#ignorance or one of those many many things you only learn after someone is gone

[charliemwrites]

Awooooooo!

Content: Voyeurism, Dog Urination, Implied Non-Con Touching

Your dog is weird. Just.. just weird. Like, all dogs are weird. They have their quirks and their oddities, silly babies in fluffy bodies.

Johnny though…

He snuggles up in your bed every night; you don’t even bother trying to kick him out. He’s presses up tight against you, head almost on your pillow. Have to start sleeping in a shirt because one too many unfortunately placed cold nose bumps…. Yeah. But that’s fine. The fuzzy space heater is worth it.

(So what if you sort of wake up sometimes and half-dream its skin you’re snuggled up to. If you imagine a more human rasp to the quiet snores by your ear. If the tongue on your cheek is softer and smaller than you’re used to….

Your dating life has been dry for some time.)

Johnny pees in every room of your house at least once, but that’s not entirely surprising - he’s an intact male, after all. (Something you’re trying to, heh, fix. Though the appointment mysteriously keeps getting moved or cancelled.) thankfully, though, once he’s “marked his territory” he starts asking to go outside.

And that’s where the weirdness begins.

The first time you let him out off leash, he shoots off into the woods and only returns once he’s done. You panic, feel so stupid and irresponsible, near tears by the time he gets back. When he sees you upset, say on the porch steps, he darts to your side and leans into you until you calm down.

You stop worrying so much about his little “trips”. Means you dont have to clean up after him to keep the yard tidy after all.

The first time he bounds off into the woods and doesn’t come back after a few minutes, you almost go searching. But.., but well he’s a good boy. An hour later he comes back, scratching at the door.

You’re not sure what he’s up to and it makes you anxious. Don’t like the idea of an ��outdoor” dog. All of yours have been in-home pets kept in sight at all times. You’re scared Johnny’s going to get hurt or bitten or hit by a car.

But he always comes back healthy whole.

One hour turns into two, then three. Entire mornings, only returning in the evening to climb into bed. Eventually a whole day. You have someone install a doggy door big enough for Johnny to slip through so that he can come and go as he pleases.

You get used to having a pet that’s only around sometimes, though you sniffle that you miss him when he’s gone. As if understanding, he’ll always lick at you, comforting.

The other weird thing - he demands to climb into bed while you’re doing “self care”. Again, dogs don’t get human social boundaries. He’s allowed on the bed so why is it that he wouldn’t be allowed up even if it’s not bedtime? It’s understandable dog logic, even if you have to stop the first several times it happens.

Keeping him out isn’t an option. Even if you manage to shut the bedroom door on him before he wriggles inside, he makes such a ruckus. Barking, howling, knocking over the trash and scratching at the door. You almost step directly into a puddle of pee once.

You just keep the lights off, close your eyes, and try to ignore the odd brush of fur or gust of air from his nose. Pretend he’s not there at all; and not staring the way he tends to.

Not getting off just isn’t an option. You make your peace with your dog too dumb to even turn away.

(You also learn very quickly to wash your toys as soon as you’re done. Can’t even wait to catch your breath. Calling him nasty makes his tail wag. You know it’s not reasonable to think he’s doing it on purpose.)

“Johnny, drop it!”

Instead of doing that, he drops his front half low, a lacy black pair of underwear in his teeth. He snatched it right out of your laundry basket while you were trying to start the washer.

“I’m going to turn you into a pair of boots. Put those down!”

Chasing a giant wolf-dog for your panties is ill-advised but what are you gonna do? Let him shred your underwear?

“I wanted to wear those out tonight, you bastard!”

You’re supposed to have a date. At this rate, you won’t even be able to shower, never mind get ready. Johnny’s been a nuisance all day, ever since you got off the phone with your mom this morning, updating her about your life and plans for the evening.

Determined, you give up and go to finish the laundry - only to hear a crash and a yelp. Johnny’s knocked over the mirror and stepped in the glass.

“Oh, baby boy,” you groan. “Dammit, John-Bon.”

You text your date for a rain check, then call ahead for the emergency vet. Huh… your first aid kit is much better stocked than you remember.

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Masterlist

[diejager]

what would eldritch reader vs some other eldritch person look like?

[A cheese wheel has been added to your inventory.]

[A cheese wheel has been consumed.]

Opposition Cw: blood, gore, death, cannibalism?, tell me if I missed any.

Despite old-age rivalries and ancient hostilities, to fight a Lord for One’s territory, the bloodshed and animosity shared between many, and the death of a ruling, primordial being, they had forgone the older ways, taken to learn and study humans and monsters alike, especially the sudden emergence of hybrids, a perfect cross between human and monster, one that rivalled the flawlessness of Old Ones. You were one of those that sought change, to live and prosper farther than in their imagination, their faith and their fear. You wanted something substantial, tangible under your clawed, see thing you could taste and touch, more than the pleas and cries.

Most had left their territory, travelling wherever the wind blew, some ventured far and high, drifting from the country they were born to new colonies —the Caribbean or the Thirteen Colonies in the West of the great Monopolies of the 17th centuries. You rarely strayed outside familiar lands, presiding over a small stretch of land in Europe, it was familiar, comfort. It was a decision many agreed with, those you crossed would peer at you, a subtle nod of their head and they’d be gone, vanishing when someone broke your contact; gone along the wind, leaving only a whisper of their existence in monstrous words too high for human and monster ears.

Perhaps that’s why it felt odd to fight another one after centuries of peaceful coexistence, to throw yourself into the fray, broad and towering over the trees, beak snapping at the canidae entity and talons gripping their paws, claws threatening to rip into your feathered body. You felt stretched, rusted with joints creaking and bones groaning, too old and too tired. This Entity was young, a few centuries old, with a wolf-like appearance and a character that fit a mutt more than it would a being of such prestige. They were chaotic, acting recklessly and without thought, you needn’t ask it their age, it was written all over the scarless skin and brutish acts.

Rather than fighting for land, coveting wealth and fine metals that humans loved with greedy hands, you took on the wolf for protection, the ward of your small family, under a dozen with years of bloodshed and violence under their belt. The 141 had a mastery in different skills, utilizing what they did best to push on, to fight and survive to see the next sunrise, but even hybrids had limits, where their great feats and insurmountable reputation were useless against something of old; be it young or primordial, Eldritch beings had little predator, prey to their own kind but rarely from another.

You clashed with the Wolf, standing on muscular, hind legs ruffled with dirtied fur, blood staining the greyish hair; a strong tail swaying carelessly, cutting trees down with a rough swing; a well-defined abdomen painted with a tribal tattoo, gleaming with a gold light, portraying the image of a holy symbole on a blasphemous being; sculpted arms holding back your own feathered ones, hands bleeding from your talons; and a wide mouth, silver teeth bared in a loud growl, the sound near deafening to you. It was strong and well-trained for something born in times of peace, body built to it’s peak and mind sharpened to ignore every distraction, but you were from the old, racking up more experience and wisdom it could only dream of wielding.

You were defending the LZ, standing between the Wolf and it’s mission of killing those it could kill, beings weaker than it. The only thorn in their mission was you, the lone Entity that engaged it. The Wolf hadn’t been told that the TF had an Old One, primeval in every sense. It struggled against you, your more monstrous figure compared to their tamed one, their creation stemming from some wild fantasy of the Middle Ages, when France feared the human eating wolf.

You screeched as loudly as it growled, voice gaining in force, a cacophony of screams and cries slipping from your tongue, the fears and terror of beings that brought you to life. Spreading your second pair of limbs, you slashed at it, digging into the soft skin of it’s abdomen, tearing away fibres of muscle and warm fat. It yowled, struggling to pull away, frantic at your shift of tactic —fearful that you decided to attack than defend your group. It stood on the single probability that you wouldn’t engage, preferring to protect than fight with the risk of endangering your family.

The Wolf would die today. Your grip was unyielding, keeping it in this situation however much it tried to squirm away, hands prisoners of your first pair of wings and chest bleeding from your second. Before long, it would be another body added to your count, cooling and gutted on the forest ground. You swung your tail around them, wrapping once around their slim waist, adding further leverage over it while you dug their intestines out. The strong stench of blood, metallic and tempting, filled the air, bringing fearful tears to the Wolf’s eyes, beady, yellow eyes growing hazy.

You revelled in it’s slow death, your thirst for violence growing with the ages of peace, strung tight like an itch that bothered you incessantly. You hungered, you couldn’t remember the taste of Eldritch meat, the rich ambrosia in the veins or the last whip of their dying breath. Your beak cracked open, white teeth gleaming inside your black mouth until they were dirtied, stained red with the blood of an Entity, you clamped down on it’s neck, breaking the rough skin with enough force to shatter bone, but the Wolf had tough bone. That would only prolong it’s suffering, the pain feeding you as much as the meat and bone would —a delicacy of the ages. You wonder how König and Ghost would think of Eldritch flesh.

You wouldn’t need to eat for another month after this buffet.

Taglist: @warenai @capricorn-anon @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @tallmanlover @distracteddragoness @vxnilla-hxrddrugs @konigsblog @havoc973 @im-making-an-effort @daisychainsinknots @0alk0msan @danielle143

[hamburgerndsprite]

Sprite's Favourite Fics {Bangtan Fics} Part 9

Note: Hey everyone! Just a quick heads up: in the last seven parts of my fic recs, I included stories featuring all the members. For the next few parts, though, I have more fics that focus on just a few of them. So, I'm going to make separate lists to finish up those fics, mostly highlighting the Maknae line, Yoongi, and OT7 stories. I've already made the OT7 fic recs list in Part 8. This part will be all about Min Yoongi fics! Next up is Park Jimin. (Also, all the collages are edited by me therefore I request everyone not to repost them as theirs)

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 10, Part 11, Part 12 (completed)

[MIN YOONGI]

{ONESHOT}

➺ Bangtan's Receptionist by wooataes

Pairing: Mafia Boss!Min Yoongi x Fem! Reader, implied ot7 x Fem! Reader Word Count: 1.8k Warnings: Mafia AU, swearing, Death, blood, injuries, mentions of human trafficking but nothing too detailed, guns, character death. Summary: Bangtan’s contracts are clear and concise. They are to be followed to the letter, including the most important rule, do not touch their men.

➺ Crave You by borathae

Pairing: Yoongi x f. Reader Genre: established relationship!AU, Smut, some Fluff, smol lil Angst Summary: ”You should be angry at him for breaking his promise to you, but how could you, if kissing him feels so good? Or alternatively: all it takes is a small fight to discover a kink you and your fiancé share...”

➺ Anything by jiminrings

pairing: yoongi x reader wordcount: 10k glimpse: yoongi doesn't want to move on from his ex because she's everything he's ever known, whereas you want to move on from him because he's everything you've ever loved. alternatively, yoongi's your best friend and you've been in love with him your whole life.

➺ Cuddle Noodle by redrose10

Pairing: Snake Hybrid Yoongi x Female Reader Warnings: Mentions of abuse, euthanasia, doctors office and sickness, mentions of mating/breeding but no smut, abandonment Word Count: 6,432 Summary: Since no one else wanted him, you agreed to adopt a dangerous noodle of a snake hybrid named Yoongi. And even though you were terrified of snakes, he somehow managed to cuddle himself right into your heart.

➺ Now We Reign by oddinary4bts

☆pairing: Min Yoongi x singer female reader ☆rating: 18+ (minors DNI) ☆genre: work collaborators to lovers, idol!au, smut, angst, fluff ☆word count: 34.9k ☆summary: when working on a collab together makes you and Min Yoongi seek comfort with the other, you discover there’s more to life than loneliness. Only, hurdles mark your path in Min Yoongi’s life, and it’s unclear what the outcome will be. Will you be destroyed by him and his world, or will you learn to reign over it, together with him?

➺ Souvenir by jiminrings

pairing: yoongi x reader wordcount: 3k glimpse: shouldn’t this be the part where you tell him not to stay out too late? alternatively, yoongi thinks you hate him because you don’t coddle him after a fight.

➺ So Close by namfinessed

pairing: Yoongi x reader genre: major angst, fluff, second chance romance word count: 13.5k summary: words are not enough for people who are so close and so in love, or a fic in which yoongi loses you but will do everything in his power to win you back.

➺ How many things by myg-butterfly

Pairing: Yoongi x Reader Genre: Non-Idol AU, Anti-Social Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Angst/Fluff Summary: Yoongi invites you out to a party with him, and in trust, you say yes. But what happens when you lose him in the crowd, just to find him again with someone else by his side? In the midst of panic and longing, you wonder how many things he thinks about before he gets to you.

➺ Taste Of His Own Medicine by btsficsandsuch

Pairing: Yoongi x reader Summary: You suddenly have to leave to go back to your home country for a few months. Yoongi decides to ignore you so you decide to show him how it feels when he realizes you’re gone.

➺ In an Instant [M] by hobibliophile

Pairing: Yoongi x Reader, ft. Jin being a true bro Word Count: 6.5k Genre: BFF!Yoongi, Smut, College AU Summary: Dancing around each other for years, both you and Yoongi have resigned to stay friends, never knowing the others feelings for each other. However, an impulsive decision from Jin might finally push you two together. Yoongi really shouldn’t have trusted Jin with his phone.

➺ Puppy-loving by army-author

pairing: yoongi x reader genre: fluff, min holly's perspective word count: 1.6k summary: cuddling wouldn’t be complete without Min Holly, Yoongi’s dog, getting in your way.

➺ Breathe by pasteljeon

Pairing: Yoongi x wife! Reader Genre: Mafia!AU, some dark concepts (mafia/gang, hint of torture, guns), bit of implied sexual content, mostly fluff Length: 0.9k Summary: You’re the only one that can soothe his ire.

➺ Requested Drabble by redrose10

pairing: idol! yoongi x wife! reader genre: fluff, established relationship summary: since you and your daughter couldn't make in time for his performance you sent a little surprise his way.

➺ Requested Drabble by redrose10

pairing: idol! yoongi x wife! reader genre: fluff, established relationship summary: “I was just wondering…If there was a zombie apocalypse and I got bit would you still love me even though I was a zombie?”

➺ Kale'in Me Softly by jimlingss

➜ pairing: yoongi x reader ➜ Words: 17.1k ➜ Genres: 90% Fluff, 9.5% Angst, 0.5% Smut, Farm!AU ➜ Summary: After your grandfather's passing, you decide to take over his farm and plant the trendiest vegetable: kale. It's a struggle to be in the countryside when you've always been a city girl. But there's someone less than sympathetic — a grumpy farmer across the acres who's constantly trying to pick a fight with you.

➺ The Final - Day 02 by yoongiofmine

Pairing: DDAY!Yoongi  x Groupie!Reader  Genre: idol au, porn with a lot of plot, one-shot WC: 16k Summary: You've been Yoongi's go-to companion for the past few years, well aware that's all you were going to be. Despite your very real, growing feelings for the rapper, you took what you could get every time. Now, you're backstage at day two of the final leg of his tour when another member takes an interest in you. Will it be enough to make Yoongi realize he's got competition?

➺ Damn the Charcuterie Board [M] by bratkook

pairing: min yoongi x reader x park jimin genre: light crack, smut, pwp, warnings: threesome (obvs), oral sex, face riding, unprotected sex, sloppy seconds, stupid jokes about raw meat lmfao word count: 6.7k of pure filth

➺ I want her with me by justtextmeoppa

Pairing: Yoongi x Reader Words count: 2,8k+ Genre: Fluff Plot: You and Yoongi are both idols and you’re dating. During a Music Award Show he confesses you’re his girlfriend. 

➺ A Tiger's Judgement by borathae

Pairing: Warrior!Yoongi x Princess!Reader  Genre: Fantasy, e2l!AU, Smut Wordcount: 21.7k Summary: “Yoongi was a warrior in the Queen’s army, brave and loyal to his duties even if that meant protecting Her daughter, who can’t stand his presence in the slightest and who more often than not uses him as her way of taking out her anger. As one fateful night forces them to survive together, they soon need to learn how to live with each other.”

➺ A Tiger's Empire by borathae

Pairing: Warrior!Yoongi x Queen!Reader  Genre: Fantasy, Romance, Smut  Wordcount: 13.5k Summary: “Yoongi returns home as the man by your side and has to come to terms with his new role as your ruling partner. It turns out to be quite the difficult task as half of the court still sees him as the unruly warrior with the ugly face. His new Queen and lover however is willing to fight the world for him and She is hellbound to show him and everyone around them just how beautiful he is.”

{SERIES}

➺ Take Five by jiminrings

pairing: yoongi x reader wordcount: 10k genre: angst, fluff, unrequited love, so much pining glimpse: dr. min yoongi’s a board-certified dermatologist; skilled, renowned, and in-demand — oh and also, he’s divorced. alternatively, you’re yoongi’s nurse and you have a crush on him, and he gives you five chances to ask him out — he never said anything about accepting though.

