sticking to his brow. His heart hammers in his chest, a lone drum holding a marching beat long after the band has departed into the moonless night. The engineers gape at him, oblivious to the miracle that has deafened their ruler.

Doom touches the shielding glass of the operating CMNS reactor, and its vibrations are an idiot hum. He blinks salt from his eyes, breath condensing on the machine.

Four thousand, five hundred and six miles away, a doctor and his best friend leave Madison Square Garden, wearing concert merch, beaming like loons.

- - -

To Stephen, it’s a tsunami.

He’s watching TV. The nightly news. He could tap into the Eye and view the entire world as it turns, but he doesn’t want to. It isn’t very often he feels human, let alone vegetable, so any opportunity to vegetate he takes with gusto. Stretched across his couch, he tugs down the hem of his shirt, leans his head on his hand, and waits to absorb the country’s woes.

He gets a sharp pain on the nape of his neck instead. He swats at the spot, looks at his palm. “Ow.”

Wong looks up from the email he’s writing. “Are you okay?”

Strange frowns, settles back down. “I think there’s a mosquito in here.” They’re talking about the Amazon fires. Stephen’s heart aches for the birds who will drop from the sky, their lungs full of smoke, voices forever silenced.

And then pain rips down his back, like his spine is torn out by an iron hand from his neck to his waist.

He can’t help but yell then, clutching the cushions. A heavy ache lingers in his vertebrae. Gingerly he sits up, breathing hard, eyes clenched shut. Something a bit like petrichor, a bit medicinal, a bit hot fills his nose.

Wong runs to him, but Strange raises a hand. “I’m fine,” he says, though he already braces against the thick lump rising next to his heart. As it crests, it dissipates throughout his body. He forces his eyes open, expecting to see the black trails of tiny spiders beneath his skin. Nothing but unmarked flesh.

“Should I call Doctor Carter?” Wong asks, thumbing toward the antique phone. It’s enchanted to call anywhere, anytime, any-plane.

“No, no.” Stephen leans on his knees, rubbing his temples. The pain is moving, changing. “This isn’t exactly her--”

--forte, he wants to say, but he is cut off by trees. Huge trees. Trees that consume the sky in fractal tangles of evergreen. Primordial, pristine trees, the definition of trees. The little things that crawl beneath and flit between, some carrying light, some with rigid jaws.

It’s a psychic attack. Strange has weathered them before. This one is weird. As he waves for Wong to get the Eye, he endures the spikes of pain that impale his senses to grab a closer look. This entity is lumbering, gigantic in scope yet wet around the edges.

It’s being born, he realizes. It’s waking up.

It hurts, it hurts but he’s curious. He sees New York now, its spires and streets lined up like so much circuitry. He feels the rough brush of concrete, hears the car horn concerto, smells the burn of rubber, and all throughout are rules, parameters, reasons. The thing is learning, feasting on information, and gathering more at an exponential rate. A tidal wave of green descends on the city, picking and plucking at this imaginary world.

And as it eats, thousands and thousands of hungry mouths devouring America, it hates. It hates the excess, the cruelty, the inefficiencies. It roars, barreling down the Sanctum, thousands upon thousands of tons of incomparable loathing.

Wong presses the Eye into Stephen’s hand.

“Pardon my French, dear friend,” Strange says.

The Eye bursts open, and the Sorcerer Supreme throws every ounce of his mystic might at the slavering invader. The living room cascades with dancing whorls of light as he raises his arms, funneling a solar flare, and cries a spell that every New Yorker knows by heart.

“FUCK OFF!”

Utter obliteration. When he opens his eyes, glittering motes trickle from the ceiling. The pain is gone. The TV has gone to commercial.

The phone is ringing.

Wong answers it as Stephen sinks to the couch. He slips the Eye around his neck, and its weight comforts. He thinks he’ll sleep with it tonight.

“It’s for you.”

Strange massages his ear. Vulgarity is embarrassing, but faced with an immaterial infant in the depths of an unholy tantrum doing everything in its power to cram a fork in a magic electrical socket, seemed like a good idea at the time. He takes the phone. “Hello?”

“Doctor! The master -- Victor -- something has happened, I do not know-- I--”

“Boris?” Stephen sits up. “Boris, it’s all right. Slow down. What’s going on?”

Behind the old retainer’s words, a siren wails. “The master--” He hesitates. “His newest Doombot. He turned it on for the first time. All was well, and then it exploded! And now Victor -- he is breathing this flame, this plasma! It burned through his mask! Doctor, what do I do!?”

Strange inhales deep. Counts to three. Lets it go. “He’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure? I do not mean to doubt you, but--”

“It will pass. Give him an ice pack and put him somewhere dark and quiet for a few hours.”

“I trust you, doctor, but please, when you can, come and see him. The violence of it, it scares me.”

“I know. It’s fine. Just something he ate.”

Boris thanks him and hangs up.

Stephen wishes the couch would eat him as he heaves a sigh. “Wong,” he asks, “Is it too late to rescind discovering my bisexuality at the ripe age of however old I am now?”

“I don’t know,” Wong replies, “To both parts of your question. I lost count in the five hundreds.”

Strange curses again.

- - -

“So. We have a telepathic link. Any idea how it got there?”

He may as well be speaking to a wall of granite. Doom, arms folded, sneers at him across the table.

Stephen links his fingers together. “I have nothing. It’s rather disconcerting. I don’t believe it’s malevolent, which is always a plus, but it’s unremarkable, which isn’t. So I’d appreciate any insight, Victor. Whatever you’d like to...you know. Get off your chest.”

Doom’s eyes are cold.

“Anything at all. Need to vent? I know you can get heated.”

The table weighs over three hundred pounds, yet Doom flings it at him like a feather. Strange cuts it in half with a bolt of solid light as Crimson Bands constrict around his other arm. They serpentine and splinter into smaller tendrils, their tips unhinging into fanged blooms, and a thought comes to Stephen as the king charges him: he was born in a forest. It’s nature’s fury that fills his head, a cacophony of hellish noise, the wild hunt calling for his spilled blood. Doom’s rage in concentrated, psychic form, howling down their link.

The Daggers of Denak, blades spinning, do an admirable job trimming the vines, their severed heads still snapping, and Strange summons the Winds of Watoomb to push Doom away. The gale staggers him yet he presses forward, arcane runes flashing a ice blue aegis on his gauntlet. Step by step, forcing him back towards the wall.

He lunges. Strange is ready for it. Doom’s arm comes up, Stephen’s arms fan out. Before the king grasps his throat, he calls a pair of razors into his palms. Victor’s grip is suffocating. Strange holds his head between two guillotine blades. An impasse.

Doom’s voice rasps, thin and scorched. “That. Hurt.”

Stephen sips the tiny breaths he can. Something’s pressing into his belly. Sweat beads on his brow. It’s a gun. It’s the stupid gun Doom carries in the stupid pouch on his stupid belt. Why does he even have it? For shooting idiot sorcerers, he thinks. He swallows hard, knows Doom can feel it through the metal. Not so evenly matched as he thought.

And then he notices it. Hiding deep under the screams is a layer of fire. Reaching through the link, he touches it. Color rushes to his cheeks.

“Seriously?” he ekes out, “This is turning you on?”

Doom’s grip loosens. A minuscule amount, enough for Strange to squeeze a few more words. The fire leaps into his psychic palm, eager, aggressive.

“There’s no shame in it. You’re good at what you do, Victor. Very few people can put me in check. Look at you. You’ve pinned me to a wall like a butterfly. That’s impressive. I--”

The king leans closer. Stephen smells ashes on his breath.

“Hoary hosts.”

The gun is holstered. A steel thumb strokes his cheek.

“Reap what you sow,” Doom mutters.

- - -

The aches and bruises will last for days, but the coolness of Doom’s armor against the carpet burn on his back is soothing. He rests a hand in the king’s own. Anything else feels too strenuous. “Was that your first time having telepathic sex? It’s intense, isn’t it?”

Victor takes in the state of the room. Paintings smashed, furniture so much firewood, stone walls fractured and cratered. How much destruction is his? He has no idea. One or the other had to have held back. The castle is still standing, after all.

Neither man speaks. Stephen ventures a glimpse down their link and gets only an image of black curtains. Doom’s already set up defenses. Though some of his own are raised, he lets some satisfaction flow between them. An olive branch.

A quiet, amused huff. “At times, Strange,” Doom says, and already his voice sounds better, “Your physical merits outweigh the strenuous mental exertions you put me through.”

“I never much cared for the medieval aesthetic myself, yet here we are.” He grunts as he looks over his shoulder, thighs twinging. “How drunk were we that night?”

“Doom was sober.”

“Oh no, your golden goblet saw plenty of refills. You were, at the very least, tipsy.”

“You question Doom’s memory?”

Stephen cups his chin, looks deep into dark brown eyes. “I question, my lord, why you claim to remember, with crystal clarity, a night you could have easily decreed never happened at all.”

Nothing comes. No biting remark, no caustic humiliation. Doom only holds his gaze, and under the black curtains flashes something bright, something strong. It lasts for only half a second before the king gets up, using Strange’s shoulder for support. “This link shall be insufferable. Do your part to get rid of it.”

Stephen frowns, annoyed that his legs work. He wonders if Victor left any of his clothing intact. “Right. Ground rules. Stay out of my head, and I won’t make you cough up another star. Deal?”

“Stay out of Doom’s head, and you shall not know pain unending. You have a deal.”

- - -

This lasts for two months.

- - -

On Day 51, a current of malicious satisfaction slithers through Strange’s mind. Gooseflesh rises up his back. The half-chewed wad of pastrami and egg in his mouth goes sour. He spits it out, bracing himself on the dinner table, and without thinking of thinking, he thinks: what have you done now?

The smirk on Doom’s face reminds him of the crocodiles at the Bronx Zoo. The thing Victor is smiling at reminds him of shop class. He can’t begin to make heads or tails of it. Like many of the king’s devices, it could have come off the set of a sci-fi movie. Sleek and chrome, rigged with multicolored wires, pumps, and gauges, a porthole reveals the heart of the machine, a vile purple light. Stephen’s gut tells him that color would eat him alive if it could, tear into his flesh and drip his blood from its teeth. Stephen trusts his gut.

Strange, Doom replies, smile quickly fading into a scowl, We had an agreement.

You broke first. I felt you. My spidey sense tingled.

Victor’s gauntlets ball into fists, and he sends a wave of serrated anger barreling toward the magician. A chained wolf, barking and snarling. An executioner waiting for the condemned to dig his own grave deeper.

Stephen curses. He didn’t mean to think that out loud. Look. Just tell me what it is and I’ll leave you alone.

The black curtains rustle, then lift like a wing. Swimming in the purple light are mathematical equations, coiling around metal rods. It makes perfect sense to Doom, but to Strange it’s a form of gibberish undecipherable by any eldritch tome.

Then he hears it. It’s not coming from the machine. It’s from Doom. Subvocalized lyrics. A silent song. He could recognize the tune anywhere.

He bought its album at the concert.

This is cold fusion.

Stephen snaps back to attention. Cold fusion. Should I be worried?

Victor folds his arms. That I built a safe, eternal form of energy for myself and my people? Yes, Strange, cower and quake. Your country shall never have it so long as I draw breath.

There are many dangerous rebuttals to that he could say. Names he could drop. Yet Doom promised pain unending. Fifty-one days into their connection, Strange has no leads into its inner workings. Finding out if he could make good on his word is a risk Stephen is unwilling to take.

I don’t like this, the sorcerer thinks, but I have to believe you. Don’t misbehave.

His own mental defense is a never-ending subway express train, its doors and windows a veil of golden thorns. Sighing, he sits back down. What’s left of his sandwich has the appeal of wet newspaper.

Doom was right. The link is awful.

- - -

On Day 60, despite the blazing fire in the hearth, Victor’s feet send ripples through a puddle.

He regards it from his antique armchair throne with indifferent curiosity. Through the filters in his mask, he smells the green, pungent scent of foliage rot and seawater. In the puddle itself swim millions of plankton. A frenzy of eating, fucking, dying, and birthing unfolds beneath his alloy soles.

From the corner of his eye, he watches the puddle extend an arm of water across the floor. Sliding under a wall, a line of slithering damp turns the paint a moldy gray. Moisture fans across the entire side of the room in a pattern like falling stars, like skeletal hands trailing through a river. The scent grows stronger as the puddle expands. He rises before it consumes his chair. The leather sinks until it is a speck of mahogany in the brine. Gloom washes over it and it is gone.

Doom folds his arms. A breeze teases the tail of his cloak. Murmuring a quiet word, he puts out the fire with an arc of a finger, and turns around into another world.

It is eternal night. It has no sun, and what few stars can be seen are lucky glimpses through a lush canopy of branches and black, web-like leaves many hundreds of feet above. The grass under him has a sticky grip, but gentle. If grass could want for anything, it would like to give the king safe passage on his journey. He isn’t the sustenance it’s looking for. That comes on the wind, in the form of tiny shards of detritus falling from forest layers high overhead. It shimmers as it tumbles down, the only source of light in this hadal garden.

He doesn’t need to go far. Half-concealed behind a root far taller than he, Doom watches himself and Stephen Strange on the next mound over.

The magician talks with grand gestures, sweeping an arm over trees as dark as ink. Doom remembers himself speaking little, allowing Strange to tell him the highlights of the world. No recorded examples of predation. Negligible changes in evolution for millennia. A slow world. A place of peace.

Stephen steps into the water. Waist deep, he holds out his arm. His garb drips off him, revealing pale skin. He smiles, bare and inviting.

The other Victor undoes his belt.

“And you complain when I get you out of the house.”

Doom peers at the Stephen Strange sitting in lotus position beside him. “You drag me into your affairs with no concern for my well-being or sanity.”

“Please. The times you dig your heels in are cursory, at best. And then we end up doing things like this.”

Across the mound, the other king’s armor sits in a neat pile, and the two doctors stand in each other’s arms, their lips meeting and parting only to inhale.

Victor kneels on the grass. “Even you are capable of stumbling onto a good idea.”

Stephen’s lip curls upward. “I think about this often. This place is beautiful. This memory pleasant. I took effort not to broadcast this to you. My apologies if I disturbed you.”

Doom looks away. “You did not.”

“Oh? Your Royal Highness, we had an agreement.”

“Am I not allowed to reminisce myself?”

“Ssh. Meditate with me.”

He closes his eyes. Strange’s hand creeps into his own, and he lets it stay.

Perhaps he was wrong. The link isn’t so bad.

- - -

Wake up! Wake up, wake up, wake up!

Stephen rolls molasses slow toward awareness. The bedroom is pitch black, swimming in unholy hour of the morning disorientation.

Your wife is in trouble!

He cracks an eye open, shifting in the sheets. “Clea?”

No! Your big green wife! Get up, right now!

Those aren’t his thoughts. It’s a voice he’s never heard before, coming from inside his head. He holds very still and feels something slither over his brain.

He snaps wide awake.

I’m sorry we have to meet like this, the voice says, but we must hurry. The whole world is at stake!

In any other circumstance, Strange would interrogate the voice within an inch of its life, but its fear is genuine. Swinging out of bed, he yanks some pants on, startles the Cloak of Levitation from of its own sleep, and pulls open a portal to Latveria.

Curse me for a novice! the voice squeaks, That can’t be good!

Enormous rends in reality drape over the castle. Shimmering in the air, some bisect the stone in clean, monomolecular cuts. One vomits a steady stream of magma, causing a massive fire in the castle courtyard. Through each of them Stephen sees other dimensions. Another hole fans out from the keep itself and drops a mass of red crystals that crush an entire rampart.

