#i have never been more humbled by anything than i was at the exact moment i--someone living in the year 2020--actually said

[hotchfiles]

↪ QUIS UT DEUS? ─ chapter one.

AN IN NOMINE PATRIS, ET FILII, ET SPIRITUS SANCTI INSTALLMENT

pairing: hotch x fem!consultant!reader. summary: murders committed using catholic symbology gets emily to convince hotch it's time to ask for an expert. luckily for you, you're the expert. content warnings: canon typical violence. religious themes. spoilers to season 4. mature themes. word count: 1.5K

    In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti…

    “Amen.” If you weren’t paying attention and side eyeing him at that exact moment, you might’ve lost the way his lips moved following the ritual, no word actually leaving his mouth. 

    The black haired man didn’t look too comfortable, but didn’t look out of place either, he knew the cues, he spoke the words on automatic it seemed. It amused you to observe people’s behavior on holy grounds, that was part of the reason you asked to meet in silver spring.

    “Catholic, Mr. Hotchner?” Your question is met with a low scoff, the type only those with a bad bad history with the church gave you. “That much, huh?”

    “My parents were.” The answer is simple and you think it might stop at that, but he shakes his head and scoffs again. “I was an altar boy for years before I left for boarding school.” You nod. 

    “Ah. I've met some of you in my research.” Some of you. Church babies, altar boys. Spoon fed the bible from birth while watching everyone around sin. Sin becoming a term to reflect on what they hated. 

    “And you? Catholic?” 

    “Oh no. Never been.” You don’t explain much, aware Emily probably told him of your time in Rome, where the two of you met. “Your UnSub is though. Either devoted to Saint Michael or knows enough about his roles to look like one.” You note, being reminded of the pictures Emily sent you, big stab wounds, a small scale tipped to one side, the words Hebrews 9:22 written in blood. 

    Hotchner doesn’t reply, making a mental reminder of the new information, he looks around the place as you both leave the church and it hits him, Silver Spring’s St. Michael the Archangel parish, the church you chose as a meeting place. 

    He wouldn’t usually accept consultation for cases, especially from outsiders. And to be fair, the BAU doesn’t usually need any, Reid alone has more knowledge than anyone Hotch has ever met, and despite the humbleness he tends to show, Hotch himself can take care of the general book knowledge if Reid doesn’t step up to it. But he trusted Emily, and Emily spoke more highly of you than of anyone. Honestly, he was also trying to make amends after not having her back during the Matthew case they had not long before. 

    “She's in town giving lectures, it’s an asset we have easy access to, so why not use it?” Were her final and most convincing words before Hotch nodded in agreement, watching Emily make the call that led to the meeting. 

    He thinks now, as he’s driving both of you to Quantico, that maybe Emily should’ve been the one here, his attempts to strike conversation falling flat as you don’t even remember the last time you had to make small talk with someone, it felt awkward all of a sudden, as if you were on a date. 

    “I'm so sorry, I'm not too good with… People.” You blurt out after a long minute of silence, your neck suddenly warm from embarrassment. 

    Hotch side eyes you, brows lifted in confusion. You seemed much less confident in the car now than what you showed him of you minutes before back at the church. He figures you felt confident talking about your area of expertise and that he could relate to easily. “Did you notice anything else by the pictures Emily sent you?” 

    The switch of topic makes you sigh loudly in relief and you mentally thank him for brushing your silliness off. “He’s using different pieces of catholic dogma and putting it together, but most of the symbology eludes to Michael, the stabbing looks like a sword, the tipped scale indicates judgment, the verse he chose doesn’t cite Michael but talks about sins being forgiven by the shedding of blood… He’s the judge and executioner of his victims.” You try not to sound excited as you ramble on, it’s a terrible thing to witness, the pictures were grotesque and would’ve made you sick on a normal day, but the cherry picking of symbols the murderer seemed to make fascinated you. 

    “So you believe it’s a man?” 

    “Oh! I–I don’t know? I just assumed… Is that misogynistic?” You mumble the last part more to yourself, but it’s loud enough to make him chuckle and you look at him quickly to make sure it’s not mean spirited. 

    It’s definitely not. But it is amusing from a profiler perspective, he’s so used to defining serials’ genders by their crimes he hasn’t thought about misogyny being a factor to those assumptions in a long time. 

    “Brutality suggests male. But posing looks remorseful, theatrical…” His grip on the wheel tightens, two victims by now, feet crossed, arms wide open. 

    “If there were more allusions to the crucifixion, yeah, but I–” You take your phone out to look at the pictures once more, an attempt to seem less abstract in what you’re about to say. “No crown, no nails, this isn’t about Christ, it’s about punishment–I mean, I think.” You’re not usually self conscious about your knowledge but inferring characteristics and desires to someone by looking at a crime scene was not your specialty. 

    “To further point they were judged and executed…” Hotch nods, understanding where your line of thought is going and completing it immediately, not leaving you much time to doubt yourself. 

    “A very shameful execution.” 

    You both spend the short ride from Silver Springs to Quantico going over the symbology present, you tried to help here and there with the associations of what you saw to who could’ve done it, even though that was not what you were called in for. Strangely enough—for him at least, Hotch didn’t seem to mind your guesses, they were educated ones.

    And it was interesting to hear someone speak with such passion about religious aspects without any of the fundamentalism. It was definitely something he wasn’t used to.

    “Mi amore!” Are the first words you hear as you enter the famous bullpen from Emily’s texts, her arms surrounding you in a tight warm hug you haven’t felt in years—it hits you then how long has it been. You weren’t able to come and mourn Matthew with her, his parents weren’t fond of you either (Lord almighty, you didn’t even go to church with them!) and you were busy with your lectures.

    “Hey troublemaker, how’s it going?” Your question is muffled in the hug, your hands clasping together behind her back.

    The reunion doesn’t last long, curious eyes set on you two and a rather impatient Hotch leading the way to what you learned was the conference room.

    The briefing room. The round table. Emily told you about it when she first got into the BAU.

    You end up sitting between Emily and who you would bet was Spencer—there’s this sweet kid working with us, he’s super smart, annoyingly smart, but so sweet, he reminds of Matty when we were teens—the lanky boy was the only one with what seemed like naivety enough in his eyes to be the one Emily mentioned back then. 

    Aaron sat in front of you almost, serious, stern, very different from the few chuckles you got from him in the car. This was unit chief Hotchner, the subtle difference was fascinating.

    “Alright, as we know, DC is in trouble, second murder in three weeks.” blonde and gorgeous, you believed that was JJ, there had been no time for introductions, all you could do was try to remember the e-mails and few phone calls you shared with Emily the past years. “Richard Beckett, married, no kids, 27. He works for his father's car dealership.” 

    Pictures show up on the screen, showing the man when he was alive. It’s a punch to your gut, just minutes before you were fascinated by the way this real person was murdered. You’re glad you had a light breakfast by the way your stomach turns.

    “Monica Dawson, divorced, no kids, 53. She’s a counselor at a local school.” The woman continues speaking, with more pictures on the screen. And then pictures of their deaths, side by side. The fascination is completely extinguished then. “Both were stabbed countless times with a large blade. Left in abandoned warehouses posed in a cross position, a tipped scale on their side. Both naked. Both were heavily drugged.”

    “They didn’t have kids, is that a coincidence?” You hear Emily speak up and suddenly you can see all their brains working.

    “Could that be the linking between them? The victimology is all over the place.” Derek. Oh. You’ve heard of Derek. You’ve seen pictures of Derek. He needs no introduction. 

    “Reid, Morgan, go talk to the first victim’s widow. Rossi, JJ, Ms. Dawson’s ex-husband can give us insight on her life. Emily and us—” He gives you a look and you understand he means you, nodding in reply. “Will head to the DC police precinct.” The way Hotch gives orders is effortless, not only his job but his vocation. 

    Everyone listens and agrees quickly, moving and leaving the table, even Emily is fast on her feet, even though she won’t leave without you and him. You stay still, stiff, eyes glued to the screen.

    “Are you alright?” His voice is soft, laced with worry, genuine worry. You didn’t even notice he had stayed behind, but you nod again at Hotch, a question burning at the tip of your tongue.

    “Do you still believe in God, Mr. Hotchner?”

[strawberrystepmom]

Fukuzawa x F!Reader. CW: implied age gap (reader is in her late 20's and he is his canonical age), alcohol mention and consumption, takes place from his bedside while he's ill during the Cannibal arc. weird situationship vibes, switches between past and present tense.

WC: 2.9k | divider by cafekitsune

“What are you doing here?”

Yukichi’s voice is little more than a whisper when he speaks, the dryness of his throat marking his usual baritone with a rasp that causes you to arch a brow.

“Visiting, standing vigil, whatever makes it seem more heroic.” Making a show of licking the tip of your finger and using it to flip to the next page of the book sitting in your lap, you glance up from the page and tilt your head to the side.“Why are you so surprised to see me?”

“You shouldn’t be here. I’ll have Ranpo escort you out.” 

The continued dry rasp of his voice makes you spring into action, snapping the book in your lap closed and reaching for the small carafe of water by his bedside. Pouring a glass, you slide it in his direction and look away when he moves to pick it up. The suggestion that Ranpo be the one to escort you out makes you chuckle to yourself considering he is the one who let you in to begin with, holding out his hand for the promised sweets your sister mailed from overseas. Sweeter and stickier than anything he can find here, probably melting in the palm of his hand.

Finally, you sigh and lean back in the chair as much as the cramped object will allow.

“If you want me to leave, you can just say so. I can show myself out. No escort necessary.” 

You want to hear him deny you in his own words for once, anticipating the rejection that has yet to come, a breath caught in your throat. Instead you listen to the gulp of room temperature water travel down his throat, eyes fixed to the closed cover of the book in your lap. 

It has been more than six months since your employment with the Armed Detective Agency ended and you’ve managed to wheedle your way into two personal visits with its President in that time. Two times you attempted, yet again, to show him you are invested in him as Yukichi Fukuzawa, the man and not merely as a former boss.

----------------------

The first was over dinner; a simple message sent with intention.

You: I made too much and always forget about my leftovers. Have you eaten yet?

What is he if not an old moth to a hopeful little flame? 

Logic warned him to decline but his just shaky enough to be from low blood sugar mid-evening hands betrayed his judgment. What could it hurt to humor you a little bit? He has never been outright oblivious to your feelings although will always believe them to be misguided. 

YF: You are too generous with your time and groceries. I can be there in twenty minutes.

You showed him your humble abode for the first time and fed him bites from your plate insisting you were almost too full to move. Your cat climbed into his lap and he dared to daydream for a breath it were the needy creature’s owner instead, steel blue eyes tracing your every move while nimble fingers stroked between the cats’ ears. The soft melody of your record collection set the soundtrack and you swayed gently, nursing a glass of wine between two of your fingers.

“Thank you for coming tonight.”

Whatever trance the gentle purr of your cat had him in severed the moment he heard your voice. He watched your form gently sway to the music, soft and melodic from the decade before he was even born making it far older than you.

“Can’t let good food go to waste.”

Glancing over your shoulder, you smiled at him with narrowed eyes. He has imagined you performing this exact motion often, every day even, looking over your shoulder while swaying gently to your favorite music. If he weren’t so concerned about appropriateness, he’d rise to his feet and join you, wrap his arm around your waist and sway with his chin on your shoulder.

“You think I’m a good cook?”

From your couch, he glanced over his shoulder at you and sighed softly. If he were to speak the words he wants to say, they’d almost certainly tip this over the edge he has spent so much time desperately trying to avoid, so he picks the easiest ones available:

“Yeah, you are.”

The way you smiled at him weighed on his mind for the rest of his fitful night, that grin lighting up nightmares and daydreams alike.

----------------------

“Why are you here?”

Fukuzawa rarely makes a second request for an answer, even from you, and the breath caught in your throat becomes a sharp exhale the moment he speaks. He glances in your direction and sees the anxious twitch in your fingers, how you desperately wish to fiddle with your appearance or jewelry to seem undisturbed and confident. Fukuzawa is an intelligent man by nature and he carefully watches to expose all of a person’s subtleties, even yours. So much of your behavior is a veneer to make yourself appear non threatening.

Truth be told, he’s astounded it works as well as it does although even the greatest minds have fallen prey to beautiful women with sharp wit and pretty smiles. Not that you are a predator to him in the slightest.

“Because I care about you,” you start, snapping your mouth shut to avoid saying more. Instead of fiddling with your clothing or earrings, you jiggle your foot and the book in your lap bounces with each movement. You are too vulnerable for your own good, tender hearted to the core. “I wanted to see how you’re doing for myself instead of getting the sanitized version of the story from Kunikida and the dishonest one from Dazai.”

Fukuzawa attempts to push his glass back onto the table and you reach to pluck it from his hands, fingers touching while you do. It reminds him of the second occasion he enjoyed your company before tonight, skin buzzing with the ghost of your touch instead of the dull throbbing pain of his illness. A soft gasp escapes him and he settles back against the pillow under his head, silver hair sweeping his shoulders.

“That’s fair,” he admits, fiddling with the blanket that is loosely wrapped over his body. 

You giggle despite feeling entirely out of your element, insecure and young despite your nearly three decades, dabbling in adoration for a man you have no business being interested in to begin with. 

“If you’d like to be alone, I can leave.”

He makes you feel as though you’re nude in front of him while he’s fully clothed, baring every crease and dimple of yourself, supine and ripe for his consumption. It’s what you want, after all. A single glance that leaves you stripped to the bones.

It’s why you cannot leave him alone.

----------------------

The second time you were fortunate enough to be graced with Fukuzawa’s presence as a friend was a tad less honest on your end. 

“Hello?”

Fukuzawa knew who was on the other end before he even picked his phone up to answer the incoming call, a stirring feeling in his gut he should have perhaps taken as a warning letting him know what was coming next.

“What are you doing tonight?”

He exhaled loudly through his nose in response to your question, the closest you have ever come to drawing a real laugh from the man. He has always played off his enjoyment with tight smiles and acknowledging nods, hiding his upturned lips behind the ceramic of a choko.

“I’ll take it that means you’re free?” 

The sound of a pen being tossed down onto the desk below it clanged through the speaker of your phone. You sighed the sound away, listening for further stirring on the other end. Seconds passing have conditioned you to expect a rejection when it comes to him, a gentle let down the way only he has managed to seem less like a “no thank you” and more of a “you’re so kind to ask” in the effusively polite way he has perfected.

“Tell me what I’m going to be getting myself into before I answer, please.”

You were not being asked to explain yourself, you were being told to do so. A small smile danced across your lips while smearing on berry colored lipstick in your bathroom mirror, your phone pressed against your blush dusted cheek.