➺ Oh, Baby! by honey-boyyoongi [ONGOING]

Pairing: single dad! Yoongi x Reader Genre: Fluff, angst, crack, neighbor au Chapters: 60/61 Summary: Min Yoongi, is a simple man. He likes his coffee black and iced, he enjoys his job, and he loves his baby girl. But what happens when the new neighbor, quite literally, drops into his life?

➺ Vows aka 10 ways to win your husband's heart by hamsterclaw

Pairing: Yoongi x F! reader ft. Jin Genre: Arranged marriage, e2l, smut, angst Chapters: 2/2 + Drabbles Summary: You're five years into your arranged marriage with Min Yoongi, and he's never once retaliated for anything you've done to him. One day you realise you've lost your appetite for provoking him, and you set about trying to win his heart instead.

➺ So it goes by prodagustd

—pairing: rapper!yoongi x reader —chapters: 7/7 + drabbles —genre: friends with benefits (kind of? they're in love) to lovers, fluff, smut, angst. —summary: You and Yoongi have been hooking up, having dates and spending most of the week together for almost seven months. He was comfortable without a title, until the last two weeks, when you couldn't see him because of your busy schedule, Yoongi can't understand why he misses you so bad if your relationship is just sex to him. Or maybe he does, but he's too much of a coward to admit it.

➺ BOO-lieve in me by jimlingss

➜ Pairing: Ghost! Yoongi x Ghost! Reader ➜ Parts: 2/2 ➜ Genres: 60% Fluff, 40% Angst, Spirit Marriage!AU ➜ Summary: A Spirit Marriage - in which two deceased people are wedded together. In your life, you wouldn’t have ever imagined yourself married. Much less to mommy’s boy, Min Yoongi.

➺ She's Testosterone by jimlingss

Pairing: Yoongi x Reader Parts: 4/4 Genre: Crack Fic. No lies here. Summary: Drop-dead gorgeous, cute, and sassy - you adore your best friend. But is there more beneath the surface? Who exactly is Min Yoonji?

➺ Interlude by yoongiofmine

Pairing: Idol!Yoongi x Deaf!reader Genre: Series, fluff, angst, smut, idol au. Parts: 11/11 Summary: All Yoongi wanted was to use the last few months before enlisting to work on his solo projects, prepare for his tour. When the silence left around him as his members started to go one by one got too loud, he needed to find something else to fill in the void. But Yoongi would never have guessed that it would come in the form of you… Someone he would never expect to fall in love with.

➺ Inheritance by jincherie

Pairing: Hybrid! Yoongi x reader Genre: hybrid!au, fluff (later), smut (later later) Parts: 7/7 Summary: After your grandmother passed she left everything to you. Her house, her fortune, and apparently… her cat? The grumpy male hybrid you encounter at her house is anything but the tame housecat you’d expected to find. Fulfilling your grandmother’s last request to look after him becomes a lot harder when he seems to be avoiding you, and your dissatisfied relatives start stirring up trouble.

➺ Daddy Diaries by bts-reveries

→ pairing: singledad!yoongi x baker!reader → genre: all floof, teeny bit of angst → parts: 29/29 → summary: yoongi started blogging his life on his social medias to prove everyone who thought he couldn’t raise a child alone wrong. but as his daughter’s birthday draws near, what happens when she wishes for a new mom?

➺ No More by yuzukult

pairing: min yoongi x reader genre: some angst, fluff, one-sided love (unrequited love?), college!au, secret relationship, smut parts: 2/2 prompt: yoongi doesn’t like your consistent pining, and one day, after finally coming to terms that he will never reciprocate any feelings back, you give up. yet, for some reason, yoongi is the one who can’t come to terms with the consequences of when he says ‘no more.’

➺ Pink Bird House by 54daysormore

Pairing: Single Dad! Yoongi x Reader ft. Mini Tae Genre: Fluff, Angst, Smut, Tae is yoongi's baby Parts: 25/25 Synopsis: Tae really wants a pink bird house, but his dad is definitely too busy to make one with him.  Enter Y/N.  Then exit Y/N.  Right?

➺ Crazy Over You by kittyscupcakeandbunny

Pairing: Black Mamba Hybrid! Yoongi x Reader Side Characters: Namjoon/doctor, Seokjin/doctor, Taehyung/Hybrid Tiger, Jungkook/Bunny Hybrid, Hoseok/assistant. Genre: Fantasy, hybrids au, smut. Parts: 8/8 SUMMARY》 Yoongi is a black mamba hybrid one of rarest species of hybrids, who’s about to be put down due to his lack of interest in living. But everything changes after the new medical assistance (y/n) takes a liking to him. Meeting after meeting he realise his feelings for her are not the only thing growing.

➺ Desolate by angelicyoongie

— pairing: cat hybrid yoongi x  reader — genre: angst, fluff, eventual smut — parts: 14/14 — summary: you just wanted a cute little normal cat to keep you company. so, you're not really sure how you ended up with the grumpiest hybrid on earth that seems hellbent on making your life difficult.

[ajokeformur-ray]

My thoughts on Joker: Folie à Deux

Now that I'm done sobbing and it's been a few hours since I left the cinema with my roommate, I've put the first Joker on for comfort while I write this.

Spoilers below the cut for anyone who hasn't seen it.

We all know that I was one of those "I don't want a sequel" girlies and in a way, I still am. I maintain that Joker didn't need a sequel, it was a perfect standalone. But, surprisingly, I enjoyed this film as it was.

It was very dark, gritty, the things we didn't get to see because they were only implied were things which stuck with me long after leaving the cinema, it was ambitious with Lee but didn't quite go as far as I would have liked with her; she had so much more potential and I thought we were gonna get that when she smashed the shop window to get a small TV with which to see her Joker on with a very sweetly spoken "excuse me" and then walked away without a fuss. It was gorgeously arranged, the songs were perfectly selected and I adore that That's Life played during the start and end; it brought our beloved Arthur to a full circle. And, most importantly, it was faithful to our Arthur. That's what I and so many others were afraid of, that this sequel would butcher our boy, but it didn't. It was faithful to him to the bitter, tragic end.

Joker was gorgeous. He was... so realistic, so raw and real and in pain, he was everything I always wanted this universe's Joker to be. I've always said in my fics and posts that Arthur didn't want to be Joker, it was something which the general public put onto him and he never wanted it, he just wanted to be seen, heard, accepted and loved for who he was, and even when he exposed his pain on national TV, he wasn't given that. He was ignored, spoken for rather than listened to, and then in this new film that carried on happening until yet again he stood up for himself and took what he knew to be right. He's the best advocate for himself and it's a lesson I need to learn from him a bit more than I have done before. But I digress... Joker was so perfect. And his little comedy moments did have me giggling, even through my tears at various points in the film.

I enjoyed the difference between how Joker and Arthur were considered, though we all know that the lawyer's initial defense, as well meaning as it was, was not it. Arthur was never gonna walk out of there without consequences and we all knew it. The constant switches between his delusions as Joker and the way he was stood still in Arkham or the courtroom were so well done, and I liked how murder was used against himself while he was waging between doing what people were telling him to do, and what he wanted to do for himself.

I was begging for Arthur to do the right thing the whole way through the trial, even though I knew what it would mean for him, and in the end he chose himself just like he did in the first film, and it was the bravest thing he could have done. It was utterly devastating, but in the end I think the way he chose to go down was the right way. He could have either continued being Joker and gone down being known for someone he wasn't and someone he had never been, or he could stand up, admit to who he is and display emotional maturity and speak for himself.

He chose the latter and I'm, in a very bittersweet way, grateful. I sobbed through most of the film but in the end, Arthur was himself, and it was so brave and so heartbreaking. This film was, at the end of it all, as true to Arthur as Arthur ended up being to himself (and I think it was because Gary's testimony and tearful "why are you doing this to me?" that was the catalyst behind Arthur making this fateful decision), and it was... it was so hard to watch, very difficult to stomach, but also I am proud of myself for going. I really didn't want to, I didn't, but Arthur would have gone to see us if the situation was reversed, and not going to see this film would have felt like abandonment of our boy... I didn't want to do that. I'm glad I went, but I'll probably take a long time before I'm able to watch it again, if I ever can.

The last scene especially shattered me, but I think that from a narrative point of view, it makes sense. Arthur was a tragedy, through and through. Though, he's an unreliable narrator, so who knows if we saw what we all think we saw? It was the perfect end for Arthur, as horrific, cruel, and brutal as it was, but the inmate was wrong... it wasn't at all what he deserved.

Our Arthur deserved sunshine, cuddles for days, kisses in the rain, dancing, singing, he deserved comedy nights and a dancing partner, he deserved so much more than what he got.

And the irony is that the people complaining that this Joker wasn't the Joker they wanted are literally proving the core message of the film; Arthur isn't Joker. He was never Joker, and that's why he was abandoned by so many in the film; by Lee, by those dressed like Joker, by everyone who wanted him to be someone he wasn't... he was given that title by people who didn't know him, people who didn't want to know him, Gothamites who used him and his crimes to justify and further their own political agenda, and, in the real world, by those complaining that this Joker isn't the Joker they wanted.

Arthur is Arthur Fleck, he's always been Arthur Fleck. He was willing to die to make that point, so in the end he died for himself, and it was so brave and courageous and heartbreaking.

I walked out of the cinema sobbing the hardest I've cried for a long time, but so much more in love with Arthur Fleck than I was before. I just want to tell him how sorry I am, and how loved he is by all of us. That's what he deserves.

❤️💚💙🤍

[marlinspirkhall]

The Un-Maker

To the uninformed, you are nothing more than a necromancer. You wear their sigil on your chest; the chief mage insists on it- after all, he can read magik better than most. He is the first to discern the true meaning of your gift, years before even you do.

His own magik is significantly strong- though, like him, it has withered with time. By and large, the other mages ignore you. After all, you are only a svvein.

The first time you leave the magery, he gives you a cloak. It's dark purple- the robe of a novice- which is a generous assessment at best. You can barely resurrect a magefly.

His eyes sparkle, then grow serious. “Take it,” he insists. “It will help you blend in.” Of course, you take it only to humor him- blending in comes naturally to you. It might be your only skill.

You perform small tasks in the village, basic magecraft which is little more than a conjurer's trick. You un-break a wheel. You un-graze a knee. When you pass, the best blacksmith in the village watches with baited breath.

You un-forge his sword.

•

While hiding from the smith, you crouch behind the stables. You won’t realise for many years, but the gate you closed on the way in prevented the escape of a horse. The horse- who dreams of the apples in the nearby grove- snickers sadly to herself.

There is a boy at the magery who wears red. Red, the robes of a master. He holds himself with the confidence of someone older, but both of you are five-and-ten.

One night, he lifts a heavy staff above his head, and performs a summoning spell: the most powerful of all magecraft. In an instant, the sky trembles, and rolls with dark clouds. The old masters rejoice, and sing his praises in the downpour, of a boy so powerful that even lightning obeys his command.

You shelter at the edge of the courtyard, and watch without envy.

He's the first to leave, when the war comes.

•

In the coming weeks, you wander the village. You are the only teenager left now that the others have gone, but there are still children to babysit. There are still bloody noses and scraped knees to un-attend to. By now, the villagers know your gift well- that strange, backwards magik you perform without intention. When your mere presence stops an axe falling on his head, even the blacksmith learns to forgive you.

But then, the war comes for the innocents, too.

Families flee Vale-Meg'ed with oxen, horse and handcart. The mages buy them time, and instruct you to leave with them.

“I want to help,” you say.

“Svvein-”

“Perhaps I can un-make the war!”

The chief mage smiles a grim smile. “It will not obey you.”

“But we haven't tried-”

“No.” He wheels on you, his eyes fury and fire. “Take this, and flee.”

It's his first-hewn staff: a spindly thing he carved as a mageling. It's little more than a bolt of wood, but you feel its weight when you touch it. Your hands tremble, and the old mage drives it into the ground afore you.

Sparks flicker.

“Go!”

When you stumble, the staff catches you.

You flee. You trip on your robes, drive the staff into the path, and watch dust fly where sparks ought to instead. You drive the staff down again and again, but it leaks no more magik.

In the distance, storms rage over Mages' Hill. Thunder crackles, and lightning flickers back and forth. Two dark clouds loom beside each other, fighting for dominance.

•

There's a body on the road out of Vale-Meg'ed.

You can't help but slow down. You've seen dead bodies before, of course– they used them for practice at the magery, even those that you couldn't resurrect– so you know what they look like.

For the first thirty seconds, this person is definitely deceased. Then, they gasp, and sit bolt upright.

You scream, and they do too.

Once the shock of not being dead has worn off, they cough soundly, and offer you a swig of water from their flask. Not knowing what killed them, you shake your head.

They down it, then cough some more. “Young svvein. You are but a novice?” They say, seeing your simple robes.

“I–” you say. “I didn’t–”

“Why, magikst most powerful!” They declare, as they check their wounds. “I thought I was going to lose my leg.”

You stare at them in silence as they reach for their purse. “Svvein, I know not why you've saved my life- and I have few coins to give- but accept my thanks.”

You take their silver, if only to preserve your cover, and help them to their feet. They accompany you to the end of the road, where the path splits. Then, they give thanks, and head towards Mages’ Hill.

It’s silent now, but the fires are still burning.

You turn away, and touch the embroidered sigil on your chest: the necromancer’s coil. You wonder if the chief mage knew more than he let on.

•

True necromancing is a complex task, often requiring a pack of mages. Death has compounding interest. The more injuries, the more mages are required. The longer dead, the longer the spell must prevail. Ordinarily, necromancers work long, arduous hours to resurrect a single person. Those who have an understanding of the mage’s art are shocked to see only one of you.

“Where are the others?” someone asks, as you pass them.

“They... Went to lunch,” you say.

“That's unheard of.” They stretch, and crack their back. “The first thing they do is always to collect payment.”

“This isn't your first time being resurrected, is it?” You realise, with a sinking feeling.

They grin toothily, and accept a discount, in exchange for not asking too many questions.

•

In the coming weeks, you un-kill many people along the battlefield. The bodies you pass wake up more often than not, always coughing and spluttering. That which once was jarring becomes routine. Some scream in fright, others clutch at long-healed wounds. Others jolt at the sight of a mage, and cower in your presence.

“Get away, get away!”

Beside them, a cracked mage-staff lies in the mud, snapped cleanly in two. You decide to forgo payment.

You make a living this way for a while, drifting from battle to battle like a vulture. It pays little- the soldiers that die are never the best-equipped, and you get there long after the looters do. Still, those who find themselves alive are invariably grateful to do so, and reward you as well as they can. It's enough to buy you board at the tavern most nights, if not a meal, too.

With time, the war moves on from the valley, though it rages in the distance. You are older now, broader of shoulders, and the First-Hewn staff is older, too. It grows brittle in your fingers.

Before long, it is broken.

You stare at it for a long while, for you are not in the business of breaking things. Still, breaking is a kind of un-making, you suppose. It falls to pieces with nothing more than a whisper, and you mourn it: the First-Hewn staff of an elder holds great power. That it is freed from your possession is a bittersweet relief.

For the first time since the war came, you think of the man who forged it. They say in the early days of war, Mages' Hill was razed to the ground. You haven’t returned to Vale-Meg’ed since.

That night, you rent a room at the tavern, and weep.

•

It's impossible to blend in without your staff, so you attempt to carve your own. For seven suns and seven moons, sparks fly, and lightning pummels the forest. You abandon the task.

The trees are scarred and pockmarked, and the ground will never be the same, yet not a single beam struck you.

For a week, you remain in the valley, but your purse-strings are tight, and the taverns are fit to burst. With little choice, you venture out into the marshland. You out-grew the purple robes years ago, and you’re dressed simply: in a linen shirt and trousers. For now, you are simply a traveller, and you don't intend to continue your grift. Without a staff to speak of, you hardly look the part of a necromancer anymore.

•

Battle does not suit the marshland. It makes the swamp reek worse than usual, and the reeds are soaked with blood. When you trawl for treasure, you find bodies instead.

Bodies who wake up confused, and ask you what's going on.

You sigh, and help them out of the mud.

You wade through the bog for a while, stepping on stones where you can. There's a strange smell in the air; acrid, like burning. The tips of the reeds are signed.

A soldier lies in the dirt, facedown. You roll her over so she doesn’t choke when she wakes, and begin to move on your way.

Her dark eyes open, looking up at the sky. She coughs, and you offer her your water-skin.

She refuses to take it. “I have nothing with which to pay you.”

“The water is a courtesy.”

“And the undying?”

You shift your feet. “That wasn't me.”

She leans back on her arms, and peers up at you sluggishly. “You have no staff.”

“Well-noticed.” You offer a hand.

She doesn’t take it. “There is one other mage who summons without a staff. This war is his design.”

“I am no summoner.”

“Yet you summon the dead.”

You watch her mutely.

“Have I revived you before?” You say at last.

“No, but I've heard of you. You travel alone, and revive villeins when others raise kings.”

