#instigated by others to follow their worst instincts

[mxtxfanatic]

I made a meta about it once, here, but what I find most fascinating about the scene in the rain is that by Xie Lian's own stipulations, the people of Yong'an had already failed his test. The man came after the time was up and didn't even help him. Xie Lian stood up on his own and pulled the sword out on his own. The people failed every part of his test! And yet Xie Lian continued to drag his feet, directly told White No-Face to fuck off, and dragged his feet until someone did happen to come along.

I really do think the fandom underestimate Xie Lian's own values and kindness while kinda overestimating the kindness the guy who gave him the Bamboo hat in the scene in the rain.

Don't get me wrong, the Bamboo hat is important and the fact that someone went to help him is also important. But it's just the excuse. Xie Lian decided by himself to lie in the rain and gave humanity another chance first. He was trying to convince himself that he didn't believe in the kindness of people anymore while still giving them another chance. He was probably going to lie in the rain until someone, anyone gave him that kindness anyway.

The Bamboo hat is the excuse as to why Xie Lian didn't turn into Jun Wu, but the actual reason is that Xie Lian had the strength to stand in the rain and wait for someone to show him he was right. A thing Jun Wu never did.

[stressedoutcanary]

Do You Ever Feel Like A Misfit (Everything Inside You Is Dark & Twisted)

Dick Grayson x Reader

Word Count: 3.5K (I don't know how tf that happened)

Warnings: Explicit language, Blood and Violence, lots of angst, Hurt/Comfort ✌

A/N: Guess who's back! Just for some context the reader is a magic user and her style is similar to that of Zatanna <3

•°•°•°•°

She’d have reasoned with herself that stealing from one of the most secure and heavily guarded safe-houses of a deranged sociopath was probably not the brightest idea she’s had all day. It never even made it on her to-do-list for the weekend, but here she was, running across rooftops, holding on to the stolen totem like her life depended on it, it probably did. The three assassins sent after her were no Lady Shiva or Talia Al Ghul but they weren’t exactly amateurs either. The deep cuts and two broken ribs she got from their earlier encounter were proof of that.

She glanced back and even though there was no sign of her would-be-killers she knew better than to assume they’d just let her be. They were sticking to the shadows, exploiting her blind spots. The only thing she was sure of was that they were still hot on her trail and would happily plunge a dagger into her back given the opportunity.

She was right. As of this moment she hated being right.

She caught the glint of the two sharp objects slicing through the air, hurtling towards her at full speed. A slight shift of her upper body was all she could manage as one of the daggers got embedded right into her scapula while the other one, fortunately so, whirled past her, slightly grazing her left hip. The impact of the blade on her shoulder made her lose what little balance she had left. Despite her best efforts, when the wounded shoulder made contact with the hard concrete, a loud, ear-piercing cry ripped out from her throat before she could push it back down.

Cursing under her breath she knew, she knew all she had were those few seconds of numbness and disorientation to get a grip and figure out her exit strategy. However, all her hopes started to sink as she saw one of the assassins come closer, appearing more of a blur than a person. Then again that was probably because of the nice, little concussion she got from her fall. The assassin walked over to her, unsheathed their sword and placed it right on her neck, blocking any and every way out.

“You were warned. The Demon’s Head does not tolerate treachery. We are here under his orders to bring back the totem along with the witch’s head; your head”

If she could, she would’ve rolled her eyes at the classic villainous dialogues thrown at her.

“Witch? Who’re you calling a witch Snow White? I’m clearly a sorceress, don’t they teach you the difference between the two in assassin school or something? Hell, I’d even let you call me an enchantress, though that name’s already been taken but you get my poin-” 

The remaining words died in her throat as the sword on her neck shifted slightly. She knew she had extremely poor self preservation skills considering she’s clearly been instigating the very person sent to kill her, but even she wasn’t dumb enough to keep talking when the tiniest movement on either part could result in her having a severed jugular or carotid. 

‘This is a pretty shitty way to die’ 

She thought back to how she used the last of her mystic energy to hide the totem away before her fall and how stupid that decision really was because now she could actually feel the agonizing pain coming from her shoulder. It started to spread throughout her back like wildfire, eyelids grew heavy against her wishes. Suddenly she felt really tired and the idea to close her eyes just felt so goddamn appealing. 

‘No (Y/N) that’s the blood loss talking. Blood loss doesn’t get to make decisions’, she mentally scolded herself, still not breaking her eye contact with the person standing above her.

“Give us what you stole and we shall grant you the mercy of a quick death.”

That made her raise an eyebrow, “Ah, lemme think...the correct response here would be…”, she hummed, making a show of how hard she was thinking about the offer she was granted, “How about a fuck you? How would that do for you?”, she gave them a vicious grin, it was all teeth.  They probably weren’t impressed by her response and it showed.

She knew there was no way out but she had promised herself once that if she were to die, that if she ever goes out, she’d be anything but a whimpering and sobbing mess. She was scared shitless, more so than she’d ever been while fending off the league, she won’t deny that but she would rather die than let them know that.  ‘Well at least I got that ‘rather die’ part down to a T.’ she thought, eyeing the sharpness of the blade which was now raised up in the air

She felt bad for just giving up the way she did. Her whole life she was told to fight her way through the impossible, to attain the strength rivaling that of Zatanna Zatara, John Constantine and Doctor Fate himself. To be better than them, and there she was lying on the ground limp as a sword came down on her throat; all for a silly necklace. She would’ve huffed out a laugh if only her ribs weren’t broken, if only her body wasn’t screaming in pain, if only she had a way out. She didn’t. She was too tired, too drained, too numb to do anything else. Closing her eyes she stopped fighting, she let her growing unconsciousness claim her.

‘This is what you deserve anyway’, her barely there conscience remarked.

‘Fuck you too.’ she replied.

Everything went pitch black. The darkness encompassing her was peaceful, unlike the pain she had felt before. It was nice for a change. It sounded pathetic  but she couldn’t bring herself to care.