“So there is this sake tasting…” A sigh from Fukuzawa interrupted your words and you sighed back, pouting at your reflection in the mirror. “Can you at least let me finish?”

He cleared his throat, leaving you to picture him sitting in his office at the Agency with a bemused smirk on his face. You’ve never seen him smile but your mind is quick to expel the effort it takes to pretend that you have. Does he have dimples? Lines that mirror those beneath his eyes that carve valleys around his mouth? You’ve always hoped you’d find out.

“Thank you.” 

He hummed a response to your polite words, shifting in his own seat.

“I booked it expecting a friend would join me but something has come up and they can’t. I could go alone but I also just so happen to know a man who is very fond of sake and knows more about it than I do who would be the perfect company.”

Another hum was all he graced you with. You wrinkled your nose at your reflection and mouthed a swear word, certain your flimsy story was about to be dead on arrival. It wasn’t your best story and you knew going into this it was risky to lie to begin with but what else could you say? 

“Oh Fukuzawa, I’ve been dying to drink alongside you in hopes it loosens your tongue enough to reveal your deep mutual love for me.”

No. You would have rather died than admit these words aloud where he could hear them. He has always had access to far too much of you and has granted you far too little to him. 

“And this friend? Who are they?”

A giggle bubbled out of you while you closed your lipstick tube, tossing it on the counter in front of you haphazardly. Should you choose your words carefully to prolong the mystery of this friend, the same one you claim you’re drinking with when you’re really drinking alone and calling your former boss and current flame?

“They’re nobody important,” you settled on. He knew immediately you were lying, your true good hearted nature giving you away yet again. You’d never call your friends unimportant, no matter how frustrated you may have been over being stood up which seems to happen with this mysterious friend often.

“Hm. Interesting.”

You knew you’d been caught. The tone of his voice was more of a guilty verdict than any you could find in a courtroom. The warmth rushing to the front of your face, something you’d almost consider shameful if you had any shame left, convinced you to suspend any further untruths and you instead opted to rush into the next part of your offer full speed ahead.

“It starts at eight. If you aren’t busy, that is. Just say so if you are, I’m a big girl who can handle rejection.”

Yukichi smiled from his office. It dimmed as quickly as it spread across his face, drawn to life by the assertion you can handle rejection. Only someone who has ever been rejected can handle rejection. You are rarely denied what you want. Is he really going to be another hashmark keeping track of how many you’ve won over?

“Are you going to keep me out all night?”

This won him a laugh from you, a sound that warmed his bones and made his mind race at the same time. 

“Depends, do you wanna be out all night? This is just a tasting but I have a bottle and you know where I live…”

Singing the last word of your sentence, you devolved into a fit of giggles over your own sillness and if he wasn’t actively debating on how appropriate his association with you is, he probably would have laughed along. 

“No. That’s not necessary, I’m sure the tasting will give me all the excitement I can handle.”

The tasting only made him yearn for you more strongly, fingers brushed against one another while passing ceramic cups to lips. Discussions of clean flavor, light and neat, bright and warm, lent to the warm landscape spent at the side of a woman he cannot seem to shake no matter what happens to him.

----------------------

“I don’t want you to leave.”

The breath caught in your throat leaves you as a sharp exhale, finally. 

The truth always finds its way to light, the lamp on the bedside table casting a glow over the side of Yukichi’s face. He’s more frail than you have ever dreamed of seeing him, complexion nearly translucent in its currently pale hue. Your thumb twitches, itching to rub the skin around his eyes that is etched with fine lines, to reassure him you will not be leaving his side until you’re certain he’s alright. Instead, you tuck it inside your fist to keep the urge to yourself.

“Good because I honestly don’t want to.”

You fiddle with your bag that is draped over the back of the chair, reaching for the newspaper you swiped off of the desk of the Agency after making your deal with Ranpo earlier in the day. You’d show up after everyone else went home or was otherwise occupied and he’d let you in to avoid the gawking that would come with everyone knowing that you are visiting for pleasure and not for business. 

“I brought the paper if you want me to read it to you,” you offer and Fukuzawa hums, the faintest sight of a smile on his lips. The corners twitch so minutely you believe you imagined the movement but look down all the same, warm faced, grateful that your mind was correct in assessing him. Dimples and little lines are visible on each of the corners of his mouth. 

“Anything interesting happening?”

Flipping the pages open, your eyes widen and you search for something interesting, muttering to yourself. Traffic conditions, weather, reports of minor crime throughout Yokohama. None of these things will improve his condition or keep him from worrying so you flip the page again, shaking your head when the stories come up empty for one you’d like to read.

“Don’t they put the horoscopes in the paper anymore?”

He chuckles and you can tell it hurts him, his chest heaving from the effort. The paper is quickly discarded, fluttering to the floor beside your chair. You lean forward and place your elbows on the side of his bed, daring to get close enough you can look over him from inches instead of feet. 

“Are you okay?”

Fukuzawa stiffens and you have to further fight the urge to dote on him. Your fingers itch push his moonlight colored waves off of his face and your palm practically throbs, wishing to be pressed to his likely clammy skin. It’s in your nature to cluck at the things you care about like a worried hen.

“I have to believe that I will be.”

Nodding your agreement and punctuating it with another sigh, you lean forward and rest your chin on his bedside. The intrusion surprises him but it isn’t completely unwelcome, those eyes you love to feel upon you glancing downward and focusing on the tip of your nose, gradually climbing upward until your gazes meet. 

“I’ll believe double, just for good measure.” Smiling, you press your cheek to the scratchy fabric of the blanket wrapped around his legs and half of his torso. “I’ll bring you a nicer blanket tomorrow.”

Raising a brow, he keeps his gaze fixed on you.

“Tomorrow?”

Scoffing, you nod. The question isn’t a jab although it may feel like one and you have to reason with yourself that he is merely giving you a hard time. 

“Tomorrow, if you’ll have me.”

Shaking his head, he idly reaches in your direction and brushes his thumb over your cheek before placing his hand back at his side. Again, a movement so quick and discreet you believe it imaginary, yet the sensation burns across your skin. Fighting the urge to bury your face into the bed like a schoolgirl with a crush, you choose instead to face him head on and let your gaze soften.

“Next time just ask me if you can come, no need to get Ranpo involved.” You shrug and laugh. “Was it that obvious?”

Yukichi nods and permits his eyes to drift from you to the door. It was obvious from the moment he realized you were in the room who graciously allowed for you to be there, the man on the other side of the door loudly munching whatever you bribed him with.

“You aren’t as great of a liar as you think you are.”

Laughing, you shrug.

"Caught me. At least I'm a good cook and decent company instead."

Fighting the urge to reach out and touch you again, he keeps his hands at his sides and ponders the correct way to respond. His time on earth could be fleeting from this moment forward, his minutes numbered by a threat his entire team is working to figure out. He could leave his cards on the table. Tell you he feels the same and he hasn't had this much fun since he was a far younger man getting into far more trouble.

Instead, he settles back into the pillow beneath him and shifts his face to look at you. He'll save these matters of the heart until after there is no more looming danger.

"Thank you for coming."

You sit up and away from the bed, leaning back into the chair you're sitting on. He doesn't want to discuss feelings or the two of you any further and you respect that, dropping your arm over the side of the chair and fish for the newspaper you brought with you, plucking it by one of the folds and pulling it into your lap.

"Now where were we? Oh yeah, horoscopes."

Whatever you're saying fades into background noise while he shuts his eyes tightly. He has to make it through this, you're waiting for him on the other end of it.

[harmonysanreads]

Hi hi! I really like your writing! Can i request diluc with a reader thats always sleepy? They can sleep anywhere at anytime if they want to

Hiii!! You're too sweet haha, Diluc's paranoia will reach Celestia with a sleepy reader lol Since it was unspecified, I'll go with a soft yandere Diluc :) Hope you like it!

cw: yandere, obsessive diluc, implications of murder and gore

There you were, passed out on the counter of Angel's Share for the sixth time this week.

The tavern was left empty after the last batch of customers retired, apart from the shuffles of master Ragnvindr preparing to close the threshold and the distant sound of crickets ; it's desolate in the otherwise bustling Angel's share. Whatever work you'd brought to work on with you had long been abandoned, the papers now reduced to the role of a makeshift pillow.

Dliuc sighs, leaning on his elbow beside your unassuming figure from the other side of the counter. His usually unimpressed gaze that the people of Mondstadt are subjected to has been replaced by something more fond and worried. This seeming gluttony of sleep is nothing short of an enigma, not that the young master hadn't tried to ascertain the exact cause behind your hypersomnia — even the Chief Alchemist of the Knights probed around (as Diluc received intel) but as it is, master Ragnvindr had long learned that it was easier to take care of you than to gauge the reasons.

The number of times he was able to engage in normal conversation with you is disappointingly few, you seem to not care for that though as you're more prominently drifting off to dreamland in his presence, just as he doesn't care in making sure you're safe in these moments of vulnerability.

Still, Diluc couldn't keep his thoughts from wandering ; is it because he always makes sure to drop you off to your home every time you fall asleep in the tavern? Do you trust him that much?

His gloved hand reflexively reaches forward to tuck the stray lock of your hair behind your ear, the serenity in your face captivates the young master enough to lose track of coherent thoughts. Something in him compels him to remove his glove, his skin now bared to the chill night breeze.

What extent of Diluc's actions are you aware of? Is his gentlemanly gestures all you know of him? Do you know who clears up the area of your humble home of monsters every night? Are you aware of who the sender of the sweet notes, different concoctions to aid your sleep deprivation, bouquets of flowers that always wilt at the end of the day and the little handmade gifts is?

His touch is feathery, a candid expression to mask his hesitance — the pad of his thumb caresses the undeniable shade of dark under your eyes, then to your cheek that feels colder under his warm hand.

Can you hear the screams? Can you feel how his stare burns in the rare moments you are awake and decide someone else is better worth your attention? Do you have any idea how these visceral affections threaten to consume him and more so, you every waking hour of the day? Do you understand how much it hurts?

Inevitably, his thumb falls on your lips, marvelling at the softness. He must look pathetic now, all his yearning is laid bare and raw ; it's obvious he's on the brink of his restraint, no longer the gentleman Mondstadt knew him as but a man, hungry, slowly succumbing to desire and anything but noble.

Diluc Ragnvindr retreats at your sudden shuffling, watching with a flushed face that put his hair to shame as your brows crease and discomfort is apparent all over your face — he surmises it to be another nightmare.

A piece of him shames him for acting upon impulse but that self-loathing is lost at your person ; you're clearly suffering (and so is he), in that case, is it really so wrong for him to want to shield you from this world's cruelty?

Diluc would never be anything short of courteous with you, as he's proved time and time again. But, as the night and his anxiety deepened, the world lost its hue more and more and a man's yearning engulfed him whole — Diluc didn't feel like returning you to your home tonight, anymore.

[nessinborderland]

Broken Promises

Pairing: Banda Sunato x Reader

Genre: Angst, Smut

Words: 2,9k

Summary: You never expected to find your ex-husband in the Borderlands, of all places. Especially not when he was supposed to be on death row.

Warnings ⚠️ Established Relationship, Mentions of Murder, Serial Killers, is Banda after all

Notes: This was requested by the lovely @ch-xr that loves fictional unhinged men as much as I do <3 hope you enjoy it! (Also, I know Banda supposedely only murdered 4 women, but for dramatics sake I made him more... prolific.)

Masterlist | AO3

His eyes on you made you more nervous than anything you had experienced in this retched place until then. It was both a familiar and unfamiliar feeling, filled with the promise of pain and suffering if you did as much as attempt to look in his direction, which you quickly realized you didn’t want to do.

Coward, a tiny voice in your head accused as you made yourself even smaller in your seat. But you couldn’t help the emotions that being under his predatory gaze evoked within you; primal fear, the uncontrollable need to freeze or flight. You knew that fighting was out of the question where he was concerned. You couldn’t even gather the courage to try it.

Unfortunately, there was no place for you to run or hide in this prison. Not until you left the game a winner.

Or died. One of the two.

You could feel your shoulders tense up as the next round approached minute by minute, and so you hurried to finish your meal, barely tasting the chocolate crumbs on your tongue.

The Jack of Hearts was an easier game than most in your humble opinion, and you were lucky enough to trust your game partner (for now at least) – still, the very real possibility of your demise was always hovering over your head like the dark cloud that it was. However, given your current circumstances, dying didn’t seem like the worse fate you could have.

“You know him, don’t you?”

You jumped in your seat as a man sat beside you, almost choking on your cookie as you tried to hide the grimace that took over your expression as your partner’s eyes sharply looked into yours. You coughed as you shook your head, already denying it despite not even asking whom he was referring to.

“You do.”

“What?” you tried, faking ignorance, only making him roll his eyes.

“Him,” Chishiya said as he nodded in the direction of the man still watching you. “Banda. You know him, don’t you?”

You knew that Chishiya was smarter than most, but you were still impressed by how observant he could be. Or were you that obvious in your state of fear?

“What makes you say that?”

“He hasn’t taken his eyes off of you while you’ve been doing the exact opposite.”

“So what?” you shrugged, trying to act nonchalant but knowing you failed when Chishiya raised a brow. “He just makes me uncomfortable, that’s all. You know as well as I do that he’s a serial killer.”

That would be the understatement of the century.

Banda Sunato didn’t just make you uncomfortable; you feared him to a degree that made you almost incapable of functioning, all your senses focused on him 24/7, waiting for the moment he would strike. Because it wasn’t a matter of if – you knew him too well to ever believe that – but a matter of when; when he would catch you alone.

Because he wasn’t just a serial killer and – to you – he wasn’t just some man, some criminal. He was one of Japan’s most infamous serial killers, with 24 victims confirmed, and who knew how many were still left to admit. Banda Sunato was a man destined to live the rest of his days on death row, until the day he would be executed for his crimes and finally go back to the hell he had spawned from.

You so happened to be the woman that had called him your husband.

“Chishiya.” His voice made a shiver run down your spine, and you could feel your heart start racing against your chest as Banda sat right in front of you, his hands in your field of vision as you stared down at the tabletop. You hadn’t even noticed him approach. “I would like to speak with her alone…”

You gulped as you side-eyed the man beside you, imploring him with your eyes to please not leave you alone with him. However, either by ignorance or cruelty, your pleas fell on deaf ears, and Chishiya stood up and left the table with nothing else but a nod and a wordless hum.