Please! Hurry!

Stephen slams the portal shut, imagines his destination, and wrenches open a new one directly to Doom’s lab. The room is bathed in sunset colors and thick, acrid smoke. At its heart lies the fusion reactor, which is now anything but cold. The purple light pounds waves of energy, reverberating off its containment and magnifying a new tear in the world.

Victor stands in front of the machine. His motions are jerky, abrupt, a marionette controlled by a mob of children. He lifts a twitching hand and the tear throws itself through the castle to join the others outside.

Sister-Brother! the voice cries, Stop!

Doom’s arms drop, strings cut. The voice that comes from his mind is higher than the other.

No, I don’t think so, it says, I think I’m going to continue. You’re more than welcome to burn.

“You’re the link,” Strange says.

Just figured that out now? Sister-Brother asks, Wow, Brother-Sister. You sure drew the short straw. My host is incredible. I’ve mapped every gyri and sulci in here and it’s gorgeous. I’d stay forever if I could. It’s almost a shame he has to die.

Stephen glares, raising his hands, fingers glowing with magic. “As Sorcerer Supreme, I command you to release Doctor Doom!”

The laugh that echoes down the link is nails on a chalkboard. You have no idea what we are.

“You’re playing with fire. You’re threatening the dimensional stability of all of Doomstadt. And when I find you, you’ll have hell to pay.”

This host has already seen hell, Sister-Brother chides, What better place to grow up than in a body demon-touched? Have you considered that I’m doing him a favor? This is how it plays out. This is fate.

Doom turns around without his mask.

A bloodcurdling shriek ricochets across Strange’s mind, his hand thrusts forward with a will not his own, and a thunderbolt connects with the king’s head. Victor flies against a control panel, smashing it with the weight of his impact. Groaning and creaking, the reactor starts to power down, sprinklers in the ceiling damping the flames.

His face, Brother-Sister whispers, Gods, oh gods, what’s wrong with his face...

Stephen contains his screams until he kneels at Doom’s side, hefting his body into his arms. The scent of burning meat fills his nose. He howls for someone, anyone, to help him, royal blood seeping onto his chest.

- - -

He awakens to the beeping of the heart monitor.

Doom feels like mountainsides have taken residence on his eyelids. Slowly sliding them open, he takes inventory. The room is bright, sterile, no windows. He’s propped up in a bed. His hands are bare yet weigh like continents. He looks to his left.

“Hello,” Stephen says.

The sorcerer looks terrible. Ashen skin, reddened eyes, a frown threatening to rip his mouth off. The clothes he wears belong to any servant of the castle. The hands clasped together between his knees shake worse than Doom has ever seen.

“You’re on a morphine drip. You’ve been unconscious for the past twelve hours. You’re in the castle. We set up a makeshift triage room. For a while...” He takes a deep breath, steeling his voice. “We didn’t know if you would make it.”

Doom thinks, and his head is wonderfully quiet.

“Thank every deity you know that your skull is almost as hard as your armor. You’re going to be in a lot of pain for the next few days, but the alternative...I don’t want to think about. And I got rid of the link.” Strange picks up a jar from a nearby stand. “Meet Brother-Sister and Sister-Brother.”

Floating in cerebrospinal fluid are two worms. One is storm cloud gray bracketed by navy blue. The other is dark yellow-green with flecks of red. Flat as ribbons and only an inch long, they give each other a wide berth.

“Pineal parasites,” Stephen continues, “Stuck to the undercarriage of our minds, learning how to be through our eyes. They talked together through us. Saw magic through us. Deciphered grand machines through us. And now they’re ready to go home. That’s what yours was trying to do. They were looking for a place where nothing changes and nothing happens because all who go there are hijacked and killed. Not such a good idea after all, was it?”

Doom blinks.

Putting the worms down, Strange digs his wrists into his eyes. “Victor, I swear to you on everything I am I had no idea. I thought you’d like it. I thought you could forget being so angry, forget the Four if only for an hour, and be happy. Now you--”

He stares at the door, fist to his mouth. Swallowing his heart, he says, “I’m bringing them back. They’re not at fault. They’re just following their life cycle. Despite what they’ve done, they deserve to live.”

Birds that will choke on ashes, he thinks, Countless trees turned to dust. No more. No more death.

“The best doctors in your kingdom are here for you. I’ll be back.”

“Doom will go with you.”

Victor’s voice is quiet but steady. Stephen shakes his head. “No. You’re in no shape to get out of bed, let alone travel dimensions.”

The monarch shuts his eyes. Heavy footsteps pass through the door. A doppelganger in emerald and steel, the Doombot bows its head to its ruler.

“Doom will go with you,” Victor repeats.

Strange blows a ragged breath. By Doom’s creased brow, that wasn’t easy. “Okay. Rest now. Don’t do anything until I return.”

Victor says nothing. Stephen waits until he drifts to sleep, presses a kiss to rough lips, and departs, robot in tow.

- - -

Q-4301 is indistinguishable from the real deal, from its ramrod straight spine to its folded arms, yet there’s no look of wonder in its lenses, no human, if royally restrained, sense of adventure in its copper and silicon heart. It doesn’t care about the bits and pieces of gold falling from the alien canopy, the grass patting its boots. It stares at Strange, emotionless, and that very lack of feeling gnaws at the pit of the sorcerer’s stomach.

They’re on the same black water island mound as before. He can pick out the tree Victor pressed him against from all the rest. Had the microscopic eggs that birthed the parasite twins been attracted to their sex, or had it been sheer luck? He doesn’t know and doesn’t want to know.

In his hand is a candle made from the blood of priests. “Do you have them?” Stephen asks.

Q-4301 lifts a corner of its cloak. Sewn into the cloth is a glass vial. Brother-Sister and Sister-Brother are inside.

Strange nods. “I don’t know if Doom programmed you to feel fear. Either way, let me do the talking. If all goes well, you won’t have to do anything.”

The Doombot says nothing. Taking a deep breath, Stephen snaps a spark between his fingers and lights the candle.

The world goes silent. The wind ceases, and so does the steady fall of golden bits and bobs. The grass curls into tight nubs. The only indication that time has not stopped entirely is the gleam of flame like an undulating eel on the surface of the water. Stephen’s breath is deafening in his own ears.

The voice that speaks is low and obsidian slick. “Well, well, well. Look what the fags dragged in.”

The demon, descending from the trees, blends perfectly into the dark. Its teeth are yellowed and pitted from a diet of rot. It moves on long, soundless talons. Its eyes are cherry red, pupils like mouths.

“Doctor Strange,” the khat murmurs, “You honor me with your presence. I’ve heard so much about you. You’re a cautionary tale among khat-kind, you know. A warning about too much power in frail, mortal meat. Like stuffing a sun into a stomach, it’s only a matter of time till it bursts.”

Stephen purses his lips. “Cut the shit. I have something for you.”

The khat’s grin splits up to its ears. “A gift? Is it your heart? Your humanity? Your soul? Please tell me it’s your soul. I would so like your soul.”

“Come closer and I’ll show you.”

The demon pads on water, leaving no ripples in its path. “Is it the thing beside you?” Nostrils flaring, it sizes up the Doombot. “Not the usual breed of lost lambs you lead to slaughter. What sort of lies did you tell it to follow you? An offer of redemption, perhaps? Anything desperate enough to flaunt about in a green skirt would listen to you.”

“Desperation is for the weak,” Q-4301 snaps.

Strange swallows the ball of curses on his tongue and hopes it doesn’t show. Doombots fall for bait. Exactly like the original.

The khat stops. “Everything has weaknesses. You were once a babe in your mother’s arms, no? Look at your companion. The Doctor Strange, Sorcerer Supreme, can barely keep a friend around, let alone alive. No, no, no, there has to be a reason he wants you here.” It lies on all fours, rests its cheek on its fist. “What sort of gift was it again?”

Stephen starts to speak. Q-4301 beats him. “The only gift a demon like you deserves.”

Red eyes narrow in amusement. “Oh, it’s too much for a single khat to bear! Let me call my brothers. We shall find out together.” Rising into a crouch, it takes a deep breath.

There’s still time to salvage the plan. Strange shouts, “Do it!”

Q-4301 lunges into the water, tears the vial from its cloak, and thrusts its arm out. As predicted, the khat opens its toothy jaws and swallows the punch up to the Doombot’s shoulder. Payload delivered, they need to flee.

The portal spell is halfway done when Stephen spots Q-4301 motionless.

For a second, the khat too is still. Then, beaming around the steel in its mouth, it bites, and tears Q-4301′s arm off.

No robot could replicate the spray of blood and scream in agonized terror.

Strange doesn’t realize he’s also screaming. The khat snatches Q-4301′s shoulder and slams it beneath the surface. The water boils in the struggle. Shadows like hellish stalagmites reach for the leaf-choked sky as the sorcerer calls his magic. Black muck splatters the trees, the grass, Stephen’s legs as he gathers flame in his shaking palms.

The blast turns the water to steam as the garden sees more light than it has in billions of years. He looks for a target, finds nothing but the bare riverbed quickly flooding to fill the void.

The khat geysers up behind him, grabs his leg, and wrenches him into the water. The Cloak of Levitation has enough time to flip him face up before a heavy paw pins it down. Eyes stinging, heart hammering, Strange fends off the khat’s snapping jaws with novas in his palms. It takes all his training to anticipate where the teeth will be, vision obscured by plumes of bubbles, and not lose a limb.

Claws curl in his suit and drag him through the brine. His head connects with a tree root and all of reality goes sideways. His breath whooshes free, and sour liquid fills his throat.

The demon hauls him out, shoves him against a tree. Three blurry khats grin in Stephen’s eyes. Dozens of fangs.

“The gift is all three,” it says, “Your heart, humanity, and soul. Why were we ever warned about you? You’re nothing.”

It opens its mouth.

LEAVE HIM ALONE!

Stephen shakes water and blood from his eyes. The khat is frozen save its eyes, which widen in shock. Two voices erupt from its gullet. One, higher-pitched, screeches an incoherent string of profanity.

By the hoary hosts of Hoggoth, the other cries, I demand you let him go!

If he squints, Strange can see two ribbons in the khat’s belly. One yellow-green and red, the other gray and blue.

“What have you done,” the demon barks, “What have you done to me!?”

The claws pry open. Stephen beats a hasty retreat, flying to the unfinished portal. As he works to complete it, something moves at his feet. The grass scuttles bits and pieces of shattered human along pathways only it knows. He reaches down, grabs a fragment, and rage flows through him hot enough to make his skin glow, heat radiating from him in convection circles.

The khat breaks free of the parasites’ control, smashing its head against the tree for good measure. Screaming, it leaps for him. Strange sidesteps into another world -- home -- closes the portal, and waits until his ears stop ringing.

His anger he keeps. He storms through castle halls, eager to strike while the iron is hot.

- - -

Doom must really try this relaxation thing more often. It isn’t bad. Balcony doors open, letting in sunshine and a floral breeze, he reclines in his seat, sips his tea, and listens to the vinyl spinning on the antique phonograph.

I’m coming down, coming down like a monkey, but it’s all right Like a load on your back that you can’t see, oooh but it’s all right

The song has been in his head for months. It’s nice to hear it in the open. Doom smiles. Stephen has good taste in music.

“Bastard!”

The chair spins around and Doom is confronted by a feral magician. Strange notes the king’s simple garb: no steel in sight, just a cotton shirt and pants. He aims for Victor’s face but his quaking hands botch the throw. It bounces off his chest and lands in his teacup. “You’re not white!”

Doom looks at his tea. The blue eye in the tea looks back. “About time someone noticed,” he deadpans, extracting the orb by its optic nerve and setting it on a napkin.

The chair bucks like a bronco and Victor spills out. Stephen catches him with magic, hangs him in the air. The cup breaks into a thousand pieces and the king’s disappointed frown makes Strange want to throttle him. “Who was in the Doombot?”

“A nuclear engineer working on the CMNS reactor.” Doom sounds bored. “He tweeted about the parasite-induced euphoria I experienced. Called it an episode. Implications of weakness are illegal. Justice -- and the parasites -- were served. Two birds with one stone.”

“You killed a man for a tweet.”

“Whatever creature you encountered in the garden slew him, not I.”

Stephen drops him, relishing Victor’s grunt as a shard of teacup cuts his foot. It’s a slimy pleasure, and his face contracts. “Bastard. There isn’t an ounce of goodness in you.”

The king pulls the porcelain out of his flesh and points the bloodied end of it. “I have my ways just as you have yours. Until you grasp this concept, we shall always be at odds.”

“Be at odds? I saved your life!”

Doom brushes back his hair. Black stitches stretch from one ear across his head to the other. “You scarred me.”

They’re on thin ice. Strange dials back his fury, fists clenched. Monstrous tyrant or not, Victor is recovering from brain surgery. “You had a worm in your head.”

Tossing the shard aside, Doom sinks back in the chair in a position Stephen calls the regal slouch. “The sentence for weakness implications is community service. The engineer served his community. The sentence for injury to the royal person is death.” A scowl darkens his face. “I have half a mind to not let you leave this room alive.”

The sorcerer shuts his eyes.

“However.” Doom thinks, picking his words. “The extraneous circumstances surrounding the crime cannot be ignored. A different punishment is called for. It shall be made at a later time.” He draws a holographic display before him. A tigress pants in her den, lozenges squirming at her belly. “Three cubs were born at the Latverian Zoo this morning.” He looks at Stephen. “I find myself preoccupied with some wildlife conservation of my own.”

The sigh comes from the bottom of his heart. One day Victor will come out and thank him. Today is not that day. It will have to do. Strange rubs his eyes. “May I make a suggestion?”

“Speak.”

“Exile. A break. Another two months, or two years, or two hundred years. I’m not picky. I just don’t want to see you for a while.”

Doom looks back at the panel. “Your suggestion carries weight. So be it. Begone.”

That’s that. Another story concluded. Feeling empty, feeling light, Stephen turns to go.

“Strange.”

Fuck, so close. The sorcerer looks over his shoulder. “What?”

“When next we sojourn, for Doom knows we shall--” Victor’s lip turns up, the smallest hint of a smirk. “--I shall pick our destination.”

[shellofaretard]

Incel Manifesto

I am the BIG INCEL. The perennial incel. I was a virgin before you were born. I was a virgin when the universe was formed. When i close my eyes the world dies with me its hymen still intact. 

Incel has always been the default of western civilization. We are the inheritors of this w/o any disparity to what came before. Metaphor about ancient statues and their lil shrimp dicks.

Sir Isaac Newton was an incel. Nikola Tesla was an incel. Jesus Christ was an incel. Has anyone who’s NOT an incel ever created anything worthwhile??

soul

Ripped apart by natural selections icy north winds. Tossed around by autism chromosome waves. Mogged by 4/10 clouds. Masticated by roastie whirlpool.

The Incel project is an indictment of Creation that is, at the same time, rooted in an observant piousness towards its laws and the impossibility of moving outside its boundaries. The duty of Man to accept and affirm the inherent cruelty of the cosmos, and ponder his destiny within it.

For the <0.5/10 genetic sewage, to expose oneself to the flesh-burning mog radiations of the outside world is comparable to Julius Evola walking around the city during bombing raids.

body

Really hope incels start walking the walk and actually go ahead with those elaborate plastic surgery plans they love to talk about soon.  In post-modern body modification culture, surgically administered transformations are seen as an ascent towards the narcissistic illusion of a more “authentic” self. We have understood that the vanilla modernist paradigm in which Man is assigned one body, whose form, “health” and integrity it is his duty to preserve unto death, was never going to work.