You bristle, and take a step backwards. “Your payment is commuted,” you say, and retreat as fast as the mud will allow.

It is not fast at all.

“Wait!” She curses, and coughs furiously. There's a rending, and the slap of footsteps.

You turn. This time, when you offer herr water, she drinks.

“I'm Merra.” She hands the skin back, and wipes her mouth.

“I'm no-one,” you say, which is true enough. You fasten the skin to your belt, and, again, walk away.

Merra keeps pace with you. “I heard you were once a Svvein.”

You remain silent, heading back across the marshland to see how far she will follow. This is the path you cleared earlier– free of bodies– and you retrace your steps where you can. Merra follows all the while, and her sword creaks at her belt.

“Have you no business to attend to?” You say, at last.

“No more than you,” she says, with a smile in her voice.

“I have my living.”

“Then attend to it,” she says. “You think I haven't noticed you're avoiding the dead?”

“Necromancing is a hallowed ritual,” you say.

She scoffs. “Which is why you perform it in galoshes.”

You look down. “There's nothing wrong with my galoshes.”

“Most mage-shoes are hidden by their robes,” she muses. “But I'd imagine mage-shoes are made waterproof by enchantment.”

“That would be a waste of enchantment.”

“And what of your robes, or lack thereof?”

You grunt. “The war destroyed Mages' Hill.”

“Yes, many years ago. But I have seen robes since, and mages too.”

“And what of their magikal shoes?” You ask.

She purses her lips, and surveys the landscape. “There were bodies here, Necromancer. Did you resurrect them all?”

You say nothing.

“It's just past noon,” she reasons. “And this swamp was full of the fallen. How did you recall them all in one morning?”

You glance at her. “How can you be sure I revived you on the same day you fell?”

“As surely as I know there are no maggots in my mouth and nose.”

“Perhaps you have them on the brain.”

You spy the valley up ahead, and slow your pace. You're not eager to return to the villages, with their heroes and veterans and small opportunities; but you can't cross the marshland with Merra- there are too many bodies. Tentatively, you turn onto the village path.

“What killed you?” You enquire, as you walk along.

Merra gives you a look.

“It must have been significant,” you say. “For not all undying know they are so.”

She falls silent, and so do you.

•

You encounter a body on the way into Vale-Egar.

It's a maimed thing, old, bloated, and past its prime. Ordinarily, you wouldn't worry about it- you never seem to wake those who are too far gone- but, today, you pass it with a kind of trepidation. When nothing happens, you let out a breath.

“He looked like a noble,” Merra says, as you hurry past.

“Nothing noble is found in Vale-Egar, especially not by the side of the road.”

“Is that why you won't resurrect him?”

“No,” you say. “It's because he won't come back.”

•

The next body you stumble upon is more intact: a young man with a gaunt face who might as well be sleeping. He's hunched over and leaning against the wall, a tin clutched in his frozen hand. You don't wonder how it stays there- you know better than anyone that rigour mortis begins in the fingers.

As you pass, some colour returns to his face. You hurry Merra along.

The next person you pass is alive, and welcomes you to the village with a smile.

You have no coin with which to pay, but it's no matter. The presence of Merra's sword is payment enough, for there is a bed for all warriors in Vale-Egar.

“That explains why it's so crowded,” you say, as you untie your shoes and leave them at the foot of the bed. You offer to sleep on the floor, but Merra won't hear of it. Apparently, she's got it into her head that she owes you a life-debt. Tonight, you are too tired to argue, so you lay down beside her.

For a long while, she watches you.

The room in this upstairs tavern contains five beds, all of which are crammed with people. You lie on your back and listen to their breathing. This is the closest you've been to the living in a while, and so many, at that. You recall the last time you were around people, of the dormitories on Mages' Hill.

You can feel Merra's breath on your cheek.

“You said not all undead know they are so,” she says.

“Yes,” you murmur.

“So, that beggar outside-?”

“He was merely sleeping.” You move to roll over, but she catches you by the shoulder.

“Credit me some intellect.” She peers down at you. “It was fast; faster than any magecraft I've seen. How did you do it?”

The others in the room are all sleeping soundly.

“I know not how,” you say, in a single breath.

•

In the morning, you leave the village.

“You have no staff,” Merra says, again.

You watch her for a moment. All these years, the staff was your only companion, and now, you have another.

“I haven't the skill to make one,” you admit.

“So, you are no mage.”

“No.”

“And yet you raise the dead.”

•

Over the coming days, Merra accompanies you across the marshland, and the dead spring up in your wake. There's no coin to speak of, but the soldiers pledge fealty to you. You tell them you already have a knight, and a fine one, at that. Merra smiles, as a knight clad in well-made plate armor shakes his head and walks away.

“Have you seen her fight?” Asks another, dressed in mail.

You bristle. “No, but neither, sir, have you.”

He offers her his armor, but she won't take it.

“I travel light.”

•

As you traverse the valley, the marshland turns to grass. You encounter fewer bodies, and those you find are too degraded to wake.

The horizon alights with a flash, and Merra freezes. Thunder roils over the hills.

“You never did tell me what moved you to fight,” you say, quietly.

“I had a quest,” she says, simply. Her hair whispers in the wind, and you nod.

“Then you are bound to it.”

She looks at you with pleading eyes. “But I was dead.”

You shake your head. “It doesn't work like that.”

Thunder resounds.

After a day's travel, the once-lush grass turns to scorched earth underfoot. You stop in your tracks.

“This is Vale-Meg'ed.”

•

Amongst the rubble, there is but one field undisturbed by ash. It's the stable where you hid from the blacksmith all those years ago. Most unusually of all, the gate which you closed has since remained intact.

The horse stands alone in the field, her tail flicking back and forth. She's much older now, and has a grey streak on her nose, but you'd know her anywhere.

“You survived the war,” you comment, as you reach for her mane. She huffs, and hoofs at the dirt. You raise an eyebrow, and turn to Merra. “Could you open the gate?”

She opens it, and the horse races through the ruined grove. You follow behind.

Merra gasps. Right before your eyes, the charred treetops flourish and bear fruit. The horse gallops towards them, and you sprint to catch up.

You chuckle, softly. “Do you forgive me now, mare?”

The horse scarfs down her apples, and allows you to pet her mane.

•

You sleep in the rubble of the magery, and Merra takes first watch. The next morning, you are woken by the sun.

“You didn’t wake me,” you say.

“No,” she says, as she watches the sunrise.

You fall silent. This is her quest, not yours.

•

You spend the day on Mage’s Hill. Merra prepares barricades, and whets her blade. Somehow, you feel as if you've known her a lifetime.

You search the ruins one last time, and are not surprised when you find it, in the remains of the novice quarters.

It is a first-hewn staff. The wood crackles beneath your fingertips.

The ruins are painted orange by sunset.

•

Past nightfall, you remain alert. You sit a few paces from Merra, twisting the staff in your hands. There's a familiarity about it you cannot place, a raw power which stings you if you hold it tight.

The wind picks up suddenly. Too suddenly.

“This is magewind!” She yells.

You jump to attention. It's been many years since you've felt anything like it, but it chills you to the bone. All you can picture is that night on Mages' Hill, on the eve of war: a staff, held aloft as red robes billowed in the breeze.

Tonight, a mass moves upon you: denser than storm itself.

“Merra!” You cry, as the gale sweeps her aside. She catches hold of one of the barricades; hefty chunks of stone which buckle under the pressure.

You run for her, but the wind picks you up like a ragdoll. You fall, and scrape upon every rock as you’re dragged dowhill. You are drowning in wind itself, the breath rivened from you faster than you can draw it. Your clothes tear, then your flesh. You thrust the staff forwards, blindly, and puncture an air pocket. You push down, and pressure slaps you back. You tumble again and again, until at last you make contact with the ground.

You lie, spread-eagled on the floor.

A numbness overtakes you. You grip the staff so tight that it flares with energy.

The sky above you dances. Merra lunges at clouds, and purple lightning arcs around her. A shadow flits through the smog, impossibly light and fast.

The shape moves upon you: dark, tattered robes, deeper than blood, deeper than red, but unmistakably the same robes from all those years ago, held together by magiks. His boots- made of a fine, red leather, have similar weatherproofing, and your eyes dart to Merra.

“Face me,” says the storm.

Your head tilts back to observe him. It hurts to watch, this splicing-together of mage and fury. You try to turn away, but the wind holds you fast. You see Merra from the corner of your eye, silhouetted against the storm.

The Summoner moves upon you slowly, as if he isn't used to walking. “You’re no mage,” he says, at last.

On the hill, Merra drives her sword into the clouds, but The Summoner ignores her. He circles around you. Far too slowly, the feeling returns to your legs.

“Years ago, when the battle was won and there were less bodies on the battlefield than there should be; I heard the strangest whispers from the valley.” He speaks in a low voice, barely above a whisper, but the breeze carries every word. “They spoke of a novice, who summoned the dead.” He turns his attention back to the top of the hill, where Merra is fighting shadows. “You have resurrected one of mine.” He raises a hand. “It’s time to correct that mistake.”

Lightning connects with the tip of Merra’s sword, and the flash lights up the mountainside.

“Mer…” you twitch.

Soil cascades from the heavens, and you hold the staff aloft. “Heed me,” you say. “Heed me!”

It might as well be a twig.

The Summoner laughs. “You cannot resurrect ash.”

You roll onto your front, too weak to stand. For the first time in your life, you attempt to use your powers with intention. You draw runes in the dirt and chant long-forgotten spells, as The Summoner watches with cold amusement.

“You don't know our craft. The magik you do have is little more than a parlour trick.”

“I knew enough to thwart you,” you wheeze.

“Can you undo this, Pretender?”

He unfurls his palm, and the storm rages louder than before. It howls and howls, and lightning blasts the ground until Mage’s Hill is cratered.

Earth is loosened. Stones and rocks turn to vapor, and become part of the storm.

You crawl towards the place where Merra was standing, though you know it is useless. You might as well be crawling through mud in the swamp where you found her. There's an uphill climb past jagged rocks, and another fall would kill you. You have never had to un-make your own death. You wait, as the land continues to slide.

The hill remains un-mended. This cannot be undone– but you can still fight.

“This staff was yours,” you whisper. You haven't seen it since you were three-and-ten, but you recognise it's power.

“Yes.” He holds out a hand, and it flies to him. The staff cracks with energy, and he weighs it in his palm. “I have surpassed the need to bind my magik to the physical realm. But you… You cannot even cast an illusion.” He tosses the staff back to you, and it lands in the dirt.

You make no attempt to pick it up.

“You saw that first summoning spell on Mages' Hill, and were powerless to stop me then. What makes you think you can stand against me now?” His hand forms a fist.

For the first time in your life, lightning makes no effort to avoid you. It arches out of the sky, and bears down on you again and again. You lie in the dirt. You know there is no escape, for this is the mage who commands the four winds as he pleases.

You should be dead, like Merra.

The Summoner’s voice booms, magnified tenfold by the storm. “All that I call for comes to me but The Dead. You have hidden that power from me for too long!”

You open your eyes. A flash of silver runs down the hillside, too small to be lightning. You steady your breathing, and fix your gaze on The Summoner.

“You are no chosen one,” he bellows, as the light flashes again.

“No,” you gasp. “But she is.”

He turns, as Merra strikes true. It's a killing blow, perfectly aimed for the heart, but the storm coalesces around him, and the sword is ejected from his chest. Red blood whips around him, the same colour as his robes, as the heavens bend towards Merra. With a yell, she drives her sword into the ground, and the sky detonates. The energy flows through it once more, illuminating her skeleton, but she stands strong.

She grabs The Summoner with both hands, tearing his robes. He holds out a hand for his magestaff, and you close your fingers around it. It drags you through the dirt until you fall beside him, and you grasp his foot.

You have never needed to fight before, and you're not suited for it. Your attempts to trip him are met with a single kick to the forearm, as the wind tears at you. The lightning which rains down upon you hits all three of you indiscriminately, but The Summoner only grows stronger from each strike. He holds his arms out, bathing in it, as Merra wrenches her sword free.

The blade swings in a wide arc. It hits him at the same moment the lightning does.

For a moment, they are bound together; Knight and Summoner both. They fall as one unit, and crumple to the ground.

Merra smoulders. You struggle towards her. Your back stings; patches exposed to the open air as rainwater falls into the cuts.

Though it feels like an age, you reach her. The Summoner lies mere inches away, motionless.

You place your hands on either side of Merra’s head, and call on a power you have no control over.

With surprising strength, her hands push yours away.

“You must leave this place,” she whispers. “Leave, or he'll never die.”

You grasp her hands with your own. “But you will live.”

Her laugh is a death rattle. “He has killed so many. What's one more?”

You shake your head, and force yourself upwards. Your arms tremble with effort; your legs won't respond.

The Summoner does not stir.

“Leave,” Merra utters.

You fall at her side. “I cannot.”

•

You're not sure for how long you lie there. It could be days, it could be mere hours.

The storm passes on, though the skies remain grey.

The horse trots towards you, and, at last, you find the strength to sit up.

“Merra,” you say.

She looks up.

The two of you struggle to stand, sliding in the mud as you do.

You stroke the mare. The grey streak has disappeared from her nose, and Merra notices it too. She scratches her ears, and you let out a breath.

“A fine steed,” you say, “For an immortal knight.”

She looks at you with wonder. Neither of you know if it is true.

No one has ever died in your attendance before, and you've yet to see if it's possible. As you leave the crater which was once Mages’ Hill, ash falls upon you, followed by light rain. Merra tenses, but says nothing as she climbs onto the horse. She helps you on, and the horse moves in a direction of her choosing.

Neither of you turn to see what becomes of The Summoner’s remains, but the rain doesn't follow you for long. There begins a light sunshine, and the horse gains to a canter, as Merra hugs her mane for balance, and you cling to Merra for yours. She laughs, and spurs the horse onwards with a shout.

The three of you ride towards Vale-Egar.

[brayneworms]

gouge away (if you want to) | johnny joestar

kinktober day ten: kissing

word count. 2.4k

content. disabled johnny, but like his prostate works, anal fingering, prostate orgasm, kissing, johnny cries after sex it's canon, gender-neutral reader, fluff, mentions of ableism, established relationship, this is sappy

♪ gouge away - pixies

kinktober mlist | regular mlist

For a while—a long while—after his accident, Johnny thought he'd never be with someone again.

A part of it was the paralysis. Okay, a big part of it was. He learns after using the chair for a bit that he sorta stops becoming a real person to most people, that their eyes just sorta slide past him. Oh no, how sad, that guy in the chair must have it so bad. Don't be rude and stare, now. Sometimes he wishes they would stare at him, like he knows they wanna. He almost finds their determination to ignore him totally more jarring.

And that's only half the problem. The other part is that even if he could find someone, his goddamn dick doesn't work anymore. Which would for sure pose a problem. So Johnny resigns himself miserably to a sexless and potentially loveless life, and pretends it doesn't make him want to die.

Still. Anyways. It all seems kinda redundant now, 'cause he's lying under the sky in the dirt with his pants halfway off, and you're—you're doing something, or you're tryin' something that Johnny is extremely skeptical about. A bit of time travelling with Gyro had taught him many times that there was a lot of things about the human body he was ignorant of, but he still can't help but be dubious of the claim you made to him a few minutes ago.

I'm gonna make you cum.

At once, a protest had risen to his lips. You can't. Almost a reflex. You'd cocked your head in inquiry, and Johnny had gone redder, down to the tips of his ears hidden by his hat. It's my—it doesn't work. Down there doesn't...

You seem to consider this for a few moments. Then you say, there's something else we can try.

You disappear inside the tent and come out with the bottle of aloe vera they'd been using to treat the burns that had blistered as a result of the unforgiving desert sun. He had red peeling skin all up his shoulders and the bridge of his nose.

He watches dubiously as you squeeze a clear, cold glob onto your fingers. "Wh—where are those goin'?"

He's pretty sure he has an idea.

"You know what a prostate is, Johnny dear?" You always call him that. Johnny dear, like it's all one word. Johnnydear. He always gripes and groans about it and then has to turn away extremely quickly to hide his flush. He's going to examine the reaction he gets when you baby him sometime, he promises himself, just not right now. He's got a lotta shit on his plate, okay? Corpses to find and such.

"N-no," he answers, stammering when you kneel between his legs and spread his thighs gently apart. He sucks in a breath; one of your fingers leaves a cool trail of aloe along the skin there.

"A prostate," you tell him patiently, like you're not situated between his naked thighs, "is a gland that people with your particular reproductory set are born with."

"You sound like Gyro," he mutters. "Kinda killing the mood a little."

"I just want to make sure you're fully informed." You roll your eyes. "It's just that you're leaking precum, see?" To his mortification, you swipe your fingers over the tip of the dick he can't feel and hold them up; under the starlight, they gleam, and he burns with embarrassment. "Means you might be able to feel it. Means I might be able to make you cum."