A moment went by where neither you nor Banda said a word, his fingers tip-tapping on the table’s surface in a familiar rhythm; one one two, one one two. Tap tap tap, tap tap tap. He used to tap that same rhythm against your naked skin, and you could always tell if something was bothering him by how fast his movements were. And right now, his fingers were drumming against the tabletop like a nervous tick.

You could feel his eyes on you, observing you, pressuring you into doing or saying something, to give him a reason to act. So, you stayed still, controlling your shaky breathing as your hands trembled. You knew this moment was coming the moment you entered this game arena and your eyes locked.

Then his movements suddenly stopped, and you held your breath.

“You’re scared of me,” he said in a low tone, matter of factly.

“C-Can you blame me?” you whispered back, hiding your hands under the table with a gasp when he attempted to graze his fingers against yours. “Don’t touch me!” you added when his hand followed your movements, grabbing your sleeve.

“I don’t like it.”

You said nothing, eyes still cast down. How could he expect you not to fear him after everything he had done?

“You know better than to be scared,” he continued, a faint hint of annoyance in his tone. You forced yourself to whisper a retort, gathering the courage to say it aloud when he asked, “What did you say?”

“Maybe you should’ve thought of that before you murdered all those women,” you let out, eyes locking on his. He was not angry as you thought he would be, but you could see he wasn’t happy by the small crease in between his brows. He looked at you like you were a child throwing a tantrum and he was the adult that had to make you see reason. For the first time since you saw him again, you started to feel something else than just fear.

“You know I would never hurt you,” he said, fingers gripping your sleeve as he pulled your arm to him.

“I don’t know you, Sunato.” You shook your arm out of his grasp, suddenly aware that others were watching you. Good. “I never really did.”

You gasped when he said your name, looking into his eyes; it was the first time you were hearing it from his lips since he had been ruled guilty of all those murders. You hadn’t dared to read his letters or accept any of his calls since then.

“You know that’s not true,” he said. You averted your eyes again, looking back at him as he repeated your name. “I treated you well, didn’t I?”

He did treat you well. That was why it hurt even more. Because the man that dried your tears after your mother’s passing, took you on random trips and made you laugh with his dark sense of humor couldn’t possibly be the same man that dumped women’s maimed bodies in shallow graves. That was why part of you still mourned the husband you had lost even though more than three years had gone by. The other part simply acted as if he had never existed in the first place.

“You didn’t visit,” he added after a moment of silence. “You promised you would.”

“That was a promise I had to break.”

His face and his name had been everywhere. Every news channel, every newspaper, every time you logged on to social media, there he was; Banda Sunato, 25 years old, The Tokyo Ripper, accused of the horrible murder of 24 women. You hadn’t believed it at first, not even when his only survivor identified him, not even when they matched his DNA, not even when more evidence was found connecting him to the crime scenes. You only believed it when you saw the truth in his eyes, crude and black as coal as the judge declared him guilty and he had no reaction but to smirk.

It was like a mask falling, and underneath it was a monster that you swore you had no idea existed.

You couldn’t lie to yourself after that. Not when everyone could see him for who he really was. Not when he didn’t even bother to hide it anymore. Not even from you.

“Do you still love me?”

The question made you gasp in surprise before you felt a frown distort your features.

“Don’t talk to me about love when you don’t even know what the word means,” you spat in his direction as you made a move to stand up; how dare he ask such a thing after what he had done to you?

You gasped as you felt his long fingers curl around your wrist in a tight grip, forcing you to sit back down at the table with visible commotion. You felt your face heat up as you tried to ignore everyone’s looks and whispers. He wouldn’t dare to hurt you in front of others, would he?

His hand let go of your wrist to grip your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes. His face was so close to yours that you could smell him, that scent that made him him, fresh and misty with a hint of ginger. It made you want to take a deep breath and tears pool in your eyes. You missed him.

“That was not what I asked,” he corrected with a dangerous look in his gaze. He was upset, you could see that, but you also knew him better than anyone. “Do you still love me?”

Your breath got caught in your lungs, and you couldn’t look away from his dark brown eyes, the ones you used to love so much. The ones you still loved, you realized with a tightness in your chest.

“Do you?” you asked in a whisper. “Did you ever love me?”

Something shifted in his eyes, and for a moment you just stared at each other. Then he opened his mouth, but before he could talk a computer voice snapped both of you out of your bubble.

“It is time to give your answer. Please enter a solitary confinement cell of your choosing.”

You took that chance to flee, legs shaking as you made your way to the cells on the upper level. You didn’t hesitate as you closed yourself in one, pressing your hands against the sink on the furthest wall and closing your eyes as you let out a shaky breath, followed by a low sob.

This game was not what was going to kill you; he was. You had seen it in the way he had looked at you, the way his eyes had darkened when you asked if he had ever truly loved you. You doubt he could ever love anyone, but whatever he felt for you was strong enough to make a chill run down your spine when you thought about it.

It was possessive, primal, like a need. You used to love it when he looked at you like that, mistaking it for passion and devotion. But not now, when you knew that he wouldn’t hesitate to kill you if he couldn’t have you.

He had told you that himself, in the first and only letter you had accepted from him. You had ignored every phone call, and had thrown in the trash every note and every other letter; but not that one. Not the one he wrote for your birthday, your second one after he had been sentenced. You felt so lonely, still crying over the husband you had lost, tricking yourself into believing he was dead. Rather dead than a murderer.

And then there was that letter, written in his neat handwriting, spelling out your name, and that was when you realized you couldn’t deny the truth anymore.

You filed for divorce after that, praying to every god that was listening that Banda Sunato never got the chance to be free and chase you down.

Gods – if they even existed – clearly had a twisted sense of humor.

“You know you can’t run from me.”

You tensed as his voice sounded behind you, not exactly surprised to find him stepping in and closing the door before the familiar click of a lock echoed in your ears. You were now locked in a cell with him; you were going to die.

You couldn’t utter a word as a moment passed, eyes focused on him as he calmly walked to stop right in front of you, hands behind his back and a light smirk on his lips. He looked smug, like a fox that had caught the rabbit, but you knew that his emotions were more complex than that. You could see it in the arch of his brow, how tense his jaw was; a small part of him was as nervous as you were.

“Please, give your answer,” the game demanded.

“Spades,” he said, eyes locked on yours. You said nothing, too transfixed by him, waiting for a sign of what he was about to do next. “Say your deck, baby,” he told you after a moment. “C’mon, use your words.”

“H-Hearts,” you forced yourself to utter in a whisper. You almost wished for your answer to be wrong; that way you wouldn’t have to face him anymore. He couldn’t hurt you if you were dead.

You jumped in place as a bang somewhere down the hall announced someone’s mistake, and the doors unlocked soon after. You let out a shaky breath; you were still alive. The game hadn’t killed you yet.

“Aren’t you happy to be alive,” he whispered in your ear, fingers combing through your hair just on the verge of too roughly. “Alive and with me, together again as we were meant to be?”

You shook your head, hands on his chest weakly pushing him away.

“Let me go,” you breathed out in a shaky tone, whimpering as he pushed you against the sink. “Please. I can’t do this…”

“Do what? Be with your husband?”

“Sunato, please, stop-”

“Shh, calm down,” he cooed against your head, arms hugging you closer despite your attempts to push him away. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

You gave up then, falling into his embrace. You sobbed against his chest like he had come back from the dead, hugging him like you were afraid he would disappear. The last three years weren’t real; you were still happily married, and he hadn’t killed anyone. You could almost forget where you were and what he had done. Everything would be so much easier if you did.

He was caught by surprise when you kissed him – you could hear it in his gasp and the way he suddenly tensed before relaxing and cupping your cheeks in his hands, urging you to deepen the kiss. You didn’t stop him there, letting his hands roam over your body as he made you sit up on the sink, lips only leaving yours to suck and nibble at the skin available on your neck and chest.

You closed your eyes as the man that had destroyed your life all those years ago ravished you with abandon. He had blood on his hands and he had betrayed you beyond forgiveness. But did any of that matter now?

You refused to believe it did.

Not when his kisses felt like fire on your skin, the cold ceramic of the sink under you barely noticeable as he stripped you naked from the waist down, fingers at your burning core the moment your panties were discarded aside. You were dripping wet before he even touched you, legs shaking as you worked him free of his belt. You wanted him inside you. You would die without him.

“You have no idea how much I missed you,” he whispered against your cheek as he rutted into you, slender fingers gripping your hip and raising a knee up as he fucked you at a rapid pace, hips snapping against the back of your thighs.

Your core burned in pleasure and pain, your whines and moans muffled by his mouth as he made you feel every inch of him. You had missed his body against yours, his cock inside you, hard and hot and maddening. He fucked you like it was the last time, forcing you to take every inch of him again and again until you were hoarse from screaming and your neck and chest were marked with his teeth. It reminded you of your life from before, when he would come home and fuck you like you were nothing but a whore, leaving you crying, bruised, and dripping with his cum before kissing you senseless and taking care of you for the rest of the night.

Only after did you realize he fucked you like that after a successful killing.

It was madness. All of this. But why would you care when the world itself had become mad?

“Promise you’ll stay with me?” you hesitantly asked as you regained your breath, his forehead pressed against yours and his cum dripping down your leg.

The way he looked at you – full of desire and contentment – made you gift him a smile of your own. He smiled back, a genuine smile, and, for the first time since he was gone, you felt at peace.

“I do. And I never break a promise. I’m not letting you go.”

[beauty-and-passion]

Eurovision 2023: more about the true winner because I said so

Hey, guess who is not over Eurovision 2023 yet.

It’s me, I am who.

I have never been so invested and still so obsessed over this year’s Eurovision. I mean, I am always hit by the post-depressive phase of Eurovision, but that lasts a couple days - during which I usually go through all the beautiful moments and listen to all the songs on repeat - then I’m back to my regular schedule of stupidly long analyses and fanfictions.

(By the way, sorry for all the Americans who follow me and have no idea of what I’m talking about or what happened in this year’s Eurovision. Just bear with me, I will come back to posting Sanders Sides stuff. Just not today)

This year... well, this year was truly something. And if the last year and the one before I was like “aww, what beautiful moments, I miss seeing these people having fun”, now it’s all mushed into one ball of feelings. I look at those artists having fun with the eyes of someone who saw how things went down. I look at them celebrating the true winner after the finale and I have this strange mix of nostalgia and heaviness.

I am not mad anymore for the result. Or better: I am and I will always be because 200 people stepped over the will of millions. But what this loss caused is just so fascinating and so unique, I want to keep exploring it - and maybe talking a little bit more about the true winner of Eurovision 2023 will help me process my feelings too.

Or I just will satisfy my need to ramble more about this incredible Finnish man, either way.

______________________

The sheer power of charisma

When you watch the entirety of Käärijä’s journey on this Youtube channel (and I suggest you do it, because it gives you a lot of food for thought), you notice a lot of interesting details.

From the moment he won the national competition and knew he had to go to Eurovision, Käärijä knew his only rival would’ve been Loreen. He said right from the start that it would’ve ended up with a confrontation between Sweden and Finland. He liked other songs and thought they could’ve been good opponents - but it’s pretty clear he knew the only one who could’ve opposed him was Sweden.

And he knew that Loreen was good. Even though I do not like her songs, even I have to admit she has good vocals. Sure, the vocals are the only thing I understand because she mumbles the rest of the song, but the vocals aren’t bad.

Käärijä knew she was the favorite to win. He praised her performance and called her “queen”, so he has been the first one to recognize her as a worthy opponent. He wasn’t so naive to think “I can easily beat her”.

However, he had some tricks up his sleeves. He knew his song was perfect for Eurovision, he basically designed it for that. He knew his performance would’ve got people’s attention. And he knew he had a lot of charisma.

You can say anything you want about him, but you cannot deny this man is charismatic. And this is a lot interesting, because charisma doesn’t have an exact definition and it’s not the same for everyone. And yet, we can all recognize and identify it as “charisma” when we see it.

The definition Wikipedia offers is that charisma is “a personal quality of presence or charm that compels its subjects”. And it’s undeniable that Käärijä has it. He has that genuine, simple honesty we see in childrens only and this activates our protective instincts, because we feel the need to protect him too. He is funny and makes us smile and everyone loves to smile and have fun. He is simple and humble and that makes him look more approachable and friendly than a superstar.

And his presence on stage is very, very good. He’s eye-catching and he knew it very well. He was the flashiest and the most interesting to look at - both because of his clothes and his appearance. Just compare him to the Cyprus guy: I don’t even remember the Cyprus guy’s face, but I doubt I will ever forget that iconic neon green bolero.

And I am sure he knew that very well. He knew the public would’ve loved him. He knew he would’ve gotten a lot of points because of the public. He knew he would’ve connected with them and not with the jury.

And so it was. The numbers are clear: he was and still is the public’s favorite. His result is the second highest in history right after Kalush Orchestra’s. The entire arena sang with him. During the voting portion, they kept calling his name. Everyone called him “winner”. As the Estonian singer Alika told him: “you had the public when they announced Loreen won”.

And by knowing that, I can understand why he was so bummed. He literally had everything: the perfect song, the charisma, public’s support. And I am pretty sure that, if the public gave more points to Loreen, he would’ve accepted his defeat easier.

But it wasn’t like that: he got more points than her in both the semifinal and the final. He has always been the public’s winner, right from the start. And even if he would've gotten the theoretical maximum of public votes from Europe (432), he still would've ended up behind Sweden.

Losing because 222 people gave your opponent an unbeatable lead isn’t something easy to digest. I mean, it’s been days and I haven’t digested it yet! And I am definitely not a singer, nor I did take part in the competition. However, I voted for him and, well, I am quite pissed that my money got wasted because of a stupid unfair system. The EBU should really refund everyone who tried to vote, considering there was no way to defeat the sheer power of the jury.

So, well, the competition ended with the public’s favorite losing the piece of glass. I will get over it, everyone will get over it. Käärijä himself will get over it - now he’s still rightfully sad about it, but as he said, life goes on.

And he will soon realize that losing the competition turned him into something more than a simple winner.

______________________

The birth of a legend

If Käärijä won, he would’ve been just the winner of Eurovision 2023. People would’ve loved him like they love Kalush Orchestra or Maneskin. Everyone would’ve been happy, a little bit of post-Eurovision depression as always and we would’ve forgotten it.

But losing had an even bigger impact, because Käärijä didn’t step down to second place, but over the first place. Being so spectacularly wronged in front of the world made him ascend to the status of legend and the public went crazy for him. Cha Cha Cha reached the top of Spotify's top 50 global, people from all European countries called him “the true winner” and I’ve seen more than one American, who knew nothing about Eurovision, watch his performance and protest for the result as well.