•°•°

 When she came to, the first thing she observed was the feeling of something soft against her back, next was a dull rhythmic sound which she realized was her own heartbeat. Though opening her eyes was a tiring task. It shouldn’t have been, but it was. She used all the energy she had into it and her eyelids fluttered open. She stared at the white ceiling and stayed like that for a few seconds; a few minutes? She couldn’t tell, but the pain was back now, not too much but enough to tell her it was there, to tell she was still alive.

She saw something shift in her peripheral vision and her body instinctively went stiff. Her mind which was blank before now ran in all directions.

‘Could be Ra’s Al Ghul… Could be worse’, she tried not to think about the worst case scenario, but she knew she had pissed off a lot of beings, beings far more powerful and far crueler than Ra’s himself. An involuntary shudder passed through her at the thought. That must’ve caught her captor’s attention as she felt the person move closer to her. Begrudgingly, she tore her gaze from the spot on the ceiling which she had been staring at this whole time and tilted her head. The man in black and blue who appeared, was probably the last person she had expected to see.

“Nightwing…”

Her voice was barely above a whisper and the hoarseness with which it came out it took her by surprise, but her body visibly relaxed at the sight of the familiar figure, at the sight of someone who would never hurt her.  

She watched him pull out a chair from the desk nearby. He sat next to the bed she was lying on and gave her a soft smile, a smile that spelled one word ‘relieve’. She remembered how when she first met him two years ago, she found that particular smile extremely annoying, she had no reason to, but she did. What she couldn’t remember was when she had grown so fond of it.

“How do you feel?”

“Like shit.”

He snorted a laugh which made her pout. She was planning to point out how he was being mean; laughing at her when her response truly defined the way she was feeling, but any words she thought of were cut off by the change in his expression. His smile faltered, lips were now pressed in a thin line, face contorted in a way which showed his genuine concern.

“This is the second time, this week.”

That you almost died, he didn’t say. That I had to save you and bring you back from the clutches of death, he didn’t say.

“I know.”

“That doesn’t make it better.”

“I know.”

The silence that settled, stretched far too long for comfort, but she wasn’t going to be the one to break it. She wanted to, but there was nothing she could say, that would make it better. Nightwing ran his fingers through the locks of hair, burying his face in his hands.

For the first time since she woke up, she took in his appearance, he looked disheveled,  his suit was torn in different places along visible faint cuts, most likely he got them when he rescued her. She felt a pang of guilt rising in her chest. He risked his life for her, she knew he had done it before, she didn’t get it then and she didn’t get it now. Why would someone do that? Why would he? She was pulled back from her spiraling thoughts when he spoke again, exhaustion evident in his voice.

“Why are you so reckless?”

“Excuse me?”

She looked at him like he had grown another head. She wasn’t ready for this conversation but by the looks of it they were gonna have it anyway.

“What if I hadn’t been there today? Or any of the other days you almost died. What then?”

“My best guess? I would’ve been dead.”

“And that fact doesn’t bother you at all?!”

She flinched at little when his voice rose, but she stood her ground, at least figuratively since she was still in bed.

“I don’t know, should it?” She didn’t try and tone down the venom dripping from her words. Her words cut deeper than the wounds he got from the assassins; she saw it clear as day on his face. She let out a deep sigh but continued. She had to get it out and he had to hear it, that’s the reason she gave herself for the confession that followed.

“I don’t need your help, Dick. I don’t know what gave you the impression that I did but I’ve never needed it.” She swallowed the lump in her throat. ‘Why was it getting harder to speak?’ “I don’t need you to save me every time. I don’t need you to risk your life for me and I definitely don’t…” She moved to sit up straight, her back resting on the headboard. She shifted her gaze on her open palms resting in her lap; palms covered in blood, in her blood, not very long ago.

“I don’t need you to care...”

The last part was a whisper and Dick was silent, so silent that for a brief moment she wondered if the man she’d come to care about even heard her, admitting something that was so painful for her to say out loud.

Dick moved to sit beside her, his shoulder bumping hers. He didn’t know where all this was coming from but he knew better to leave it unattended.

“(Y/N) I help you because I care about you. I always will, you know that.”

“Why? You have nothing to gain from it”, blinking back the unshed tears in her eyes, she looked at him with a hurt expression as if she couldn’t bring herself to understand.

“Why… as in why do I care?”, Dick tilted his head to look her in the eyes, trying to understand what she meant all the while making sure not to let his own surprise at her words show. She nodded not trusting her voice to not betray her anymore than it already had.

“I don’t care about you because I feel like you need it nor because I would gain something from it”, Dick knew he shouldn’t have to explain it to her. He briefly wondered what she had gone through to make her think that she needed to be useful to be cared for or that she had to need it to be cared for. He felt something pull at his heart at the thought; It was sorrow.

“I care about you because… well I do and there’s nothing you could or couldn’t do to change that. And it is because I care about you that I ask you to be better at taking care of yourself. Now I know for a fact that whatever you stole from The League’s safehouse definitely did not belong there, but I also know that whatever it was, it wasn’t worth your life (Y/N) It never will be.”

Dick grasped one of her hands, interlacing his gloved fingers with hers; she hadn’t even realized she was shaking until he did so. Closing her eyes, she forced herself to take a deep breath despite her protesting ribs. Opening the palm of her free hand she muttered an incantation with practiced ease

“Eveirter tahw saw neddih “, her hand glowed, the golden aura taking the shape of a object. When the light subsided, Dick saw the object in her palm as she rubbed her thumb across it, quietly leaning her head on his shoulder.

“It was this totem. It belongs to Madame Xanadu. Don’t know what Ra’s wanted it for though”, she shrugged as best as she could with an injured shoulder then continued, voice firmer than it had been the whole evening,“ She asked me to retrieve it in exchange for information on a girl I was looking for. The girl was somehow sucked into some other dimension, a mystic one and her mother was so desperate when she approached me that I just couldn’t say no. So when I say the Totem was important, then I want you to know that it really is.”

Dick shook his head at that. “Still not worth your life.”