Johnny swallows hard. He wants—it sounds good. Sounds great. But with the hope comes that fear, an ever-present shadow. What if it doesn't work?

"Hey." You lean over him, and before Johnny can protest you've captured his lips, a slow, deliberate cling. Johnny loves kissing you. He thinks it might be his favourite thing to do, other than jockeying and he can't do that anymore, so this takes an automatic first place. He sighs and melts against you like softened butter, his hands winding themselves over your shoulder and jaw. He loves everything about it. The closeness, the slow gentle intimacy, the way you smell. That last part is probably weird, 'cause you mostly smell like sweat and leather, but Johnny likes it all the same.

You kiss for a while; one of your hand strokes soothing shapes into his ribcage. When you pull back, the panic that had been rearing up inside him has faded to a dull murmur.

"Don't get in your head about it," you whisper. "If you can't feel it, then that's that. You know I won't think less of you."

A lump rises in Johnny's throat, and he shields his eyes from the burning sun of you seein' right through him. "I know," he says, almost petulantly.

"So? Wanna give it a try?"

A part of him doesn't. A part of him is so, so scared. But a bigger part of him, the one that likes kissing you and likes the way you smell and the way you touch him and look at him and everything, really, is nodding before that first part can protest. You kiss him again with a smile, a little faster, a little dirtier this time. This is another thing Johnny likes about kissing—it can take so many different forms. Even if he did find the corpse pieces and get the use of his legs back, Johnny reckons he'd still like kissing more than real sex.

Your mouth starts moving down, sweeping the sensitive skin of his neck and collarbones, the valleys of his pectorals, a nipple. The last one makes Johnny gasp and you giggle, and he splays a palm over his face in embarrassment. You coax such stupid noises outta him. But you seem to enjoy it, so whatever.

Down, down, down. Somewhere between his navel and his pubic bone he stops feeling it. But it still somehow feels sorta nice, which doesn't make a whole lotta sense but it does to him, so. He watches you between his fingers as you reach between his legs, he thinks prodding.

You look up at him. "I'm going to put a finger in, okay?"

Johnny nods eagerly. "Don't gotta tell me. I won't feel it."

You roll your eyes. "I'm still gonna tell you. We can stop whenever, okay?"

"Okay," Johnny says impatiently, and wiggles his hips. You smack his hipbone playfully, which does nothing to temper his brattiness on account of him not feelin' a fuckin' thing. Then you get a quiet, serious, concentrated look on your face that Johnny usually only sees when you're fighting. Or when he's making you cum. That expression, more than any of your words or hesitation, it what makes him quiet down and take it serious.

There's a silence that stretches on. Johnny supposes you must be doin' something, considering the slight furrow he can see between your brows and the achingly careful, gradual movement of your wrist. Finally, after about a minute, you look up at him.

"My finger's in," you tell him, and Johnny bites his lip.

"Can't feel it," he says. He's starting to think this was a really bad idea.

"Just lemme—hold on," you say, and your wrist moves a little, and then—

Johnny keens. He feels, he fuckin' feels so much that it lights him up from the inside and sets his nerves alight, some part deep inside him that he didn't even know existed 'till five minutes ago and it's so good it immediately brings tears to his eyes.

"Oh," he says like he's surprised, and he is, apparently so much so that it's all he can say. "O-oh, oh, oh—"

Your finger retracts back into nothingness, and Johnny bites back a sob. "Johnny?" you ask worriedly. "Did you—is it too much?"

"No, no," he babbles, feeling incoherent already. You brush his hair back from his face with your free hand, the one that ain't inside him, your thumb stroking over his cheek. "It was—fuck, felt so weird. But good. Really, really good. Can you—are you gonna do it again?"

"Will if you want me to," you answer lovingly, and Johnny is biting back another sob for a whole different reason. "Might be a bit intense, Johnny dear. You sure you wanna?"

"Yes, yeah." He stares up at you beseechingly, feeling a bit pathetic but also too far gone to give a shit. "Please, I wanna—I wanna feel it again."

You nod, leaning over to kiss him again. Johnny relaxes into the embrace, losing himself in the familiar touch of your lips, the smell of you, taking the bite out of his surge of panic—and then with no warning you're brushing against that spot inside him again and he's moaning into your mouth, loud and unrestrained. It's pitchy and startled, and your free hand cups the back of his head as he pulls away in shock.

"Fuck, Jesus Christ," he swears, slamming his head back against the dirt. "O-oh, oh god, ohgodohgod—"

"Still good?" you ask, and your fingers made a weird sort of curling motion and it occurs to Johnny that you're movin' them in and out, sort of like you would if you were actually fucking him, and the thought makes him flush so hard he feels feverish. You're fucking him. You're fucking him.

He nods deliriously. "Mhm, yeah," he gasps out, feeling breathless, feeling giddy. "Don't stop, feels so fuckin' good, oh my god."

Your fingers press into him over and over like you're ringin' a bell, and all the while you kiss him and for the first time in ages Johnny feels that both parts of his body are equal. The bottom half has come alive under your jackhammering fingers, the top half consumed by you and your kiss. The kissing makes it so much better, 'cause Johnny reckons if anyone else had their fingers in his ass he'd probably hate it even if they were touching his whatdidyoucallit like that and making him feel amazing. He'd hate it 'cause they wouldn't be you.

The kissing reminds him it's you. The chaps on your lips, the smell of you, the feel of your face and skin, your body pressing into his. It's so all consuming it makes him wanna cry, in a good way, in a weird way. Your fingers move faster and weirder, and Johnny starts making those stupid oh! oh! noises again, stifling them against your mouth, and your tongue presses in and you swallow them whole.

All too soon, Johnny feels a weird tightening, one he hasn't felt since before the incident. He feels a constriction of panic, his fingers clutching at your clothing. "I—hah!—I f-feel weird."

"Bad weird?" Your fingers slow down, nearly stop, and Johnny whines.

"No, no, good weird, good," he pants. "Move again, fuck."

You pick up the pace; Johnny shudders, tensing in your hold all over again. He feels like he's burning, like he's sweating out everything bad he's ever felt.

"Do you mean you're gonna cum?" you ask, your voice lower this time, so close to Johnny's ear it makes him shiver. The harsh brush of your chapped lips against the soft skin there makes his body feel electric.

"I think," he whispers, eyes screwing shut. "Sorry—oh—I think, yeah."

"Don't feel sorry," you tell him almost sternly. "I want to see you cum, Johnny. Wanna see you cum so hard your pretty little head goes blank. You deserve it, yeah?"

"Yeah," he gasps out. "I deserve it."

What you do next with your fingers is almost brutal in the wracks of shivering pleasure it sends simmering through Johnny's body; every curl of them has him writhing and gasping and moaning, he must sound so stupid but you seem to be liking it and fuck, he's liking it, he likes feeling a little stupid and helpless while you take care of him and he's definitely gonna have to unpack that, but later, 'cause—

"I'm gonna cum," he gasps, hands flying out to curl in your clothing. "Baby, baby, I'm gonna cum, I—kiss me? Kiss me, okay, I wanna, oh, oh oh oh—"

You crash your lips together, and your fingers curl up one last lingering time and Johnny shatters. White stars explode over his vision, shatter inside his head, and for a split second it feels like every cell in his body freezes up and screams and dies. He's vaguely aware of some long, drawn-out, breathless noise he's making and the way you swallow it with your mouth.

It takes several seconds for him to come back down to earth. When he does it's to the sensation of you running your fingers through his hair and pressing soft, feathery kisses to his cheeks.

He pants like a dog. When you see his blue eyes on you, you sit up, seem to retract your fingers from between his legs. Your image starts to blur, and Johnny sees your expression crease in concern. He realises he's crying. Not like, actually, not like he's got something to be upset about. He's just... tearing up. Like someone's turned a faucet on behind his eyes and just left it there. He pushes the heels of his hands into the sockets and presses down, willing it to stop, willing the overwhelming feeling blooming in his chest to deflate.

"Hey, hey." Your voice, low and soothing, pressed into his hair, your arms holding him tightly. "You okay?"

"Yes," he says almost angrily. "I'm fine. Dunno why I'm—fuck. Sorry. I'm good, I promise I'm good. That was... so, so good."

Your expression of concern gives way slightly. "You sure?"

"Yeah." Johnny sucks in a shaky, wet breath. "Thanks. Thank you. I didn't even... I didn't even know I could feel like that anymore. Not just 'cause of—you know." He gestures vaguely to the lower half of his body. "All of it. Like, I didn't think anyone would wanna—while I'm still like this. And I—I figured I didn't deserve it, or something. But... it was really good."

Your smile is a little sad. "I'm glad, Johnny dear. I'm glad you enjoyed it. Now that we know it works, we can do it again. And again, and again." He flushes, and you laugh sweetly, and Johnny could just die to the sound of it. "Still, we should get some rest for tonight. Gyro will skin us alive if we oversleep again."

You're right, of course. Johnny lets you maneuvre him onto his sleeping skin, and you unroll yours right next to him. When you do, Johnny reaches for you, clinging like a damn insect. But you don't seem to mind, 'cause you wrap your arms around his waist and bring him in even closer. He tucks his head into your shoulder.

He thinks that he'll get to kiss you tomorrow, too.

His sleep is dreamless and deep.

[nonamenonamenon]

It's a rainy day in the human world when Solomon attends your funeral. You're surrounded by the brothers, the angels, and the friends you made during your time in the Devildom.

It's a bit cliché, he thinks. How time seems to stop. How the skies seem to weep at your death, too. It feels as though all three realms mourn at the loss of such a special lifeー your life.

Though, who wouldn't?

You're surrounded by people you've saved. The people you cherish, and those that cherish you back. Those who've come to experience the kindness you lent to demons, angels, humans, reapers, and other creatures alike. The amount of people saddened, and standing at your casket right now is only proof of that fact.

Solomon can't bring himself to cry.

It's something that he should be used to by now. It's something that he's a little too used to, given his long life.

It's not as if he expected himself to wail and sob at your death. He loved you. He loved you so much. He'd be willing to risk everything for you. Willing to sacrifice it all for you.

It's why the lack of any real feeling at learning of your death hurts him so much.

When you had died, his first thought was to tell his dearest apprentice the news. The realization sets in, and he laughs, thinking about how idiotic he is. Oh, Solomon. You've lost the only person you were ever truly comfortable with.

He doesn't feel... sad. Or angry. Or anything, really. He feels empty. Like a part of his soul had been taken from him, and crushed beneath someone's heel.

The sorcerer merely accepts it. It's not as if he can bring you back to life now, can he? Even Thirteen couldn't do anything.

He feels powerless. He laughs a little to himself. The strongest sorcerer in all three realms, and he's utterly powerless to stop you from leaving him again.

He's got so many regrets. He didn't think he spent enough time with you. Didn't think he told you he loved you enough. He didn't cherish the times he had with you enough.

Still, he doesn't feel anything well up in his eyes. He doesn't feel the lump in his throat when he speaks. He's composed, cordial with the other guests at your funeral, even daring to greet them with a smile. The others, who didn't know him so well, sent him dirty, disgusted looks.

He ignores, and ignores, until the funeral comes to an end, and time continues to move again. Everyone will soon move on with their life, forgetting about you. And it breaks him to think about how he'll have to keep moving forward, regardless, too.

Solomon doesn't use teleportation when he walks home. He thinks he'll take his time today. He... wants to take things a little slow, today.

Walking home, he remembers your little lectures on human superstitions. Both of you had taken an interest in them back then, so it naturally came up in a conversation while walking home.

He remembers you mentioning one in particular. It was something related to stopping somewhere after a funeral, to 'shake off' any spirits that may have followed.

He can't remember. It felt like he was just walking home, conversing with you, but how come he's unable to remember?

Anyway, you told him, jokingly, that if you'd ever died, to go somewhere else before stopping home, or else you'd haunt him for life.

He thinks it wouldn't be such a bad idea. His pace speeds up a bit. Solomon wanted to take it slow, but... he wants to rest at home for a bit.

His brisk walking pace evolves into somewhat of a light jog. He remembers he left some important papers at home that he needed to review for a new spell.

His light jog turns into a full blown sprint home. What was he hoping for, exactly? That you'd appear there as an apparition, welcoming him back home, like normal?

What a joke.

It's just some dumb superstition. It's not real. You won't be back.

He arrives at the door of your shared home. He's scared. Scared to open the door and have it fully set in that you're gone. Scared, that your lack of presence there will turn your shared home into just a mere house.

He fiddles with the key in his hand, and inserts it into the doorknob. He twists, and he hears a click.

He opens the door. The lights are shut. The movies you were supposed to watch and games you were supposed to play together are still stacked messily on the table. Your dirty clothes are still strewn about the apartment.

He doesn't... know how to feel. He enters, closing the door behind him, and sits on the couch in your living room.

If he waits any longer, will the lights start blinking?

Will the tap suddenly start running?

Will the room get colder, as he feels chills run down his spine?

Will something break, so suddenly, that it frightens him a little?

He wishes for something, anything, to happen. Just so he can feel your presence in your home again. Just so it doesn't feel like you're truly gone.

But nothing ever arrives.

The floorboards don't creak. The lights don't start flickering. The door doesn't move, suddenly. Nothing. Nothing happens.

After an hour of waiting, Solomon... breaks.

He breaks.

Tears well up in his eyes, and he feels that unfamiliar lump in his throat. It's as if a dam had fractured, and had been continuously breaking throughout the day.

And everything had started spilling out.

He cries. Solomon cries. He feels his tears drip down his face, drop after drop. It's not something he's used to. He's not used to feeling so strongly about a death like yours.

You passed of natural causes. Just like everybody else. Just like his family. Just like most of his friends.

How come... how come he's crying so hard at your death, then?

It's something he should be used to by now. It's something that he's used to.

However, when he feels the lack of warmth, the lack of life, the lack of you in your shared home...

Solomon realizes that he'll never get used to not having you with him.

[lafaiette]

The level of disappointment I feel for the new dragon age game is just so consuming. Like I'll admit that after so many years, I didn't think it would hold true to what the previous game set up. But I hate that I was right, and I hate that a game series I loved so much sas turned into what it is now. I didn't buy it at launch because I wanted to wait for a sale, but with all that I'm hearing I'm wondering if it's even worth it. I'm just so sad for how this all went and I wish it hadn't happened. It even makes replaying the old games feel like scorched earth because nothing I do will have an effect on anything. It never mattered. The game that said my choices matter has now said "actually you never mattered" and I'm so heartbroken about it.

It even makes replaying the old games feel like scorched earth because nothing I do will have an effect on anything. It never mattered. The game that said my choices matter has now said "actually you never mattered" and I'm so heartbroken about it.

This is also one of the most painful parts for me, together with the way they handled - or ignored - a majority of the established lore.

In Veilguard, we learn that the majority of the South is basically gone: Denerim is lost, Redcliffe is under siege, getting help from the dwarves of Orzammar, who are already stretched thin. The ruler of Ferelden is never addressed - what happened to them? Are they still alive? Are they defending Redcliffe? We'll never know.

Orlais is also lost. Val Royeaux and Halamshiral are barely holding on, and a noble faction decided (for some stupid reason) to join the Venatori and spread even more chaos. The ruler of Orlais is never addressed - are they dead? Did the rebel nobility kill them? What happened to Briala's elves? We'll never know.

Kirkwall has fallen, and Aveline has been forced to evacuate the city and move the few survivors to Starkhaven. We know that Varric is dead, so Aveline or someone else will have to take his place, if Kirkwall can even be recovered (doubtful at this point).

The Blight is back in Ostagar and the Korcari Wilds, too, with only some Avvar and Alamarri clans keeping things under control while in a temporary truce with Ferelden.

Everything we ever accomplished in DA:O, DA2, and DA:I is gone. They turned the South into a blank state so they can leave it there, ignoring it, now that the focus will be on Those Across the Sea, as the secret ending slide shows. This blank state will also allow them to return to the South, should they ever wish to, but without the need to take into account the players' past choices, because everything we knew, everything we built and fought for, is gone.

"Oh, Ferelden changed so much in the last twenty years or so, ever since that terrible Blight caused by the elven gods!"

"Orlais isn't the same anymore, there is another civil war because we lost our previous ruler. Who was it? Oh, I don't know, I wasn't born yet, I couldn't care less."

"Pity about Kirkwall. I heard it was a shithole, but the beer at the Hanged Man was apparently pretty good."

^ This is what we will get in the future.

[visibleclosedeyes]

✧𝕮𝖔𝖓𝖘𝖔𝖗𝖙 𝖔𝖋 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖘𝖙𝖆𝖗𝖘✧

Yaoshi x reader

1k words AO3 version here

Very slightly yandere

Many years ago—possibly millennia, you were simply a small and insignificant mortal living on a planet that could only be described as desolate. It used to be full of life and vegetation—and the crystal clear water in the river always reflected the light from the sun like a valuable stone. But then it was all gone, the meteor had stroked your world; leaving nothing but a crater, a charred living being and the remains of the land and the river slowly but surely disappear. This world is dying—wasting away among the stars which share no empathy. The survivors live their life on a fragile veil of hope.