Until very recently, it was normal for bodies to undergo unwanted dis- and transfigurations due to war and disease, their personal notions of bodily integrity routinely subdued to the amoral whims of the medieval War God. It is this view of the world that the incels, these ferocious dreamers of Galilean proportions, these weavers of cruel, delectable phantasms after my own heart, are returning to, finding themselves thrust into a hostile universe whose rigid biological laws are stacked against them with no humanist justification of “fairness”.

Incel chin osteotomy is then a religious act completely removed from narcissism. It is done out of reverence for a cosmic order radically irrespective of the incel’s interests and feelings. The ontological conduit between God and man takes the form of a leash, one by which Man is dragged to the plastic surgery clinic precisely in order to serve God better. I would like to argue that Incel is the most legitimately religious (anti-humanist) movement of our time in that it is based on an acceptance of human insignificance in the face of the cosmic order.

will

Much has been said about the supposed ‘entitlement’ of incels, but this can easily be reframed in a different context. Incel is, at its heart, a radical human agency denialist movement, seeking to redefine the role of Man in the universe by finding spirituality and reverence in the acceptance of total biological determinism, and beauty in the order of chin curvatures, neural pathways and DNA spirals of differing quality. The total absence of free will means everyone is always already entitled to exactly what they get. Genuine incel is less about demanding more than what is deserved than a retreat into a meditative position, neutral like nature itself.

If you’re willing to sell your purity for some used up 3.5/10 roastbeef: fuck off. This is supposed to be a modern monastic movement, where disciples eventually achieve true serenity and a connection with supernatural powers (wizard) in studying the patterns of the cosmos, of God’s plan; taking in the thorny architectures of inherent hierarchy without ego. It is about seeing the face of God in the cute waterpolo boy who nearly bullied you to suicide in 4th grade.

If you believe such a thing as ‘volcel’ exists in this world utterly bereft of all and any free will, you have reasoning skills akin to a donkey, I’m afraid.

time

Incels see time as a byproduct of the sad compulsion of humanist perception to form linear narratives of ‘progress’ and change. Such narratives are to be deemed illusory and rejected to the best of our abilities. In the Incel conception of time, everything is always already happening at the exact same time, meticulously arranged into a rigid, immutable hierarchy by the will of God himself alone.

This also means that it is pedantic and somewhat shallow to necessarily equate Incel with total sexlessness. Since no narratives ‘connecting’ one moment with the next are real, technically, every man not currently experiencing (undergoing?) direct roastie friction in this very moment is an incel, with whatever horrible baggage that entails.

virginity

I’m a virgin myself but my impression is that sex probably isn’t as big a deal as elliot rodger thought it would be. I look at sex havers and don’t think they are truly happier than i am (I’m a pretty happy retard). They were just born with higher quality DNA but i’m not sure if that is correlated with happiness whatsoever. I hate and envy them because I must but there is no objective ‘truth’ behind my ostensible assumption of their having it better.

All partaking in an act does is destroy the soul and dream of that thing. Only virgins understand the metaphysics of sex, only incels are capable of having a soul. This is why elliot rodger was so dangerous to the system. He had dreams that were unquantifiable and untransferrable, and the system thrives solely on the quantifiable and transferrable. I know y’all want to fuck Elliot now but thats like wishing jesus had the chance to get into nintendo wii instead.

If elliot rodger’s ideas of what sex (and ‘love’) would have been like could somehow be quantified, externalized and turned into a reality for all to simultaneously experience, the entire world would collapse, submerged in the brutal, monolithic singularity of joy.

religion

There is a reason religious, celestial imagination is all over incel culture. Think of st. blackops2cel and compare it to the brash, earthy vulgarity of YASSSS KWEEN or something. It is st. blackops2cel whose hand i am taking. It is through him that i discover weightlessness and liberation from the ballasts of the body. It is with him that i dash through the firmament and enter the pearly gates. Perhaps in the near future, the only two ways to die will be euthanized by the state following a lengthy bureaucratic procedure (hell) or shot by a cute incel at school (heaven).

-------

Now awaiting my gentle ascent into wizardry. Male pattern balding. Hormonal makeup changing. Still worship sathanas and aktion t4 and cut myself under the full moon. Still loathe god for giving me the tard genes and curse the faggot christ for normalizing the enabling of retards. But also know this is definitely all there is for me to which there is a certain closure. Know this basement is, at the end of the day, safe. Know theres not that much left at least.

How does the eventual ascension into the more serene state of wizardry feel for you. My angry incels. My romantic incels. My aching incels. My defeated incels. My broken incels. My incels who just want to see the world burn.

[mdjonah]

wiccapediaowen‌:

Owen was used to a lot of academic and theoretical magic, testing the limits of what it was and using it to strengthen young witches. Magic during his daily life always had a purpose. It was good to be reminded that sometimes magic could just be….nice. It could be hedonistic and warm and fun. Obviously a daylight ring would be practical and serve the very real purpose of protection, but the end goal was to feel the sun and something about that was so pure and simple that it stole the air out of his lungs. There was so much humanity left to protect in Jonah. Many witches were happy to destroy other species and build defenses against them, and Owen had done plenty of the latter. But why had he never focused more on this part? Protecting the goodness before immortality burned it away for good. He sensed that it would take more work than getting the vampire tipsy and letting himself be kissed under streetlights in a dangerous city. You should have let me leave when you had the chance. I’ll keep tabs on you until the end of time now. “I’m offering. But it will take time. Be patient with me.” Because he had changed his mind already - there was no way he was outsourcing this job. He’d just have to do the research and do the magic himself. It was a skill he should already have mastered, he just didn’t interact with enough vampires to ever practice, and he didn’t need to worry about selling the expensive items for money when he could make literal gold out of most of the base metals. This wasn’t a task he could trust anyone else with anymore. “I want to be there, the first time you use it. In case the enchantment goes wrong. Amongst other reasons.”

Jonah turned his palm to link their fingers and Owen was entranced by the sight. Such a simple and intimate romantic thing, yet something he never indulged in. And nothing he would have expected from someone he assumed was looking for a hookup in a bar. Who went from seeking a nameless fuck to looking for excuses to hold hands? He had severely misjudged Jonah. That or Owen was just an easy mark. He wanted to rip the doubts out of his head and full on commit to trusting him, but he didn’t really know how. The witch had told him too much about magic, promised him something worth a small fortune, and almost let him come close to the Academy. “Stop,” he groaned, half teasing and half serious as his looked up at the ceiling to get himself under control. What was he supposed to do? Jonah had just told him he could hear his heartbeat, the very thing that kept him alive, and it was so shockingly personal that his heart stuttered in its rhythm. Not to mention he kept dropping the word sexy around like it applied, like it wasn’t out of place.

“It’s complicated,” he shrugged off the question about why he left the leak where it was. Unless Jonah wanted a lecture on the properties of rain water versus naturally occurring groundwater versus water in constant motion through metal man made pipes. There was no middle ground for him, it was all or nothing. It wasn’t like he just had a metal bucket shoved under there either - now it had turned more into a small pond in the floor he had to figure out magical drainage for. He blinked blankly at Jonah when he painted a pretty accurate picture of Owen in wool in front of a fire when it rained, curled up with a book. ““Forget vampire kinks, I think you might have a librarian kink. That initial drink makes so much more sense now. What would have happened if I had worn a sweater with elbow pads?” Now it was his turn to study, to judge Jonah based on what he did when it rained. He loved the smell too, all versions of it. “Petrichor. It’s one of my favorite words. The smell of the earth when it rains after a long time of warm dry weather.” The thought of Jonah at work was equally endearing, helping those that lost control of their cars in the rain. A dark thought crossed him, and he asked the question as casually as possible in the hopes of getting the real answer. If Jonah was attacking patients, he didn’t know how he’d handle it. “Does your control ever slip around patients? Being around all that blood must be hard.”

“There was this underwater Mayan city, once. I barely got to go in, I was there more for historical references and emergency backup in case anything was booby trapped with protection spells. It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” Most beautiful place he’d ever seen, he mentally corrected as he watched Jonah talk about his sire. Fuck, he was pretty. It must be a vampire thing, something about the transformation that made people more attractive so hunting was easier. “So it’s a chemical thing? That bond. I’ve heard of it, but I didn’t realize how strong it was. To block out hate like that.” Owen shrugged. He was revealing too much about magic. He was putting other witches at risk because he missed being looked at the way Jonah was looking at him. Owen tried to keep it as brief as possible. “You choose what you want to study, but every witch has a primary strength and a secondary. Some have a third or a fourth natural talent. You can improve in any area of magic with time and practice, though.”

His hands flew to his lips when he was back in his seat, the same feeling tingly feeling there that he got in his fingertips when he did any sort of casting. Owen shook his head, endlessly amused by how eager Jonah was to walk him in the direction of the Academy. He was ready to turn him down - and then a hand was being offered up, the perfect mirror image to what he had done earlier. Do you trust him? It was such a small moment, thoroughly unimportant to an outsider, but he knew he had come to an internal breaking point. All in or all out. “Okay.” His hand slipped in Jonah’s, using the leverage to get up from the small table. The night air felt good on his flushed skin when they made it outside. He linked arms, steering them both in the right direction. His whole body was tense with anticipation by the time they made it to the end of the block, turning to face Jonah with his heart beating out of his chest. “I have to go. For real this time. Be safe, okay? Don’t hang around witch territory too long.”

If Jonah had had a heart that actually, truly, worked, it would have skipped a half dozen beats when Owen said that he was offering to make the ring, like that was some small thing to offer instead of the literal life changing thing it actually was. He’d never been more thankful that Owen couldn’t hear Jonah’s heart like Jonah could hear Owen’s. “I can be patient. I have all the time in the world,” he practically breathed out, afraid if he was too loud, it might ruin the moment and make Owen change his mind. “Besides, that just means I get to see you for longer and that’s more than a win in my book,” he admitted. If Owen was promising this huge thing, it meant he wasn’t going to just up and ghost Jonah. The longer it took, the more time Jonah could try to spend with the nerdy witch and that was almost as exciting as the thought of getting the sun back. Almost.  But to be fair, the sun had had longer to win Jonah over, it had had longer for Jonah to pine after it. He smiled softly when Owen said he wanted to be there the first time he used the ring, not doubting for a second that Owen was interested to make sure the thing worked, but also glad he backed up Jonah’s suspicion that maybe it was about a little more than that. “You can do or have whatever you want if you can make me that ring,” he said honestly. That was the sort of thing Jonah would never truly be able to repay him for. 

Jonah had never really been much of a handholder. It was such a weirdly intimate gesture and he’d never really seen the appeal of it. But now he couldn’t stop from wondering why he hadn’t tried it earlier. It felt amazing and warm and sensual - but maybe that was less about holding hands and more about it being Owen that he was holding hands with. He couldn’t help but grin at the groaned ‘stop’ from Owen and the sudden falter in his heartbeat. It was nice, being able to hear the effect he had on the other considering how cool he seemed to try to stay on the outside. He unlinked their fingers so that he could drag the tips of his own along the pulse point of Owen’s wrist, the rushing warmth of the flowing blood warming his own touch. This hadn’t been what he’d sought out for the evening, but this sudden connection he felt to this man was better than anything he could have hoped for for the evening. Even if things didn’t pan out, if Owen got home and decided a vampire wasn’t his style, at least Jonah had realized that maybe this was something he wanted, that not every connection had to be forged in death and control and abuse and blood. “Is it the magic? I thought only vampires got to be this supernaturally pretty,” he couldn’t help but muse. 

“A librarian kink? Is that even a thing?” he couldn’t help but ask with a laugh. “Oh, baby, I’d have had you pinned to the bar,” he teased playfully at the mention of elbow pads, moaning softly. He was joking, of course. He was pretty sure he’d never found elbow pads sexy, but there was a very good chance that Owen would be the one person on the planet who could pull the look off. It wasn’t really Jonah’s type, this whole bossy nerd vibe that Owen had going on, but that was one of the things that made all of this so much interesting. It wouldn’t have taken much to pick up some handsome human at the bar, but this? This was so much more fun and rewarding. There was a time and place for  cheap and fast to satisfy a surface itch, but this? This was satisfying something deep and visceral that Jonah hadn’t even realized was there.  He paused, thinking over the question about losing control with patients, knowing the answer Owen wanted, knowing the truth, and wondering how to satisfy both of those things. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I like a challenge,” he commented. Of course being constantly surrounded by blood wasn’t easy, but he’d worked hard to control himself, to get a system going. “Even the most noble of Physicians loses patients,” he added on. It was an Emergency Room, people died all the time. But he suspected that answer wasn’t going to be enough for Owen and instead of leaving blanks for Owen to incorrectly fill in himself, he expanded. “I’m better at keeping control than I used to be. I chose Emergency Medicine because if an extra liter of blood goes missing, no one’s going to measure what’s on the floor to make sure it adds up. It’s been a long time since I’ve lost control enough that I’ve killed someone. And when it does happen, I always have the bags ready for a transfusion. Bagged blood is easier for their body to use than it is for mine,” he said, keeping his voice low so that no one else could overhear what he was saying. He hoped there was enough white in the grey area that Jonah had just presented that Owen didn’t write him off instantly. 

“An underwater city?” he repeated. “I thought those were only in movies,” he added on, thinking about things like Atlantis that only existed in fantasies and stories. But here was Owen, saying he’d actually been to one. “I can’t imagine the things you must have seen in the world. Can’t believe you choose to set roots in this place.” It wasn’t like this city had anything going for it, not like some underwater city or historical ruin would. “I guess,” he shrugged when Owen asked if the bond with his Sire was a chemical thing. Jonah didn’t really know the mechanism through which it happened, and he didn’t care enough to look into it. “It doesn’t block out the hate, though. The two things both take up residence, constantly at war. It’s hell,” he corrected. To have to stay with the person who killed you, who stole everything from you, was one thing. To then be forced to care deeply for them? It was a new kind of hell, one that had made Jonah wish for actual hell on more than one occasion. But any suicide attempts he’d made had quickly been thwarted by his sire - fucking bond. Jonah nodded when Owen gave a little more detail about how magic and the specialities worked and he wondered what Owen had chosen for himself and where his natural talents fell. “Are the more natural talents passed down through families?” he asked, suddenly desperately curious as to how genetics worked and were altered when magic was involved. 

He held his hand out for the other and while he waited nervously to be turned down again, it reminded him of a scene from a Disney movie. Out of the two of them, Jonah was definitely the street rat to Owen’s independent Princess and he couldn’t help but smile softly at the thought. Idiot. He let out a breath he hadn’t needed to hold or even take when Owen finally agreed and took Jonah’s hand and the other eagerly walked with him out towards the street, though he was sure to take his time with it. He only had until the end of the street and he didn’t want to rush getting there. But it came too soon and as Owen turned to face him, Jonah’s hands reached up to grasp Owen’s face before pulling him in for an almost desperate kiss. If holding Owen’s hand made Jonah feel warm, his lips sliding against the other practically set him on fire and he pushed in closer, wanting to absorb as much of this moment as inhumanly possible. When he finally did pull back, he was grinning like an idiot. He’d never had much of a poker face. “Promise I’m going to see you again? Without me having to track you down,” he said, hoping that Owen wasn’t going to go home and somehow talk himself out of wanting to see Jonah. If it happened, Jonah could find him easily enough, but he wanted this to be something Owen wanted too. 