“Dick…”, she sighed. It was all she could do at the moment because she was really getting tired from all the arguing.

“Do you remember the first time we met?”

“You mean the time I met the infamous vigilante Nightwing in a dumpster of all places.”

“In my defense I was badly injured”, she hummed in agreement.

“You smelled bad”

“You try smelling like flowers after falling from a building and into an open dumpster.”

His playful grumbling pulled a short laugh out of her. She was more than a little confused at the sudden trip into the past but happily accepted it as a change of topic. She should’ve know better than to think he’d have let the matter go.

“Anyway my point is when you saw me that day, you first instinct was to help me. You pulled me out and used your magic to heal my wounds. You didn’t have to. You could’ve dropped me at a hospital. You could’ve even walked away and pretended that you never saw me, but you didn’t. Why is that?”

“Because I thought you were handsome?”, she said trying to lighten this too-heavy-for-comfort conversation he was trying to have.

“Nice try. I know you. You saved me because you cared. You helped me and the Titans save the city more than once because you cared. It is who you are. I’ve seen you care about and worry over complete strangers without conditions. So why do you think that there has to be some kind of a barter system when it comes to you? Why think that I would want to gain something if I cared about you?”

“Because everyone else did.”

The words shot out from her mouth quicker than she realized. She had voiced her greatest insecurity to the one person who never had anything to add to it and Dick’s heart clenched at the implications of her words, ‘She has never been loved unconditionally before’ his brain provided.

The tears she blinked back earlier came back with full force. She felt two strong arms that wrapped around her, all the while being mindful of her injuries. Dick pulled her into a hug and that was it. She couldn’t control the sobs that tore through her throat, the pain in her body flared due her erratic movements. She knew once the tears started flowing they wouldn’t stop at least not for a while, but now that her façade had been broken she couldn’t bring herself to give it another thought.

He waited for her to let it out, let out all the pent up emotions she had. Now that he thought about it he had never seen her cry. He never questioned it, maybe he should’ve.

“I don’t know who’s responsible for hurting you (Y/N), God, how much I wish I did”, his arms slightly tighten around her at that. “I am so sorry that you have felt like you have to have your walls up all the time, even around me and I should’ve seen that, I should’ve realized that before but I didn’t and I am so sorry for that. I can’t undo the damage you’ve endured and I will not pretend that I can. What I can do is promise you that I’d never let you down like that, never.”

The words he spoke were clear. He didn’t try to tell her to put her walls down, to trust him when she had no reason to. He also didn’t need to justify himself or make such over the top promises but it felt nice to hear it. She had already stopped crying the moment he started speaking again but she still had her forehead pressed against his chest, listening to his heartbeat, it was calming in a way she couldn’t describe. She pulled her head back to look at him, and the honesty in his voice earlier matched the one in his eyes.

“Okay”

Hearing her response, he gave her his signature grin. It sent unexpected warmth through her, he always had that effect on her. She was sure she was just blushing at this point and was suddenly thankful for the dim lighting in the room. 

She ended up composing herself rather quickly, jabbing a finger at his armored chest with her usual smirk plastered on her face.

“Now that you’ve made that promise, know this, Dick Grayson, if you let me down I will drop a mountain on you.”

“You mean that figuratively?”

“No I mean that geologically”, he waited for her to say she was kidding. She didn’t.

“Alright, alright”, He held his hands out in mock surrender. After considering the look in her eyes, Dick refrained from questioning the feasibility of that action nor did he want to question her magical abilities or intent. Last he remembered, Wally did that and that conversation ended with him being teleported to Sahara and Dick would very much like to avoid the same fate as his best friend.

Deciding that was more than enough exhaustion for one night, he got up from the bed and kissed her goodnight, informing her that he’d be sleeping on the couch so that he wouldn’t accidently hit her injuries in his sleep. She agreed and watched him slip out of the room before falling into the blissful sleep she had been putting off since forever.

•°•°

She knew Dick Grayson was full of surprises but the next morning when he put forward the offer of become a full time Titan, in front of her, she wondered if she fell from the bed in her sleep and ended up  getting another concussion because he was so not making any sense.

“So let me get this straight, you want me to come live with you and your superhero friends, in the Titans freaking Tower?!”

“I was hoping for a little less yelling after an emotional evening but yes that is exactly what I’m asking.”

“Dick that’s just ridiculous!”

“Look, you don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

He looked like a kicked puppy which made her feel kinda guilty for all the yelling.

“It’s not that…It’s just there is still a lot about me I haven’t told them. There is still a lot I haven’t told you. I don’t see a reason why you all would want to trust a possible threat, let alone live with it”, she gestured to herself.

Dick felt like there was a deeper meaning behind her words, as if she was voicing her own fear rather than theirs but he trusted her enough to tell him about it when she was ready, on her own terms. He could wait till then but for now he crossed the short distance between them, going around the breakfast table till he stood in front of her. He grasped both of her hands in his and ran his thumb soothingly across her knuckles. He bent down to place a soft kiss on her forehead, and then moved to meet her gaze.

“(Y/N), I know you and I trust you and…It sounds silly considering I was raised by the worlds greatest detective but I believe that you don’t have to know every little detail about someone as long as you already know what’s in their heart.” Bruce probably would’ve disagreed but he wasn’t Bruce.

“And you know what’s in mine?”

“And I know what’s in yours.” His statement was firm and left no room for argument, not when it came to this.

“If you’re sure about this, then I guess...”

“Is that a yes I’m hearing?”, There was that smile again, seriously what was up with him and his smile that made her giddy inside.

In between thoughts she realized he was still waiting for a response so she nodded. Any underlying doubts she had about her answer vanished when she took in how happy it made him. As cheesy as it sounded seeing him happy made her happy. A part of her said it wouldn’t last long, but seeing her boyfriend hop onto the couch full of joy as he called his friends about the latest development in their lives, she wanted to believe otherwise.    