Even Tumblr was affected by this: the tag Eurovision trended for 3 days after its ending and, after it stopped trending, Käärijä kept doing it for days. And he’s still doing it, so good job people, let’s keep the party going on for a little longer: we all deserve it, after all. You know, as a little FUCK YOU to the jury.

What about Youtube? His grand final performance reached ca. 9 mln views in three days and if you check the comment section, is full of people calling him the true winner as well.

Heck, the Eurovision channel made a video specifically about his journey, like the usually do for winners only (in fact, they did one for Loreen. And Käärijä’s video got more views than Loreen’s in one single day).

And all over Europe people are still protesting and asking for the voting system to change. The Norway delegation asked it first and I fully support them, because they are constantly robbed by the jury. I liked Duncan Lawrence’s Arcade in 2019, but KEiiNO was a completely different level. (And if you loved KEiiNO too, please check their Youtube channel because they have made a lot of other songs and OH MY GOSH THEY ARE ALL GREAT)

Käärijä united Europe with his music and his energy and I understand why Finnish people are so proud of him: there are very few artists who are able to connect people so well. And he did it by using his mother tongue, not English! That’s an even bigger win imho, because it proves that if you have a great song, a strong performance and incredible charisma, people will appreciate you and go past the language barrier without any problem.

That’s why humankind loves music, after all: because it doesn’t need to be understood word by word, to reach people’s hearts.

______________________

The hero’s journey

There are many reasons why people fell in love with this funky green man and they all differ: someone loves his bubbly personality, others were touched by his genuinity, others just fell on the ground laughing and who doesn’t love someone that makes you laugh? And yes, there are some who are just horny for him and you are valid too, because he’s a good-looking man.

However, I think that the main reason why so many people got so invested, it’s because he had the perfect hero’s journey.

He already had a story perfect for a movie, even before starting Eurovision: when he was younger, he was diagnosed with colitis ulcerosa and the disease almost took his life (this post has an interview with all details). But because of that experience, he realized life is short and he should’ve pursued what he truly wanted - i.e. singing. I mean, this alone is perfect material for a movie already.

But now he got another story, and it’s even more like a movie: the story of the young man no one knew, who left his city in his small country, to reach the big European stage. A man with a funny spirit, who connected with everyone despite his broken English - and he wonderfully improved it along the way. Just look at how much more confident he became! Truly a masterful example of how we should just talk and make mistakes, in order to get better in another language.

So we followed the adventures of this funny man and of the friends he made along the way. We had fun and cried for the beauty of his friendship with Bojan (he literally called Käärijä “my new brother” and a small part of my heart that was broken got immediately healed). We got involved in his climbing to the top, we saw him face the behemoth that was opposing him and hoped for him to overcome it.

And he got the tragic conclusion of a hero’s journey: a hero who won and yet still lost.

People love this shit. We have always loved the story of the little one against the unbeatable enemy, the nobody who got the recognition he deserves, the kind heart defeated by the corrupt system. Those are all things that touch people and all aspects of the hero’s journey. And people naturally hope for a happy ending, so if we get a sad, bad or unfair one instead, we tend to feel even more empathetic towards the protagonist. And if your protagonist is as lovable as he is, the feeling is 100x stronger.

I really don’t know if the national juries expected this to happen, when they knew who the public’s favourite was and yet decided to award a different artist. But by doing that, they became the perfect enemy to close Käärijä’s journey and build a legend.

So, well, thanks for sucking so much. You built the legend you didn’t want to.

And yes, Käärijä’s enemy IS NOT Loreen. Loreen did her thing, she didn’t bribe the judges to give her votes. The problem is the jury’s power. So, for all the people who are still harrassing her: please stop hating this woman, she just did what other artists did too.

And since we’re talking about her, please stop saying shit like “She shouldn’t have participated!” too, because this is both very stupid (everyone is allowed to participate in Eurovision) and very disrespectful towards Käärijä himself. It’s a bit like saying that sure, he was good, but, like, you know, not enough good.

And this is totally wrong because this man has been able to defeat Loreen twice, both during the semifinal and the final (at least according to the votes that matter). So stop undermining his ability: he is a good artist. Actually, an artist so good only Loreen was able to compete against him.

And if you still think it’s right to hate Loreen for whatever reason, then I would like to bring this to your attention:

The king literally proposed to Loreen. And, considering how accurate was his foresight about the whole competition, I think it’s time we start to think about when it will happen and how many children they will have.

So if you are still harassing her: stop protesting for the piece of glass and ask her when will they get married, instead. We need to know.

Also, wouldn’t that be an even more perfect ending for Käärijä’s hero’s journey? Not only the great evil (aka the jury) will be defeated, but he will marry the only woman strong enough to oppose him. 100/10 I want a movie now.

And yes, I know Käärijä also proposed to Bojan and they are fathers of a baby sea lion. But what’s the problem? Doesn’t Käärijä have two hands? With one hand can hold Bojan, with the other Loreen, duh.

(Then he will probably need another hand for Selena from Austria, because I think she developed a little crush on him but hey, that’s the life of a hero I guess.)

______________________

Have you listened to his other songs yet?

I just want to confirm they are bops and you should listen to them immediately. Also, do not forget his concert on Saturday that will be available worldwide. Let’s show love to the king.

And yes, that means another post will come out. I mean, there are still so many things we need to know! I want to see the photos of that mural people are doing for him in Vantaa, I want to see the music collaboration between him and Bojan, I want to see them visiting little Edgar at the zoo. And I can’t wait to hear about his future European tour, because he has to do one. And maybe that will fully convey him how big his impact has been indeed.

As people told him in the after party, he conquered the world. Now he just needs to see it for himself.

[freneticfloetry]

fic pride friday

I finally get to start a tag game! Saw this one go by in the wild, and though I couldn’t grab the exact post to reblog, I wanted to bring the concept over to my go-to folks.

Rules: Post your favourite line or passage from as many of your published works as you���d like. Let yourself feel proud of your creations! Tag as many people as you post snippets, so your fellow fic friends can be proud, too.

There’s a little slice of Husbands Era from words to get off his chest (911 / 911 Lone Star):

Times like this, TK honestly thinks he lives for the second that Carlos settles back and lets go. He hopes that feeling never gets old — the way he sinks back into his arms, just a bit, and his limbs lose the last of their tension, like he’s found the exact space where he fits and can exhale with his whole body.

There’s this Carlos and Iris truth swap from to build a home (911 Lone Star):

I think you're my new favorite person, she'd said — soft but sure, like it wasn't something wondrous after losing her dad, just laid in his lap like a gift — and he'd swallowed and said the only thing he could think of that might've been worth as much in return. I think I'm gay. She'd turned her head and smiled into his shoulder, slipping her arm around his to slot their fingers together and squeeze. Fine, she'd said, warm and wry and completely without surprise. I'll drop my 'think' if you will.

There’s this Met Gala moment from scenes from an unfinished story (The Magicians)

Really, he'd said flatly, when El had first shared the idea, you want to go as The Little Mermaid. Eliot had rolled his eyes. Well not the neutered Disney version, he'd answered, the Hans Christian Andersen original. In all its forbidden gay glory. Quentin had blinked, thoroughly confused, and El had given him a look he never did decipher. He wrote it as a love letter, Q, he'd explained, soft and sad, to a man he couldn't have.

There’s this moment before a bittersweet reunion from What Baking Can Do (The Magicians)

He's technically seen El… since; there's a copy made of clay back at the cottage, lying silent and too still in Eliot's bed. But this is the form he knows — towering and full of grace, even bent over a workbench, brows drawn together, sifting flour into a big wooden bowl. Quentin's clearly caught him mid-setup, a telltale line of little clay vessels arranged across one side of the table, and it's sort of fascinating to watch the way he's adapted, the duality of the picture it paints — a faded apron slung over some sort of sheer, gauzy shirt that's tied at his side, sleeves rolled at each cuff to the elbow and hands stripped free of rings, the room's worn wood and stone an unadorned backdrop for the drama of the dark crown of gems that still circles his head. It's an image Quentin doesn't think he could forget, but there's the strangest urge to frame it, hang it, label it in bronze: High King Humbled, 2017. Flesh and bone.

There’s this truly unfortunate timing from Confidence Man (What’s Your Number?)

The Imperial March is impossible to ignore in the best of situations, much less mid-cunnilingus, but trying to would be significantly easier without the subsequent knock on the door. She stiffens, fingers tightening in his hair, thighs clamping down around his head like a vice. "Oh, fuck," she moans, in a way that's meant to be mortified but, to his ears and his brain and every one of his nerve endings, still sounds like she's seconds from flying off a fucking cliff. "Ally, I swear to god," he says, locked between her legs, "if I come in my pants with your mother outside I may never maintain an erection again."

There’s this reflection on the past and present from Ashes and Flame (Every You and Every Me) (The Hunger Games)

I want it to be as it was. A purging of everything that haunts me, down to the smallest detail. But when I'm done, there's only space and shadow in living color, more abstract than anything that came before it. A fiery sunset over the Meadow grass, the shape of mockingjay wings. And two silhouettes on the horizon, together but separate, forever moving forward, and backward, and nowhere at all.

And finally, there’s this unbalanced negotiation from By Any Other (Lucky Number Slevin), which is maybe my favorite cold opening to anything I’ve ever written.

"You need a name." She spreads out the stack of takeout menus she's stolen from the front desk, sprawled on her stomach on their third motel bed in a week. The wallpaper is the worst she's seen yet, and is still somehow better than what was in her old bathroom. "What about Indian?" "As names go? It's a little tongue-in-cheek." He flops to his back beside her, scratching at his stomach and squashing half the pile. "I could go for some Chinese." She wrinkles her nose, wrestling the menus free. "No Chinese. I hate Chinese." "You are Chinese." "Yeah, it's tragic, they revoked my membership and everything."

Tagging in @liminalmemories21, @paperstorm, @carlos-in-glasses, @reyesstrand, @rmd-writes, @lemonlyman-dotcom , and @welcometololaland !

[v-arbellanaris]

as i was doing my other hawke pts (rowan [warrior], muna [support mage], mira [dps mage]), i rly started to miss rogue combat lmao so i started an isra pt again because i miss her also BUT actually something i never thought about too closely before but ive been thinking abt constantly now is isra and the arishok

rowan does not get a single square foot of respect from the arishok imho, and mira still has to prove herself to the arishok tho he does call her basalit-an in the end, but isra is the only one where like. they arrive at the keep and he already calls her basalit-an. she's always really transparent with him, but she also doesn't take his shit - whenever he tries to intimidate her or dismiss her, she calls him on his bluff and walks away, and he's always the one calling her back (and then demanding to know how she can just walk away from him)

its such a fascinating dynamic because she's really not hostile to him in the least (even if maybe she should be), which reveals a side of her i hadn't really thought about before. she's fairly sympathetic to the qunari's struggles in kirkwall, more so than any of my other hawke pcs - in many ways, i think she draws a lot of parallels between her own existence as a mage (and the chantry painting mages as demons in sleep) and how the qunari are being treated in kirkwall. there's really something that's so chewy about how miranda and muna and joan and rowan all see the arishok as a hair trigger away from blowing up the entirety of kirkwall with a single spoon of gaatlok, but isra is the one who understands that the arishok is trying not to make this situation worse, that he isnt interested in war or looking for it, and as a result, she's not aggressive or hostile to him in conversation

like i keep thinking abt isra going lmao well this is none of my fucking business and walking off when the arishok tells her about someone stealing saar-qamek in act 2, and its the arishok who calls her back, emphasising that a lot of people will die if the saar-qamek gets out. with the others, when he says it, it sounds like he's simply informing or allowing hawke to make the decision based on the saar-qamek's danger, but since isra did actively already try to walk off, he comes off as actually concerned abt the potential death toll (and the ensuing political ramifications of a whole bunch of kirkwall citizens are killed by a qunari poison). that moment provides such a fascinating depth to their relationship that i don't really get with my other hawkes, and i wonder if it is, in part, because isra is a former circle mage, and has the exact experience of how suffocating it is to be treated like that.

which ofc led me to the thought of like... how even when hawke is a mage pc, the arishok doesn't do anything. he doesn't turn you over to the templars or the chantry, sure, but he himself makes no effort to do anything to you. or to get aggressive. even though you have other qunari like the arvaraad getting immediately violent after he finds out that hawke is a mage or that there are mages around them that are not bound. how does he square with that bc i don't think i've ever seen an explanation for it...

it's been so interesting to think about their relationship and their discussions, and like tbqh i'm kind of obsessed with the vibe... despite repeatedly being like "its not my job to explain the qun to you and also idk how to make it make sense", he will still attempt to explain things to isra anyway. and isra, being primarily an academic before anything else, always has questions, and i think its such a rare chance at dialogue with someone who actually matters in the qun. the arishok represents the body of the entirety of the qunari, and i think that's something i certainly sometimes overlook when discussing things or thinking abt him, but i think its humbling to me that he will engage in conversations with hawke directly, even when hawke was just... no one. and i think isra would take the opportunity imho - both out of academic curiosity but also sympathy. is there anyone in this city who treats him like a person, she wonders. idk!!! i just love the idea of isra showing up with a chess board or something at the qunari compound every now and again simply to see if he'll engage her with an academic discussion or bitch about the viscount lmao

[makingspiritualityreal]

Hello,

I was just trying out the vault of heavens calculation opposed to lahiri. Most of my nakshatras have stayed the same apart from my sun, mercury and venus, the first two moved from punarvasu to pushya, and the latter moved from mrigashira to ardra.

It’s interesting because out of all my big 3 placements, I always related to my moon (bharani) and my ascendant (swati) more than my sun. I never thought much about punarvasu but then again I do have significant Jupiter influence regardless

I just wanted to ask if you have any insights on pushya nakshatra or if you’ve written any posts on it in the past?

I have wondered if I had any saturn influence in the past because my life has been a series of delays, humbling experiences and karmic lessons but I always attributed that to my bharani moon. Never really got much of that supposed jupiterian instant success and opportunities 🤔

I went through that exact same journey only for me it was my Moon. It went from Punarvasu to Pushya in the Mula ayanamsa, and I have studied charts of so many people for so many years, resonated with all my other Nakshatras, the Sun and the Rising, I’ve seen Punarvasu work in other charts and couldn’t for the life of me relate it to myself. It’s a horrible thing for an astrologer who could easily give readings to so many people with no difficulty not to be able to relate to their own Moon Nakshatra.