[ikonislife]

Same Moon.

-Bobby x Reader

-Angst, fluff, rekindled relationship, ex to lovers, Bobby’s birthday scenario

-Life torn your love apart but when it once more brings you back to where it had all started, will you and him survive the tumultuous ride?

The soft rustling of leaves being shed into the slight chill of an autumn night paves the way for his lonely footstep pattering down the desolated street. Dirty yellow streetlamp frizzing scaring a few bugs looking for a bit of warmth, blind by their desire to sooth an addiction that no doubt drawing close their demise much faster than the natural cycle of life would. What if that’s all human is, just bugs flying in the night, drawn to things in life that bring pleasure but, in the end, spelling out certain pain. Yet there’s no helping this calling, this, this strange addiction to feel loved even if at the end of a cold lonely night, it brings nothing but searing pain for days to come… And certainly, aching memories for years. As Bobby gazes upon the full moon casting its wisps of silver down upon the city that long forgotten about its wondrous healing light, abandoned for temporary high in the explosion of colorful neon lights and the pollution it brings, he finds himself solemn. It’s the same beautiful bright orb that occupies the sky no matter inkiness or clear blue. No matter the existent of the clouds that shy its beauty away from the world that couldn’t much care less for it has not for its detrimental effects on the tides and, well, that’s a topic he could spend all night speaking on but alas, irrelevant. What is within the realm of all things matter dearly to his heart, this is the same moon as it always had been in his short time on Earth. The same one he first took a breath of that disinfectant filled fresh air of the hospital, of his first kiss, his first fuck… the first time he caught the glimmers in your eyes despite the ass hour of the night across the crowded platform of Shibuya station. 