They said that the only relationship possible between mortals and Aeons is that of distant and fleeting gazes from the divines. Like a gentle yet frightening gust of invisible force and a pair ( or several pairs) of eyes staring down at them from a distance of several thousand light-years away. So you, too, assumed that to be true. Even if you pray to the Abundance, you didn’t expect anything in return–you didn’t expect answers. Even if Yaoshi was described as the most empathetic being in the universe; you believed that it has to take more than a small prayer to get their attention. Yet, you pray every day, just so you didn’t feel alone. Just so you and your family would feel better. Like a lie, parents would tell children so they would stop worrying and go to bed. 

And one day you feel it; a million miles away from here—someone or something, with thousands of pairs of eyes, has glanced at you. In a small millisecond, you feel like you have seen something; the image and feelings have been imprinted into your brain like a footprint on a dry-out concrete. What WAS that? Is that what you think it is? That thing which mortal legends have claimed to be true? Aeon’s gaze. But you put no mind on it since nothing happened immediately after; you have dismissed it as a sudden hallucination from heat then go on with your day.

Little did you know that the magnificent being exists several light years away from your home planet, that entity has always been listening to your prayers. Aeons do not really answer pathstriders, and if they do that was a chance lower than finding a planet that has no sun and moon. For Yaoshi, they only converse and answer mortals only when they have met face to face. Prayers; they can hear but they do not have enough time for all the little prayers erupting from different corners of the universe. And here they thought being an Aeon would provide all the reach they needed. Still, sometimes some individuals cannot simply be ignored and you happen to be one of those individuals. Maybe it’s because of the scale of your sufferings or the constant prayers over and over again—the Aeon of the Abundance decided to glance you a visit. 

That night after you have fulfilled your tasks for the day you go to sleep, drifting into the realm of dreams which stretches beyond the limitations of the universe. In dreams, mortals like yourself are boundless. To every corner of the crafted universe they go, sink themselves into the realm of thousand possibilities. You wake up in some sort of wild garden—too wild and too abundant to be any realistic garden you have ever seen from your home planet. The light shines on trees and grass seems to almost be golden but the sunlight itself doesn’t feel too hot nor does it feel too cool. Looking up ahead of yourself, a light sensation touches your cheek, you catch it, and… the object seems to be a leaf you learned from the elders as ‘gringko’. Every tree that can bear fruits bears that cannot, however, spread their large branches and lush green-yellow-golden leaves to compete. You can hear animals—like a deer and even the growling of a tiger but they seem to be far away. Critters busied themselves with harvesting fruits and nuts which seemed to never run out. What IS this place? This place doesn’t even resemble anything you have seen in your homeland. Is it possible for a mortal to imagine and dream about the thing they never experienced in their lifetime?

You follow the path forward where the grass seems to be shortened and mulled over like many have walked over them for a very long time—so this must have been the main road to whatever was waiting for you. After some walking, you see a large tree forward. A golden ray of light emits from it seems to be the culprit who dyes the scenery golden. Grinko leaves dancing in the air also seem to be let go from this very tree. On its foot, there is a figure that sitting on a throne which seems to be fabricated from all manners of barks and roots 

On that throne, a figure with several arms resigns. One of their legs crossed with the other is free—in several of their palms, each one of the fruit and grain is being held. They all look freshly picked; the water drop can practically be seen dripping down the curve of plump healthy-looking fruit. You have no idea when you have been close to them enough for the strange entity to reach out to you. Your eyes went shut instinctively when one of their fingers reached toward you—a long nail scratched your left cheek with utmost care. When you opened your eyes, you were there; sat right in front of them on your knees. They were and felt larger than life, behind them was a golden tree shining its benevolent light on all creatures and critters alike, it shined through you too. Hm, how…considerate. And then you realized, that pattern, how their body isn’t pattern… they are moving, staring eyes…all over their body. Whatever they are…is far removed from what you know.

“Child,  I have heard your prayers, you are in great pain. But not the pain of your—it’s the pain of the dying world and your people,” They spoke. The voice is soft like velvet slowly and gracefully making contact with your consciousness–dripping with an overwhelmingly large amount of empathy. Yet, their voice firmly reeked with confidence. Before you could say anything back a long and elegant finger pressed shut your frail lips. 

“I understand, I, too, was once wondered—’ why do all things need to come to an end? Why does suffering itself have no other end other than death? Their pain, I have seen the world you have saw; through the prayers you’ve delivered to me. You shall be set free by me—and by proxy, carry my blessings to your kinsman. Only…under one condition,” 

You listened to the honeyed words from the fascinating entity as you suddenly forgot how to breathe. It was now clear who this strange entity was. Yaoshi, Aeon of the abundance. But—why? And if they were real does that mean—

“Become mine. Become my Emanator and my consort; then—leave this world behind with me. You shall have to protect your kins, give them my eternal blessings. Just only if you will submit to me,”

Dividers by cafekitsune

[unconventional-lawnchair]

The Boy I knew {Sneak Peak}

Barty Crouch Jr. x Reader

Cw; Y/N, obsessions, one sided love(Barty receiving), Barty being unhinged.}} Please tell me if I missed anything!

AN- this fanfic is now well over 10k and not nearly done, so I am just posting a lil sneak peak. I may of gone so over board based on an anon request

Wc-1628

{. 1972 - Barty’s Year 1 .}

Bartemius Crouch Junior couldn't have been older than eleven when he first met {Y/N} Walburga Black. A cool upperclassman, if only by a year.

Bartemius, at that ripe age, knew only a handful of things, and two of those was how badly he wanted to be seen and known. He wanted to be seen for who he was, and known for what he would do. Thats likely what drew him to you.

At only twelve, you and your brother had made a name for yourselves, in much different ways. Your brother was popular, for his quick tongue and clever quips, his innate ability to get under anyone's skin and stay there. Those traits could be forgiven, and they always were, for his big heart and intense moral compass.

You, however, were known for harboring a few very non Black traits, like your intense empathy and your crazed thirst for knowledge. Even as a Slytherin, your loyalty and curiosity rivaled the students around you tenfold. Your bravery knew no bounds, even with all the wrongs you had been done, you were forgiving and understanding. You were seen by everyone, you were known for everything.

As he got older, he wondered where that forgiveness went. You grew cold.

When he was innocent, when he had done no wrongs, you cradled him in your hands like he was a gift. You looked at him with eyes you shared with everyone, so much care and patience, so much understanding and kindness. So if those eyes were shared with the masses, he struggled, but was determined, to keep them focused on himself at any chance given.

It was obvious to anyone who saw the two interact. Barty wanted to be witnessed by you. The halls filled with the judgeful and teasing murmurs when he found you in the halls.

“There goes {Y/N}’s prodigy.”

“Barty is off to find his guru.”

“That boy will never learn.”

“How annoying.”

Barty had never been ashamed of his declarations for praise. He knew most of the voices were bitter with jealousy. He would be jealous too. You were both so young, and yet even some older students looked to you like you were twice your age, yet every Friday when the tests were returned, you sat in the courtyard and waited for him. Your personal underclassman.

You would meet in the yard and he would brandish his flawless marks, you would praise his abilities in absolute pride. He had never had someone prideful of him before. Everyone knew him to be a mother’s boy, but he would challenge any of those claims. He was a {Y/N}’s boy, he'd tell them, no shame as students snickered and made their fun of him. He was never afraid of how much he liked you. How much he admired and respected you.

He would turn from the RavenClaw table and look to you after his announcements everytime, you would be eating with Lily Evans and the other girls of her group, but your eyes would be on him. You would give him a soft smile that drove him mad. He would return it with his own, the smile he would save for you. Just you.

He could even ignore your shameful company.

When he was only eleven and you were twelve, everything was perfect for him. You focused your attention on studies, your friends, and of course, Barty. That's how it stayed for years.

He would reminisce in his cell, running his dulled nail along the jagged stone walls, carving intents of every minute that passed. Remembering all of the things he regretted most in his life. Losing your trust was where his spiral began. He was a foolish kid.

{. 1974 Barty’s Year 3 .}

“It's getting embarrassing.”

Barty was eating lunch with one of the many friends he had made during his years at Hogwarts, Evan Rosier. He was once again bringing the conversation back to you, as he had been for the past few days.

“You trail after her like a loyal dog. Has she even given you a hint that she may return your feelings?”

“What feelings?”

Evan and you did not get along. You never had. When he first found himself growing closer to him, you voiced your distaste for Evan the very next day. Barty always trusted your judgment, he obeyed you without much of a fight in most cases. This was not one of those cases.

He figured you to be biased, your brother thought him to be a Death Eater and you despised them. Something he could never understand, you were a pureblood, you were a powerful witch, and you would never have to worry about falling for a half blood or muggleborn, or Merlin forbid, a muggle. You were smarter than that. He always figured. You wouldn't taint your legacy.

Not like your useless brother, who he could see even now, describing his entanglements with witches and wizards of any kind, to the other Marauders.

As the years went on, you and Barty’s meetings became scarcer and scarcer, they went from Fridays to every second Friday, finally, you now only met every last Friday of the month. Still, Barty clung to you with a desperation he never would give anyone else.

Recently, you had gotten into a fight. One where you expressed your worry for what could possibly happen to him if he got involved with the wrong crowd. Barty, admittedly, didn't respond in kind. He was furious with you. You questioned his company but pushed away from him, you questioned his morals and his standing on the war. He told you there was no war to him, there was no fight.

At the end of the day, he would be standing by you.

The answer seemed to distress you further. It turned into a match of shouts and desperate pleas of compliance. It caused a scene, people watched as you defended your standing on your side of the war, this fight you were having with yourself he assumed. There was no war. This was a power struggle, so power would be returned to its rightful place.

Evan’s scoff snapped him out of his thoughts and he looked up from his plate to his eyes.

“Barty, half the school knows you've been in love with her since you met her.” He hissed and Barty frowned. Would he call it love? He didn't think about it long before he had his answer. Love wasn't something he looked for, but he found it constantly. From the love he shared with Pandora, to the love he shared with Regulus, even the love he was nurturing with the brutish Evan.

No love in his body burned hotter then his love for you.

He never thought about it because he never had to. Why would he? He knew you would always choose him. He knew what you two shared was never anything that could be challenged. He was your underclassmen. He was your prodigy. He didn't care for much, as long as he was yours.

Evan snapped his fingers in his face and drew his attention back to him. He gave a slick smirk and wet his lips. “Come on, Barty, she's just a girl. You're wasting talent. Talent that could be used for someone who actually appreciates you.”

“She does appreciate me.” Barty challenged immediately, before Evan smirked and gestured to the Gryffindor table. “Does she?”

Barty turned just in time to see you, he never had to stare at a crowd too long to find you.

You were sitting with your brother and his friends, side by side with Remus, sitting far too close for comfort. He was whispering something in your ear, making you giggle. Turning to look at him with the truest smile he's ever seen you make. Flashing your beautifully uneven teeth, your cheeks dimpling and eyes seeming to sparkle. Your eyes met Lupin’s and he took in your expression like he could die in that moment.

Barty had never seen you smile like that before. He had never seen you look that way before. You had never looked at him like that before.

He hadn't even noticed as he began to bend the fork in his hand, fist tightening as he watched as Remus lean in and stole a kiss against your cheek. You gave a bigger laugh at this. Moving in to kiss his lips carefully.

The wonderful moment you were having was interrupted when a loud snap sounded threw the cafeteria. Your eyes snapped over to the RavenClaw table, as did a lot of your peers. Barty had snapped a fork in half with his thumb alone. Before a professor could scold him, he got up from his seat and stomped out of the grand hall, and your eyes followed them.

You muttered a quick apology to Remus and he nodded in understanding as you scrambled to your feet to follow after him.

He wished he could take every word he called you in that hall back now. He wished he had been smart enough to know that loving you with you in his life would of been far less torture then loving a girl who hated your guts.

“You blood traitor!”

“This! This is what I meant, Bartemius! My Barty would never-”

“You don't have a clue about me you insolent heartbreaker! What of us, Black?”

“Us? What Us, Barty?”

That night he realized that no matter how genuine his love was for you, how deeply it ran, those times spent alone meant far more to him then it ever meant to you. You did stuff like that for everyone.

He wasn't entitled to your love. Running his nail down until it was blunted against the wall. Azkaban could no longer do more harm then it already had.

[hbyrde36]

Caught in the Undertow

Hi friends! I'm so sorry for the huge gap between updates. I've moved into a new position at work recently, and while it comes with many perks (hello pay raise), the added responsibilities are MASSIVELY cutting into my writing time so unfortunately updates may continue to come slower than I would like. BUT, please know I love my little stories so so much, and I'd NEVER leave a fic incomplete!

Chapter Seven

WC: 6286 | R: Explicit | TW: Suicidal Ideation/Depression | Ch 7/10 | AO3

Ch 1 Ch 2 Ch 3 Ch 4 Ch 5 Ch 6 <-

Eddie pulled the bedroom door shut behind him, letting it slam before leaning his weight back against it. His breath came in pants and gasps, and he tried desperately to catch it as his heart raced, pounding painfully against the fragile walls of his chest.

Steve kissed him.

On the mouth. 

After looking at him—like that. 

Steve kissed him like he was someone special, someone good, someone worth wanting.

Eddie’s lips quirked up into a small, crooked smile remembering the feel of it, soft and warm and inviting. Steve had already started to feel like a kind of home to him. A place of safety and comfort, and his kiss was all of those things and more. 

Sudden laughter forced its way up his throat, bubbling out of his mouth without his permission. Could Steve… 

Did Steve actually, beyond all reason, like him too?

He hiccuped, choking on air as his manic giggles were overcome by shoulder shaking sobs, and he slid to the floor in a long-limbed heap. It felt like he’d been handed everything he could want on a silver platter, and lost it in the same instant. 

Because Eddie knew he didn’t deserve it, that he couldn’t let himself have it. He’d only screw it all up. There was no way he wouldn’t. Then he’d get hurt, and worse, he might hurt Steve too. 

No, if he’d learned anything in this short but also achingly long life, it was better just to not even try.

He should go.

He should pack all his things and run, the way he was always meant to. Away from Hawkins altogether if he wanted to be dramatic, or, at the very least, back home to Wayne. 

There was only one problem. 

He didn’t want to leave.

He didn’t want to give Steve up, and everyone else by extension if he fled like a coward. He liked the way things had been going, the friendship blossoming between them, the trust. 

It was worth everything. 

Worth ignoring the attraction, and forgetting about his late-night fantasies. Worth denying his own growing feelings as best he could. And definitely worth having a difficult conversation. 

At least Steve already knew how fucked up he was. If Eddie could just get him to understand that he wouldn’t be good for him, maybe they could pick up where they left off, as friends, and pretend the kiss had never happened.

He found Steve still in the kitchen, sitting on the floor with his head down, body curled in on itself. The sight of him like that made Eddie’s stomach drop, only serving as further proof that Steve wasn’t meant for him. 

One kiss and he’d already blown it.

Though every fiber of his being screamed to book it out the front door before he was noticed, Eddie swallowed the feeling down and crept closer. 

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” Steve muttered near-silently into the space between his knees.

Eddie took a deep, steadying breath before he spoke. “You're not stupid.”

Steve stilled, the only evidence that he’d heard Eddie’s voice at all. He didn’t look up, not even when Eddie sank to the floor next to him, sitting as close as he dared, laying a tentative hand on the other boy’s arm.

“Would you look at me please, Steve?” Eddie begged softly, his throat gone uncomfortably tight.

Slowly, Steve raised his head, his wide, sad eyes searching Eddie’s face. “Are you mad?”

And God if that question wasn’t like a sharp knife in the gut. Only Steve, sweet, sensitive, caring-to-his-own-fucking-detriment Steve Harrington would ask such a thing. 

“Of course not,” Eddie said, willing the truth of it to ring out in his words, but Steve’s face only fell further.

“You’re clearly not happy about it.”

“You surprised me, is all.” A bit of a simplification, but Eddie didn’t know how else to explain it.

“Not the good kind of surprise then—huh?” 

“I just–I don’t understand,” Eddie ground out, in another woefully inadequate explanation of just how lost he was here. Because really—why him? Why now? Didn’t Steve know he could do better? That he deserved someone better? There were so many questions swirling through his mind, not the least of which being… “I thought you were straight?”

Steve dropped his gaze, giving a self-deprecating snort. “Apparently not, or so I’ve realized.”

“Right.” Eddie let his head fall back against the wood of the base cabinet, restraining himself from slamming his skull into it over and over again the way he wanted, until the physical pain was enough to distract from everything else. Despite what was happening, and his own wavering doubts, he was still trying to get better.