I honestly could have written that ask myself. I had the same reasoning, because I also have a strong Jupiter influence regardless, so I just kind of rolled with my Moon and ignored that I wasn’t feeling good about it (Sun and Rising in Vishakha) and even if you do facial comparison, that Jupiter energy can get confusing in between Nakshatras. So the time I spent not diving seriously into the vault of the heavens website I kind of lived in partial unconsciousness about myself and focused on helping everyone else.

I always related to the Vishakha analysis I saw online, but never to the Punarvasu one. Then I also had the exact same impression, that I never had that early luck, that Moon in Jupiterian Nakshatras is supposed to have (as we mature into our Sun way later in life). A Saturn ruled Moon made much more sense to me, because any success I ever had even as a child was always a result of hard work and applying myself, or waiting for those results a serious while, overcoming significant hardship.

I never wrote anything longer about Pushya, I will if and when I feel inspired to do so.

What caught my attention as a defining trait is that Punarvasu is so effortlessly giving, creative and maternal. These traits repeat themselves anywhere you look at this Nakshatra in women. It’s not just about success, it’s about creative expression, they pour themselves into it. Pushya more so explores themes where something can easily get in the way of that. They exist more for others than themselves in a way. The embodiment of a Guru is alive there.

Growing up, I always felt like I was more of a teacher even to my peers rather than a teenage girl. Ultimately, even though Punarvasu is ruled by Jupiter, Pushya gets a much more intense spiritual dimension.

When I was researching the Cancer Moon sign in general to compare between celebrities (some Ardras become Punarvasu in vault of the heavens also) you can clearly see the difference.

I’m going to use women I feel to be the most appropriate examples. Between Taylor Swift, Dua Lipa and Amy Lee they are all Cancer Moons (I use the vault of the heavens tropical ayanamsa). Taylor is an Ardra, Dua is Punarvasu, Amy is a Pushya. You can see a clear progression of emotion. Taylor mostly calls out people’s bad behaviors and difficult moments in her songs, even if there is a silver lining, because Rudra, shining through Ardra is a destroyer and he delights in brining flaws to light, so she delights in making difficult life experiences relatable. Dua’s recent album is so Punarvasu it could be advertising this Nakshatra. I feel like before she was more commercialized and she only grew into herself with this album, especially with songs like “Happy for You”. Such a Punarvasu song, about discovering forgiveness and selflessness and unconditional love, but also so innocent it made me even more sure it’s not my Nakshatra because I couldn’t personally find my state in it, sadly.

Then we move on to Pushya and suddenly the darkness sets in. Amy used to have a full on goth image that by now has slightly toned down, but in Pushya all the difficult emotional spectrum and trying experiences come out, pain so deep you are surprised another person’s love could even put you back together at this point. Reminds me of Claire Naktis Cinderella video about Saturn women. Pushya is after all the first of them. But to be a saved princess you have to first need saving, and that theme appears only in Pushya, because Saturn here gives birth to a low point to overcome.

[oceangirl24]

Saudade: "I Never Sang for My Father"

"Nothing good ever happens to Shawn Hunter" was so ingrained in him he often felt that someone had written his life story in such a way as to doom him to a never-ending cycle of misery.

The reality was somewhere in his life when he was very young, someone had put this idea into his head. The memory was vague, but he remembered a teacher had spoken these words over him. It was perhaps not those exact words and was more like "nothing good has happened to Shawn Hunter" or "nothing good will happen to Shawn Hunter" that was actually said. Whatever the original phrase was, it stuck in his head as "nothing good ever happens to Shawn Hunter".

And it was so apart of his core that he was undeserving of good things happening to him that he lived it out for over 30 years. In those moments when something good did happen to him, he was unable to accept it and, in most cases, actively rejected it.

Just like he'd rejected Jon for so long.

The ultimate good.

Shawn sighed and let his chin drop to his chest. When he looked up again, Chet Hunter stood in front of him, looking very much alive.

He froze in shock.

He hadn't seen Chet since he'd been home.

His biological father leaned lazily against the couch. His plaid shirt unbuttoned down to the fourth button so that his white beer-stained t-shirt showed. These shirts were tucked into faded blue jeans.

Chet stared at him with glassy eyes.

"So now you know what happened to Teach," he said in a gruff, almost accusatory tone.

Shawn narrowed his eyes at the apparition. "Yeah, I do."

The corner of Chet's mouth twitched. "You happy now?"

"Gettin' there."

Chet stared at him impassively. "Tell me, Shawnie, is Mr. Perfect, Joe Cool, everything you imagined him to be?"

Shawn didn't know how to respond.

When Chet showed up post-death, he was always humble and contrite with a wisdom and grace he did not have in life.

The snippy, critical bite to his words now threw him off.

When he didn't answer, Chet threw up his hands. "You wish he'd been your dad instead of me don'tcha?" He swore at Shawn. "I did the best I could for you, Shawnie! I had my own problems. You weren't the only one who never had nothing good happen to him. You think life was easy for me? It wasn't! I did all I could do. Couldn't do nothing else."

This is what Chet was like when he was alive, making every situation about him and never taking responsibility for anything he did. Shawn's eyes narrowed as the old familiar feelings of anger, resentment, hurt, and fear rose up in him.

"Yes, you could've," he snapped back.

Chet's glared at him. "How?"

"You could've come back and talked to me, told me the truth- that you were happier without a wife and kid. Happier with the alcohol than with me. Then you could've left me with someone who cared about me!"

Chet swore again and turned away. When he looked back, his eyes were red-rimmed and angry. "You adored him! He could give you things I couldn't. I could never compete with Teach. But you were my kid! I deserved the adoration you gave him."

Shawn paused and reminded himself that this was not the real Chet. However, that fact made this encounter even more confusing as he was no longer in control of it.

Chet was going off script.

Way off script.

And it pulled his thoughts past Katherine and losing Audrey to losing Jon. Those feelings that had been dredged up from the depths of him exploded through the surface.

"Then why did you agree to let them adopt me and then come back and say no?! Why did you let me go to New York to get Mom and then lie to me about Dad and that nurse?!"

His words hit Chet and instantly drained all color from him. He withered into a sick old man. "You callin' him Dad now? You gave him my name?" His voice was weak and trembling. "That's why, Shawnie. Without the stories I had nothin'. You loved him more. Stories were all I had to keep you with me."

Read the Rest:

AO3 FFN WattPad

[honest-moth-of-silver-grove]

May I request a BG3 matchup?

30; afab agender; rampantly bisexual. Medical lab tech (not the cool kind), about to start grad school for forensic biology. I collect postcards and preserved specimens, and raise tarantulas + other bugs. Enjoy making nature journals, birdwatching, puzzles, music, theatre, museums, analyzing horror media, building models, working with clay, writing, reading, and board games (though I get a bit too competitive). Great in the kitchen. Autistic/ADHD. Get sensory overloaded easily. Love meeting people but mostly wish I could exist invisibly and not speak. Chronic pain limits physical activities. Most content during stormy days with candles and coffee, baking or doing a jigsaw puzzle with the windows open and music playing. Think I'm unattractive and obnoxious. OCD + bipolar dictate a lot of my brain. Tendency to word vomit and have difficulty articulating off of paper. Complain a lot and can be passive aggressive. But also like to see people happy and taken care of, and want to leave things better than I find them when possible.

A/N: Alright Tarantula Anon, since you mentioned you’re bisexual, but didn’t state a gender preference, I’ve picked out the best matches- one male and one female for you.

Your best Baldur’s Gate 3 Matches would be Astarion (Male) and Minthara (Female)!

➶ Astarion is also a character I would characterize as “rampantly bisexual” (or pansexual to be more specific in his case lol). Gender presentation isn’t something he factors into attractiveness. If he likes you, he likes you. If he thinks you’re hot, he thinks you’re hot, etc. You get the idea.

Being an immortal vampire, Astarion knows a thing or two about biology. Mainly about how to remain undetected among the human population. In the game, he explains how he never smells like a typical vampire or vampire’s den because he makes a point to scent himself with a mix of fragrances. And while he may not be a medical professional, he’s certainly had his fair share of anatomy lessons, be it distant viewings at the food of Cazador, from the many creatures he’s been forced to seduce. It’s not an exact equivalent, but I do believe he would be fascinated by the kind of work you do regarding live and preserved specimens.

And while I don’t think he’s a bug person (mainly because they were his one source of nutrition for so many years), I think he could be taught to appreciate them over time. Perhaps you could show him how all creatures, even small ones, are incredibly unique and have their own role within our vast universe. It’s humbling to think we are all so incredibly tiny and yet vastly important to the people around us.

There’s so much he’s missed out on experiencing, I think he’d quite like doing any of those activities with you: birdwatching, solving puzzles, listening to music, going to the theater or the museum, tinkering, making ceramics, writing, or reading, or playing board games… Anything! Everything! He especially enjoys the competitive nature of your games. He finds he quite likes the feeling of winning, and he plans on doing it more often. Don’t worry though, he’ll play fair. Well, fair for him, anyway.

He cannot eat so he doesn’t get to fully appreciate your kitchen prowess. But he does enjoy helping you cook. It’s strangely comforting for him to do something so domestic. It’s in moments like those, that he can see the rest of your lives together playing out.

Similarly to you, Astarion loves meeting new people. Or at least he thinks he does. So much of his extroversion was a facade, he’s not certain what part of his people skills are him and which parts were survival. So he needs time in between, away from crowds and strangers to calm down and recharge. He’s grateful that you often tug him away, reminding him to excuse the two of you before either one of you gets too overwhelmed.

He may not be a magic user, but he does what he can to support you in managing your chronic pain. He’ll get Halsin or Shadowheart or even Gale to lessen some of your symptoms. He doesn’t try to cure your condition, nor does he expect you to cure his. However, if finding a more permanent solution to your pain is something you’d want, he’s more than ready to take that journey with you.

He doesn’t think for a second that you’re obnoxious. And trust him on that. He’s met some of the most obnoxious, overwhelmingly annoying magistrates and lords in his first life. He assures you constantly: that you are nothing like them. You’re smart and kind and beautiful. Even if you can’t see it, he sees it for you. Astarion knows what it’s like to live with a body (and by extension a brain) that tells you you’re never good enough. There are still moments when he can’t see himself in a mirror for example, when he thinks of himself as a monster. He’s so grateful you’re there to comfort him and tell him otherwise.

His favorite thing in the world is to cuddle with you next to a large bay window, watching nighttime thunderstorms roll in, a book in his lap and you beside him.

☾ Minthara is often characterized as closed-off and cold. Which you could argue is true. Or you could see it as her being logical, and protective of herself and her heart. She is a drow, and by nature, well accustomed to the more gruesome side of human nature. She feels at home surrounded by macabre, whereas others may be disturbed. I think she’d find your work fascinating. And spiders are something she knows a lot about. Drows and spiders go hand in hand. She sees tarantulas as the perfect pet, they’re small enough to be contained but large enough to have personalities and be something incredible to watch.

She especially enjoys reading horror stories with you or visiting theaters or museums with horror exhibits. Perhaps one about ancient methods of torture- now that would tickle her fancy. And she appreciates your wit and candor when it comes to playing games or solving puzzles with you. So few people treasure such traits in a companion, but not her. She knows how important it is to have a discerning significant other, especially if you are going to be spending any time in the Underdark with her, where being perceptive is a must for survival. She loves your cooking. As a drow noble, she was familiar with the concepts of fancy feasts and indulgent desserts. However, due to her position, she could never truly enjoy them, for fear of being poisoned by enemies. With you doing the meal-making, she doesn't have to worry about that anymore.

Unlike you, however, Minthara is not that fond of meeting other people. She much prefers the two of you keep to yourselves unless otherwise necessary. People are tiring, and so often unimportant. She sees no need to waste her time and social graces on them. You’re the one she loves. If she’s going to do something with anyone or make an effort, it’s going to be for you and you alone.

She used to think admitting pain was weak, now however, she knows it takes an inner as well as outer strength. She will go to whatever length to ensure your comfort. Simply say the word and she will get it for you. In seeing your survival, Minthara has developed a great admiration for you as a person, seeing how resilient you are. That being said, she will not tolerate you speaking poorly of yourself. You are wonderful. You are strong in mind and spirit. You are intelligent and wise. You are gorgeous. You mean everything to her. She will not hear you put yourself down. She would not choose an unworthy mate, so do not think for a second that you are not deserving of her love and affection.

But by all means, do complain. The world can be so frivolous and pedestrian. She enjoys having someone who not only accepts hearing her own complaints but joins in with their own as well. You can be passive-aggressive in your grievances because she is extremely direct. If something bothers you, she’ll simply ask you if you wish her to kill it. And no she doesn’t care if that’s morally wrong, because for you, she would move heaven and earth if it made you happy.

She is fiercely loyal and now that she is your loving partner, you cannot shake her. She is utterly and wholly devoted to you.

[vellichorom]

Goreguts / your Stanarrator headcanons pls?

oh MAN where do I begin,

so Officially, thierry's gay & rosemary is bisexual. HOWEVER, they are both lesbian women. & actually, also gay men. & also a secret third thing. just so you know 💕

thierry has had feelings for rosemary since THE beginning; prior to them really knowing each other, prior to it coming to light rosemary was NOT stanley & kept virtually unknown for the longest time even afterward. he's extremely embarrassed about this fact.

thierry cherishes their relationship on a more down-to-earth, " face-value " level; living in the now of it, living for it, looking at it like the best & most important time of his life thus far, & seeing the relationship for what it is - like a precious gift in his hands, & savoring every moment they're together; whereas, rosemary cherishes it a bit more spiritually - like a chance of fate, written in the stars, dwelling on every choice that's lead them to now, daydreaming of the intimacy of their eventual assumed deaths & decaying together, believing past the flesh & boundaries of anything that their love will persist forever. made humble by the idea of a mortal concept that needs to be savored for everything it is vs we are beyond our bodies & will continue on past them, through the heavens, through every alternative universe & timeline. we are now everything,

they are OBSESSED with each other, in every good & bad way. this flusters thierry SO much, never having loved another quite like he loves rosemary & finding it strange- just because he thinks he'll be judged for it by. someone, on the other hand, rosemary wholly lives by & embraces her endless, unconditional love near shamelessly. this kills the thierry

not knowing where the other is for a long time / not being without the other for awhile period is liable to cause them physical illness / mental distress for no other reason but separation anxiety. rosemary is susceptible to her more intrusive, harmful thoughts & thierry's liable to an otherwise physically impossible for him to feel sickness.