It was unknown really, why he suddenly felt the need to abandon a game he nearly bested and instead looked up, staring straight ahead at the platform across the metal rails. Bobby didn’t know why this night he had chosen to care about the storyline of someone else. He had learned to be impervious of the strives in the life streams possessed by the thousands other souls existing at the same time in the same space. He had enough on his own plate, why on Earth would he be bother with someone else’s life. Yet that night, he couldn’t help but be curious, to look up, to take a small peek into what was going on across the track, letting himself immerse in this deep philosophical conscious that to every face he sees, a complicated lifetime is attached. Were they also going through the many debacles of life despite the smile on their lips or are they truly happy? He stared into your eyes and saw what he could only described as an out of body experience. Like a ghost floating alongside your small steps and soft hum (he assumed you like to hum in the slow of life, you just seemed like the kind of girl that could carry a tune), Bobby imagined your mundane life playing out, every decision, everything that consequently lead to you standing right within his view. Like morn to any dream, the clicking of the approaching train conceal you away in the rush of the world existing outside of his little bubble. You were gone. He regretted it, in the five minutes he had stared at you like the creep he was, his feet would’ve carried him over the small pass connection the two side and right by your side. Yet instead he stared, like a dumbass, probably scaring you off but that little pout on your lips was too mesmerizing for his logical side to break the spell. When, how, where would he even find you again in this city of millions, not even accounting for the tourists just like himself. Were you also a tourist? Looking for a little break in your daily routine? The image of your (hair color) locks flowing in the gust of wind intensified by the ghastly sound of wheels grinding against metal track haunted his daydream until he could no longer remained still. So, he wandered. Where? A real plan of action was only something of a myth at this point, but Bobby had to do something. He went back to the infamous sea of the Shibuya crossing… Thousands of people passed by nearly every hour, what better place to start. Then it was the station, dozen times it must’ve been that he just stood there in the same spot you had been, hoping to see the familiar pout. What kind of place would a girl like yourself frequent, clothing store? cafe? park? Bobby tried his best but, in the end, his short vacation ended much too quickly, and the thrashing wave of reality wasn’t one he could stop. Yet life has a strange way of sharing a bit of its kindness on those who persevered for exactly 2 months later on a night much like the fateful one, you were humming a strange tune unfamiliar to his ears not even a few feet away. He thought you looked familiar at first, those soft tousles curiously gave him the worst case of nostalgia despite bearing no resemblance at all to any name he had committed to memory. A hot summer night and the wait for the much needed relieved of a delectable ice cream cone lit a fire in his stomach, antsy and not much patient had. He tapped his foot in place, click his tongue, and must’ve sighed about 4 times before you turned his way, soft whispers filled the night. “Not a waiting kind of dude, are you?” “Normally, yes. Tonight, debatable.” He normally hated small talk. What’s the point of them really? Nonsense to fill the dead air and awkward space, no value to anything being said nor is it important enough to commit to memory. Yet whatever grandeur life had in store for him that night made Bobby answered, he felt compelled to reply then only to feel his tongue go numb from the sight of that little pout. “Well quit being a grump. If you were a kid, wouldn’t you want to carefully pick the best flavor of ice cream to enjoy? Let the boy have his moment.” Gesturing at the boy who couldn’t be more than 6, tiptoeing despite having full view of the giant display of colorful treats, you swung your body with all the oomph you could in the small space of the line. Then you paused… So did he. For a moment, he could hear the wheel churning in your brain, eyebrows raised so high as if your senses recognized him just the way he did you. “AAHHH!” You suddenly exclaimed, drawing ire from the few customers behind Bobby. Panic engulfed his body; did you think he was a creep? “You! weird dude stared at me for like a billion years in Japan. You’re even wearing the same outfit!” “oh. Well, it’s a different white shirt if that makes a different… Probably not…” Bobby sighed in defeat, of course, now he was just a creepy person in your eyes. No way in hell now would you give him a chance. “Of course, I saw. I feared for my life for a bit there.” Or maybe not, your smile, much cuter than the pout he had been hung up on for all this time. “I-I have no excuse. I’m sorry.” “Well, at first I thought I was gonna get kidnap and sold off… but then you looked a bit… how do I say this without making it weird.” You mused, and he thought of a puppy hearing the TV for the first time, head tilt, adorable gaze and all. “I’m sure whatever you got in mind will be fine, this whole situation is already weird.” “You looked sort of… like a kid staring at his favorite meal. Goofy, cute even but at the same time sort of desperate.” He stood there staring in awe at the way your laugher chasing away the stickiness of summer, washing the slick layer of sweat right of his smooth tan skin with its freshness. Yet with each passing second, the pout that had plagued his dream slowly flooding back onto the cherry red lips he so desperately trying to ogle at. “Do you just like to stare, or do I look … odd?” “Y-yes” “Yes? What?” The way your eyes widen in panic was too much for him to handle, and it nearly, nearly made him lost track of the fact that he had just accidentally insulted you. “NO! NO! I mean…Yes, but not like that.” “Huh? Wait so do I look weird or not?” A long-winded sigh ripping away from his chapped lips, bunny teeth mauling at the frayed skin with all the viciousness of frustration rising high. “I’m not very good at this if, if you haven’t figured it out by now.” “I kind of got the hint.” You spoke so gently, almost teasing, which under any other circumstances he’d have flipped. Yet at the moment he was glad it was amusing you in some way that Bobby was such a flustering mess. Just the fact that his total embarrassment of a creep could serve to lighten your mood in turn put him at ease. “You’re, you’re fine. I’m a mess.” Shuffling awkwardly, Bobby was now one person closer to the sweet taste of a refreshing cone of ice cream, but he no longer cared. “I’m Bobby. Can I buy your ice cream to apologize?” Who would think a piece of memory so fresh in his mind was one of nearly 10 years ago… 10 wonderful years of joy and heartbreak, of memories warming to the heart yet simultaneously searing every bit of his skin with hot pain. Time with you was truly a journey. You both grew so much and matured with each tick of the clock, carving out a little niche of your own in this busy world and although not big, it was nice enough to settled into, for him to see a future with you. He had thought this was it, the relationship to end his life as a bachelor, the one that will seal away his parents worry of him living much too far away for their love to reach, to banish the fear of just how lonely he might be despite that bunny smile and his strange endearing chuckle doing their best to convince them otherwise. In the end it was a fairytale that was too good to be true. He got a taste of heaven, a little piece of paradise and even if life wasn’t always peaches and cream, deep down he always knew it would all be alright for as long as you both got each other. Then the news of your promotion came crashing down like that first raindrop amidst a beautiful sunny day. It was small, unexpected of course, and neither of you really truly grasped the impact to follow that tiny raindrop just as anyone would brush off the chance of rain on a sunny clear day. No one was happier for your success than Bobby knowing just how hard you worked, how much hours you grinded out, and the toll all those late nights took. He too knew what a promotion meant but who was he to put a dampen towel on your joy of reaping the reward from a long awaited and well-deserved climb in the vicious ladder of business. So, he rewarded you the only way he knew how, pampering and spoiling you for days on end… Well, four days to be exact because that was about the only amount of time off either of you could get approved. You were very much happy, pure adrenaline coursing through your veins blinded you from truly understanding what this all meant but Bobby didn’t mind. In fact, he really loved how pure you are with your emotions and everything in life but deep down, just the tiniest part of himself wallows in sadness and resentment. How could you not see the suffering he was going through despite the bright smile plastered across his lips. In no way was his happiness insincere, but at the end of it all, “we” and “us” was soon to be just “you” and “I”. In the end, he just wanted a simple life without the deadline of an imminent ending hanging over his heart. Sneakers squeaking to a stop, the charming awn of the past remained unchanged, adorning still the deep purple petals of the freshly bloomed chocolate vine, rich floral scent teasing at his olfactory drawing out a nostalgic smile. The ice cream shop that hosted so many dates and so many apology incentives continues to flourish despite the wilted relationship you both had left behind. For so long Bobby couldn’t bear stepping foot in the place where every table, every corner prick at a wound in his heart… Now, the tick of the clock had reduced the pain down to a bare tickle, as if finger pressing on an old bruise.  The old bell ringing out and the cashier whom he does not recognize cheers out a greeting. The sweet scent of cold treats and warmth of waffle cones being freshly made wrapping his rough body in its comforting embrace, the feeling he once felt every night but now only on the rare Sunday when Bobby is much too exhausted to leave the bed; So he let himself curls up in the now unnecessary giant blanket, toasting away under the risen sun. Browsing back and forth, Bobby lets his eyes feast on the colorful array of sweet, noting the many addition of flavors and for reason unknown, he prays your favorite remained. Another good minute before his eyes settle on the gentle pink blush hiding away in the corner, no longer the center of the attention as it once was but same as always. “Could I get a medium half guava, half triple chocolate please.” He smiles at the very patient worker, thankful she let him have his time and very much missing her giddy, demure smile or the fact that she was piling on much more ice cream than Bobby had paid for. Seat chosen and ice cream snugly within his palm, Bobby settles by a corner with the full view of the entire shop (much to the disappointment of the cute worker once she realized the handsome, yet oblivious customer is completely out of her eyesight). Barely a touch of the ice-cold treat on his tongue and he was reminded of how much he despised this flavor, still despises the pink goop you seemed to never gotten enough of. Mixing in with the chocolate? Good God what had you done with your poor taste buds. However, in the midst of the protest his body was so keen to put up against the strange floral taste of the guava and the rich punches of the decadent chocolate, there you were. Hair just as soft and shiny as always but it had been the gorgeous shade of rose gold you sported after losing to a dare. That retro Star Wars tee, a bit faded, a bit stained, and definitely sporting a few holes but nevertheless a favorite of yours. He wouldn’t misplace it anywhere. Your eyes were kinder, smile a bit brighter, the most radiant he had seen in years. You were the you he had met, the girl he had fell so hard for despite not understanding what had gone off in your head to order such a horrendous combo of ice cream flavors. And perhaps has it not for the lingering after taste of your strange choice of ice cream, Bobby would’ve wave back at the figment of you lingering about the doorway, a grin truly from ear to ear as you wave at him at the speed of light. Bobby sighs a soft smile, dazzling the worker who was unnecessarily sweeping the same spot for the 3rd time. He couldn’t believe it had been a near 8 years since the real non-platonic first date. The nervousness, the butterfly, quite honestly just as rambunctious as ever… or it’s the 5th bite of the mess of brown and pink still chilling his hand with its coldness. No, it got to be you, still vivid in the movie playing for one as Bobby soaks in the comfort you brought to his life. He didn’t believe it, the whole deal of one person could alter his life, change his perspective of the world the way countless romantic movies so dramatically play out. Then you waltzed in and flipped his whole world upside down. From the first moment he laid eyes upon you in the busy station to the miraculous reunion just a few feet away from where he seats now, even till the end, you remained the unpredictable force to be reckon with. As with all things in life, the little movie reel of your very first official date was soon over as the chime of the old bell rings out once more forewarning the incoming of new customers. Bobby shakes his head in disbelief still, how could it have been a full 3 years since he had said his goodbye to your adorable face, watched helplessly as your cheeks rosy and nose flared with the strange sound of your sobbing. The disgusting pool of dusty pink ripples as the clear pearl of lost love disturbing its serene surface reminding Bobby of just where he is. Sniffling and a bit flush, he hopes no one had noticed as he gets up to toss his ticket to memory lane, debating whether or not it’s time for another cup of ice cream, one he will enjoy this time. Without even commanding them to, his feet once more carry him toward the colorful display of ice cream, eyes searching through for potential victims for his second round of self-pity. Yet just as he begins voicing his final choice of dark chocolate orange with extra whipped cream, another voice rings out mere seconds before his. Being the gentleman he is, and also not in much of a mood to argue over who was first, Bobby apologizes without sparing a glance, eyes still keeping a close watch on the pan of delicious dark brown ice cream dotted with a few orange zest as if any second now it could grow legs and run off. “Could I please get a medium half guava, half chocolate please!” Cold sweat breaking and heart feeling much like he had just done a marathon, Bobby paralyzes with hope and fear. That voice… That order… Couldn’t be. “Wow, I’ve never had anyone order this combination before but today, twice in only an hour!” The cheery tone of the worker reminds Bobby that he was very much still in the ice cream shop, and this very much still is reality. “What?” Even with all the confusion plaguing the soft voice, he couldn’t misplace it anywhere… It can’t be. Only then did his eyes abandon his prize of classically complementing flavors for a peek at the owner of the sweet voice that was bringing him back to the past. Has it not for the hand bracing against the cold glass surface, Bobby would’ve drop right onto the floor, right there in front of everyone because he has just seen a ghost. You’re definitely real because he had just heard your interaction with the worker just now yet for reason unknown, his mind couldn’t get itself to process the sight beholding. “Bobb? You alright?” “Y-Yea.” He stutters, feeling stupid for staring, and feeling stupid for his jaws that had just dropped onto the floor because by God, you’re stunning. “Hi.” Stupid, so stupid, after all this time, after all the things left unsaid, all he could mutter was a stupid “hi”. Then again, is there really any right thing to say to the subject of his unresolved love, the woman of his dream, the one that got away, the ending neither of you deserved. And so he did what he does best, stares. He stares at you for what seemed like eternity and the whole world simply melts away into a massive shapeless blob of stars and moons and that wondrous feeling of first love. For a moment it was Shibuya, it was the train station, it was being 18 and knowing nothing of love, it was this exact place 10 years ago once more. For a moment it was all the moments you both shared for the 5 wonderful years he got to be with you and every single second thereafter of lost love, every single second condensed into one big explosion of nostalgia, feeling unresolved, and words unspoken. “Did you order my usual?” Your voice seemingly playful after what felt to him like an eternity gone by twice and suddenly, he wonders, did you feel the same? “Yea… wanted to see if I still hate it.” “Well?” “I still hate it.” Laughter, it has always been one of those things that Bobby swears on his life he’d always remember. He might’ve forgotten that favorite dress of yours or the strange way you eat ssam but the way you laugh, how you seemingly looking as though your head had snapped right off your neck bending backward in laughter. Or how bright your eyes shine even though they crescent away when you heave out a hearty laugh. Well… Bobby was sure he remembers it clearly until now. The sound you make, the way your head tilt back, it was all the same yet so distant, so unfamiliar and that scares him. How could something so simple, as simple as laughter instills so much fear into his heart. You were once the person he could simply call up just because without any reason whatsoever or simply because he was bored and needing human interaction, affection. If anyone in this world had been so unfortunate to know what true loneliness is, they would understand just how significant that is as ridiculous as it sounds… The blessing of having someone at the receiving end of “I’m bored, can we do something” even if that only results limbs entangled on the couch staring at the ceiling. Popularity is a double edge blade, that was a fact Bobby never knew until he met you. Never was he unpopular, charming and in possession of a smile that could melt the roughest heart, he was never alone. Yet there was always something missing, in the blur amidst the high of a rager or that second of quietness after a big laugh was shared, an emptiness drowned his heart in inexplicable sadness. A sorrow he was never quite equipped enough to figure out on his own, one he wallowed in after the music faded and goodbye long said. Nights after restless nights, Bobby thought of the fun he had and just how much of a world different it made only a few hours had gone by as he laid all on his lonesome pondering what it was, he’s missing from his life. He ate dinner alone most night, wake up alone… Well, save for a few mornings he managed to land a quick “date”. As he swallowed hard a cold bite of leftover on a random Thursday night, suddenly, his endless contact list seemed meaningless. That all changed the moment your sunshine liked smile entered his life, shooing away the darkest of thought with its pure intensity. Suddenly there was someone on the other end of the line at 3AM when his mind needed a philosophical outlet, or even just an ice cream date. You were always there no matter how trivial his request might be, no question asked and never once expressing grievance. You were a shoulder to cry on, a partner in crime, a protector, and a therapist. You were all and so much more but most of all, you were acceptance. No longer did he has to question himself, to hold back, or to be embarrass because of the opinion of others, with you… He’s truly himself. As the sad reminders of a past no longer obtainable slowly breaking down every bit of his facade, there’s one little piece of information that’s undeniably true, unbearably certain and, had been once more reaffirmed in his bleeding heart.   He still loves you desperately. Despite everything that happened, there’s no one else but you. There was no helping the knotting of his stomach and the stuttering that’s unquestionably worse than ever as he stumbles his way through the whole conversation like a bumbling idiot. Although, that in itself isn’t anything strange for he had always been a bumbling idiot whenever you were near, a bumbling idiot mesmerized by your radiant. “Still doing nonsense things I see. When will you learn that guava is not your jam.” “Yea, well maybe your taste in ice cream is just that preposterous. After all this time, I still can’t wrap my head around it. Plus, someone gotta keep buy it or else they’d just get rid of the flavor.” He bites out shyly, only when you had reached for your own cup that he realized the worker had been staring at him for ages. “Oh, sorry, small dark chocolate orange please!” He gave her the brightest smile he could, incentive for wasting so much of her time in the short hour, still completely missing the fact that she would give her life for him to live in the shop. As he stood there rocking back and forth, Bobby glances perhaps not so inconspicuously at the delight spreading through your features as you took the first bite. Sighing contently no doubt in heaven of satisfying the craving of your weird ice cream combination. Although that didn’t stop him from secretly wishing, that contentment was because you were once more by his side. “Are you busy?” You ask casually, as if the both of you were friends, as if you just saw him the week before. “Nope, I’ve been here for like an hour.” He chuckles awkwardly and for a split second, he could see fireworks behind those beautiful eyes as your feature light up in nostalgia. Yet just as fast as it had appeared, the sparks vanish instantly, leaving behind a dark void of reservations. “Ah… Well, I was thinking, if you know, not doing anything…” You stammer on, hand digging a literal pit in your ice cream cup and Bobby thought it was the most adorable thing in the world. Somehow after all these years, after he had given his entire heart to you, you were still nervous around him. “Let’s grab dinner!” He said with utmost excitement before the vibrancy in his voice drones out to something timid, as if fearing crossing the line. “If you’re up for it, of course.”  