To be better.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn't have…” Steve began, trailing off with a little shake of his head. “I get it, if you hate me now.”

The knife already firmly embedded in Eddie’s core, twisted. “Steve, how could you even think that?”

It took a second, and for Steve to flash him a certain side-long look before it sank in, and Eddie remembered that that’s precisely what he’d done to Steve before.

“Okay, that’s fair,” Eddie said, gritting his teeth. “I’m sorry, I shouldn't have walked away from you like that. I just needed a minute to think.”

“And what–uh, w-what do you think?” 

“Steve, I’m—” Eddie looked down at his lap, mindlessly fidgeting with his hands as he worked up the courage to say what needed to be said. “Flattered, which is the understatement of the century. You are one of the best people I know. I feel so incredibly lucky to have you as a friend after everything, but I… I can’t do this.” Eddie forced himself to raise up and meet Steve’s eyes again, needing to make absolutely sure there was no misunderstanding between them about this. “And I need you to believe me when I say it has nothing to do with you, this is all me. Okay?”

Steve bobbed his head in a nod, offering a tight lipped smile. “Sure, y-yeah. I get it. No–no problem.”

Eddie did the same as he pushed himself to his feet, reaching out his hand like an olive branch to help Steve up.

For a moment he thought it would be alright, all things considered, but the tension in the room was palpable as they finished dealing with the groceries in silence. It was incredibly awkward, neither of them knowing what to say to the other now. Where before they’d always danced around each other easily, anticipating the other's movements, Eddie felt like he was constantly in the way.

There was something sadly poetic about that. 

It was purely out of panic, the desperate need to ease the thickness in the air, that he asked about having the kids come over that night. Not that he didn’t want to see them—he did—he just hoped he was up for it.

Steve agreed with a similar air of desperation and painfully forced cheerfulness. 

It made Eddie’s insides squirm, knowing they were each faking it for the other, and he couldn’t help wondering if he’d been selfish, making the wrong choice in staying. He thought that by not running he was being brave, but maybe it just made him a different kind of coward.

To no one's surprise, Dustin was the first to arrive hours later, his mother’s car barely rolling to a stop before he was leaping out of it, flying up Steve’s front walk while Eddie watched from the front windows. 

The kid was barely through the door before Eddie pulled him in for a crushing hug, unexpectedly overwhelmed at the sight of his goofy grin, and baby-like face. It was almost as if this were the first time he was seeing Dustin since the younger boy had sat crying in the dirt, holding his hand while he bled out in the Upside Down. Eddie’s memories of the last get-together were hazy at best, twisted and dark at worst.

Honestly, he tried to just not think about it, or the weeks of wallowing that had preceded it, preferring to block it all out as best he could.

He squeezed Dustin a little tighter before finally letting go, neither acknowledging the longer than necessary greeting or the way Eddie sniffled a little as they separated, something he was immeasurably grateful for.

The rest of the party arrived shortly after, dropped off by Mrs. Wheeler, who gave a tentative wave when she spotted Eddie’s form in the doorway, highlighted by the overhead porch light. It was stiff and unsure, but a wave nonetheless. More than he expected. Maybe public sentiment would change eventually, or maybe Mike was just enough of a little shit that his mom was willing to take the risk of letting him hang out with a formerly suspected murderer if it got him and his friends out of her house.

When the living room was full of the annoying precious voices of their young friends talking over each other and arguing about the choice of movie for the night, Steve finally poked his head out to say hello. He’d been hiding in the kitchen under the guise of cleaning and prepping snacks or whatever, but Eddie knew it was only an excuse. That kitchen had been spotless hours ago. 

It was always spotless. 

Steve was avoiding him, not that he blamed him, but it still stung.

“Did you little shits come to a decision yet?” Eddie asked, partly to distract himself, partly to get this show on the road. Normally he thrived in noise and chaos but tonight it had him feeling a little on edge.

Max huffed. “No, apparently we need a tie-breaker.”

“Okay, say no more. What are my choices?”

“Legend or Teen Wolf,” Dustin said.

“Legend, obviously,” Eddie scoffed. Because who in their right mind would choose to watch Marty McFly turn into an overgrown basketball playing mutt, when Tim Curry as Darkness was right there?! 

His quick reply was immediately followed by Steve’s equally resolute shout of, “Teen Wolf!”

Lucas turned to Max with a proud smirk. “I told you we’d need Robin.”

“Where is she anyway?” Dustin asked.

Right on cue, there was a crash in the foyer as the front door burst open, banging hard against the wall.

“Sorry I'm late!” Robin called out, skidding around the corner. The plastic bag full of candy she held, clearly ‘borrowed’ from Family Video, slipped from her hand, the contents of it spilling out across the carpet.

When she crouched to the floor to collect the dozen-or-so little boxes, Eddie started to get up from the couch to help, but hesitated as Steve leapt to her aid, the two of them having some kind of silent conversation with their eyes, ending with Steve asking her to help him with something in the kitchen.

Subtle, Steve. Real subtle.

But before the two of them could actually escape, Dustin let out a disgusted groan. “Duuuuude, can’t you two make out some other time?”

“Yeah! We’ve been waiting.” Erica added.

Were they serious?

Not that Eddie necessarily expected the teens to have picked up on Robin’s inclinations the way that he had, but if you spent more than a few minutes in the dynamic duo’s presence it was clear they were closer to brother and sister than anything even remotely resembling romantic partners.

Steve let out a long-suffering sigh, throwing his hands up. “How many times, Henderson? How many times do we have to tell you we’re not—it’s never going to happen!” He spared Eddie a worried glance, as if afraid he might believe Dustin’s nonsense. 

Like Eddie would have any right to care after rejecting him that morning.

“But you’re both single! You drive her everywhere… and y’know, you’re a boy, she's a girl,” Dustin pointed out.

Lucas nodded in agreement. “He’s got a point, Steve. You are always together.”

“I think you and Robin make a cute couple,” El said, smiling innocently. Mike, sitting beside her, only crossed his arms over his chest, looking extra surly, while Will on her other side, was similarly silent, but more of the quietly amused variety.

As Eddie watched it all unfold, he couldn’t help noticing that while everyone else was zeroing in on Steve and Robin, Max was looking at him, her eyes narrowed and strangely suspicious. He cleared his throat, tugging his t-shirt collar away from a suddenly clammy neck.

“C’mon guys,” Robin said, laughing nervously. “We’re not—”

Unable to take it anymore, and maybe looking to avoid a certain redhead’s x-ray vision, Eddie jumped in. “Let me get this straight,” he started, facing Dustin since he seemed to be the ringleader of this particular circus act. “Are you saying men and women can’t be just friends?” 

Dustin rolled his eyes. “No, but—”

“And doesn’t Steve drive all of you everywhere? Like, all the time?”

“Well, yeah, but—”

“Gee, you sure do spend a lot of time with Max. Should I start bugging you about it?”

“Hey!” Lucas shouted, indignant.

Steve snorted, covering his mouth a little too late to stop it from slipping out. Eddie grinned, forgetting their earlier awkwardness, and turned to throw him a wink over his shoulder.

“That’s ridiculous, we’re just friends!” Dustin insisted. “She's with Lucas! And I have a girlfriend!”

Eddie tilted his head, blowing out a long breath. “I don't know. I mean, we’ve never actually met Suzy. Do you expect me to just take your word for it that you’re not secretly canoodling with your very close female friend?”

Erica wrinkled her nose. “Ew, don’t say canoodling!”

“Technically some of us did meet—” Mike started to say until Eddie cut him a hard glare.

Dustin scowled, sinking back into the couch with his arms crossed. “Okay! Fine! You’ve made your point.” 

“Good,” Eddie said, with a definitive nod.

“I would never do something to hurt the party like that,” Dustin grumbled under his breath. “For the record.” 

Steve offered Eddie a small, grateful smile before finally fleeing the room with Robin in tow.

With the boredom of waiting returned in full force, the boys' volume did the same, their conversation turning to D&D and something about the last time they’d all attempted to play together before Will moved away. Eddie tried to follow along, but he was out more than he was in, too busy wondering what Steve needed to talk to Robin about in private so badly. 

Him probably.

So really, it wasn’t Eddie’s fault for absently agreeing to whatever Dustin had just said.

“Sure, kid. Whatever you want.”

All at once the room fell blessedly silent.

“Wait, really?!” Dustin squeaked.

Uh oh.

Eddie’s eyes darted from one eager face to another, and he knew he was screwed when even Mike looked moderately interested. “Remind me what I've just signed myself up for again?”

With a smug grin, Dustin informed him that he’d agreed to run a one shot for them, and to call Jeff, Gareth, and Grant to ask them to join too.

“Don’t worry though, Max and El said they’d just watch.”

“And maybe not even that!” Max said, her voice full of sarcastic glee.

Eddie resisted the urge to roll his eyes. As if the number of players was the issue. Reflexively, he opened his mouth to say ‘no way’, but remembered the borrowed notebook he had hidden away upstairs, a carefully thought out adventure already well into the making on its pages. 

“Actually,” he began after a beat. “I’ve been working on something that would be perfect.”

“When could we play?” Will asked excitedly, speaking up for the first time since Eddie had met him.

“Give me a few weeks to get ready, kid, and I promise it’ll blow your minds.”

With matching grins and buzzing excitement, Will, Dustin, and Lucas shared high fives, but their celebration was quickly cut off by the resident negative Nancy of the younger set.

…No fault to his actual sister, Nancy. 

“I don’t know what you’re all so happy about,” Mike spat. “My mom said no more basement and Eddie isn’t allowed in the school. Where would we even go?”

Before Eddie could reply that he’d work it out somehow, even if it meant squeezing them all into his small trailer for an afternoon, an approaching voice spoke up. 

“You could play here,” Steve offered, as he and Robin strode back into the room, arms laden with overflowing bowls of popcorn.

Eddie bit his lip. Even as Dustin was already thanking Steve, he had to ask, “are you sure?” 

Who knew what things would look like in a few weeks. If Eddie would still be staying there, or if Steve would have had enough of him by then and kicked him to the curb. What if they never got over that stupid kiss?

Would they even still be friends?

“Yeah, It’ll be fine,” Steve answered, quickly tacking on, “It’ll be great.” 

Eddie couldn't help feeling like Steve was talking about more than just a game of D&D. 

He wanted to believe things between them would be fine, really he did, but as the chatter stopped and the movie started—Teen Wolf, because Robin was an ungrateful traitor—and Eddie settled deeper into his spot on the couch surrounded by children, with Steve sitting clear across the room, cramming himself into an over-sized arm chair with Robin, the distance felt like a visible representation of the rift he’d caused between them this morning.

This is what he’d wanted though, Eddie reminded himself.

Some space. A buffer. 

Not wanted, exactly, but it’s what he knew needed to happen. A fact that didn’t make it suck any less. 

Eddie tried to relax, turn his brain off, and enjoy the mindless entertainment playing out in front of him, but no matter how hard he concentrated on the screen, his gaze always managed to wander over to Steve, who was steadfastly staring, unblinking at the TV. 

When it got so bad that he’d completely lost the non-existent plot of the movie, he pushed himself to his feet, making a beeline to the other room. 

What he wanted was a stiff drink, but he’d settle for a soda, and maybe some fresh air and a smoke.

Eddie yanked the fridge door open forcefully, the cool air coming out of it washing over him. Instead of bringing relief, the sudden chill sent shivers down his spine. His vision swam as unease made his stomach turn sour, and out of nowhere he had the strangest feeling of being untethered from his body. 

He must have stood in front of this damn thing a million times since that night, when he’d stumbled into the kitchen drunk off his ass after breaking into the fancy liquor cabinet in what he now knew was Steve’s dad’s office, still angry at the world, still wanting to die as he screamed his frustration right in Steve’s face.

But for some reason, this time he found himself being forcibly flung back to those awful moments.

Hard as he worked to shut it all down, the memories kept coming, repeating over and over again in a relentless onslaught as he gripped the handle of the refrigerator hard enough to make the plastic creak. 

“Jesus H. Christ. What a meddling pack of fucking do-gooders you are. So what if they’re after me. Who cares?” “Maybe I don’t want to sleep it off!” “You should have fucking left me there!”

A renewed sense of shame and guilt flooded him in a wave, like it had been building all this time while he’d been ignoring it, thinking—hoping it would go away.

“Open the door, Eddie.” “Fuck off.” “Unlock this fucking door or I’ll break it down.” “You’re not gonna break your own door down.” “Try me.”

How could he have almost done… that, here? Where his friends, where Steve would have had to see it, would have had to clean up the mess?

Would have had to tell Wayne what Eddie’d done. 

Someone who cared about him, who’d liked him enough to kiss him, after everything. 

And still, ashamed and regretful or not, Eddie knew it would be so easy for that switch inside him to flip again.

“Eddie?” A gentle voice called from what seemed like miles away.

Warm pressure on Eddie’s lower back startled him back to the present. He sucked in a breath as he jumped, spinning around to come face to face with Steve. 

One look into those worried hazel eyes was all it took for the dam to break, sending silent tears streaming down Eddie’s cheeks. 

Steve didn’t hesitate to wrap him up in his arms, and just like he did at night to calm him from his nightmares, Steve murmured soft soothing comfort into his ear as he held him tight. “Just breathe, Eddie. It’s okay. I've got you.”

He hadn’t even known he was holding it, but on Steve’s quiet command he took slow deep breaths in through his nose and out through his mouth until his face was dry and he felt like he was solidly back in his own body again.

Steve’s grip loosened, but didn’t let go as he pulled back enough to meet Eddie’s eyes again. “There you are,” he said with a tentative smile. “Do you want me to send everyone home?”

“No,” Eddie said too quickly, with a jerky shake of his head.

Steve only raised an eyebrow. 

If he was honest, he did want that, but he didn’t want to be the cause of another ruined night, and in the back of his mind he was a little afraid that if he kept pushing people away, they’d stop coming back.

“I don’t know what happened, it… it was kinda like a flashback? But I swear it’s fine now. I’m fine.”

It was clear in the stiffness of his body, the ever present concern in his eyes, and the fact that he still held Eddie in his arms, that Steve didn’t like it, but he didn’t argue, only followed close behind as Eddie made his way back out to the darkened living room, their friends faces lit by the flickering glow of the TV.

Soon enough the credits were rolling, and predictably no one made any moves to leave. Chants for a second movie began and by then, Eddie was game. He felt much better after his little breakdown in the kitchen, and it didn’t hurt that while they were gone Robin had taken his seat, so she could braid Max’s hair. 

Spending another hour and a half smashed together in the big chair with Steve sounded like a fine time, and it would have been, if he hadn’t fallen asleep five minutes in.

Eddie blamed the fading adrenaline.

He woke up alone in the chair just as a Steve sized shadow was throwing a blanket over a snoring Dustin-shaped lump, and pulling Robin to her feet, the room around them completely dark now save for the moonlight trickling in through the front windows. 

“Talked you into a sleepover, did they?” Eddie asked once he, Steve, and Robin were on the stairs and safely out of earshot from the sleeping teens.

Steve scoffed, shaking his head like he was annoyed, but a fond grin played along his pink lips. “Hard to say no when they’d already told their parents.”

“Oh dude,” Eddie chuckled softly, bumping his shoulder into Steve’s as they reached the top of the landing. “You’re such a pushover.”

“Maybe if someone had been awake to back me up,” Steve said, bumping him in return.

Robin pushed past them in a rush when they separated, waving a hand over her head as she went right for Eddie’s door. “I’m gonna crash in the guest room,” she mumbled out through a yawn. “See you dinguses in the morning.”

Eddie stood, mouth agape, watching as she shut and locked the door behind her.

“Oh,” Steve began, looking hesitantly between his own room and Eddie’s face. “I-I didn’t think… You take my bed. I can sleep on the floor if you—” 

“Steve,” Eddie cut in. He could already see Steve shrinking in on himself, tension making his shoulders rise up to his ears, and that had to stop right now. “We've been sharing a bed for at least half of every night for a while now.”

Steve shifted his weight from one foot to the other, staring down at the rug. “Yeah, but I thought you might be uncomfortable now, after—”

“I’m not, if you’re not,” Eddie said, taking his hand and squeezing it. 

Steve instantly relaxed. “Okay, let’s get some sleep.” 

Out of habit, Eddie assumed, born from all the nights leading up to now, Steve’s arms slid around his waist as they got settled in Steve’s bed, much larger and more plush than the one in the guest room, and for a moment they fit together as they always had, like matching puzzle pieces.

“Sorry,” Steve whispered, and started to pull back. 

Eddie held his tongue, wishing for the strength to let Steve let go, but he just… he wanted the comfort—needed it, like he needed air. Without a word he grabbed for Steve’s wrists under the covers, pulling his arms right back to where they were.

He silently promised himself that this would be the last time. After tonight he’d learn to sleep on his own again. Somehow he’d stop himself from waking up screaming, summoning Steve to his side. Somehow he’d learn how to be alone again. This was only temporary, after all.