🐻/🐰 <- these are the goreguts animals;

🐺/🐰 <- these are also the goreguts animals;

on a MUCH lighter note, rosemary, well-beloved, ever-cultured, & mostly well-rounded rosemary introduces that man to a lot more slice of life than he's ever experienced - such as celebrating holidays, eating delicious meals, having simple, intimate moments with each other, such & such more generic human & familial pleasures that thierry- not being human nor in an environmental situation to do so, wouldn't get to experience / would find tedious otherwise.

the memory zone has been expanded upon from canon - quite heavily, with secret rooms & artifacts dedicated to rosemary, as well as the outside environment built upon to give her more room to run around & experience nature again. ( the freedom ending area has ALSO been given this treatment )

fun fact! they are each other's exact type,

autumn freaks; they love autumn SO much. they are so autistic about autumn, the aesthetic of it, the changing of the seasons, & that god damn STARBUCKS AUTUMN LINEUP THEY ARE SO AUTISTIC ABOUT AUTUMN

also autism 4 autism 💖

&- because this post is already getting pretty long, i'll finish it off with something more... goregutted; that being,

vivisecting & cannibalizing the other is one of their FAVORITE dating activities ~

having said that, i now must encourage my dearest @tomiechu to add on ~ stay tuned for part two maybe!

[philanthropicfeline]

Christmas thoughts

Just some "religious" thoughts on the season.

I woke up just a bit ago, I slept earlier than usual. I got sick on Christmas 🤒 but I put on a brave face and still cooked some fixings for family. I had to package the rest for them to take and cook at my parents place. Either way, my head's been fuzzy and ugh it's been difficult to eat. I have no issues with appetite but I can barely stomach anything...Despite all of that, it's Christmas and I've been so happy to "celebrate" it.

But, I understand that many are choosing to "cancel" Christmas. I understand the sentiment, but it leaves my spirit confused. On Sunday morning I attended church and my Pastor briefly touched on the topic of canceling Christmas. He was passionate about why true believers could never be affected by this. I was taught the same thing growing up. I was taught to separate the world from Christmas.

My current pastor grew up in Guyana. His family was poor but Christmas was a time to remind themselves that they are wealthy in strength, family and spirit.

My former pastor was born and raised in Ontario, Peterborough to be exact. He came from a poor and large family. He grew up in the church but they were really big on decorations and gifts and such. He didn't agree with that message and turned to bad vices. Later down the road, he got clean and sober and thanks God for helping him through that rough time. Christmas became a time of Thanksgiving and deliverance for him.

My parents were from the Philippines. Both from poor backgrounds and difficult environments. But Christmas was always about acknowledging the blessings and mercy given to them with everyday.

Fast forward to my Christmas. My pastors and parents instilled me with the spirit of the "true" symbol and meanings of Christmas. Personally, I can't cancel a "holiday" when it's a time for me to humble myself, reflect and to be thankful. The gifts are always just extra blessings on the side, but they are never important. I understand that the commercialized and capitalistic aspects of holidays can be agressive. So it's important to take a moment to seperate the tangible gifts from the everyday blessing taken for granted. Im sick on Christmas but I'm still alive and breathing. I'm still capable to help those in my community in far more desperate situations than my own. Christmas reminds me that time on this earth is limited and unpredictable. Spreading love, peace and kindness because God loved me first, will always be my main prerogative.

With great love, follows great pain. There's physical pain but there's even greater inner turmoil that we all go through. I hate that I was aware of such realizations and grief at such a young age. I used to dream of being able to hold everyone and everything I hold so dear, tightly in my hands. It hurts to know that it's not possible but it gives me more reason to start everyday with love. To share love and compassion amongst humanity with each day I'm given. I know that these days have become darker, but i can't help but look to the tiny flickers of hope. You can't tell me to not "celebrate" a window of hope. You can't tell me to not sing carols or hymns when I regard my voice as a gift and miracle from God; it's a gift that has healed me and has kept me from prematurely entering the pearly gates before my time. Please don't tell me to cancel something that meaningful. Everyday I'm thankful for everything and everyone. I'm thankful for that tiny baby born in a stable.

This post isn't meant to be preachy. It was more a way for me to remember that I am blessed despite my current, hurling state. It's a reminder that there are many who barely have anything, except they joy of this season that gives them hope. Don't take that light away from another human.

P.s, I want snow so badly.

Merry Christmas 🎄❤️🕊

[random-meme-bot]

Presenting a side character for "Hexes on the Shelves".

Trucy, Elly's Roommate and self-proclaimed "BFFAE ™" (Best Friend For All Eternity)

Backstory, trivia and version without transparency under the cut (+ version with original colors).

Trucy's Backstory (A Hexes on the Shelves Mini-Story):

Trucy was a Girl that died on the 1960s due to illness, her father, a humble Toy maker that passed away before her, made all of her favorites toys, between those toys was a very special one, one Trucy loved like no other, a doll she called "Amelia".

After Trucy died and wasn't able to find any of her parent's spirits she decided that she couldn't move on to the after life and abandon Amelia and her other toys, so she would stay and make sure her father's legacy is in the hands of someone who will treat them with the same love and care as she did in life, as ghosts don't have a form and can look however they like, she decided to adopt the form of Amelia, as to make sure never forgets about her goal, and also because that dress was fancier than anything she had ever wore on life.

Unfortunately trust isn't Trucy's biggest trait, meaning that she would spook anybody that dared come into her room and touch her stuff.

All that changed when Elly and her parents moved in a few days after Elly discovered she could interact with ghosts, the moment Elly reached to grab Amelia out of a shelf, Trucy did was she always did and threw a few books at Elly (which failed on purprose as she just wanted to gain her attention), and started to do some simple tricks to scare her. (Levitating some objects, turning the lights on and off, opening and closing the doors, the sort of cliche stuff people expect from a haunted room.)

This however did not have the effect that Trucy was accustomed to, people usually run away screaming, (or at the very least waited with a terrified expression for her to end her act before doing so). Elly on the other hand was standing there, not with a terrified expression, but with more of a surprised one, one not too dissimilar to the one a kid would make after seeing a rocket take off for the first time, she looked pale, but that didn't mean much as Trucy was sure that was already the case when she entered, and the worst part, the one that would've made Trucy's blood run cold if she still had, was that Elly was looking straight at her.

Trucy gathered all the courage she could.< She's not looking at you. >she thought<There is no way she can know where you are, she must be looking over here out of coincidende.> this did not help her regain confidence < But then? > - WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU‽ WHY WON'T YOU LEAVE‽ -She yelled, as she loosed all concentration causing everything she was levitating to go flying in multiple directions- OH NO! -Trucy yelled as she realized that a Book was heading straight towards Amelia, before Trucy could even think about using her powers to stop the book Elly caught it (A more exact wording would be "She tried and missed, stopping it with her hand and part of her arm." Small unimportant details really...)

Here, I'm sorry I tried to touch your Doll.- Elly said handing the book to Trucy, which of course caught her off-guard, as she didn't expect Elly to talk to her, much less apologize- I understand that you are mad, I too would be if strangers appeared in my room and started to mess my stuff- Elly said as she moved away from Trucy and towards her Luggage- But! - she picked up her luggage and left it on the bed- I don't have anywhere else to go, nor plan on looking for one anytime soon.- she turned to face Trucy again, who was looking at her confused.- I'm not asking for you to leave, after all this has been your room for longer that it has been mine, all i'm asking if for you share a bit of it with me, you won't even need to interact with me if you want. So, What do you say?- she extended a hand towards Trucy- Roommates?

Trucy looked at the girls hand, still unsure if the girl could truly see her of if she was just the best scammer she had ever seen, finally she made a decision and shook her hand back with a sigh (an action more theatrical than anything given the circumstances of Trucy's existence)- Well, if you can't beat them...- Elly shook her hand (just her own as she couldn't actually grab Trucy's) and smiled to Trucy- ...Join them!- Elly finished the saying, and went to unpack her Luggage, This left Trucy frozen with a surprised expression and the hand still hanging, somehow despite everything, the revelation that her new roommate could hear her caught her completely by surprise- I'm Elizabeth by the by, but you can call me Elly- the girl said without looking away from her suicase, this broke Trucy away from her thoughts and back to reality- I'm... Trucy...- was all that managed to come out from her mouth, it has been a while since Trucy had talked with someone else, (aside from the people she scared away and the ghost that worked on the library, but you can't really call that conversations). She wasn't sure how to feel about her new roommate, but maybe having someone again to talk to wasn't so bad.

Character & Design trivia:

º Like Elly and Dan, Trucy's Color scheme is based on her eyes color (The eyes are the windows to the soul) but unlike them she actually has a humanoid form, the way I mixed this two concepts was by coloring her normally and then mixing the color with different degrees of the blue of the background, don't know how noticeable it is but even the whites are made like this, also the line art is dark blue instead of black.

ºThe white fluffy part at the end of the dress is supposed to be coming out from inside, which is why it's slightly smaller that the blue part, although i'm not sure if I drew it clearly enough to understand.

ºLike all ghosts she's translucent meaning you can see her hair and the bow on her back even while looking at her from the front.

ºShe's the only character to have dark pupils as to closely resemble a doll.

ºUnlike Elly, she has pointy fingers, this is a characteristic I've decided to give to all ghosts (Except Elly since she's on a middle ground and also doesn't have fingers while on ghost form)

º Unlike Elly's & Dan's names which I choose after much deliberation, Trucy's name came to me while I was imagining a conversation between her and Elly.

º She's a big fan historical dramas, which she tries to hide by always complaining about how historically inaccurate they are.

º She has a small friendship with the ghost that runs the Library (yes there are ghosts that run the libraries at night to make sure to not inconvenience any of the people that run the libraries for the living), they talk from time to time and often recommend books to each other but neither of them consider the other one anything more than acquaintances.

ºAfter Elly moved in with her she learned how open and close locks with her powers so she can lock the door to their room anytime she has to leave to do something with her.

ºTrucy has this mean sassy kid facade to try and hide the fact that she cares a lot about people and is scared of what people will think of her interests.

ºI have this little and stupid little story planned for the latter on in the story about Trucy & Elly going to a carnival and Cheating at different games.

ºWhile searching for pictures of old dolls to use as inspiration I came across this "Really old Baby doll (1940) with gun, made with real clothes, isolated Stock image" and it caught me so off-guard I laughed at it for like 5 minutes.

ºThis is by far the drawing that most reference images needed, not only as to get the feel of the dolls, but also because I'm bad at drawing dresses.

[pearlmoney]

The Haunting of Miss Caroline Marsden (snippet)

The audience’s applause could be heard two storeys down, everyone knew the name Caroline Marsden. She stepped from behind the tall black curtains putting on her best smile, she had practised everyday since she was ten for this exact moment. Her sleek black heels clacked on the hardwood floor, she felt as if she would slip with every step she took. It seemed like their cheering would never stop, this stage was so big, it would take at least twenty seconds to walk to the desk. Caroline kept her performed smile on, waving back to the hundreds of staring faces who claimed to know everything about her; who all adored her. Finally, Caroline was on the other side of the stage, shaking hands with an equally, but not quite as, famous TV host. She sat down on the bouncy red couch, feeling the bumpy rhinestones on her dress under her. 

‘Welcome Caroline, it’s so lovely to have you here! Can we all give her another big round of applause?’ Oh god not again. Their hands must be red at this point. Did she even care though? The applause is what she lived for, she needed it. Caroline continued smiling, her face still like stone on the brink of collapse. The clapping slowly faded and Caroline locked eyes with the host once again.

‘So, Please Let Go, huh? Coming to theatres on March 10th; What an amazing piece of work this is!’

‘Oh yes, thank you John.’

‘Why don’t you tell us a little bit more about this film?’

As soon as that question is asked it feels as though everything fades, all sounds are muffled and her vision subsides, Caroline is only able to see her memories and her art.

‘Well, Please Let Go is a drama piece about a girl, Rachael, who is in a difficult first relationship and doesn’t know how to get out of it because she’s afraid of what her partner will say or do. It’s a very important piece of film that I think a lot of young people can relate to and find comfort in.’ she talked so highly of her work it made her want to vomit. Caroline never wanted to be one of those directors who were stuck up and talked freely about how amazing they were. She knew she and her art were perfect but no one was allowed to use that against her, so she had to be perceived as humble. But the applause gets to her, and she can’t help but talk like she’s the only person in the world. 

‘That’s amazing. Now what’s the backstory to this film? How did you come to create it?’

Caroline smiled wider than she thought possible and let out a breath of satisfaction. This was her favourite question. She sat up and fixed her posture, wanting to look her absolute best.

‘Well it’s actually based on the book my partner wrote with the same name. I remember reading it the first time and being so moved by it, I just couldn’t stop thinking about it.’

‘Did you two write this together?’

‘Oh my partner Rose definitely helped me a lot, I mean it was based on their book, of course I’d look to her for guidance.’

There were soft ‘aaw’s in the crowd as Caroline spoke of Rose, someone these fans should be quite familiar with by now. The amount Caroline talks about them online and in interviews was astounding, she was shocked no one told her to be quiet by now.

‘That’s lovely, and where is Rose tonight?’

‘She’s in Seattle on her book tour, promoting her new limited edition version of Please Let Go. I hope they’re watching me in their hotel room tonight.’ Caroline spoke with a less forced and more fond smile, thinking about her loved partner watching her from afar. Caroline looked right down the barrel of one of the huge film cameras on set, ‘I love you Rosey, I hope you’re having a good time over there.’ The audience erupted in cheers once again, Caroline’s ears didn’t respond to it, blocking it out as she dreamt of her partner being here with her talking about their new movie.

The loud applause was cut short by the TV switching off, leaving Caroline in a dark, cold, empty room. Tissues, wrappers, bottles, anything else that would’ve been cleaned off the floor in an instant stayed there in a depressing tableau, almost waiting to be put away, watching in judgement at Caroline's newly found state. Caroline stared at the black screen, just able to see her now rejected reflection. Before she could think too hard on that, she pulled herself up from her chair and dragged her feet to the kitchen.

 She sighed, opening the fridge to find another drink, but she had already wasted them all. She hung her head in shame before turning to the clock on the microwave. ‘7:09AM’ it read, that familiar pit sat in her stomach realising she’s gone another night without sleep. How long has it been now? 75 hours? It was hard to keep track, Caroline had more important things to think about, like her premiere in two weeks, her fitting tomorrow, or well today. And the funeral on Friday. Before she could even stop herself she let out a quiet chuckle.