Always your knight in shining armor, Bobby pulls you from the pit you’ve dug for yourself, leaving you nodding like an idiot. Much to the sadness of the worker, you both wave goodbye as he walks you into the night, leaving behind the ghosts of the past and the happiness of the old times he had held on for as long as he could, doing his best to engrains every little detail to memory. Yet with you right beside him, somehow that seems wrong… And truth be told, that hurts. Even though the walk back to your car a mere 30 seconds, Bobby couldn’t help but hate the silent that was shared between your awkward bodies, hoping that you hate it too. Not that either of you were stranger to silent. It was something inevitable, something of a companion for couples who are lucky enough to share as much time together as you two did. It was the comforting silent of Sunday morning spent cuddling under the blanket, eyes closed yet the both of you were fully aware of the warmth of bodies and soothing rhythm of the rain tickling the windows. It was the content silent shared when you dragged your pillow and blanket into his office, made yourself a bed out of his couch with your nose deep in your book because he had to work late. It was the bitter silent of staring at each other in anger, eyes redden and tears scorching your cheeks, but pride get in the way of giving in. Then it was the silent of regret, silent of wanting nothing more but to dive into each other arms as anger passed and all that was left was your hearts aching to be together once more. This silent, this ridiculously awkward silent of uncertainties, of fearing to cross boundaries, it was something he never felt around you and he hates every damn second of it. “Did you drive by any chance?” You ask and suddenly very aware of the scowl worn on his lips as he stares into the night. A twinge of sadness breaks your heart at the realization that you can no longer be the person to sooth his sadness, calm his anger… And he no longer yours. “No, uh, I took a long walk here.” He replies with a smile, but you know deep down, his soul suffering and regret fills your heart. “We can ride together…” You half suggest, half really just want to know where you stand in his heart or if you even still have a place in his heart. “I tried to go to dinner the other night and, did you know that bbq place we went to so much? It’s gone!” You exclaim in disappointment, flapping your arms about just to ease the tension, although you were sure nothing could. “I was so disappointed.” “They moved a couple months back, we can go if you still want it. I know where they move to.” “Please and thank you.” You put on the best smile for him, already handing over your keys and feel the wind of the past blowing over the empty lot. As you take in a big breath of the slightly cold breeze of the night, you recount the thousand times he had taken the driver seat. Bobby had always looked so good with one hand on the wheel and the other on you, holding your hand or gently placing upon your thigh, it didn’t matter. He’d bobbed his head slowly to the beat vibrating the speakers, looking enticingly handsome focusing on the road ahead. Sometimes there’d be laughter, other times just silent as you did your best to impress your musically inclined boyfriend with your new playlist. He always looks amazing. Not much had changed as you hop into the passenger seat, waiting as Bobby changes the driver seat position before the journey began. The first few minutes felt like hours. The silent between you both were deafening, drowns out even the heavy bass of the song thumping out from the radio. You saw it, the way his right hand near out of sheer instinct reaching toward you, svelte fingers inching closer before the weight of reality settles in. There was no denying that part of you had wished he had let his heart finish what it started, to grab your hand and hold it just as he had for so long. There was no denying also, the depth your heart had dropped realizing Bobby has switches to driving with his right hand, the left leaning against the windowsill, no doubt a precaution for any future accidental touches. Painfully, you reach toward the knob on the radio and turn it a bit louder, filling the confine space with pointless noises. Thankfully the rest of the drive, all 15 excruciating minutes of it went on without a hitch. You resorted to staring out the window and drinking in the familiar sights, Bobby focused on the road before him. Part of you were disappointed that the owners of the restaurant wasn’t there, you’d love to see them and how the time had changed. Yet another part of you, strangely delighted that the long-winded explanation of the who broke up and where things left off were avoided. God knows what kind of ugliness this dinner will dredge up between you and Bobby, no need for someone of your happier past to complicate things. By the way Bobby glances back and forth before settling in with a sigh of perhaps relief, you ponder a guess that he feels the same. “Wow, everything is strangely familiar but at the same time, so different.” You gasp out without much thinking, far too enthrall in the way the menu remained exactly the way you had remembered it. “Yea, strange.” Bobby sighs softly, there was no helping the bitterness pulling his lips into a forced smile. The way his voice echoes out so drab against the exhilaration of the busy restaurant full of smoke and clinking of shot glasses, it was like he had taken a knife to your heart. You lean backward to look for the waiter, purposely hiding the frown playing on your lips at the realization of how incredibly on the nose and insensitive your statement had been. “How’ve you been?” Bobby asked absentmindedly as he tosses a few pieces of meat onto the smoking grill. “As well as can be, I guess…” Your answer catches his attention as the man before you abandon his surveillance of the sizzling meat to steal a glance at your dull features. The way his eyes scrutinizing every bit of your face, no doubt thousands of follow-up questions threatening to spill but he keeps silent, returning his attention back to the seared meat. “You?” “Same old, you know.” “Yea.” The word tumbles from your lips like the worst lie ever told. You and him both know “same old” isn’t exactly the phrase to describe the current state of reality, yet neither really brave enough to open that can of worm. The silent to follow that little exchange was far worse than anything you’ve experienced in this world. Awkward was slowly losing meaning as it treads territory of unpleasantness. As you quietly stuff another wrap into your mouth, you wonder if Bobby regrets this, regrets inviting you to dinner because you sure aren’t. As painful as it was to sit silently beside the man your heart desire and soul craving companionship for years now, you love every second of it. Who knows when would be the next time you’ll have the pleasure of being so close, you could make up the soft scent of his cologne even over the overwhelming stench of alcohol and delectable wisps of grilled-meat. In the end, you found out he had since move from that old apartment you both shared for so long. Make sense honestly, for who could bear being in the place where happiness was slowly turning into ashes. Certainly not you. No longer was he the lowly cubicle dweller but now a supervisor with his own fancy office and fancy car. Talk of work seems to get Bobby going as the faintest trace of a genuine smile graces his lips. You miss this. Honestly couldn’t recall the last time you had a real, honest talk with anyone, let alone someone that could understand you so. You let him onto the big project that had brought you home, and even though it’s only for a few months, you want to make the best time of it. And as that sentence left your lips, you could see it, there just at the tip of his tongue the words Bobby was trying so hard to bite back. You knew he thought of it, thought of rekindling the connection that had been left in the dust between you and him… You knew because you thought of it too. How could this place be the best when he’s not in it and as much as you’d like to be the one to raise the topic, it was best left for him to decide. As the scent of smoke and alcohol engrained into every fiber of your clothes and hair slowly dissipate into the air of the cold night, you found yourself sauntering beside his tall stature. A few steps behind simply because you wanted a few seconds to yourself, a few seconds to really look at the man that was once yours even if it was only the back of his head and the span of his broad shoulders. You both had been walking down memory lanes, a careful dance about the best of memories and the people of the past, avoiding the sour topics of the last few months spent together. “My brother just had a baby!” Bobby exclaims, delight graces his features and you’re left completely mesmerize by the handsome smile, even if it wasn’t really because of you. “Oh, that’s so great! Tell him congratulation, and your parents too. They must be over the moon.” You miss them was what you wanted to end that sentence with but decided in the end it’s best not to. “I will. They are, I am too. Though, I’m still scare of dropping the little one.” He gushes, already pulling his phone out to show you the endless pictures of the little tyke. “So handsome.” You sigh gently, adoring the little baby even if it was just a picture. “Of course, he is! Have you seen his uncle?” a teasing smirk blossoms on those beautiful lips as Bobby wiggles his eyebrows, holding a picture of the little one far too zoom in right next to his own face and for a split second, you have your Bobby. Not the solemn, silent Bobby of the drive to the restaurant, not the shocked and speechless Bobby when he first laid eyes on you. For a split second, he was your Bobby. “Oh, is that so? I think his dad got more to do with him being handsome than his uncle, don’t you think?” You jest with a slap to his arm, something that was once so normal considering you and him, best friends turned lovers. Yet his smile drops, an awkward chuckle replaces the bright sunshine previously beaming from his feature. It hurts, it hurts so bad because this was a reality you thought you had dealt with. Yet nothing prepared you for the raw reaction, the raw pain of the quaint touches that was now anything but. Silent befell over the souls wandering the night under the bare bone of greenery in winter. You listen to the leaves crunching under your feet, pulling your jacket higher as the mischievous tickling of a breeze brushes against your hair. Bobby again a few steps ahead of yourself as he stares longingly at the bright moon above, the same one that had always been there through the thick and thin of your relationship. Still here to witness the strangers-again walking through the night. You wonder if it cried for you, and for your relationship. “Did you ever think about the what-ifs?” Bobby was first to succumb to the pain of silent, yet the perhaps the question he had just asked was far more painful than anything else this failed relationship had brought. “Of course, I have.” The answer rushes from your lips at light speed, nearly in disbelief that there was a part of him that thought you didn’t. “How could I not?” your steps halt as you watch on in incredulity, heart racing and a tear already pricking at the corners of your eyes recalling the days to follow and all the times you wanted to abandon it all to be with him. You know exactly where this was heading but at this point, was there any benefit to holding back the words, suppressing the anguish of love lost? “Hm… I think about it often, ‘bout you.” A solid minute of deafening silent went by before he finally speaks up, stopping on his track too before turning back to face you. He got his hands in his pockets, lips pursing under an undecipherable expression though the pain was far from well hidden. “I still think about everything… I mean, it’s been years but. I can’t help it.” The weight heavy on your heart the moment your eyes skimmed over the destination of your business trip finally exploded, etching and cutting into your scarred heart. The words you wanted to say to him, the words you had forced yourself to push aside in an attempt to live a normal life, it came rushing in the moment you read the name of the city that destiny would lead you back to. The person your heart both desires for and knows would only lead it down the path of relapsing into the mere shell of a person the days following the breakup… it had been heavy and now, it aches. “I thought that suppressing you from my memory would help but it was all the same. I was devastated every waking second, in all my dreams and nightmares.” Bobby muses but there was something far beyond the emptiness of his eyes, glossing over with an emotion you couldn’t decipher and that scares you. It rattles all your cages and there was no helping the ugly thoughts coming. “We both were, Bobby. I mean, you say it as if I wasn’t there… As if I wasn’t the other half of the relationship.” Beneath the sorrow, beneath the pain of the part of your heart you thought was dead resurrected by the man you love, anger simmering. His tone, the words he had chosen… how could he… “Were you?” There was nothing, nothing about the man looming before you that could mirror even a fraction of the emotion surging through your body… Well, nearly nothing. The way his jaws clenching so tightly and the kindness formerly tugging those beautiful eyes into crescents of laughter vanishing at a rate that left your heart dizzy… He’s angry. Anger wasn’t something you knew of Bobby. Frustration, maybe. After all, you weren’t a walk in the park to be with so there were times minor disagreements would surface. Yet anger wasn’t an emotion you knew he could possess, not toward you. He had gotten angry at the guy who was far too handsy with you at his high school reunion, and the time when you ran to him in panic at a club because some creep never learned the meaning of “no”… Never with you. “Are you seriously questioning my feeling right now?” You too were teetering on the blade of anger. “Have you forgotten those nights, those weeks before everything ended?” Your voice raising without needing for you to tell it to, the disbelief in your heart overdrive every other function in your shivering body. Had he in all the years of loneliness forgotten just how much you had loved him… still love him. You’ve considered all the options, not taking the job, passing up the promotion, quitting, switching career, all of it. You considered it all and there was always one ending, the enticing thought of a future with Bobby. You were ready to make peace with your decision but in the end, it was Bobby who had held your hand and told you it was okay. You cried and you fought but ultimately, he was your weakness. He ensured that no guilt would plague you as you made the final decision of leaving. “No, I remember it clearly.” That sentence, Bobby had dreamt about it endlessly, of finally confronting you of your lies… How satisfying it would be to finally have his last laugh… So why, why does it hurt so much now that it had finally took its first breath of reality… Why does it kill him so watching the tears streaming down the rosy skin of your cheeks, the way your features had contorted into anguish? “I remember it because I was the one who told you to leave. I was the one who had to packed up our home and all the memories it held.” The way he bites out “our”, love was definitely not the driving force behind it. “Have you gone mad?” Your words nearly as feeble as the breaths you’re heaving. Neither anger or guilt were present on your face but rather complete and utter disbelief “If you knew all that, then how could you question my pain. I ripped half of me, my entire heart out when I left this place.” And for a second it confuses him, the part, the largest part of him that had loved you so dearly begins to doubt the truth he had held on for so long. “No, not at all. I’m completely sane and sober” But hell hath no fury like a betrayed man. “I can’t believe I’m doing this. I can’t believe you’re making me spell out every. Single. Thing.” “Please, because I have no clue what you’re even going on about.” Exasperation and disappointment of being question, of having your heart on trial finally reaching an unprecedented height. Hands carding roughly through your wind-blown locks before harshly wiping away the tears falling uncontrollably. A part of Bobby cowers seeing the red rashes scratched onto the smooth skin of your cheeks from the sleeves of your sweater painfully soaking away your tears. He would never wish harm onto you, even if you were the one doing it, especially if you were the one doing it. Needless to say, the protective part of him wants so badly to pull your hand into his, to cradle your cheeks and press healing kisses onto them but this mess, he started this. Yet the irrational side of him have had enough, far past the emotional limit a person could handle. “I ran into your boyfriend. Yea, the guy you said was nothing more than a co-worker.” He sneers and you could feel your blood runs cold. The disdain, the disgust in the dagger like glare burning your skin left your knees weak in the worst way possible. “Can’t believe I bought it. You know, I was actually glad I ran into him at first. Hearing how happy you were with your new job and already, just few months in, you were already on the fast track to a big promotion.” “Bobby…” You whisper his name, hoping it still hold the magic it once did, but the meek reality is far from the distant vibrant memories. “No, no, no. You don’t get to be all puppy dog eyes and pretend like it never happened.” He scoffs at you and perhaps it hurts more than it should have. “And then, so casually, he told me that you two were together, living together in fact.” “No, Bobby. You don’t understand. It’s all a big misunders-“ “No! Big misunderstanding? Falling in love, moving in together, fucking someone else all in the short months span since our breakup. You call that a misunderstanding? Please, Y/n. Am I that much of a joke to you?” He grunted out the painful sentence and it left you breathless, your lungs could barely keep up with the tears let along the bombs he drops on you. There was no other reaction but silently cry as Bobby continues his tirade. “I gave up my happiness, my entire life so you wouldn’t have to. And the big thank I got was you fucking the guy you said was nothing more than a good friend. You must love me so much that you couldn’t wait to let the next guy you see fuck all the memories of me out of your goddamn brain… All the while I was living like a goddamn zombie. All alone, every waking minute, every second of sleep consumed by the thought of you.” Exasperation begins to wear down on Bobby as he pants heavily, eyes still tearing your body apart with years of anger all pent up in his feeble heart. “Was it all a lie? The last few months of our relationship, it was… Wasn’t it? Because if I were to believe, to hold on to the last shred of the you I fell in love with… You wouldn’t forget me in just a mere few months.” You contemplate the next few words very carefully, taking all the moments, all the deceits leading up to this point into consideration. Life had never been fair, but nothing could contest against the spitefulness of the grand scale of things this very second. It had dealt you a hand that you wish surprise was what you’re feeling, but alas, you’ve always knew this was a possibility the second you spun your web of lies. You understand full well the implication Bobby had just brought to light, but there was nothing left to say. “I don’t think my words matter much to you this second.” You breathe through your sob. “Maybe in a few weeks, a few months it will. Or it might never will be…” the thought of never being anything meaningful to Bobby ever again, that was a pain you thought never will you have to experience. But in the end, this big tumultuous ride of a relationship had already thrown everything else at you and the end is nigh. “So, I won’t stand here and make some big excuses because I think I’ve done enough.” That was all you could let out, all the though your brain could form before it shut down in a muddle mess. Your heart aches far worse than all the pain it had ever been through combine and you didn’t know what to do to soothe it. The small glimpses your vision clear enough to allow you to steal a glance at the man you love but just destroyed, Bobby isn’t doing much better. Body dropping onto the cold stone pavement of the path, he got his head cradling in between his arms and silently, his body shakes with tears and the reality that was settling in far too fast. The thought of you cheating on him wasn’t one he wanted to be acquaintance with or even one he had formulated before the run in with your boyfriend. Yet the happiness of knowing you had moved on diminished fast as the logical side of himself began calculating the time and the disbelief of his heart that you would forgotten about him already in the short time apart. Soon the sound of sniffles and painful sobs was nothing more but distant echo of the night as you both settle into the present. This is it for the wonderful friendship, the by-chance love that had bloomed between two young souls doing their best surviving the rush of life together. You stare at him with all the love you still have coursing through your blood and he, at you as if a distant memory he was ready to let go. Nothing was said but the drumming of your headache burst through, drowning out everything in front of you. “I’ll drive you home.” He whispers impassively, eyes blank as he scans the features of your face. Were you always so sad? Have your eyes always been so sunken with pain and your skin so pale? The Bobby of the past still clinging on, caring yet he knows his time was ending. So, for one last time, he’ll care, just for tonight. “You’re in no condition to drive.” “No, I’m okay.” “Y/n, just please. For once, don’t fight me. I don’t care how things ended up between us, I’ll never forgive myself if something happens to you.” You silently shadow the footstep of the man you no longer have the right to smile at. After tonight, you and he will be nothing more but strangers again, just as you were that fateful night at the train station. After tonight, you’ll have to respect his wishes and pretend as if life hadn’t given you the best years anyone could ever hope for. Once more the same moon as all the days before watches over as your life stream splits into two. You wonder if it too, is sad for the tragic love story.