He had to stay strong, keep a little distance—

Steve let out a contented sigh at his back, his hold on Eddie tightening as his warm breath ghosted over the back of Eddie’s neck.

—Emotionally.

It wasn’t long before Eddie himself fell into a dreamless, and more importantly nightmare-less sleep, for the first time since his night terrors had begun.

In the days following the big sleepover Eddie did not, in fact, move back into his own room. It seemed he wasn’t the only one who had a peaceful night’s rest, and the benefit of them both being spared horrific dreams night after night far outweighed anything else, at least for now.

And whether it had something to do with starting their nights out in the same bed together on purpose or not, their shows of physical… whatever you wanted to call it, started to bleed into the day too. 

Eddie couldn’t even lay the blame on Steve. He literally couldn't stop touching the other boy either. No matter where they were or what they were doing, if they were in the same room, they were touching. 

He tried to resist at first, for all the reasons he knew he should, but it was too easy to give in. They’d already been cuddling every single night, at one point or another, this was just an extension of that, without the nightmares and darkness for cover. They were friends, and platonic cuddling was totally a thing—right? 

If it bothered Steve, he didn’t show it, and Eddie was under no illusions. It didn’t change anything, and if it made them both feel better, then what was the harm? 

A little heartbreak between friends?

It was all fine enough, until it wasn’t.

Eddie’d been having such a good dream. The best dream. It was so real that he could practically taste the skin of Steve’s inner thigh, the tickle of fine hair brushing along his chin as he trailed kisses further and further up to where Steve stood hard and aching before him. And when they changed positions, it was almost like he was really feeling the plush roundness of Steve’s ass as he ground into him from behind.

Because he was.

Fuck.

Eddie’s eyes snapped open at the realization, and sure enough his body was curled tightly around Steve, spooning him from behind, cock hard where it was pressed against Steve’s cheeks.

He threw himself violently from the bed, making no effort to not wake Steve, the only thing on his mind to get the fuck out of this room immediately, lock himself in the bathroom, and take a very fast, very cold shower.

Steve’s door stood open when he crept back out into the hall, his bed empty and the smell of coffee drifting up from the kitchen.

He took his time getting dressed but eventually Eddie had no choice but to pad downstairs and face the music. He sat quietly at the counter, like he did most days, feeling absolutely mortified. 

Steve slid a mug in front of him like normal, The same one he used every day. His mug, like he belonged there. 

As if he hadn’t just crossed a huge line. 

Maybe Steve somehow hadn’t noticed being literally dry humped in his sleep? It didn’t really matter one way or another, it didn’t change the fact that it’d happened, and Eddie knew that meant his time was up.

Eddie wrapped his shaking hands around the mug, warming them, and took a small sip of the bitter drink as he struggled to find his words. “Listen, I—” he began, gaze trained down on the countertop. God, he couldn’t even bring himself to meet Steve’s eyes over his cup. “I can’t tell you how much being here has meant to me. Everything you’ve done, it’s so…”

“I didn’t really do anything,” Steve countered. “I was just here.”

“Sometimes that’s all you need,” Eddie went on. “Someone to just be there. No one but Wayne has ever taken care of me the way you did. But I’m doing better now, and I think I should go home before I overstay my welcome. I’m sure you have better things to do with your time than babysit—”

“I get it,” Steve cut in quietly. “You don’t have to explain. I’m surprised you stayed at all after I practically threw myself at you the other day. And you’re right, you don’t need me anymore. I’m just holding you back now, if anything.”

Eddie’s head snapped up. “How the hell do you figure that?”

Now it was Steve who looked uncomfortable, glancing away as he hunched his shoulders. “N-nothing, sorry. It doesn’t matter.”

“Steve?”

Steve sighed, the sound bearing a heavy weight, sad and resigned. “It gets… lonely in this house sometimes. I wanted you to stay if it would help, but I was also being selfish. You make it all feel less—empty.“

It hit Eddie suddenly, something Wayne had said to him a while back. That Steve needed him every bit as much as he needed Steve. They’d both been so focused on Eddie’s issues this whole time that he’d sort of forgotten that. And though he’d never admit it to the old man’s face, Uncle Wayne was hardly ever wrong.

He could deal with the embarrassing consequences of sticking around later, as well as his probable battered heart as he continued to fall for someone he couldn’t have. Now It was Eddie’s turn to be a good friend, to suck it up and be there for Steve the way he was always there for everyone else.

“Okay, then. I’m staying.”

“No. I didn’t mean to…” Steve trailed off, setting his coffee cup down to wave his hands. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to,” Eddie insisted, injecting every bit of sincerity he could into the words. “I thought I should give you your space back, but if you still want me here, I’ll stay a while longer.”

It was the truth, maybe not the whole truth, but enough.

“Okay, yeah. That’s, um—yes.”

“Glad that’s settled.” Eddie upended his own mug, draining the rest of his coffee before it cooled. “So, what’s the plan for today?

“Robin’s been bugging me to hang out again ever since the other night, so I was thinking about taking her to lunch or something. Would you want to come?”

“No, I'm good here. I should really keep working on the new campaign anyway since I promised the kids. Sounds like you two need some one-on-one time anyway.”

Eddie really did try to work on his plans, but it wasn’t long before he became restless, winding up in Steve’s room for some unknown reason.

Fine, he was snooping. 

But that wasn’t the only reason, was it? He missed Steve. The other boy had only been gone for like an hour and Eddie was already acting like a listless housewife waiting for her husband to return from war.

This was officially getting out of hand.

What had he been thinking earlier telling Steve he’d stay?! Every moment he delayed returning to reality would only make it all worse in the long run. To be so close to Steve but not let himself be with him. It was becoming it’s own kind of self-harm, bordering on torture.

Friends didn’t sleep in the same bed every night, no matter what Eddie’d been telling himself. He had to stop living in this fantasy world before he did something reckless and dumb. 

He hurled himself down onto Steve’s bed. Half of his body actually landed on the bed, while the rest hung off the edge, his hair pooling on the carpet below. He glanced around the room lazily as blood rushed to his head, leaving him pleasantly dizzy. Everything looked a little different from this angle. Except for that fucking wallpaper. How was he this gone on a guy who could just live with wallpaper like that? 

With a loud, heartfelt groan he rolled over onto his stomach, head still hanging down and finally spotted something… curious. 

There under the bed, partially hidden behind a deflated basketball and a small collection of forgotten socks, was a plain cardboard box. Nothing remarkable about that, except that the bottom corner was stained the dark rust of old blood, as if it had soaked in it and dried.

Eddie slid gracelessly down to the floor head first, crawling half way under the bed to pull the box out into the light. He was uncomfortably aware that this was a total violation of Steve’s privacy, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself from opening the flaps, and was completely unprepared for what he found. 

Tucked inside, folded neatly despite the fact that it was covered in blood and filth, was his own denim battle vest, the one he’d chucked impulsively at Steve. The various buttons and patches were worse for wear, but all still present and accounted for. It was… nice that Steve had held onto it, but why hadn’t he said anything? 

Why hide it away like this? 

Eddie set the vest aside to see what else Steve had seen fit to squirrel away, finding what looked like the same tactical pants and jacket that Steve had been wearing when he went off to fight Vecna, all covered in the same dark dried blood that had no doubt seeped into the cardboard that held it.

He was still sitting there on the floor, staring in confused disbelief at the open box when a shadow fell over the bedroom door, drawing his attention.

“Oh–” Steve gasped, his face draining of all color as he took in Eddie’s position and what lay in front of him. “Um… I can explain?”

Eddie didn’t know what to think, and could only continue to look up at him, eyebrows raised.

“Okay, I don’t know if I have, like, a good explanation, but—” Steve blew out a long breath, raking a hand nervously through his hair as he crossed the room, sitting down on the far end of the bed. “I’m not sure if I even fully realized what I was doing at the time, a–and y’know, we had no idea yet if you were going to make it or not.” He paused for a long beat, clearing his throat, and looked away to stare out the window at the fading late afternoon sun.

“I would have kept your vest no matter what, to make sure you got it back, or Wayne, if the worst happened. But when I went to throw out my own ruined clothes I just—I couldn’t stop thinking about how it was your blood I was covered in, and if you died, then…“ Steve sniffled, tearing his gaze away from the outside world to look deep into Eddie’s eyes, as if they too were pleading with him to understand. “It would be all there was left of you. I just couldn’t bring myself to get rid of any of it.” 

Eddie chewed on his bottom lip, quietly digesting what he’d heard. Before he could begin to think of a response Steve groaned, covering his face with his hands. 

“Jesus, it sounds even worse when I say it out loud. I’m sorry, I know it was crazy. I-I’m just gonna shut up now.”

Maybe someone a little more stable would have been weirded out by the whole thing, but it was like he and Steve spoke the same fucked up language, and all Eddie could think was how, as strange as it was, it was also kind-of romantic as hell.

“Not crazy,” Eddie said softly, climbing to his feet and coming to stand in front of Steve. He reached out to take Steve’s hands, pulling them away to reveal his beautiful flushed face. “Or if it is, I don't fucking care.”

Forgetting all the reasons why it was wrong, why it was a terrible idea, Eddie let Steve go, instead winding his own hands into that mass of soft chestnut hair as he climbed up onto the bed, straddling Steve’s hips to settle in his lap, and caught his lips in a bruising kiss.

Thanks and love to @penny00dreadful and @pearynice for all your help and encouragement with this!

Permanent taglist(open): @penny00dreadful @pearynice @hitlikehammers @bookworm0690 @wonderland-girl143-blog 

@goodolefashionedloverboi @themagicalari @awkwardgravity1 @rocknrollsalad

Fic taglist (open): @sidebarre

[jeff-rees-jones]

Have a happy, healthy new year...

My older brother only made it to 38 and he would have been 65 now. None of us know how long we have left and most of us are waiting until the time is 'right' for us to do whatever it is we think we'll enjoy doing in the future, and then we're gone.

Over the years I've taken many courses, from various modes of counselling to all kinds of therapeutic work as both a student and a tutor and one thing I have discovered to be true is that each and every one of us has issues, some large, some small, we are all a little fucked-up in one way or another and more importantly, it's all about how we deal with those issues that will decide how we function in life.

Find someone to chat with, share your feelings, but after that you have to be prepared to make some changes, otherwise the same old behaviours will bring about the same old problems, and it isn't always other people, sometimes it's you.

Here are a few tried and tested small things that have helped me along the way, things you can do to improve your days and the quality of your life and your relationships, small steps but they work very quickly if you can stick with them.

So far I've failed at every single one of these more than once but hey, let's not make it all about me! This stuff works...

Happiness is a choice every single day.

You are perfectly free to be who you are and to love who you love.

Whatever age you reach, you will never feel grown up.

Learn to be alone and learn to love, or at least like who you are.

Try and feel gratitude for even the smallest stuff in your life.

Lower your expectations of people, no one can live up to your ideals.

Set your boundaries from the start in any kind of relationship.

Judge Love and friendship by what people do and not what they say.

Don't take shit from anyone, speak up and let them know how you feel, but do it kindly.

Try and choose being kind over being right.

Do not... Repeat: Do Not let anyone bully you.

No response is a response.

If they wanted to, they would.

Let them go.

Be good with your word.

Be consistent.

You don't need to be skinny to be attractive or to be loved.

ALWAYS keep secrets that a friend has shared in confidence, even if they turn out to be a *shit-bag.

*(Other words are available)

Never make someone a priority if they only think of you as an option.

Sometimes chocolate and wine can be the perfect food choice.

Don't ignore red flags in someone's behaviour, they're showing you who they are.

When someone shows you who they are...believe them, don't make excuses on their behalf.

The best predictor of future behaviour is past behaviour. (read that again)

Sometimes punching someone in the throat is an option.

Don't carry the past with you, it's too heavy and you're not going in that direction.

You are never too old and it's never too late.

Holding onto anger only hurts you.

You are already good enough.

You deserve love and respect.

Sometimes the kindest thing you can do is to include someone.

Everything changes, everything.

It eventually gets better.

Stay hopeful.

[yandereunsolved]

Imagine reader being a guide in Linked Maze. They are sort of the protector of people who end up in the maze. They're pretty shy and end up not showing themselves to most, who end up with such a terrible fate. They leave the Links little things to help along their journey, such as food, weapons, and medicine.

Only one of the Links has seen you before—Wind. It was only a brief interaction as well. You guided Wolfie to him using your abilities. Wind only saw you for a moment. You were gone in less than a blink of an eye. He still thinks he imagined it until he actually meets you for the first time. He was overwhelmed with so many emotions. He saw you as what you were for those stuck in the maze—a protector. 

He wanted to throw himself at you and cry on your shoulder. He wanted to demand answers. The first time he met the guide of this place, you didn't even exchange words. You disappeared after a few minutes. He was devastated after that. It was your first official meeting, and he didn't even get to say 'thank you' or ask any questions like, 'why did you help me?' That's when his obsession with you started. It was just an inkling of a need for safety that evolved into a desperate devotion to you.

Wolfie is your familiar at this point. He helps guide the Links through the maze and makes sure they don't end up gravely injured. He hasn't actually ever seen you. He just hears you and follows the scents that you waft into his nose. He's not suspicious of you. Your life force is positive. It reminds him of what he feels in the Triforce.

You guide the Links together and keep those awful monsters at bay. You wish you could warn them about what's to come, but you are unable to. You can only leave clues. You are the guide of the maze—the protector. Someone who was tricked into leaving the heavens by a deity who fell from them. You would tell them everything if you could, but if you did, then you'd reveal your location to the corrupted God. 

One word and it's all over. One word and the Links will fail their mission.

You wish you could tell them that something worse than Demise was plotting to take over the heavens and destroy the goddesses. Alas, you cannot. The evil deity injured you gravely. If you seek refuge in the heavens, then you leave a possible opening for the evil being to sneak in. You have learned from watching Time on his adventures.

So you watch from the shadows and guide them when you can. You don't realize how dependent they are becoming to your presence. You understand how far their yearning goes.

Four gently probes Wind for more information about your meeting with him. Wind shys away from telling him because he wants to keep you for himself. Warriors is a little jealous but keeps the two calm. 

Time knows more about you than the others. He met you once on his journey. So technically, he has met you before, but since you have been forced to take a mortal form. He hasn't seen you since you were injured and forced to look over them in the maze. Somehow, he knows you're out there. He still has that ritual for summoning you. You should've never given it to him. You don't understand how many times he has wanted to use it but ultimately decided against it. He's the Hero of Time! He's the Hero of Time... He's the Hero of Time? 

Why would someone so important, a god(dess), want him bothering them?

The rest of the Links are a bit confused about you. Your presence is enigmatic, to say the least. You are like an unspoken rule among them. All of them need to know more about you, but they refuse to cooperate with each other when they learn something new about your existence. 

The only question that really remains is: will they ever escape the maze? Or will you fail in your mission of protecting them?

Ignore the fact I went so off canon for this. comic & characters — @linked-maze

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

Can I maybe Request a oneshot of a Friendly alternative Reader who is comforting Mark after saving him from the other alternatives? This man needs a break..and some of his fav movies with junk food like pizza and such while wrapped in a blanket. :(

"GET OUT!! LEAVE ME ALONE!!! NOW!!"

Despite the loud shouts of the terrified human who held a gun in his trembling hands, you just calmly stared down at him. He had been screaming nonstop ever since you and two other Alternates broke into his house.

However, he didn't realize that those ones were gone...because of your intervention.

Sure, it was common for Alternates to fight each other over human victims, but you didn't chase them out just so you could take over this one's identity or drive him to suicide.

No.

You in fact arrived here to save him.

You've been watching him for quite some time--ever since that encounter with the "Intruder". Yet you never made yourself known to him, curious about his behavior as a human.

And it made you want to protect him from all things evil and vile. It sounds ironic, considering you're one of those evil and vile things that haunted his existence, and showed up at his bedroom door on this very night.

But you only look the part, deep down you've developed things like "empathy" and "compassion"...and you wanted to show Mark that you're not out to harm anybody. You hoped that by fighting the other Alternates, he'd see that and at least put the gun down.

Yet he kept it trained on you, finger on the trigger.

Every time you tried talking, he believed you're attempting to inflict MAD on him and would start shouting curses, prayers, and whatnot, demanding you to leave.

"You don't understand, little one. I'm here to help you-"

"You can "help me" by dropping DEAD!! I'll fucking do it, I swear!!" He screamed, his voice nearly giving out.

It was very much obvious that his vocal cords couldn't take the strain. With his dehydration and all of the screaming and crying he's done for hours on end--begging for his parents and for his God to help--it's a miracle he could still even speak.

But it's clear that this conversation wasn't going anywhere. Talking's not the solution.

So you decided to let him shoot you and see what happens. As much as you hated for him to learn the truth...what else could you do in this moment?

You knew the bullet wouldn't hurt, but he didn't.