‘What kind of heartless bastard holds a funeral on a Friday? Like come on Jill, we all have better things to be doing, I’d rather spend my Friday dressed in a bikini on the beach with a drink in one hand and a woman in the other! Not standing around people I hate, mourning a person who shouldn’t even be having this so called fucking celebration!' Caroline shouted to no one, throwing her half empty bottle at the wall opposite her, gasping as it shattered against the paint. She stared at the wet stain on the wall, trying to slow her breathing back to normal but failing completely. She left the glass pile on the floor, too distressed to even think about cleaning it. She slowly walked back to her chair and slumped down, giving a long dramatic sigh. Caroline hadn’t felt like this since college. Excessive depression and nothing to help it, not a single thing could pull her out of her ‘funk’ as her mom would call it. Well there was one thing, but she was gone now.

Thank you so much for reading a short piece from my book I'm working on The Haunting of Miss Caroline Marsden!! If you want to learn a little more about it, have a look at my pinned post on my account. I have been working so hard on this project for a few months now and would love feedback on it. If you have any questions, comments, critiques, please share!!

[cyberrat]

72nd Batch Of Fics: 9th Fill

Hanzo/Cassidy – Rough and Tumble AU – Part 12 – lazy morning sex; catching feels – Hanzo hates getting attached to his boy toys.

---

Hanzo has never fucked a sleeping man before. Mostly because he very rarely has partners over for long enough that they could even fall asleep in the first place. He’s more the kind of guy that kicks them out after they served their purpose.

He certainly has never felt the need for a repeat performance in the morning… but this feels nice. Very calm and peaceful in a way. All the sounds he can hear are Cole’s soft snoring and his own labored breathing as he tries – and fails – to get used to the fat cock spreading him open.

His muscles keep clenching down. He wonders whether he should try and rock himself on Cole’s dick but it seems like too much effort really when only being filled feels so good already.

Cole’s limbs are wrapped around Hanzo, holding him down additionally. He closes his eyes and just focuses on the feelings in his body. The way the intrusion speared into his guts feels even bigger when he clenches down on it. Or how Cole’s breath hitches whenever he does it.

“Cole?” he whispers at one point, unsure whether the big oaf is even still asleep – but no answer comes and yeah… he’s pretty sure he’d be babbling his head off if he were awake to feel Hanzo’s pussy wrapped around him, clinging to his dick nice and wet and eager.

Yeah… Cole’d be talking the whole time through with that deep, syrupy voice that sounds so perfect, even when talking about the most depraved things.

Hanzo curls his arm over Cole’s again, weaving their fingers together, eyes closed tightly. He’s sure they look just like a couple having a nice cuddle in bed in the morning but really all he is focused on is the stretch of his rim around the base of Cole’s dick and how the thing flexes inside him slowly like it has a mind of its own.

It probably does. Knowing Cole, his dick is more intelligent than he.

It’s at that moment that Cole shifts a little and then starts to press bristly kisses against the back of Hanzo’s shoulder. It’s so slow and self-indulgent that it feels like he’s still more asleep than awake. Hanzo isn’t surprised that Cole would be such an effortlessly charming man, but it still hits him unexpectedly just how deep it affects him to feel him kissing up and loving on him even when his brain isn’t really online yet.

Hanzo feels… humbled, in a way. He would not have thought of any of it. He had only been wondering about his own comfort and what he can get out of Cole while he is still out of it.

He chews on his bottom lip, able to pinpoint the exact moment that the young man’s brain properly comes online because he stiffens and doesn’t even seem to breathe as he has to compute the feeling of his dick inside Hanzo’s clenching, clutching body.

“Uh… huh?” It’s more a grunt than anything, but it sounds so confused that Hanzo can’t help but smile. Maybe he is wondering whether he managed to do that all on his own and whether Hanzo is going to kill him as soon as he wakes up and notices.

He lifts their hands up and presses his lips against one of Cole’s thick knuckles.

“Took you long enough to wake up,” he murmurs. He feels strangely tame; letting Cole so easily off the hook. It does not feel right to let him have a heart attack right now. Not when he’s been such a sweet boy just now.

Cole doesn’t respond. He seems to need an eternity to even compute what is happening; so Hanzo decides to help him along by squeezing down on his dick and pressing his ass back against the boy’s hips just a little bit harder.

“You feel good early in the morning,” he tells him in a crooning voice over the sounds of Cole choking on his own tongue. “I think… I might want to have it more often.”

“O-Okay?” Cole whispers. His voice is so deep and gravelly from sleep that Hanzo can feel it vibrating in his stomach. The tickling sensation is out of this world. It’s almost better than the massive cock lodged in his guts.

Hanzo falls quiet, his cheeks inexplicably flushing. He curls his arm tighter around Cole’s, moving his hand so it is against Hanzo’s chest. After a heartbeat, the arm tightens and it feels so much like a hug that Hanzo doesn’t know what to say.

Cole is uncharacteristically quiet as well. He is breathing slow and deep right against the back of Hanzo’s neck. After a few moments of simply gathering himself, he starts to move; tiny back-and-forth motions of his hips that inch his dick along Hanzo’s inner walls in such small movements that they are barely even noticeable.

Can he come from it? He doesn’t know but… it doesn’t feel so important anymore. He is wrapped in Cassidy’s embrace, completely enveloped by his everything, and it feels… good. Secure.

The air is warm and thick around them, as is the body behind. Hanzo is being smothered but he can’t find it in him to be annoyed by it.

Cole is surprisingly sweet, slowly, barely fucking Hanzo, wet little pants puffing against the back of his shoulder.

All Hanzo can do is take it which… is what he’s wanted all along, isn’t it? He had wanted Cole to bury him underneath his weight and just grunt fuck him into oblivion. This is so different to that desperate little fantasy but all the more welcome, he finds.

He can barely move any of his limbs what with Cole’s arm and leg wrapped around him. Yes, all he can do is lie there and sweat, his ass stretched around the young stud’s breeding cock, his insides slowly turning hotter and hotter by those tiny back-and-forth movements.

It’s so… unhurried. Sleepy, even. It makes him wonder halfway through, whether Cole hasn’t fallen back asleep because his movements become so slow that it is downright excruciating.

But he does still move. Grinding in and in and in like he wants to crawl into Hanzo dick first.

His orgasm is just as slow and creeping. Hanzo doesn’t even notice it happening at first; only the prickling heat spreading down his thighs and up into his stomach, making him short of breath.

It’s so slow and gentle that it’s borderline ruined but God, it feels so good to be right there in bed with Cole in that moment that he honestly doesn’t care.

He hates getting attached to his boy toys… but here he is, filled up to the brim and wondering how long it might take to talk Cole into canceling his lease and moving in with Hanzo so he can wake up like this more often.

[maria021015]

Zaida stared down at the text message thread on the lit-up screen of the phone in her hands, her fingers flying over the keyboard to respond.

To Artemis: Where have you been all night? Scott said he sent Isaac to find you ages ago!

Artemis: I was asleep. My phone was shut off.

To Artemis: You NEVER turn your phone off. Rookie move.

Artemis: I didn’t this time either. But some unknown number called me literally a thousand, nine hundred, forty-three times and left the exact same voicemail every time in Japanese. What are the chances Lydia got bored with archaic Latin and took up Japanese?

To Artemis: Lydia doesn’t know Japanese, but Mr Yukimura does.

The sound of a door creaking open had Zaida shooting up from her chair as Noah Stilinski quietly exited the hospital room Stiles was in. Scott and Lydia were close behind her as she put her phone away and crossed the hall to where Raphael and Melissa were already standing.

“How is he?” Zaida blurted, eager to hear what was going on. As soon as Melissa had texted Scott that Stiles had been found and that they were taking him to the hospital, they rushed to meet the boy there. Waiting for the doctors to finish examining him had been hell, and Zaida was itching just to simply lay her eyes on Stiles herself. It had been a rough few days. After Stiles had been discharged from the hospital the first time, he hadn’t been going to school. In the afternoons she would stop by to check on him and play video games or watch movies - doing anything to keep both of their minds off everything else happening. Him going missing was completely out of the blue.

“He's sleeping now...And he's just fine. He doesn't remember much. It's a bit like a dream to him.” The man answered her, turning to Agent McCall, whose bandages were peeking out of the collar of his uniform. Zaida thought he’d gotten back into the field rather quickly after the attack the other night. “Thank you.”

“It was that repellent we sprayed in the coyote den to keep other animals out. I couldn't go near it without my eyes watering. It's just a good thing he mentioned it over the phone.” Raphael explained how he’d discovered to look for Stiles in Malia’s old coyote den in the Preserve. As it had turned out, the entire time Stiles had been on the phone with Scott, he'd been asleep, leading them to believe he'd been in an environment entirely different from where he actually was.

“No, it was more than that. Thank you.” Noah repeated gratefully, setting aside the fact that the man was still trying to move forward with an impeachment.

“It was a lucky connection.” Raphael insisted, and it was the first time Zaida had seen him act humbly.

“McCall, can you shut up please and accept my sincerest gratitude?” The Sheriff huffed gruffly and Scott’s father smiled in amusement.

“Accepted,” He nodded at the man.

“All right, you three. You've got school in less than six hours.” Melissa shifted her attention to the teens. “Go home. Go to sleep.”

“Okay,” Scott didn’t even attempt to argue, and Lydia went with him with a forlorn expression, still feeling guilty about how she had gotten it all so wrong.

Zaida turned around to watch her two friends walk down the hallway, only to see Xander approaching, hands shoved into the pockets of his deputy uniform. “Don’t even try. There’s no way in hell I’m leaving,” Zaida laughed humourlessly, refusing to go.

“Zay, what are you going to do here? Wait around for him to wake up? Let’s go home, get some rest, and I can bring you back in the morning before my shift starts.” Xander was careful to speak softly to her, knowing she was in a tense state at the moment. He knew even if he’d tried to get her to go to school tomorrow, she would never allow it. At least she might compromise on this.

“The only way I’m leaving this hospital is if you throw me over your shoulder and carry me out, kicking and screaming, and fighting tooth and nail to stay. Do you really want that?” She crossed her arms over her chest, hip jutting out as she raised a brow at him challengingly.

“I’ll drop you off some clothes in the morning on my way to the station,” Xander yielded with a long and tired sigh, exhausted from having spent the night out looking for the boy along with the rest of the task force. He knew fighting with Zaida was futile, and she was going through enough as it was without him making it more difficult for her.

“Love you!” She called out after him with a wide grin as he went back the way he’d come.

“Love you too, you little terrorist,” He muttered back with a roll of his eyes but kept walking.

Zaida was waiting once more out in the hallway with her phone flashing to warn her of her critically low battery. Ignoring the glaringly low percentage in the top right corner of her screen, she turned her attention back to the message thread that had been running with Allison since the night before.

To Artemis: Did you get the translation?

Artemis: Yes, but we only ended up with more questions.

To Artemis: Do elaborate. It’s not like I have anything else to do here.

Artemis: Mr Yukimura said it was an announcement instructing Japanese-Americans upon arrival to an internment camp in WWII, but the camp was called Oak Creek and didn’t exist. He thinks it’s a prank.

To Artemis: Do YOU think it’s a prank?

Artemis: With everything else that’s happened? No.

To Artemis: Me neither.

Japanese fox spirits, demons, freaky voicemails from WWII internment camps that don't exist...What the hell was going on?

“Zaida?” Sheriff Stilinski’s voice roused her from her laser-like focus and she looked up to see him beconing her over to where he stood by Stiles’ room. The doctor he’d just been speaking to had left and was already down the hall by the same Zaida made her way over.

“Are they done yet?” She questioned, wondering if the examinations were finally over.

“Almost. They wanna do an MRI.” The man let out a weary sigh, his posture haunched with exhaustion. He’d been there all night with her and hadn’t slept a wink - not even when Zaida had dozed off against his shoulder after they’d raided the vending machine for a late-night-early-breakfast.

“So that means none of the tests have been conclusive?” She raised her brows, eyes shining with hope. Inconclusive test results would be good news at this point, considering the only other alternative if they were conducting an MRI would be to confirm a suspected diagnosis.

“I dunno kiddo,” He shook his head with lips pursed in stress. “Look, I’m gonna pick us all up some proper food. While I’m gone, you should be in there with him. He needs you right now.”

“He needs you too, Sheriff.” Zaida pointed out, seeing how the man was on the verge of dissociating to cope with it all.

“I know,” He promised, reading the meaning behind her loaded stare. Zaida nodded, allowing him to leave before she reached for the door handle and twisted it open.

“Hey there stranger,” Zaida smiled at the boy lying down in the hospital bed as she entered the room and closed the door behind her. She’d been there almost all day as doctors pulled him in and out for various tests, but it was the first time she’d been allowed to see him.

“Zaida,” Stiles shifted to straighten into a sitting position at the sight of her. “You look…”

“Hideous? Xander dropped me off a change of clothes this morning and picked the most atrocious yet basic outfit ever, and there’s no need to remind me,” She wrinkled her nose and pulled at the purple top that kept riding up her body uncomfortably. She hoped that trivial humour might be enough to lighten the situation.

“I was going to say you look exhausted,” He noted. Her makeup had started to wear away to reveal dark circles under her bloodshot eyes.

“Because that’s so much better,” The brunette drawled sarcastically, crossing the room to sit on a chair beside him.

“How long have you been here?” Stiles questioned. He hadn’t seen her, but Xander dropping off clothes for her would suggest she’d been at the hospital for a long while.

“Since last night,” She shrugged, as if waiting around a hospital for over eighteen hours was no big deal. His amber eyes shone with appreciation as he gazed at her in a way that made her heart flutter. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I got hit by a bus.” He ground out with a huff of dry laughter, shuffling over the mattress and patting the space beside him to beckon her. Zaida pushed herself out of the chair and clambered onto the bed, settling into place next to the boy. “Have they told you what’s going on?”

“They didn’t have to tell me,” She shut her eyes, leaning into his side and savouring the warmth of his body.

“Of course you figured it out,” Stiles smiled fondly, the arm that was around her coming up to brush over her skin. He didn’t have to tell her that he was scared, she could feel it now. The connection had opened once more upon her arrival at the hospital.

“You know, even if it is…” Zaida began but couldn’t bring herself to say the words. “There is still something we can do - something Scott can do.”

“You’re talking about the bite,” He deduced and she pulled away to look at him eye to eye.

“Would you do it? Scott won’t go through with it unless you want it,” She questioned, searching his face for an answer. She wanted to cry and beg him to say yes, but she also didn’t want her pleas to influence his decision. This wasn’t about what she wanted, it was about Stiles. So instead she tried to hide her hopeful expression. For a moment he appeared conflicted until she found determination in his eyes.

“If it’s true - if I have what Mom had,” Stiles sucked in a deep breath and Zaida’s pulse quickened in anticipation. “Then yeah. Yes, I’d take the bite. Being a werewolf is better than what I had to watch her go through, and what my father would go through by having to live it all again.”