°•°•°•°•

[happyandticklish]

hewwo! for the br(otp) meme may i ask for kaeya/albedo (romantic pls! but i’m cool with platonic too if you’d prefer for them)

You absolutely may!! One of your fics was what first drew me to the ship in the first place, so I absolutely can~

Kaeya & Albedo:

1. Who's more ticklish?

KAEYA he is the most ticklish person ever and I will die on that hill. I do think that he's better at initially hiding it though, so a lot of people would assume it's Albedo.

2. What kind of tickles are they sensitive to?

Kaeya is more susceptible to those really light, soft tickles, and is feather ticklish as well. Albedo will often use Kaeya as his canvas, and Kaeya is a shaking, giggling mess every time (Albedo uses the oppurtunity to tickle him more as punishment for messing up his drawing with all his squirming). Light tickles will get Albedo as well, but rougher tickles sends him into a cackling fit immediatelly. It breaks through his resistance in seconds, and he'll allow himself to just sit there and laugh.

3. Which role (lee/ler) does each of them hold?

I think that Kaeya is more of a ler personally, but ends up in the lee position far more often in their relationship. Albedo is a ler-leaning switch, and gets embarrassed about his sensitivity (and the fact that he likes people taking advantage of it) easily, so he'll instinctively try to stay out of the lee role, even if he secretly wants it.

4. How did they discover each other's ticklishness?

Albedo found out from Diluc when he was visiting Mondstadt one time. Kaeya was out on knightly duties, and Albedo was complaining that his boyfriend had no weaknesses. Diluc, of course, could not let that stand, and immediatelly spilled the beans, as well as all his worst spots. Kaeya found out about Albedo when they were traveling through Dragonspine. One of the Seelies kept trying to follow them home, and Albedo tried to gently lead them back. Unfortunately, the Seelie was insistent, and kept nuzzling up to him, sneaking under his shirt at times to try to stow away. Imagine both the Seelie and Kaeya's confusion when Albedo starts laughing and doubling over as the Seelie brushes over his stomach and sides.

5. Who's more likely to instigate a tickle fight?

Kaeya for sure, he loves tickling others and getting tickled, so it's a win-win for him. He gets to see Albedo's precious smile, as well as get his shit wrecked on the other end. Albedo will start them only when he's sure he can win.

6. How often do they tickle each other?

All the fucking time once they figured it out. It's nothing big usually, just teasing pokes to the side squeezes from behind. Tickle fights break out less often, but when they do they last forever. Albedo is a little shit, and loves to take advantage of Kaeya's sensitivity. He'll squeeze his knee while they're at the bar, scuttle fingers over his neck in passing when he's talking to someone like Jean or Lisa, use the word tickle all the time sentences when they're around others just to see Kaeya get flustered. Kaeya usually gets him back tenfold on the other end which definitely isn't what Albedo was hoping for nope not him.

7. Who's the least likely to ask for tickles?

Kaeya likes to be cocky about it, and will flaunt his sensitivity in front of the other, so it's for sure Albedo. He cannot ask for the life of him, he'll go beet red and start stammering over his sentences. Meanwhile Kaeya's just standing there with this big smirk on his face like, "What's wrong, having a bit of trouble with your words there?"

Thank you for the ask!

[baby-bearie]

the 7 ways he’ll tell you he loves you

(NOT MY GIF ALL CREDIT TO OWNER)

jj maybank x reader

taglist: @snarkystarkey @sunflowermotel @howdyherron @drew-starkey @maraseavey @outerbanqs @yelyahryan @obxwriterfan @avashroom @rewindlr @raekenliar @imsad05 @ceruleanjj @dolanfivsosxox @heyhargrove @lashtonandmalumsbaby @beautyandthebleh @pancahke @outrbank @johnbsflowr @corleigh @poguemacking @maybe-maybanks @katie-avery @5sos-seavey

a/n: this is unedited, so sorry about the mistakes. i saw a lot of trouble going around with plagiarism on wattpad and i did report a lot of books with stolen fics and props to you guys for getting a few actually taken down!! plagiarism and theft of intellectual property is HURTFUL, writers put SO MUCH into their work, and it’s not so you can get some votes on a wattpad page. also, boys using lovely as a nickname is ;alsdjffenve. 

How long is forever supposed to be? Months? Years, decades, lifetimes? Forever was supposed to be you and JJ. 

Forever feels like the 15 minutes that he’s been fighting you for. 

“Y/n, I don’t get why you’re turning this into such a big deal.” 

“Stop doing that. Stop acting like I don’t get to be mad. I do! I am! You know, you always do this JJ.” “I do not.” “You do. I’m sick of it. I’m- I’m sorry, JJ, but I’m done. I don’t wanna do this anymore,” you sniffle. You refuse to cry. Not in front of him. “We’re going in circles, I really think it’s time to, to just call it quits.” You shrug. JJ is silent. You wait, you yourself need to process what just came out of your mouth. 

JJ is on the couch. He leans on his knees with his elbows and his head is hanging low. He nods. Slowly at first, then quicker. 

“Okay,” he sighs, “You’re right. You’re right.” You nod, relieved that he agreed with you. A bigger part of you was upset that he agreed with you. It would’ve been nice if he had put up some kind of a fight. 

“So, uh, I’ll go.” “Yeah.”

You collapsed onto the couch, rubbing a hand over your face. A brightly colored magazine was open on the coffee table in front of you. Cheetah printed bold letters spelled out a headline: 

The 7 Ways He’ll Tell You He Loves You.

Talk about bad timing. You flipped the cover back over it. 

#1: He’ll flat out tell you. 

“You know, you’re one of the dumbest boys I’ve ever met.” “Right back at you.” JJ grinned up at you. “Oh, low blow, dude.” You laughed, tackling him down onto the bed. JJ fell back with a loud oof, the breath knocked out of his stomach. 

“One day, you’ll do that and I won’t get up, you know that? You’re actually going to be the death of me.” “Oh, I hope so. I’m already sick of you.” “This is literally you confessing to my murder.” He laughed, shoving you off him so he could hover over you instead. “They won’t arrest me, I’m too cute.” You gave him a cheesy smile. 