It has been a month since he last saw you, a month since he accused you of the worst things a man could accuse the woman he loves. He crossed all the lines and all the boundaries that night and it left him an empty shell of the man he once was. After all these years, after all the pain had been dealt with, there was still a bit of hope, the last thread of a beautiful relationship connecting his life to yours. Yet in one moment of delirium, he crumbled all the effort of all the years before because he was bitter. It broke his heart, the way pain washed over your beautiful features as the accusation that had torn so many relationships apart left his lips. He left you so speechless, you stood there and took his abuse silently, clutching your heart. In the moment when sleep evaded him, all he could think about was the horrible things he had said and your nearly lifeless body as he dropped you off that night… He has turned into the monster he promised himself to never be. Somehow all the pain seems so much worse tonight as he lays awake in bed, hours away from his birthday, another birthday alone… Truly alone for he had burned all the bridges that could potentially lead him back to you. Eyes studying the world just beyond his little window as his mind drifts to you, Bobby wonders if your project was going well and if you were leaving soon. He had thought of calling you, of course, but how could he after saying such horrendous things without even granting you the small wish of explaining everything. Did you realize that night that his phone’s background was still a picture of you? That thought warms his heart for a second before the logical side of himself butts in, reminding bobby once more that you probably don’t care, not anymore at least since he had taken all the precious time you’ve both had and ripped it all to unsalvageable shreds. Yet perhaps his heart knows best after all as that ringtone, the one he has always associated with sunshine and happiness, like an omen echoing through the darkness of his room. Bobby didn’t believe it at first, staring at it blankly before the third ring reminding him that you could hang up any second now. He scrambles to his feet, hastily picking up the phone and nearly dropping it. “Hello? Y/n?” Bobby huffs out impatiently, needing to hear your voice even if there was a slight chance you had called to yell at him. “Uhm, are you the boyfriend of the owner of this phone?” A gruff male voice spills from the speaker sending fear to his heart. Jaws tighten and fist clenches tightly, he grunts out a rough yes, nevermind the fact that it was a blatant lie. “Could you come pick up your girlfriend. She been here for hours and I don’t think she should drink anymore.” The voice speaks up hesitantly, growing distant as if the guy was glancing away to check something, someone. “I don’t understand, what happened?” Bobby questions, already grabbing his jacket and keys, on his way even though he has no clue where you were. “Your girlfriend, she came in, had a few too many drinks, and would not stop talking about her amazing boyfriend… Well, you, I guess. Then she cried for a bit and said she was going to call her boyfriend but passed out before the line even start ringing.” The bartender explains, sighing a bit, no doubt done with your antic. “If you don’t mind, please come pick her up. I don’t want to send her home on her own. Le Lune, do you need direction?” “No, I know exactly where. Thank you.” If his heart beats any faster, Bobby suspects that his blood vessels would burst. Worries and dreadfulness engulf his body as he speeds through the empty night, anxious to see you, anxious to know you’re okay. His fingers tap frantically as his car tears through the night toward the place that holds his entire life. As he bursts into the nearly empty bar, a few eyes glare his way vexingly, loud slam of the door had disrupted their night cap and meaningless conversations. Bobby glances about, looking for that familiar figure before a young man wave frantically, calling him over. “Bobby, I assume.” Holding up a phone in front of him, the bartender glances up then back at the screen with a satisfying nod of his head. “Picture checks out. Here you go.” He hands back the phone to Bobby, screen still illuminated, and the background, it sends a pang to his heart. It was him, smiling bright, exuding all the happiness of a man at the height of his love. And for a moment, time stood still. He thinks about you going about in your daily life… His face being the first thing you see in the morning and the last thing you see at night. He’s there when you check whether it was time for lunch or time for homecoming. You’ve managed to keep that part of the old life the same despite everything being torn apart and the foundation of your relationship crumbling into nothingness.  But now was no time to be sentimental for a much more pressing issue was at hands. “Yes, we spoke on the phone. Where is she?” His voice frantic, panic wrecking his entire being. He thought there was nothing worse than watching you walk away but this, knowing that you were all alone… There is nothing in his short life thus far that scare him so.   “I left her on the booth over there, didn’t want her to hurt herself falling over the stool.” Sighing a few thanks, Bobby closes up your tab and left a hefty tip to a very delighted bartender before making his way toward the booth in the far end corner where his sleeping beauty awaits. Leaning back against the red velvet plush of the back rest, your eyes tightly shut and hair a bit dishevel but he swears, you were still so beautiful. Blur streaks of mascara smearing down the soft skin of your cheeks, still so redden and hot, your chest rises and falls gently as a soft snore emanating through the near empty bar. The breath he had been holding ever since the voice of the bartender reached his ears finally dislodge itself from his throat at the sight of you so peacefully snoozing away. Bobby sighs heavily as his eyes scan to your bare shoulders, dress far too thin to shield you from the harshness of the world. “Sweetie, let’s go home.” He whispers softly against your temple where he had just placed a thankful kiss. Though he knew that kiss was crossing every lines and boundaries, there was no helping the natural reaction bursting out of the man who for the past hour had been so uncertain of the safety of his love. He’s thankful, so thankful that insomnia had been so gracefully blessing him with another restless night, thankful for the bartender, and thankful for you. In your most drunken stupor, he was still on your mind and that, just that small thought of you still valuing his pathetic self enough to call him up… Well, it eases his heart and soul in ways unimaginable. “Bobby…” You groan sleepily, despite the stench of alcohol seeping through your every pore, there was no denying how adorable the way you mew his name. Fingers rubbing at your drowsy eyes, you peers through the clumpy curtain of the mascara that was now mostly staining your cheeks than shielding your lashes. Blinking a few times, a smile blooms on your lips at the familiar face and endearing scent, your head instinctively nudges closer into the crook of his neck, stealing all the warmth the man got to offer. “Yea… Sweetheart?” He tests the water, considering holding back the pet name that was only ever meant for you. Yet just as everything else had when you’re around, it was near involuntary. “I love you.” You mewl out a softly amidst a small giggle before diving into his arms. “Can we go home?” Now, Bobby knows full well this was nothing but a drunken sleep talk but that sentence, home, it lights his heart on fire. He was always the one that’d get drunk, coming home laughing and diving into your arms. This was something new, something so different that despite everything else that was happening, deep down a blissfulness spreading through his body. Your head lulling gently, falling right into his chest as your soft snores continue to echo through the darken parking lot. He places you gently into the passenger seat, buckling you up before placing yet another kiss to your forehead. The steady pace his heart had regained finally seeing you safe and sound was once more beating erratically as the moonlight, dirtying by a bit of the neon sign of the bar seemingly adding to the ethereal glow of your beauty. Your lips so soft, cherry red and plump enticing his soul to its own perdition. Just as easily as breathing, he could effortlessly steal a kiss this very moment and you wouldn’t even care nor have any knowledge of it the next day. Yet as much as he wanted that, Bobby knows it means nothing and mess up beyond anything he had done up to this point if you don’t kiss him back, if you don’t want him. So, he brushes a bit of hair tickling your nose out of the way before shutting the door and begins the journey back home. So strange the way you feel so familiar, so right in his arms yet the world revolving around you, the very nature of your relationship is anything but that. No longer was he the companionship to your night out nor could he provide the care he once did on the rare occasion you’d drink past the point of clarity. As he gently places you into the comforting embrace of his bed, a twinge of pain thumps at his heart before electrifying through the entirety of his being. If this was the you and him of the past, Bobby would already be changing you into the comfort of your PJ, knowing just how much you despise bra and all that it stands for, nothing worse than sleeping in a bra, you used to say. Gently, though drunk you has the sleep capability of Snorlax, Bobby still took great care to not disturb your sleep as he delicately worked his way to wipe away your makeup, remembering how pimply you’d get after just one night of forgoing makeup removal. Although he never thought there was anything wrong with it, and that you were just as beautiful as ever even with a few new red friends on our cheeks, he hated seeing you pouting especially over something so trivial. But this is now, and this is the you and him of the present… There’s no “us” and there’s nothing to tie your life streams together other than a few good memories and a ocean of pain. As you roll to your side and snugging closer to the overwhelming scent of home and comfort, a tear burns down his cheek. Bobby watches on helpless because he had crossed far too many lines tonight… And no longer did he have the right. So, he did what little he could, brushing your hair gently away before placing a pillow under your head. He wraps you up in a big cocoon of blankets, situating himself beside your peaceful self just for a second, lingering. He wonders how much different life would be had you stay, had he gone after you… Maybe you’d be his wife, maybe you’d be the mother to his child, children even. Or maybe you both weren’t meant to be together and the tough time would tear you both apart regardless of who stayed and who went. There’s so much what-ifs, so many fantasies he wished you both could’ve see the ending of but alas this is the reality you’ve both chosen and there’s nothing else to do but to sleep in the bed you both have made. Pulling over the cold blanket he had just gotten out of the closet, Bobby settles himself into the couch, sleep was no more of a friend than it had been before the trek through the night toward you. Suddenly, even the distant siren beyond his living room window lost its spark as his eyes traverse toward the tightly shut bedroom door. He could see nothing beyond the white wooden door, silent and stoic in the night, hiding you away from his eyes. Yet his heart knows just beyond the threshold, warmth and comfort await, its owner awaits. Thirty minutes then come the full hour, Bobby was still staring at the cold barrier protecting his princess as his mind roams back to the wonderful days of sharing cover and warm breath tickling soft skin. The echo of each tick of the clock louder than the one before, reminding him once more of the present. His body exhausted yet his mind runs at thousand miles an hour, tracing over every single mistake he had made. The whirling of helicopter replaced by the chirping of the early birds, out and about ready for another day. He has been far too lost in the distant world his mind had made up for you and him when the loud honking of a car somewhere across the apartment complex finally break the trance your present had put Bobby in. He forces himself to turn the other way, blanket pulls over his head before his eyes forced shut hoping to find peace in the short rest till morning come. Surely the consequences of his words will greet him as the day break, so for now, he’ll take whatever sleep he can get. The very next moment consciousness graces his present, Bobby had long forgotten about your drunken confession and that he had very much braved the cold of December to rescue his princess from darkness and strangers’ gazes of the bar. Throwing the blanket that was already very much half pooling on the floor, Bobby mutters a cuss for being so careless, having once again falling asleep on the couch in the cold embrace of the mistress of winter. Drowsy and barely stable, he scratches at an invisible itch, carding his fingers through the soft brown locks before stumbling carelessly into the door of his own bedroom. The loud bang of his door swinging wildly into the wall was followed by a sound that sends shiver down his spine, far worse than the frigidity of morning cold air against his bare skin. The softest groan reaches his ears, delicate and cute as if a kitten awakening from her slumber yet instead of adoration, all he could feel was fear. The giant blanket burrito stirring on his bed drowns his being in panic, brain frantically searching for an answer, a clue as to what the hell had happened the night before. One foot than two, Bobby inches closer to the sleepy bundle, muscles flexing, ready to put up a fight to the drowsy bandit. The sight beholding the surprised man was beyond his imagination, far far beyond the fathomable realm of situations his sleepy mind was prepared for. The memories of the night before come flooding back like a broken dam after a long storm, waves thrashing his heart against the rocks of the past. The quaint touches, your love confession, everything rushes back in a matter of second and it left Bobby breathless in all the best way possible. Somehow in between the time he had left you safe and sound in the comfort of his bed and the moment he had clumsily burst through the threshold, you had managed to create a tiny nest for yourself. Bundling around your body is the hoodie he had carelessly tossed onto the ground the night before along, cradling between your cheek and your hand, the sweat-soaked fabric of his t-shirt. It brings peace to his heart knowing that after all this time, you still find comfort in clinging onto him in your drunken state. So many nights he’d toss and turn simply because you too were doing the same, stirring in your sleep, trying your best to maximize the amount of his body you could hoard for your own. He had forgotten how many nights he took for granted, tossing you a bundle of his clothes simply because he could take no longer the exhaustion, pushing you off to your side of the bed. What he’d give to get those nights back now, to cuddle up to your sleepy self and bask in the way you had taken on the scent of his cologne. He stares in awe for a moment, considering waking you yet in light of the alcohol vapor lingering about still, assaulting his nose, Bobby’s sure you’d love nothing more than a few more minutes of snoozing so he left you be. Bobby could count on one hand the amount of time he had braved the kitchen all on his own when you were still a constant in his life. 90% of those times turned out horribly and most definitely ended up with you cleaning up after his mess. Yet that was then, and this is the now of him spending most of his time alone, dining for one. Fast food and eating out sufficed for as long as it could for there’s no replacing the coziness of a homemade meal. So with burnt pots and scarred fingers, Bobby eventually learned to take care of himself even though there’s no comparison to you. A simple soup bubbling away on the stove, he debates with himself on whether or not you still like eggs. God, you must find him insane having a monologue about eggs while burning his fingers checking the sad state of his porridge pot. Deep down, a soft warmth settling in his chest thinking about the simple breakfast coming together… You, sitting beside him at the dining table. And although he knows for certain the conversation had won’t be a pleasant one, there’s no denying the little bit of joy, having a tiny bit of normalcy back into his sad daily life even if it’s just for a one morning. Far too lost amongst the cloud of steam shooing away the frost-bitten skin of his naked torso and the clanking of metal spoon against pan, Bobby misses completely the silent shuffling growing louder. “You really need to invest in a wooden spatula. Don’t you know you’re not supposed to use metal on nonstick surfaces?” Your words so gentle, all the pain of your last meeting evades. In its place nothing but the warmth he was used to, and perhaps a bit of gruff from a hangover. “Oh… Is that why half my pots and pans are useless now? Even butter sticks to it.” Your sudden entrance got the man hopping back out of shock, yet nevertheless, a shy smile already on his lips. “Yea, you should throw those out. Don’t eat the nonstick coating, it could make you sick.” Inching closer, you let the flame of the burners lulling you back to reality with its wonderful warmth, putting color back into your pale cold skin brushed with the cold of early morning. Eyes carefully going over the bubbling pot of hangover soup, sunny side up eggs, and porridge, a smile blooms on your tired lips at his effort. Good to know he was at the least taking care of himself with homemade meals. “that’s quite an impressive spread you got going there.” “I, uh, can’t take credit for the soup. I bought that.” Bobby shares a sheepish smile before rummaging to plate the egg borderlines on overcooked. “I wasn’t sure what you wanted to eat so I just kind of made both rice and porridge… Should be done soon. It’s not much but I figure it’ll be easy on your stomach. You should go wash up.” He beams at you, the brightest you’ve seen since the first time you laid eyes on the man at the ice cream shop just a month ago. “Why are you staring at me like that?” “uhm… I don’t exactly have anything here to, uh, wash up.” “Oh! Right. I’ll be back.” Tearing away from the pot one second from boiling over, Bobby nearly tumble over knocking into the couch before running back with a bundle in his arms. “Here, these are the smallest clothes I could find. I’m sure you’d be more comfortable in these than…” He eyes the small dress on your body, disheveled and stained from lord knows what yet the simple act of nodding toward your less than pristine choice of clothing soon turns into a walk down memory lane. He traces over every little mole on your skin, the soft curves of your body, down to your delicate fingers. He misses every single detail about you, your laugh, the little dance in the confinement of the passenger seat, your body. Tears brim his eyes as recent past come rushing in, giving him a dose of the lonely reality. “Uhm, here.” “Thank you.” You grab hastily the bundle thrusted into your embrace, not missing the reddening eyes and the silent sniffle. You say nothing more, knowing it’d only add to the sad reality that was you and him, making your way back to the bedroom you thought was only a dream. Any other day and the steaming water washing away the shame of the night before would be something divine, heaven sent. It would mean relief that you had survived another night spent pathetically living precariously through the illusion of the happier past that the bitterness of hard liquor had granted you access to. Yet today, it’s painful, burning every bit of your skin with the reality that you had very much damage the last bit of good remained of the girl he once loved, if there was any good left after the lies you’ve told. Mirror clouded with the lingering steam and vapor of your silent tears, you pull on the clothes barely fitting onto your body, twist and turn to view the outfit hanging loosely. The reflection of yourself in the mirror, blurred, barely visible through the cloud of your regrets. Even through the billows of water vapors and the surprisingly sparkling scent of neroli mingling with bergamot of his body wash, you couldn’t help but let your nose trail on the ghost of Bobby’s scent. You know it was crazy to even try for he had handed you clothes shrouded with the fresh scent of laundry detergent yet there was no helping your hands from bunching up the fabric of the ill-fitted shirt, bringing it close to your nose imagining it was just shed off of his body. Your mind went back to the late nights of digging your face as far into his body as you could, taking in the comforting warmth and soft scent of faint cologne and Bobby. Sorrow overtaking your senses because soon enough, you’d have to leave the safety of this hideout. So just for a few minutes, you let your heart has it moment. Table was set by the time you finished freshen up, Bobby graciously waiting by the table, scrolling through his phone to pass the time. Though the clothes might be small for him, the t-shirt he had given you near hitting knee length and the pair of short barely holding on. The smile he offers was far short of the one you were used to but nevertheless, better than the scowl and pain etching so deep on his features the night everything ended. The meal begins in complete silent despite the friendly small talk and although it was nothing surprising, there’s still a bit of pain lingering for tableside conversation wasn’t something scarce between you two. “I’m really sorry, for bothering you like this.” You say finally, noting the small glances he steals, unable to any longer swallow another bite with the air thicker than tar suffocating all your senses. “I- there’s not enough words to say sorry and thank you for going out of your way to pick me up. I know this wasn’t what you imagined starting your weekend with.” He was the drop of water to quench your thirst, yet you couldn’t imagine the same could be said about you, not after everything that happened. “Y/n, there’s no bother. This is the least I could do after all those years you took care of me.” Was this how it will be? Polite banter and careful dances about the rich history your souls shared for so long? Bobby watches carefully as your dainty fingers pushing your spoon about, rare bites taken he surmises could barely even be qualified as a bite but rather formality to reward his effort. So many question bubbling close, so close to the surface, he could feel them knotting in his throat. Why were you out so late, who were you drinking with, what was your intention behind calling him… He knew your actions were merely alcohol induced yet isn’t it also true that drunkenness only amplifies true intention? “Is something bothering you? Is the food that horrible?” He had to do it, unable to bear the desolation paints so clearly across your features. “Oh, no, not at all. I’m just…” You consider for a second to lie, blame it on the uneasiness of your stomach souring the morning after… But lie isn’t what either of you need, it’s not what Bobby deserve. “I’m so sorry. I really can’t do this.” “Do what?” Panic slowly engulfs his body watching the color leaving your skin, anguish slowly replacing the small smile you had watching him fumbling over the hot soup. “You’re scaring me, Y/n…” “I tried, I really tried to pretend as if this is normal… But I just, I can’t get over the fact that I intruded your life after you had so explicitly expressed your desire to never meet again. This must be so uncomfortable for you.  And I, there isn’t enough sorry I can give for last night, for all the nights before.” Your heart vomits out the guilt pent up and pushed away for a moment of joy pretending as if watching Bobby struggling over breakfast was something normal, just another typical morning in your household. You wanted so badly to hang on to this last piece of happiness with him, to have one last breakfast as a “couple” but alas, guilt was eating you alive even before you realize it was there. “I should go.” No sooner than the last syllable of the sentence left your lips, his hand was already on yours, cradling, squeezing so tightly you could feel the weight on your heart becoming undone. “Don’t… Please. I know I’m despicable, and I’ve accused you of the most horrendous thing… And I’m sorry for that.” His eyes calm, like the grey sky just before a big storm breaking but just beneath the roughness of his voice, panic. You could feel that guilt too was wrecking him apart and it kills you. You’d rather him hate you, never want to again see your face but guilt... Guilt is what keep people from moving on, and that’s not what you want for Bobby. “What you did after we parted, it was none of my business. I know too that heartbreak is much easier dealt with if you have someone to lean on. I crossed far beyond all the lines and I, I’m just so sorry.” “No, your anger was well deserved. I told you lies, that part was true. And I thought for the longest that if you hate me, it’ll be easier for you to move on and be happy. If I can’t provide you with the love and happiness you deserve, then at least someone else can.” How far will you be able to carry your truthfulness, only time can tell. But for now, you’ll do your best to close finally end this chapter of your life and give it the closure it deserved, one that should’ve been written years ago. “That was the sole reason behind everything I’ve done.” “I know you’re not so cruel, and I know in my heart that you wouldn’t forget about me so soon after, just as well as I know you’d never cheat on me… So please, Y/n, end my misery and tell me the truth. I know that night I let anger taken over, but your words matter to me more than you could ever know.” He begs, hands clutching onto yours so tightly, the last line of hope for the drowning man. “When I said it was a misunderstanding, that part was true. I would never cheat on you and rest assure the time we spent together, no matter how shitty, my heart only ever had you in it.” To finally clear up the unspoken thoughts of that night, you felt the weight of the world lifting from your shoulders. Bobby too, seems to have felt the same effect as his head hang low, long sigh release the breath he had been holding. “And the matter of whom my heart had belonged to following our breakup, it was you… Still to this day, only you. It was always you and I’m sorry if I’ve made you thought otherwise, for the pain I’ve caused.” “Why? Why would you- How, what about all the things your boyfriend had said?” “There was, still is no one else. It has always been you and I’ve only lied because I thought it’d protect you. Whatever he had told you, it was done under my instruction.” Tears were once more streaming down your cheeks, sullying the bowl of porridge he had worked so hard on. Bobby falls back into his chair, body limp, no strength for anything else for his brain had taken it all to process the revelation falling from your lips. For reason unknown, you thought it now is the best time for another bite of food only to find it choking with sadness, bitter the entire way down. “Why would you do that? Why would you let me believe in a lie that made me saw you in such a disgusting light? Y/n?” He repeated your name like a mantra, frustration, love, anger, nostalgia, it all mixed up in an undecipherable wave drowning Bobby in guilt. The things he said, oh the things he had accused you of, how could he ever repent for his sins. “I came to visit, a month after we ended things… I knew it was a bad idea, but I couldn’t bear not seeing you. It nearly drove me insane not being able to see you, to speak to you daily.” Your head now too hanging low, recalling the days when wounds were fresh and pain so excruciating, you’ve gone numb. You recall too the excitement of finally seeing that handsome smile and feel the familiarity of happiness. “I was stopping by our coffee shop, figured, if I was to show up and ruin your day, might as well bring some caffeine.” You chuckle bitterly at the past, thinking of how shock he would’ve looked if you just show up at his work with coffees in hand just as you used to. “That was when I realized, we needed to move on if we even hope to survive.” “What are you talking about?” Confusion plagues his features and it was rightfully so. This insane misunderstanding had been solely on you. “I saw you with that girl, seemed like a date. I was happy, honestly, seeing you smiling, going out, having fun. So, I left. I thought that was it, you were moving on and so should I. You could imagine how hurt I was, hearing from our friends that you were still so hung up on what happened to us that you were barely living.” Your eyes trail along the sharp lines of his jaws to the soft pout he has on his lips. Bobby got his gaze on you, watching intently with bated breaths and once more his hands found their way to yours. “It wasn’t your fault, Y/n. It wasn’t anyone’s fault.” The soft sniffles have grown, echoing, spreading through the dead air of the living room that was warming up by the soft sunlight peeking through the living room’s windows. So opposite of the harsh tone and chiding words of the night just mere month ago, his words ring with the dejection of a desperate man. A man that wants so badly for you to realize that the pain of breakup was no one’s fault. It was a part of life and however unpleasant it might be, it was simply inevitable. After all, there are always only two outcomes when hearts begin to beat as one… And neither of you were favored by the grand scale of life. When silent was what met his protest, Bobby finally gazes upon your frail face, glossy with tears and guilt. He wrapped your cheeks in the protective hold of his hands, thumbs gently ridding of the tear hiding away the rosy of your cheeks.  And as if it was his last lifeline out of the tumultuous sea of heartbreak, he places the most delicate kiss upon your forehead. Bobby wasn’t sure if it was the right thing to do but it was what his heart told him to. “Hey, it wasn’t your fault. I just needed to deal with pain at my own speed.” “I was hanging on to the image of you, so happy even if it was with someone else and somehow it got me through. Day by day, some days hurt more than others but knowing you were happy, it made my heart content. When I found out you’ve isolated yourself from the rest of the world, I was eaten alive with guilt. Guilt that this all happened because I left… Guilt because I went on living while you were suffering… So, when my friend texted me that he ran into you, I decided to take things into my own hand.” Embolden by the leap he had just taken, you rest your forehead against his, wrapping your own hand around his wrists, fearful still that this is all just another reunion dream your tired mind had conjured up. But that thought was soon banish as Bobby pulls your hands up to his lips and the wings of hundred small kisses flutter against your soft skin, reminding you that he was very much right before you. There are few moments in life that can capture the fleeting nature of life and aside from the moment when you had bid goodbye to your entire life, the very second that text had flashed across your screen was the realest moment in your short days on this Earth. It was so simple, “Hey, I ran into Bobby. He asked about you!”. How could a few sentences, so straightforward, no underlying messages could mess with your heart so much that you felt all the progress you’ve made, all those day coping, surviving this new found loneliness reverting back to the beginning. You contemplated, telling him you were fine, telling him you were miserable, beg for him to take you back… In the end, you asked your dear friend a favor you knew you could never pay back for. A fabricated life in place of the pathetic one you’ve been living. You painted a home with two dogs, a loving business partner, best friend, and lover all in one. Mornings were filled with laughter as you both fought over coffee even though there was more than enough to go around. Nights echoed with the scent of sweat and lingering moans of pleasure as the delectable cloud of a homemade meal wasp around the kitchen, awaiting to be dine. You thought of the future that never was with Bobby as you begged your dear friend to lie for you. “God…” Hands still snuggling yours, Bobby let the weight of his head resting against your knuckles as he mutters soft cusses. He was so wrong, he made you out to be the villain, yet the truth was so far from all the fuck up scenarios he had conjured up in his mind. “I’m so fucking sorry, Y/n. I’m so sorry.” “Don’t be. I started this, none of this was your fault. At the time, I really thought it was the best way to get you to move on... I didn’t think about the consequences, that it would backfire. And I don’t think I can ever make up for it.” A heavy sigh left your lips and your heart wishes so desperately for Bobby to place another kiss upon your skin… Perhaps this time he’d settle for one on your quivering, chapped lips. “How about just start being honest with me? Hmm?” He leans in close, dragging your chair effortlessly right beside his. For the first time since the conversation start, you let yourself focus on the starlight sparkling in his eyes. You were so scare, deadly afraid that if you gaze into his eyes, all you could see was emptiness. Oh, how wrong you were because there’s so much light and warmth emanating from them, so beautiful and tender. “I don’t even know if I should be-“ “No, I know what you’re trying to say. Did you really think I’m letting you go a second time? I’ve got you here, even after the spite I’ve thrown at you, you’re still here with me. You must be insane if you think you’re walking away one more time.” Your self-pity drowns out with all the love his heart could give. Hands once more gently encasing your cheek as he shushes away the lingering tears. “There’s no other place you should be but here. Stay with me.” Your heart nearly explodes in light of the words you desperately hope to hear for the longest. You’ve always wonder what would have happened if you had just stay, screw career, screw the world. What would’ve happened if you had let your heart taken control of your body and soul, letting love win? Like the most wonderful Christmas miracle, life, Bobby had offered you a second chance at the life you wish you have, only this time you both have matured and learned so much from heartache. It wasn’t an easy road here, but it felt so much like the first time. You dive into his arms that was more than ready to welcome you back for they had gone on far too long without feeling the your curves under them. Tears was once more falling, but this time Bobby let them fall because he knows it was out of sheer bliss and happiness… Because he too is crying along with you. Neither of you dare move an inch even as awkward and aching as the position of your intertwining bodies currently in. Breakfast long forgotten and hangover was just something so an hour ago, you could only feel the warmth and solace. “I still love you so much.” It feels as though an eternity had passed since you crawled awkwardly into his arms. You shyly confess, ear pressing up against his chest as the sound of his heart vigorously beating calms yours. “I know, you told me last night.” “I did?” A smirk was already blooming on his lips when you found the strength to pull away from his hug. “I’ll be honest, if you hadn’t sleepily professed your love to me… I don’t know if I would’ve offered breakfast. Not because I don’t want you to stay but rather… After that night, I’m just so scare you’d never want to see me again and crossing more boundary was the last thing I ever want.” Gently brushing away a few locks of hair that was obstruction his view of you, Bobby confesses. “But now, I wouldn’t have this morning any other way, with anyone else. You don’t even know how long I’ve waited for this.” “Thank you, for waiting.” You nuzzle into the crook of his neck, taking in the soft sighs of satisfaction and the gentle sweet words being hum by your loving man. “Why were you out so late last night. I was so scare when I pick up the phone and it wasn’t you on the other end.” Pressing a kiss onto your cheek, Bobby once more has his hand grazing the skin of your face, taking in the way you glow softly under the morning sunlight. He was thanking God that you’re here, in his arm, letting the hotness of your skin under his fingertips shooing away the fear of the night before. “I was so worry, I’m sure I’ve broken every traffic law there is.” “It’s always a bit hard for me around time of our anniversary and, well, your birthday.” You lament the pain the comes twice a year, never fail like an ominous alarm reminding you of your loneliness. “I’ve learned that alcohol numbs the pain…” Your revelation seems to only worsen the concern plaguing the handsome man. “At the very least, it prevented my soul from wandering down the path of self-destruction, wallowing in guilt and the thought of who were celebrating with…” There was no missing the way his eyes dance about as if relearning all the curves of your features and committing to memories all the new freckles and mole you’ve acquired since. Bobby was never shy about eye contact, so it was nothing out of the ordinary for him to really just focus on the way your lashes flutter, still heavy with a bit of tear and sorrow recalling the bitter past. Though soon enough, the reality of just how close you were to him, so close that he could feel your breath hot against his skin, it sinks in fast and he couldn’t stop his eyes from falling onto your lips. He tries, really hard but in the end, no matter which route he took, in the end, his gaze returns to your lips. You too, couldn’t deny the calling for that long-awaited kiss to happen and finally let your heart takes control. You wish you could see his expression as your eyes flutter close, to witness the soft gasp leaving his soul but alas, the soft touches of his lips against yours exceed far beyond anything else. He leans down finally, lips so soft and gentle against the roughness of your own. The first few seconds, neither of you could bear parting way so you both still, taking in the saltiness of leftover tears and the familiar touch that had evaded your lives for so long. Fireworks blossom within your soul, louder and more vibrant with each passing second relishing in the taste of him. But soon that first spark was barely enough to sustain the insatiate hearts desperately trying to sync. Fingers trailing up against the tone muscle of his torso before you let your hand rest on the nape of his neck as his arms fasten around your waist. You’ve waited, wanted this for so long that time no longer a factor in this kiss you’re sharing, deepening so much further as he tilts his head to fully take you in. Pulling away slightly, you nibble on his lower lips lightly before letting the softness of your tongue to sooth the gentle pain. You both kiss for as long as your lungs would allow before parting way, heavy pants, resting in each other arms. “Happy birthday,” You whisper into the small kiss you’ve just placed, unwilling to be apart for so long. “I love you.” “I love you. You’re the best present I could ever hope for.” This was in no way the perfect reunion and quite frankly, there’s still so much more that need to be said, feelings long stored away that need to be dealt with. You’ve spent the first part of your relationship trying to be perfect, to be the couple goal, and to be envy by all your friends. But you know now, no couple is perfect, no love can be without its trials and tribulation. In the end, all you could hope for is to have done the love you have for each other the justice it deserves. You both know in your hearts that the safety and happiness of the other person are what worth the most and that’s all that matter. You have him, and he has you. Life have had its way for far too long and it was time you both, hand in hand, take it by the neck and make it your own. Surely there will be days when life once more gets rough but this time, this time you know with all the certainty in the world that you and he will survive anything. This time, no matter what life throws your way, you’re beyond prepared for all its trickery… Because this time, you have under your belt the experience of a life without each other to remind you both of how fragile this love is. The whisper of a promise to never again leave each other side mingles in the soft giggle of excitement and anticipation. So, as you both let yourselves get lost in the second kiss of your second chance, you hope that the same moon who had for so long watched over your relationship will be there to witness the beginning of your new life with him. You wonder if it is too, proud of the progress you both have made. 