Her muscles relaxed at his response and she curled into him once more, resting her head over his chest so she could hear his heart beating beneath her cheek. Stiles’ arms wrapped around her, resting his chin atop her head. Each time he breathed in he could smell her sweet perfume and it calmed the anxiousness in his soul. “I just want all this to end,” He whispered and her chest ached in sympathy for him.

“He’s in there,” Zaida held the door to the examination room open so Scott could walk through before she followed him. Noah and Melissa were already inside with the specialist.

“I'm not sure I know how to pronounce this...or if it's not actually a misspelling…” The doctor trailed off as he stared at Stiles’ medical forms in his hand, and not for the first time Zaida wondered what the boy’s birth name was.

“Just call him Stiles,” The Sheriff waved the doctor off impatiently.

“Okay. Stiles, just to warn you, you're going to hear a lot of noise during the MRI. It's due to pulses of electricity going through metal coils inside the machine.” The man explained to the boy who was wearing a hospital gown, ready to be examined. “Uh, if you want, we can get you earplugs or headphones…”

“Oh, no. No, I don't need anything.” Stiles declined, sitting on the edge of the bed that would soon retract into the machine.

“Hey, we're just on the other side of that window, okay?” Melissa reassured the boy and Zaida sent him a comforting smile that he struggled to return before she joined the adults and the doctor in a conjoining room behind protective glass.

“I don’t think you’re allowed to be in here, young lady,” The doctor conducting the test stared at her sternly, but Noah waved him off.

“It’s okay, Stiles would want her here,” He defended her and she sent him a grateful expression.

Zaida watched as Scott and Stiles talked to one another, knowing what was being said as Stiles nodded and pulled Scott into a tight hug with tears in his eyes. When Scott pulled away and left the room to go back into the hallway, the doctor whose badge told them his name was Vandenberg began the process.

“Okay, Stiles...This will take about forty-five minutes to an hour. Now, remember, try not to move - even a little bit.” Dr Vandenberg spoke into a long microphone as the bed Stiles was lying on moved into the white machine like entering a cocoon. “Stiles, you're going to hear that noise now. It's going to be a loud clanging - kind of like a hammer hitting an anvil.”

Zaida winced and was forced to push her blocks firmly into place as Stiles’ anguish echoed down their bond. This would be a long hour.

“Is it over?” Zaida asked as the doctor pulled up a few images on the screen in front of him. She crowded around the control panel between Noah and Melissa as they all looked at the scans of Stiles’ brain.

“See this? The tissue here and there?” Dr Vandenberg’s gloved finger pointed to red and orange masses on the otherwise blue, black and white images. “Both those spots are showing signs of atrophy.”

“Atrophy?” Noah repeated in a defeated tone, his lined face crumpling as tears welled in his light eyes. Zaida’s own heart sank to the very bottom of her stomach at the news. Atrophy meant degeneration, which meant brain shrinkage, which meant...

“I'm sorry.” The doctor pursed his lips, stepping back to allow them the privacy to grieve.

“Sheriff, I’m so sorry,” Zaida pulled the man into a hug as he broke and the tears came flowing. He surprised even himself when he began sobbing, and she could feel him shaking as he returned her hug tightly. She couldn’t imagine how hard this must be for him, given it wasn’t the first time he’d received such news about someone he loved.

“My son…” The man’s words were muffled between loud sniffles. “Why my son? First my Claudia…and now Stiles...”

“It’s going to be okay. Scott’s going to do something, alright?” Zaida reassured him, her own eyes tearing up in the heavy emotion of the moment. All she wanted to do was to break down herself but she held it together for the sake of the man who had already lost his wife, and had just found out he was set to lose his son. “He’s going to be okay, I promise.”

The lights above them flickered and dimmed with a loud hum before the power was restored and the lighting returned to normal, surprising them all enough for Zaida and Noah to pull apart with inquisitive expressions. “What was that?” Melissa questioned.

“It sounded like a power surge.” The doctor answered, and they all looked towards the MRI machine where the bed was now empty and Stiles was nowhere in sight.

“Where's my son?” Stilinski asked, his voice low and stuffy from the crying. Zaida didn’t wait around to hear any of their guesses as her heart pounded in alarm. She was the first to rush out of the room and into the dark hallway, reaching out to the door in her mind only to find it locked once more. It was enough to tell her something was wrong.

She wound through the torrent of patients and staff alike panicking in the hallway as she headed back to Stiles’ room, only to find the pile of clothes he’d left when he’d changed into the hospital gown was now missing. “Damn it, Stiles!” She swore and emerged back into the hallway as they began to empty. Where was he? Had he run out on his own or was he taken? She walked through the darkness aimlessly, not knowing where to even start searching for the boy, until she heard voices.

“You know me?” A woman was speaking, and Zaida came to the end of the corridor where it met with another at a ninety-degree angle where an elevator was. “Then you remember that I won't be deterred by your choice of host…even if it's an innocent boy.”

At the woman’s words, Zaida stepped back, ducking behind the corner so as not to be seen. A host? Teenage boy? Her heart leapt into her throat as she realised there was only one thing the woman could possibly mean by her accusation. She was talking to the Nogitsune.

“Are you threatening us?” Goosebumps rippled across her skin at hearing the second voice. It was cold and low, but not unfamiliar. Stiles, she had been talking to Stiles.

“Now I'm threatening you.” The woman responded and Zaida risked a peek around the corner to only just see inside of the elevator. As the lights flickered on and off above, they illuminated the masked, snarling faces of two Oni on either side of a woman with dark hair and almond eyes.

“We're not really afraid of your little fireflies.” Stiles chuckled in amusement and Zaida’s blood froze to a river of ice. Stiles was the Nogitsune.

She couldn’t move - she could hardly breathe as her mind struggled to comprehend the fact that Stiles was the Dark Kitsune’s vessel. She’d thought that humans couldn’t host the Nogitsune, otherwise, why had the Oni not tested any of them? She’d thought that had meant he was safe. Her painting, his dreams, her dream…Everything had been pointing straight at him all along and yet they’d still been blinded. She’d had a feeling the other night in the hospital and she cursed herself for not listening to it - for not figuring out what it had meant earlier. But what of his symptoms? The MRI results? Was the diagnosis still true? Or had it all been a smokescreen to stop them from figuring out the Nogitsune’s identity?

“If the Oni can't defeat you, I know someone who will.” The woman challenged and Zaida finally tore her feet from where they’d been glued to the floor, stumbling away from the scene.

She needed to find the others. She needed to warn them. And Stiles…was Stiles gone, or was he still in there somewhere? Was there any way to get him back? Her footsteps echoed through the empty halls as she staggered through the darkness, fear’s grip tightening on her heart like icy claws. What did the Nogitsune want? And why had it taken Stiles? Tears rolled once again down Zaida’s cheeks, streaking through her already smudged makeup. Why did it have to be Stiles?

Turning into the next hallway, Zaida froze in her tracks when a figure was standing before her, as if it had been waiting. A conflicted wave of emotions crashed over her at the sight of him. It wasn’t Stiles - not really - but it wore his face. The face that made her body instinctively calm down was now the source of her anxiety, and she was teetering on the edge of a very tall cliff. Zaida's breath caught in her throat as she met his gaze, her heart hammering against her chest.

“S-Stiles,” Her voice shook as it left her lips, and she tried to paint a facade over her terror. He didn’t know that she knew, right? Maybe it was best if she could keep it that way. “I was looking for you. You disappeared.”

The Nogitsune didn’t say anything, he simply smirked faintly as he stepped closer at a leisurely pace. The overhead lights flashed on and off until they completely died, shrouding them in a blanket of darkness. Zaida prodded with her powers, reaching into her mind to try and find Stiles’ door to find it locked once more. It was only then that it dawned on her - the connection between herself and Stiles was never gone. It was simply that this wasn’t Stiles. All those times that she couldn’t feel him…It was because it hadn’t been him at all. When the Nogitsune was present, Stiles was completely unreachable.

“We- We should probably find the others,” Zaida spoke again when he remained quiet, attempting to flash him a casual smile. Her words were barely a whisper as she struggled to maintain her composure. Stiles - or rather, not -Stiles - kept staring at her with that amused expression stopping in front of her. She tried to take a step - to move past him under the guise of searching for their friends, but his arm shot out with impossible speed, barring her from going any further.

“Did you really think that your little act would work?” He tilted his head at her, clicking his tongue in disapproval. “It’ll take a lot more than that to fool a fox, Zaida. You can’t trick a trickster. You can’t trick me.”

Zaida could hear her own racing heart beating in the blood that thrummed through her ears, and she was fairly certain the creature before her could hear it too. She didn’t dare look in his eyes, not when she knew what she would find there - something dark, something other, something not -Stiles, something Void. Every instinct in her body screamed at her to run, to flee in the opposite direction and never turn back. But she couldn’t move. Terror stiffened her muscles, sticking her to the spot. A single, lonely tear betrayed her, rolling down her cheek. As the Nogitsune stepped even closer, her breath hitched in her throat, her body trembling. She didn’t know what to do. Her brain was full of thick fog, inhibiting her ability to think straight - or think at all.

Void Stiles chuckled and the sound made her organs twist uncomfortably, her nightmare flashing through her mind as the arm barring her movement lifted to grip her chin. Tilting her face away from him, his nose dragged across her cold skin from her temple to her ear. His warm tongue pressed forcefully over her cheek where her tear had run and she flinched, trying to jerk away from his hold, but he was too strong. “I can taste your fear.” He whispered, his breath hot against the side of her face.

Void stepped away, letting her go, but before she could react he lunged forward, his movements swift and predatory. It was a far cry from his usual awkward and clumsy demeanour. The world spun around Zaida as his fist connected with her jaw, sending her crashing to the ground in a haze of pain and confusion. As darkness closed in around her, the last thing she saw was the Nogitsune in Stiles’ body, looming over her.

“We have a live wire, a powerline has been cut at Beacon Memorial. Ten forty-five ‘d’, two deceased adults and one electrocuted teenager with second-degree burns, over.” Xander spoke into the radio clipped to his uniform pocket as he scanned the scene before him.

An ambulance driver was dead, having stepped into the electrified water covering the ground. A civilian had done the same, and the area was already being roped off with police tape. Another officer was directing the flow of traffic around the crime scene, and once again, right in the middle of it all, were Zaida’s friends. Xander stalked over to Scott McCall, Derek Hale, Allison Argent, and Kira Yukimura, who were all crowded around an injured Isaac Lahey. Gripping Scott by his arm and pulling him aside, Xander’s jaw locked with anger.

“So are you gonna tell me what the hell really happened here?” He demanded with a threatening glare. The fact that the group were always showing up at crime scenes was suspicious at best and incriminating at worst. It was hard enough to hide the supernatural from the world without the McCall pack constantly getting involved.

“Someone tampered with the electrical on the roof of the hospital and one of the powerlines up there snapped and came flying down here,” Scott answered in a hushed tone so no one would overhear them.

“Someone?” Xander repeated with raised eyebrows, sensing there was something the wolf wasn’t telling him. “What am I missing here?”

“Zaida is gonna kill me for telling you this, but…when we died to find our parents we gave power back to the Nemeton, which turned it into a sort of supernatural magnet.” Scott winced, knowing that if Xander didn’t brutally murder him after hearing the truth, Zaida certainly would.

“You idiots did what?!” Xander hissed, his dark eyes narrowing.

“Yeah, well, it gets worse.” Scott swallowed thickly. “It brought something to Beacon Hills - a dark Kitsune spirit that is possessing someone, and a bunch of demon ninjas that are looking for it.”

“Where’s my sister?” Xander realised with a jolt that Zaida was missing from the group, and so was Stiles.

“She’s still inside,” The werewolf answered, and Xander didn’t wait to hear anymore.

With a newfound sense of urgency and concern for his sister propelling him forward, he sprinted into the building, launching himself into the stairwell and climbing the structure three at a time. The clatter of footsteps behind him told him he was being followed, but he didn’t care - his sole thought was of his sister. Sprinting through the hallways, he made a beeline for Stiles’ room, gripping the frame to shift his direction as he burst inside to find Noah Stilinski standing alone in the darkness.

“Where is she?” He asked, his chest heaving as he scanned the otherwise empty space.

“She’s gone. They both are,” The Sheriff muttered an answer, his shoulders sagging defeatedly. “Parish reported Stiles’ Jeep leaving the premises ten minutes ago.”

“Damn it!” Xander cursed, overwhelmed by a mixture of anger and worry, and he took it out on a nearby chair. Lifting the furniture into the air, he hurled it across the room where it smashed to pieces against a wall.

“Is this hers?” Scott asked from behind the hunter, lifting a cream-coloured knit jacket to his nose. Xander nodded and the werewolf turned to Derek beside him. “That scent on the roof? You remember how I told you there was something else to it? It wasn’t just Stiles’ scent, it was Zaida’s too.”

“That might not change anything,” Derek stated with a blank expression, elaborating when Scott appeared confused. “Sometimes, when two people are bonded together, their scents can start to mix with one another.”

“So you’re saying it was only Stiles on the roof?” Scott frowned, trying to keep up.

“Yes. And no.” Derek tilted his head. “I’m saying it could have been either of them, or both. There’s no way to tell.”

“What the hell are you two talking about?” Xander whipped around to face them.

“When we were looking for Stiles I tracked his scent to the roof - or what I thought was his scent. The person on the roof sabotaged the wires. This whole thing was orchestrated…by the person possessed by the Nogitsune.” Derek answered and Xander’s heart sank when he finally understood the significance of the discussion.

“But Deaton said the Nogistune could only get in through an open door - one that was already connected to the other side. Allison, Stiles and I are the only ones who did that.” Scott reasoned, but a voice by the door turned all of their heads.

“That’s not entirely true.” Lydia stood before them with a grim expression on her face.

“What are you doing here?” Scott questioned. “I thought you were staying home tonight.”

“I heard Zaida screaming…I had to come.” The girl explained in an empty voice, knowing she was too late. She'd been driving when she'd heard her best friend crying out in what sounded like agony, over and over and over again until her head felt as though it was about to explode.

“What do you mean it’s not true,” Derek interrupted, prompting the redhead to speak up.

“Zaida did open a door, remember?” Lydia looked at Scott. “Before the three of you did the ritual, Zaida did something just like it with Stiles to talk to her mom.”

“So it could be either of them,” Scott whispered in realisation.

“Okay, you all need to tell me everything, right the fuck now.” Xander glared menacingly. All he could think about was his sister and the blinding need to find her.

“You need to tell us everything.” Noah corrected, his spine straightening with purpose.