“That you are,” JJ smirked, leaning down to press soft kisses into the skin between your jaw and your neck. You hummed in approval as he pulled away. You fiddled with the necklace which dangled from his neck. “I love you,” he muttered. 

“ ‘Til I murder you?” 

He pecked your lips. “Til you murder me.” 

He couldn’t have fought for you? Put up some sort of argument? This was a stupid battle to pick with yourself. You were the one who instigated the break up.  

Maybe you weren’t expecting him to actually agree with you. You weren’t expecting him to let you end things.

#2: He’ll protect you. 

“Maybank, I swear to god, if you don’t get us down from here right now I will throw your ass off this cliff.” “It’s really not that high up!” “Holy shit!” You yelped and turned to bury your face in JJ’s chest. He instinctively wrapped his arms around you. 

“Hey, you’re okay, alright? You’re okay. I’m not gonna let anything happen to you. I got you. It’s okay, I got you.” JJ assured you, laughing a little through his words at how tightly you were clutching his tank top. 

The next couple of weeks hurt like hell. It’s a sad process, trying to leave behind someone you were rooted to so deeply. You’d see him at parties or even just out on the street sometimes. 

His eyes always followed you. When you were dating, you were amazing at being able to tell when JJ was watching you.  A shiver used to run over your spine, and you’d turn and immediately meet his eyes. He’d smirk and raise his hand to salute you. 

God, how you missed that smirk. 

Apparently, after you stopped dating, your body never forgot what it felt like when his eyes were on you. These days, when you turned to look at him his eyes were intense. He held your eyes for a second. One second when you could forget how you cried and how he left without kissing  you goodbye. 

Then he looked away. 

#3: He thinks of you when you’re not with him. 

“Hey, baby, look at this.” JJ threw the door to the Chateau open and marched over to you. His smile was proud, like a child trying to impress his mom. He stuck out his hand and dropped a small square magnet into yours. You flipped it over to see the front. 

It was brown and painted badly to look wooden. There were two u-shaped magnets painted on as well, and it read, ‘I can’t help but be attracted to you’. You read this out loud and JJ grinned, ecstatic with his choice.

 “Where did you get this?” You snorted. “It was at some cheesy gift shop. It made me think of you so I had to buy it.” “It’s perfect. I love it.” You stood to kiss his cheek and slid the magnet onto the fridge. “You’re very welcome.” 

JJ has always been nearly unreadable. He’s scarily good at hiding his thoughts and feelings from everyone around him, often including his best friends. You knew John B at least had some knowledge of JJ’s emotions, but you doubted the rest of the group did. 

You had at least managed to make a couple cracks in the hard walls he had built up around himself. 

#4: He shows you his emotions. 

You gaped in awe at the bruises littering his torso. You had no idea just how bad it was. You had no idea why he never told you. 

“I can’t take him anymore, Y/n, I can’t take it- can’t do it anymore.” JJ sobbed, his arms tightening around you. You guided his head down to your shoulder. 

“I know, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, J. C'mere.” You took a deep breath. You would not cry. Not when he needed you to be strong. “Let it out. You’re okay now.” You locked eyes with John B, terrified.

His tears soaked the skin on your shoulder and the first of many that night fell into his hair. 

But since the breakup, from what you saw of him you couldn’t get anything. His face was expressionless every time you made eye contact with him.You had seen him smile at his friends once or twice, but nothing real. JJ was very good at fake smiles. They looked nearly identical to his real ones. But you loved him for long enough to know what a real one should look like. 

#5: He’ll try and make you laugh. 

“Why are you sad, lovely? Stop it, I hate seeing you sad.” JJ pulled you on his chest, brushing hairs out of your face. You shook your head, tucking your face into his chest. 

“Ok. Fine. You leave me no other choice.” JJ sighed loudly. “What do you call Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson when he tells time?” 

He waited a second for an answer that never came. “Dwayne ‘The Clock’ Johnson.” 

You laughed abruptly, but it came out as a sob. You didn’t lift your head. 

“Alright, you want more, fine. What do you call Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson when he won’t shut up? Dwayne ‘The Talk’ Johnson. What do you call Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson when the doorbell is broken? Dwayne ‘The Knock’ Johnson. What do you call Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson when he wears comfortable, breathable footwear? Dwayne ‘The Croc’ Johnson.” 

Your whole body was shaking with uncontrollable laughter now. You were certain that JJ had been practicing those at some point. 

“No more, no more, please,” You finally lifted your head and JJ wiped away a fallen tear with his thumb. You choked on a laugh. “So how long did it take you to come up with those?” 

JJ frowned. “What do you mean, I came up with those like just now!” He laughed.

“Okay, sure, JJ.” “Don’t test me, I have like, 8 more.” 

You think the worst part about this is being lonely. You’re surrounded by comforting friends who try and take you places and get you to have fun but at the end of the night you go home to an empty bed and you wake up in an empty bed.

And every morning without fail, you’ll wake up and reach for him. And every morning without fail, he won’t be there. 

#6: He’ll make romantic gestures. 

“JJ? Where are you?” You sat up, groggily. He wasn’t in bed, that’s for sure. 

“G’morning, lovely,” JJ strolled into your room, carrying a tray. You propped yourself up on the headboard and took it from him. 

“Aw, JJ, what is all this?” “Breakfast.” “You made breakfast?” 

JJ stole a berry off your plate and popped it in his mouth, nodding. He took a seat near your legs. 

JJ can’t cook for shit. 

“Baby, it’s okay, it’s the thought that counts, I thought it was sweet!” “Nah, dude, that was shitty, I’m sorry. That bread tasted like a frying pan.” “The berries were good.” “That’s because all I did to them was wash them.” 

You hit up another party with your friends. They were the best kind of distraction. You pulled up the green bikini strap that was falling down your shoulders. This was his favorite top. 

“Y/l/n!” You heard a voice shout. “Y/n!” 

You turned to see who was shouting your name and smiled at John B. “Hey, Routledge, good to see you!” “Hey, Y/n. Look, I know you guys aren’t on talking terms- “John B, no,” You interrupted, but he kept talking over you. 