When you reached for his gun, he yelled and pulled the trigger--

Yet you barely even flinched, much to his horror; not even a slight wince of pain escaped your mouth.

"Wh..What..?" Mark shuddered, eyes growing wide as they darted all over your shadowed form, not finding any wounds nor blood whatsoever.

Where the hell did the bullet go?

It was like..you absorbed it or had some bulletproof skin.

'But those broadcasts...they told us that firearms would-'

"They lied to you, Mark. No manmade weapon can kill us." You regrettably told him, seeing the realization hit him. "Despite what your government has told you, a gun will not keep you safe. We may mimic humans, but we do not follow the same laws of biology as you."

"..n-no..that's..." He seemed to be in utter denial, dropping the gun as his arms fell back to his sides. "I don't believe it.....why would they..?"

Staring at you in shock, he could see a look of sadness flashing in your eyes. And he felt tears filling up his own, his whole body trembling as he wondered what else those broadcasts could have possibly lied about.

"I-Is that true?"

"Unfortunately, yes." You nodded your head. "But that's not the only thing: your law enforcement won't be here to help. They were given orders to ignore people who cry "Alternate"...because they fear mass causalities and assimilation attempts."

".....no...I....I-I called them so many times, and they said they'd help me! They said someone was on the way!!" His voice cracked as he slumped back onto his bed, face buried in his hands; the shock was slowly becoming too much for him to handle.

"I'm sorry.." You muttered. "But nobody is coming. Those are just comforting lies disguising a painful truth."

He couldn't understand any of it.

Guns didn't work?

The police won't deal with Alternates?

Did they just give up on protecting terrified, innocent civilians like himself?

How could he put his faith in them..or anyone, for that matter?

What was the point of surviving if nobody was going to save him?

Why bother living?

Mark put his hands down, his gaze flickering to the gun on the floor. And for a brief moment he considered just ending it all...right here, right now.

He wouldn't have to hide anymore.

He wouldn't have to feel this pain.

He wouldn't have to feel so...afraid.

And yet he couldn't bring himself to immediately grab it. Instead he stared at you, wondering why you attacked those two Alternates and didn't try to harm him now that he let you in.

What was so special about him? His life was meaningless. He didn't know where Cesar was, his sister was out of town, and nobody at school noticed he was missing class...he was all alone.

If anything, he was a perfect target.

Why spare his life?

"..j-just leave me be.." Out of pure distraught, he began to weep again, curling up on the bed and hugging himself like a terrified child. Hot tears streaked down his face as he begged you to go away, not wanting to hear one more horrible truth from you.

You frowned slightly, feeling some guilt in knowing you've told this man things he didn't wish to hear; yet it wasn't anything metaphysical that would've given him a severe case of MAD.

If you went any further and mentioned that he had been praying to a false god his entire life...he probably would've grabbed that gun already.

Surely, some other Alternate would have jumped on that opportunity But not you.

Instead, you wanted to comfort him, though you weren't sure what to do at first. He wasn't threatening you, but obviously he was still quite freaked out.

So you stood up and looked around his room for anything that could help him calm down, eventually spotting a blanket tossed into the corner. It looked slightly dirty upon closer examination, but otherwise soft as you picked it up.

Looking back at Mark, you could see his head resting on his knees, shoulders trembling and jolting every other second. 'Is he cold?' You wondered.

The air did feel quite chilly in this room. Perhaps this blanket could help.

As he sensed your presence becoming closer, he raised his head rather quickly, about to scream at you to leave--

Only to stop when he felt the weight of the familiar cotton fabric being wrapped around his shoulders, and he watched your claws gently adjust it so it didn't fall off.

You kneeled in front of him, ensuring it was brought around the front of his torso, your eyes seemingly smiling at him. "Does that feel better? You must've been so cold..you humans have such fragile skin. Very vulnerable to the harsh elements of your world."

Sniffling, his eyebrows furrowed as he just stared back at you in silence, utterly dumbfounded by your behavior. Yet he couldn't help but nod in agreement to your words, feeling a warmth overcome him.

Why were you acting like this?

After all, he tried to kill you. So why were you so merciful?

He didn't know what to say.

Your eyes wandered to the home phone that was on his bed, taking it. "I learned that..humans like to eat when they're in distress. You must be famished, little lamb. You hadn't left this room for days...do you have food out there?"

"...n-no." Mark shook his head, surprised when you handed the phone to him, and he shakily grasped it. "What..do you want me to do?"

"Takeout."

"...huh..?"

"The youth of your kind like "takeout". So get takeout for yourself." Standing up, you backed away and smiled, seeing that he looked a little more comfortable.

Although he had so many questions, you simply left the room, ensuring the nightlight in the corner was still on beforehand.

He sniffled as he wiped the tears from his eyes with the blanket, sighing and staring at the numbers on the phone. Then he finally decided to dial the local pizza place.

He could go for some after all the hell he's been through.

..........

When the delivery guy arrived to Mark's house, you were nowhere to be found, and so he tried to act as normal as possible while paying for the pizza.

It was a rather awkward exchange considering he hasn't had any human contact in days (not to mention going through one of the most traumatic experiences of his life).

But when they asked if he was alright, he lied about going through a "tough breakup". And they wished him a good day before leaving.

After closing the door, he turned around--

Nearly dropping the box in fright when he saw you standing by the couch.

"What did you get?"

"God-!! D-Don't do that." He spoke through gritted teeth. "Why are you still here? What do you want from me?"

"I'd like to know what pizza tastes like." You tilted your head like a curious cat.

"......"

"......."

"....it's cheese." Sighing, Mark just went over the couch, setting the box down on the coffee table. In the blink of an eye, you were sitting beside him.

Since you were awfully tall, you knees were touching your chest, and you rested your arms on them as you smiled down at the human. You noticed he still kept the blanket wrapped around himself.

He looked quite cute, if you'll be honest.

It was awful quiet in the house as he took a slice of pizza and chewed on it, seemingly staring off into the distance, thinking.

You had taken up a slice, too, revealing your sharp humanlike teeth as they bit down on the gooey cheese. And your eyes lit up with delight at the flavor....before you rapidly consumed it.

"Woah, what the hell?!" Mark was startled, watching you swallow it whole with wide eyes. "Damn, I guess..you were hungry, huh?"

"I don't need food, but..it was quite delicacy."

"..you mean delicious?"

"...yes." You realized your error. "So...what else do you usually do?"

"Why do you wanna know?" He scowled, his hostility returning. "So you can mimic my routine when you takeover-?"

"Mark, I've already told you..that's not my intention."

"But why? Those other two tried to kill me! One mimicked my best friend..th-the other tried getting inside my fucking head...but you...you just attacked them. Why?"

"Because unlike most Alternates who lack empathy and compassion...I happen to have those." You gently explained to him. "Think of me as...a sheep in wolf's clothing, if you will. I don't follow the Savior's-"

"Wait..the Savior?" He blinked slowly. "You don't mean-"

"No, no..not yours." You reassured him. "We have a different Savior who says we should annihilate humanity, but I disagree. So I chose my own path. I wanna help your kind because...well...there's a lot of beauty to be found in it. Like you."

"Me?" Mark raised an eyebrow, doubting that he exemplified anything "beautiful" about humans. "I'm just a kid who pointed a gun at you."

Looking down at him, you shook your head. "There's beauty in your desire to survive, little lamb. You showed fortitude while most would have crumbled at the first sight of me. That alone was impressive."

"...yeah, well..my "fortitude" was great before I knew that the broadcasts fucking lied to us." He felt his eyes starting to sting again, and he hastily wiped them, not wanting to look pathetic and helpless in front of you anymore. "So is that their plan? To leave our lives in your hands and basically tell us to fuck off if we call about an encounter?"

"......."

"...right, you told me. I guess we'd be even more screwed if Alternates started mimicking cops." His shoulders slumped, suddenly losing his appetite as he stared at the few pizza slices that remained, only now realizing you've eaten most of them.

But he didn't care.

He just wanted to be done caring.

You could tell a lot of this new information was weighing heavily on his mind, so you wondered if a distraction could help ease his anxieties.

Then your eyes landed on the TV in front of you both, the remote on the table next to the pizza box. It still intact and untampered, and with your influence over it you could stop another Alternate from overtaking the signals. "You like TV? We should watch some."

"But-"

"Nothing bad will happen to you. No Alternate will set foot in here other than me." You promised, shifting a bit closer to him. "You have my word, Mark Heathcliff."

Finally, he gave in and decided to trust your words. But only because he had nobody else to turn to and you seemed to show sympathy towards his situation. So he reached for the remote and turned on the TV, unsure of what to expect as he flipped through the channels.

Part of him worried he'd see that same man that he met in his childhood all those years ago..

Yet all the stations were normal, and he eventually found one where a favorite movie of his was playing. You could see the way his eyes lit up, realizing he found something he liked given the way he curled up and relaxed.

You simply watched the movie with him in silence. Neither of you knew how much time had passed, although judging from the light outside the locked windows, it was night.

Then you became surprised upon feeling something soft against your arm; you looked down to see it was his head, the top of his messy brown hair visible to you.

"Mark?"

"......."

There was only more silence from him, but since you could sense his gentle breathing, you knew he had fallen asleep.

You mused at how quickly you managed to gain his trust.

Only a little while ago, this young Christian boy was condemning you to hell and back, thinking you were some vile "demon" coming to kill him.

But now? Your presence seemed to comfort him.

Smiling, you carefully put your arm around him, hugging him a bit closer to your side. He snuggled closer to you out of instinct, not having felt the comforting touch of somebody in a long, long time.

'How could Gabriel ever want to destroy these precious creatures?' You pondered.

You knew he needed this rest, and so you let him be, keeping your eyes on both the television and the shadows all the around the house.

You'll make sure no other Alternate harms this soul.

Never again.

[thalialunacy]

[for the @calaisreno May Prompt-a-palooza; cw for bodily functions]

(1) (2) (3) (4) 5: awkward (6) (7) (8) (9) (10) (11) (12) (13) (14) (15) (16) (17) (18) (19) (20) (21) (22) (23) (24) (25) (26) (27) (28) (29) (30) (31)

Sharing a home with someone, regardless of square footage or relationship, involves an unavoidable amount of intimate physical knowledge. As an army mate of John's had once said eloquently, 'Well, I know what your shit smells like, don't I?'

Those things, John is prepared for. Has got used to, even, in his once-and-future living arrangement. He's a doctor, a combat veteran, and a widowed father. He's not exactly squeamish.

And he can personally attest, on several levels, to the fact that Sherlock is not a machine. You can't share a bathroom and not learn a few things about a person.

But… it's like some switch got turned on after their 'moment' in the stairwell.

(Because no, they had not marched back upstairs and worked things out per Mrs Hudson's request. As will shock no one, they had instead gone on their stubborn ways, and are ploughing through their daily lives willy-nilly as long as they can.)

(Which is not very long.)

Things keep happening.

- John, sitting guilelessly at the table, makes to stand just as Sherlock is walking by, and ends up with his nose essentially in the armpit of Sherlock's dressing gown. Which Sherlock is still wearing. After sleeping several hours in it and old pyjamas.

- John, Rosie in his lap, snorts awake to find himself-- well, both him and his daughter-- slumped into Sherlock on the sofa, credits scrolling on the television screen while Sherlock scrolls through his phone. And, unfortunately, both John and his daughter have managed to leave sleep-warm saliva on Sherlock's person, in two round spots on his breathtakingly expensive shirt. Sherlock, who must have noticed, seems unconcerned. John wonders briefly if he's woken up in an alternate dimension, then realises they'd been watching Doctor Who and it must have seeped into his psyche.

- John, now one hundred percent accustomed to wiping his toddler's nose, is so focused on his laptop screen when he hears a sneeze that he doesn't think (at all) before pulling out a tissue and reaching over to the face of the sneezer. That it's Sherlock is only a fact he recognises a split second too late.

- John, brain uncaffeinated, yawns while reaching across Sherlock to grab something off the table, and realises with a start that it's 6am and neither of them have cleaned their teeth. He stares at the mouth so close to his, at the man whose breath is bitter, yes, but somehow not unagreeable, then jerks away gracelessly. 'I'll just--' He points his thumb over his shoulder at the loo, and escapes, face flaming.

- And finally: John, going quietly mad when Rosie gets her first real, frightening fever. His training doesn't stand a chance of overriding his lizard brain, so he spends three days ignoring absolutely all personal hygiene and never leaving his daughter's side. When it finally breaks, when John feels like he can breathe again, he notices Sherlock is there, too, beside him, quietly watching her sleep restfully for the first time in what feels like long, dusty years. And he suddenly realises he must smell like -- well, like a locker room and a crowded pub rolled around in the dirt then pissed off a skunk, probably. And Sherlock is standing next to him as if he smells like roses. This, unexpectedly, makes John's stomach broil under a surge of affection, and he feels his eyes stinging for one horrifying, sleep-deprived moment.

Soon, after so many of these things, he can't help wondering if God or whomever is taking the piss. If fate is having a good old go at John H Watson by giving him the closest, most fulfilling relationship he's ever had-- and making it with the one person who can knock him flat on his arse and keep him there.

He's tempted, more than once, to give the sky two fingers. But he has yet to get around to doing it. He's too busy, for once, actually living.

[❤️]

[chososbabymama]

𝒫𝓁𝓊𝑔!𝐵𝒻𝒮𝓊𝑔𝓊𝓇𝓊♧~~~~

personal headcannons bc plug suguru puts me in H E A T ! ! ! :)

PlugBf!Suguru who gives you free flower. Has the BIGGEST pout on his face when he finds out you bought from other people before y'all got together. 'It doesn't matter if I met you 7 months later y/n, it's the principality of it!'

PlugBf!Suguru who buys you anything you need. You want a new bong? He buys you a pretty heart shaped piece w/ a bowl crafted into the shape of a rose. You needed a grinder cuz yours squeaked? He bought you an electrical one. You burnt a nail tryna light the blunt? He cashapps you $250 to get a refill.

PlugBf!Suguru who plugged you for the first time after you got his # from Shoko, there was something about you that made him so fuckin nervous that he accidentally gave you 3gs more than you asked for (you only wanted an 8th).

PlugBf!Suguru who is your self-proclaimed #1 fan. Reposts all your IG photos, shares your TikToks, he even got one of those lighter clips that attach to his pants and keeps a light w/ your face on it w/ him 25/8.

PlugBf!Suguru who pearls the blunt in a way that makes your stomach tight and your thighs clench.

PlugBf!Suguru who shuts down anyone who tries to flirt w/ him during a deal, 'no i dont wanna smoke a blunt with you, get out my car before i call my wife and have her show you whats good' Satoru lets out the ugliest laugh EVERY time.

PlugBf!Suguru who taught you everything you need to know; how to roll, how to scale, how to tell if the flower is synthetic, etc.

PlugBf!Suguru who has to go out of town sometimes to make drops so he leaves you with enough money and flower to keep you comfortable. If you needed anymore he'd send you however much you needed and make toji bring you a bag. If you buy from someone else while he's gone he'll catch such an attitude (big baby will still roll your blunts but he'll FS talk shit while he do it 'you wanna buy from other people? that's cool... why don't you break off my fingers and tell me to go fUCK myself while you're at it huh?')

PlugBf!Suguru who buys you the prettiest gold anklet with an 'S' to match his gold chain that has your initial on it. He got it for you when he first got in the game, saying it was 'only the beginning.' Since then Suguru has spoiled you in ways you'd never dreamed of, but that anklet? That anklet meant more to you than anything else.

PlugBf!Suguru who has sooooo many tattoos dedicated to you. He gets them on special occasions (anniversary, birthdays, holidays, etc. any reason he can find he'll do it). He has your anniversary on his ring finger, your lipstick on his lower back, scratch marks on one side of his back, and a bouquet of your favorite flowers right above his heart. With each one he shows you, you fall deeper in love.

PlugBf!Suguru who also makes a lot w/ his tattoo shop. People travel from across the country to get tatted by him. He's not just your only plug but your only tattoo artist as well. He'd had an extensive portfolio with a plethora of darkskin clients who had a hard time finding artists like you had. Suguru doesn't even consider people like that artists and refuses to work with people who can't tattoo dark skin. When asked why his response is always the same, 'why would I want to work with talentless losers who's terrible character is reflected in their subpar work? I could spend my time doing better shit like... smokin a blunt.'

PlugBf!Suguru who drops the blunt in shock when he learns you're Kento's cousin. Bloodshot eyes widen in shock when he's lookin at old family photos you brought out, completely ignoring the ember burning a hole into the rugs you JUST bought. ('whaT DO YOU MEAN YOU DIDN'T THINK IT WAS RELEVANT? I had a thing for you for fuckin WEEKS before I asked you out and that bastard knew-!')

PlugBf!Suguru who knew from the moment he met you, that you were someone to be loved, cherished, and desired. And he would stop at nothing to prove how dedicated he is to making you feel as special as he knows you are.