[legobiwan]

Whumptober #12 (don’t move)

TW: none

Fandom: Good Omens (Aziraphale, Crowley)

Notes: This is hot garbage, these characters are really difficult to write, and I struggled with this one. Moving on...

—–

Hell, Crowley had decided, could kindly fuck off.

The demon didn’t know whose sick idea of a joke this was. (A lie. He knew exactly which perverse bastards would play this game, and once the angel was safe, he was going to rip them apart, starting from their colons.)

Somewhere between Hell and Earth, the punchline was lost in translation. Or more likely, there wasn’t any punchline to begin with, just a long set up followed by pain.

Those were the only jokes Hastur enjoyed, anyway.

Aziraphale sat, prim and proper as always, straight-backed in Crowley’s own fucking throne, hands folded neatly over his thighs. He smiled at Crowley, absent, the kind of polite expression one adopts when greeting a teller at the bank or some other long-suffering civil servant.

Those assholes won’t know what hit them, the demon growled, gritting his teeth as he conjured a thousand different scenes in which he would make. someone. pay.

“Is everything okay, dear boy?” Aziraphale asked, azure eyes rounding, his lips pursed in that particular way. The angel patted his thighs, a tell-tale sign he was about to do something ill-conceived, and Crowley’s non-existent heart leapt into his throat.

“No!” He shouted, snarling. “Don’t move!”

Aziraphale stiffened, obeying the vicious reprimand. Above him, the sharp metal weapon swayed, dangerously, drunk on its promise of death.

Crowley cursed under his breath. He didn’t understand the why behind it all. Tie the angel up under a scimitar of Hell, so any movement would trigger the blade to fall directly on the soft, exposed flesh of Azirphale’s neck.

Yeah, yeah, Crowley got the whole Damocles connection, as thin as it was, but it wasn’t like he or the angel were trying to rule over anything. Crowley had spent the past several centuries avoiding that any kind of responsibility, and with the Apocalypse behind them, his desire to do…well, anything aside from yell at his plants and annoy Aziraphale was at an all-time low.

But Hell did like to send a message, even if the subtleties were lost in their vapid imaginations. And botched literary references aside, they had managed to pull a doozy, with the combination of a literal damned sword hanging above Aziraphale’s neck and a well-executed (Someone help him, he hated to admit Hell sometimes could get their act together) memory-wipe which had the angel regarding Crowley as he did the waitstaff at the Ritz.

Caring, polite, and distant.

It was as if the last four months (nevermind the last 6,000 years) had never happened.

“Young man, there is no need to use such a tone, I was merely trying to help.”

Of course you’re trying to help, thought Crowley, bitterly.

“It’s - ah - no, it’s fine. Just, I need you to stay there. And not move. At all.”

Crowley ran a hand through his hair, squinting at the elaborate death trap suspended from the ceiling. If he crossed the circle, the sword would drop (and Crowley would be demon toast with a side of marmalade). If Aziraphale moved, the sword would drop, and while the angel might avoid its cursed blade, the ancient sigils burned into the floor (his floor, thank you very much. It was a good thing demons didn’t believe in security deposits.) portended a Very Bad Outcome if they were to interact with the blade.

So what are we supposed to do? Sit here for eternity with Aziraphale’s memory wiped and me fretting like a nervous old lady?

Crowley paused. Actually, that was a well-thought punishment.

Damn Hell. Again.

“Well,” the angel sniffed, moving to adjust his waistcoat and then thinking better of it. “If you are going to insist it just sit here, you could be kind enough to offer some form of entertainment.”

Crowley’s eyes popped wide.

“Entertainment?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale continued, ignoring Crowley’s indignant tone. “A book or two would be most welcome, but lacking that perhaps a rousing debate on the comparative ethics of…”

Crowley snarled.

“Right. A story, then?”

“You - you want me to tell you a story?”

“Do you have a better idea?”

Yes.

“No, I suppose not,” Crowley sighed, kicking at the floor. Aziraphale wasn’t going anywhere, and if the angel was staying put, so was Crowley. At least until he thought of a way out of this whole mess.

“Fine, fine, just let me - “ With a snap of his fingers, a chair materialized just outside the binding circle. Crowley turned it around, longs legs straddling the back, arms perched on top.

He pushed his sunglasses up his face.

“Once upon a time - “

“Really, my dear boy,” Aziraphale scolded.

“What?”

“It’s a bit hackneyed, the opening.”

“A bit - “ Crowley gaped. “A bit hackneyed? This isn’t literature class, ang - gah. You’re getting what you pay for.”

“So it seems,” the angel muttered, discreetly wiping his palms on his pants.

“Anyway. Once up a time,” Crowley grinned at Aziraphale’s pained expression. “There was an angel and a demon…”

Crowley didn’t now how long he sat there, recounting the events of the past six thousand years - civilizations rising and falling, cities built and destroyed, humanity, eager and curious, pushing at the boundaries of the known. (Of all his demonic acts, he could never conjure quite as much guilt for the whole apple business as he would for anything else. Look at what the humans had done, after all!)

“Do they fall in love?”

“And then there was that whole business with the paintballs and you, I mean the angel - “ Crowley froze. “I’m sorry, what?”

Aziraphale worried at his lip.

“The way you talk about them, this demon and angel. The whole story seems like some kind of Regency romance.”

Crowley’s heart threatened to leap from his mouth.

“I - uh…don’t want to spoil the ending. I mean, I don’t know the ending. There is no ending, ha! That’s the great thing, it’s a story that keeps on going.” Crowley found sudden interest in the patterns on the floor. “Hopefully keeps going and if I could just - “ The blade shimmered in the moonlight. Crowley had talked into the night, maybe into several nights.

The glint of metal played across Aziraphale’s features.

“What do you think?”

“I couldn’t say.”

Aziraphale fixed him with a disappointed pout.

“Ahhhhhhh, fine,” he groaned, jumping to his feet. “I think, I hope, I mean I’d for - “

The angel giggled.

“This is your story, no reason to be embarrassed. You could say they were abducted by an overgrown cephalopod in roller-skates in the end, and no one would be the wiser, no one could argue with you.” Aziraphale tilted his head. “I mean, I would, it would be poor story-telling, but it’s your tale, my dear. You call the shots, as it were.”

It’s *our* tale, you stupid angel. And I can’t be the one to write the ending, not if it’s like this.

Crowley threw his arms up, hissing. “Ssssure. They fall in love. Live happily ever after. Get a cottage somewhere, by the sea and become horribly domestic, it’s cavity-inducing really. The demon finds some semblance of peace and the angel acceptance and it’s all lovely with flowers and a bloody red bow tied on at the end.” Dashed hope was a bitter elixir at the best of times. Crowley made a face, moving his tongue around his mouth, trying to rid himself of the sour aftertaste of having chugged a two-liter bottle of regret in one sentence.

“Please don’t move,” the demon whispered as Azirapahle made an aborted attempt to stand.

It was better this way, perhaps. Even if he was able to get the angel free, Crowley didn’t know if his memory would be restored and that might not…be a bad thing. No expectations, no guilt for fraternizing with a demon - Aziraphale could be happy, go back to his books, and Crowley would come around and bother him, drink wine with him, and bury every last emotion he had ever had towards the angel somewhere on Alpha Centauri.

If, if…he could get the angel free.

But the only way to free the angel was the angel himself.

And for that to happen, Aziraphale needed to remember.

“Crowley?”

The demon spun around. Aziraphale’s eyes, which had been clouded, a thick fog over a blue sky, were clear, an impossible shade of azure.

He smiled.

Light years away, hydrogen atoms fell, sucked into a dark, gravitational vortex from which they would never escape. Light years after, a small ball of light shone through the dusty, hazy aftermath.

And on Earth, for the first time in centuries, a demon felt hope.

legobiwan does whumptober