“But, please, Y/n, he won’t talk to anybody and we’re all worried about him.” “I really can’t, I don’t think he- “He’s in the van. Driver’s seat. Thank you!” And then he was gone. You huffed. 

You could see the van from here and you could barely make out a figure sitting in the front seat. 

You stood there for a second before you forced yourself to get over it and you made your way around dancing teenagers to the van. 

You pulled open the door and climbed into the passenger seat. He turned to look at you. 

“Hi,” you forced out. This felt uncomfortably unfamiliar. “Hey, Y/n.” 

“How are you?” He asked. He was being formal. He was never formal with you. 

“Fine, I guess. What about you?” 

He said nothing. “Small talk? Is that what we are now? We have to make small talk?” He laughed, exasperated. 

“I know you hate small talk.” 

“What happened to us?” His eyes are wet, and he doesn’t look at you, just stares straight ahead. “I made a mistake.” You said it out loud. You hadn’t forced yourself to admit it yet. That you were wrong for putting him in this position. 

“What?” He turned to look at you. 

“I shouldn’t have broken up with you. I think some part of me thought you wouldn’t actually let me do it. That you would fight to make us work.” You shrugged. Your eyes watered up. 

“Well, I didn’t want to break up with you.” He spoke quickly. 

“What?” Now it was your turn to be confused. 

“Of course I never wanted to leave you, Y/n. I love you.” “But you said I was right. And you left.” “I thought that was what you wanted. I want you happy. If that means I have to get out of the picture, then I’m gone. I left because I thought you wanted me to go.” 

You scoff. “So, all this time we’ve just been playing ourselves.” 

JJ laughs, a wet one. “You know, nobody told me just how fucking useless I was going to be without you.” He finally really looks at you. 

There’s a half smile on his face and his eyes are full of tears. 

You leap into him, and he meets you halfway. He buries his forehead on your shoulder and his hand is holding the back of your head. “I missed you. I missed you so much, lovely.” He cries into your hair. 

#7: He’ll do anything if it means you’re happy. 

[sapphic-lemonair]

My Last Post Regarding The Tommy Scandal:

Let me start off by just saying holy hell, what a day.

And second:

Twitter is literally the most disappointing platform I have ever been apart of.

I don’t even know where to begin with how badly Twitter handled the situation with Tommy. I’ll admit, it isn’t the worst they’ve acted before, but damn they really didn’t do their best either. It sucks, cause the situation could have been handled better- and it was at first.

Cis Twitter stans are probably some the most confusing bunch I’ve ever come across. The fact that they pick and choose who can get away with doing controversial things is so annoying, and probably one of the most high and mighty god complexes I’ve ever seen. The fact that they called out and made Tommy trend instead of the actual problem itself was just pathetic in my opinion. KSI has interacted with so many other creators before in the past, a prime example being Quackity, yet no one made a single post in calling them out until now. This fact alone just goes to show that Twitter stans will come out of hibernation when they feel like it.

Twitter had made no type of effort in the past to call out KSI when he first made these transphobic comments before. There were no trending tags or @‘s or “lets educate him 🥰” posts for him because Twitter didn’t bother to care about it until now. The amount of hypocritical energy that was brimming through the platform is astounding.

We’ve gone through months of Twitter stans watching by as KSI interacted with other Minecraft youtubers and not a single one of them complained the entire time until now.

A lot of the adults on that platform did nothing but post passive aggressive comments to back handed advice. Adults, actual adults, were mad that a kid they put on some pedestal made one mistake and continued to state about how “disappointed” they were in him. Let me just remind you that once again, there’s no reason for any of the older fans to talk down to minors like some type of parent. Cause you’re NOT. It was very mature of Tommy to reach out to his own mom and take effort to see how he had hurt his words had affected his fans. It’s so abundantly clear that Tommy would never maliciously hurt his fandom in any way, not to mention that his first instinct would be to immediately apologize to everyone as well.

It was honestly mind boggling to see so many adults debating on whether or not is was morally right to forgive a 16 year old for a mistake he would obviously fix. The amount of people who were making threads stating how “it’s valid if you never want to forgive Tommy” was childish in my opinion. You’re adults.....holding a grudge against an actual child??? Like come on.

Twitter stans did nothing but juggle back and forth with “Tommy needs to address the situation right now!” And “Tommy, you need to take a while and think about what you said 🥰”. Yet when Tommy posted his first apology people were mad that it didn’t live up to their expectations. Were they aware that Tommy, like I said, is a whole child who was under the pressure of posting an apology despite not having time to really grasp what had happened? So many people flamed him because his post “sounded so confused” and “Tommy, honey nobody called you transphobic 😘”.

Except you did.

Of course Tommy is gonna sound confused in his apology. He wakes up and the first thing he’s greeted with are hashtags linking HIS NAME to the the word transphobic/transphobia. Of course that’s gonna be the first thing he apologizes for! Twitter basically made nothing but click bait posts that did nothing to properly explain to Tommy why transphobia was being brought up. And even despite this Tommy STILL apologized even when he didn’t know what he did wrong.

It’s so blatantly obvious Twitter realized that instead of tackling the problem at head, aka calling out KSI for his transphobic behavior, they chose to force and instigate a minor for collaborating and apologize on KSI’s behalf. It’s the most childish thing I’ve seen this year. It’s clear that Twitter stans are just awaiting to jump into next drama and put their two cents in before leaving the moment they realize they can’t get clout off their posts.

It’s frustrating because the amount of users making those posts as well weren’t even trans. The amount of “savior complex” energy cis Twitter stans showed while they spoke up over actual trans people who were genuinely upset was so embarrassing. It’s stupid to see how so many cis users got thousands of likes and retweets on their posts and acting on behalf of the trans community.

I’ll just wrap up by giving a genuine thank you to the trans community on Twitter who had the best interests in the whole Tommy situation. I’m sorry that a lot of you got trampled over by the cis users who basically used your problems as clout chasing tactics. You had every right to be upset and I appreciate that a lot of you took the situation with ease and attempted to quietly solve the problem without a hassle. Once again the cis side of Twitter blew everything out of proportion and attempted to but their two cents into the whole thing despite knowing it was an issue for the trans community to handle.

Dear Cis Twitter users, next time don’t be hypocrites and tell other users that they have no right to speak up about the situation before making your own posts for clout and followers. You look like clowns. I’d like to think that in another situation like those Twitter will act more mature....but I wouldn’t count on it. However a super big thank you to trans tumblr users who treated the entire situation with a mature personality. The mass difference between the two platforms shows me that people here have always had the best interest in actually making a difference.

In conclusion: Twitter is a dumpster fire 😁

[im-moreofa-dogperson]

A Fearful Encounter - Part 3

Featuring: Dr. Crane aka Scarecrow x Female Reader

Warning: swearing, mention of guns, attempted assault, fluff

Summary: After you escape from Arkham Asylum with the help of Jonathan Crane, you begin to suspect that not everything is what it seems.

Words: 2372

Previous Parts: part 1 part 2

_______________________________________________

The next morning after John promised he’d stay guard for you, you woke up disoriented and embarrassed. You had kissed him. You kissed the man that had more or less tortured you for over a month.

Of all the idiotic things you had done over the last few weeks, this one was the worst.

His sudden shift in allegiance was apparent though, you just couldn’t figure out why it was so. He had helped you escape and even went as far as to investigate the safety of your home and assured you he’d stay the night. All the while having been the very reason that safety precautions were necessary in the first place.

You were too tired and frustrated to ponder over this any longer, however, so you dragged yourself out of bed and got dressed.

You walked into the kitchen catching a glimpse of John sleeping. It was oddly reassuring to see he’d followed through with his promise, but it was also the most bizarre sight you’d ever witnessed. His left arm was hanging over the side of the couch and his right leg was resting on top of the throw you’d given him.

What was unusual was how serene he looked. You were used to him always being on guard; his piercing eyes assessing someone’s entire being before they’ve even had a chance to introduce themselves.

And now with his eyes lightly shut and his mouth slightly agape, he was more disarmed and vulnerable than you’d ever imagined he’d be.

He suddenly shifted in his sleep letting out a soft moan and snapping you out of your trance. You turned your attention to the fridge before quickly realizing that everything would be expired given that you hadn’t been home in the last month.

You stared in the empty void of your fridge for a solid minute, anyways, before John startled you by saying, “I can just walk you to the bagel shop across the street.”

You jumped not having known he had woken up and was watching you that whole time.

“Um, sure,” you respond after getting over your initial shock. You didn’t really see any other way you’d safely get food after what he had told you last night.

You still had the gun you’d stolen but left it in your dresser drawer given that you’ve never shot one before, and didn’t want to take your chances with such a severe lack of experience.

He nods and stands up, casually tossing the blanket back onto the couch. He’d slept in his clothes and had only taken off his boots and jacket which he put back on as you follow him out the door.

You were thankful he didn’t bring up the kiss from last night, but at the same time, a part of you wished he would at least say something about the connection you felt, so you could catch a glimpse of his thinking process.

After John escorted you to and back from the bagel shop, he had caught the attention of one of his men who was keeping guard outside your apartment. Once it was settled that this man would be watching you today, John decided it was time for him to head back to the Asylum.

With one last apology from him and an awkward goodbye, you were once again on your own in your apartment.

******

A few days had passed since you last saw John and since then, you’d noticed the same black SUV parked beneath your window and knew he had kept his promise again in terms of keeping you protected.

While you understood the necessity of being constantly watched given what he had told you about all the nefarious people who’d be coming after you, part of you wondered if he’d actually lied about it all.

You wondered if he’d made up the reason for your need to be under constant supervision, so he could continue with his research. You figured there was only one way to test this theory.

Grabbing your jacket off the armchair in your room and slipping your stolen gun in your pants using your sweater to cover it, you ventured out of your apartment.

Beginning the 3-block walk to your favorite coffee shop, you quickly notice the SUV following you from the corner of your eye.

Upon entrance to the shop, you subtly look around for another exit. The man keeping a watch on you didn’t get out of his car, wrongly assuming you were just there for coffee.

You notice a back exit that led into the alley. You figure that if anyone was actually after you, they’d be lurking nearby waiting for an opportunity to strike.

Slipping out the back door using the crowd of customers as cover, you glance back at the guard still parked out front. Good, you thought. At least you weren’t the only gullible sap in this city.

When the heavy back door slammed shut behind you, you took in your surroundings and noticed the alley was practically empty of life except a few rats scuttling behind a nearby dumpster. The noise of the bustling city echoed through the street creating a false sense of security.

You waited to see if any strangers would approach you, but when no one came forward after a couple minutes you immediately felt foolish.

How could you have believed a man who was known for deceiving his victims? That whole charade he put on the first night you were back home was just another trick. Only this time, instead of being brought on by Fear Toxin, this hallucination was brought on by a silly, seemingly baseless infatuation.

While you beat yourself up for your significant misjudgment of character, you failed to notice the strange man slinking his way towards you.

Before you knew what was happening, you were pinned up against the brick wall with a knife set against your throat.

You instinctively bring a knee up to the man’s groin. He grunts and doubles over as you push yourself from the wall, slightly stumbling away give how shaken up you were.

You don’t make it far, however, as the man catches up to you grabbing your waist, spinning you around and shoving you onto the ground.

Your head smacks into the concrete causing you to cry out. You reach for the gun tucked in your pants, but the man beats you to it and tosses it aside. So much for that, you think.

“Not all you’re cracked up to be, huh?” He growls. He brings his knife back up, but you continue to fight him, causing him to be more forceful, pressing the knife against your skin.

“What’s your secret, huh?” he continues. “How’d you fucking do it, bitch?” Instead of responding, you turn your head away from him and desperately attempt to reach for the gun sitting just inches from your fingertips.

“Doesn’t really matter anyways because you’ll be dead as soon as I’m done with you.” He mutters into your ear, ignoring your futile struggling.

Suddenly, you feel him jab a knee between your legs, pushing them apart.

Just as his free hand roughly grabs the hem of your pants in an attempt to rip them off you, a voice calls from behind you: “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

You lean your head further back to look behind you and a wave of relief washes over you at the sight of John’s face. The guard that was in charge of you must’ve alerted him as soon as he noticed you were missing.

John holds his gun, unwavering, pointed directly at the face of the man holding you down.

However, instead of letting you go, the man pulls you up keeping the knife pressed against your neck.

“So, THIS is how you managed to do what no other crazy has done before.” The man muses. “Slithering your way into the heart of a scarecrow, well sweetheart, I hate to break it to ya, but scarecrows famously have no hearts. Or is that a brain?” He teases.

John goes on, unfazed by the man’s accusation. “Sir, would you like to see my mask?”

Instead of answering with words, the man pushes his knife harder against your neck slightly puncturing through skin, causing a subtle grunt from you.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” John pulls his mask out of his back pocket where it was tucked and put it on with his free hand. He then pulls out a small spray bottle and douses the man in what you could only assume was Fear Toxin.

John must have configured you’d be acclimated to this dose and therefore wouldn’t be affected.

The man cried out and shoved you forward straight into John’s open arm who pulled you into him while keeping his gun trained on the man. You knew what was coming, so you turned towards John’s chest just as you heard him pull the trigger.

******

You walk back into your apartment still shocked about the gruesome scene that you now blamed yourself for instigating. You begin to fall onto the couch, but John had other ideas.

He grabs your upper arms and swings you back up so you’re standing just in front of him. He glares into your eyes with that icy blue stare.

“What were you thinking.” He says this slowly and deliberately then clenches his jaw, as if his anger is so severe it’s difficult for him to speak.

“I wanted to make sure you weren’t lying to me.” You confess. He glares into your eyes for a few more seconds before noticing the small bleeding cut on your neck.

He abruptly lets go of you, and strides over to the kitchen. You breathe out a heavy sigh collapsing into the couch and closing your eyes.

As you begin to mull over everything that just happened, your eyes are jolted open again as you feel the sudden sting of a damp rag against your cut.

John sat on the cushion next to you and held pressure on your neck with one hand, the other hand holding the back of your head to keep you still.

You were reminded of the first night you met him when he’d laid you on the hospital bed and sat in front of you giving you his full attention. Of course, then he’d been threatening your sanity, unlike now with him taking care of a minor laceration.

You gaze up at the pale ceiling leaning against John’s hand and say, “so, you weren’t kidding when you said I’m somewhat disliked now by a few bad people.”

“No. I wasn’t.” He states.

“Not sure what you expected of me.” You continue without turning your head. “I mean how could I not question every word that comes out of your mouth, Scarecrow.”

You hear him chuckle at that last word, the opposite of the reaction you were expecting to incite.

He removes the rag from you and reaches over to the coffee table where he’d set a few butterfly bandages. He carefully places two on your cut eliciting a sharp inhalation from you.

“I must have mistaken that kiss as a sign of trust then.” He says. You whip around to look at him seeing he has his eyebrows now slightly raised. He knew that would get a rise out of you.

You scoff and shake your head before saying:

“You know what, yeah, you did. For such a profound psychiatrist or whatever you are, you sure have overlooked my reckless patterns. I mean do you even know how I got out of Arkham? I caused a commotion. That’s it.” 

“No scheming allegiances, no spectacular, award-winning plan that should ever have warranted the respect from a genius like you, just causing enough chaos in the hopes that I’d somehow be able to slip through the cracks unnoticed.”

The words tumble out of you as if you’d been holding on to this anger for far too long, not even sure what you were saying, only that you were angry. John sat still and watched you, studying you with a piercing gaze.

“And if you’ll remember correctly, it didn’t even work! You stopped me! If you hadn’t had this sudden change of heart, or whatever the hell is going on, I’d still fucking be there!”

“That first night we met, you mistook me as someone who has a plan. But I fucking don’t, okay?! I don’t know what I’m doing, and not to mention, I just got some guy fucking killed!”

“No you didn’t.” John says as he reaches out and grabs your arms to hold you still as you were still visibly shaking out of frustration.

“What are you talking about, I heard it.” You say in an exhausted tone.

“Oh, I didn’t kill that man.” He says matter-of-factly. You look at him befuddled, so he goes on, “You were caught in that Fear intake as well, and given that you aren’t 100% acclimated to it, you only imagined I’d shot him.”

Your eyes widen in shock. You felt like you were back on the pier, the ominous Gotham Bay at your back, and a complete reliance on John given any future slip-ups.

“And it isn’t entirely a reckless pattern. It’s bold. You were already unafraid before even taking my toxin. If there’s one thing a genius like me, your words, can respect it’s using chaos to your own benefit.”

You stare at him in disbelief. You hadn’t realized yet what it was in you that had caught the attention of such an illustrious criminal as John, but here he was telling you it’s because he was impressed by your unconventionality.

He continues on ignoring your speechlessness, “You’re not safe here. Not alone.”

You scoff lightly, and retort, “On the contrary, I think I was in considerably less danger before you showed up.”

“That may be true, but given that I have shown up, that argument is invalid.”

“So, what then, are you gonna take me back to the Asylum?” You contest.

“No. I meant what I said when I told you I was sorry for that. I’m done experimenting on people. You can stay with me until I figure out a plan.”

You furrow your eyebrows and say, “a plan for what?”

“A plan to help get you out of Gotham.”

_______________________________________________

[isawrightless]

love, we shine like a falling star

Leon Kennedy, Claire Redfield It's slow, this particular kiss. Gentle and sweet, demanding in its own promises.

Rating: M --- The death he finds in his drinks and the life he seeks in her kisses, a sharp contrast, she soothes away his pain with just a touch. And she's angelical, downright divine, and he's just a man with way too many problems and too many vices and sometimes, well, sometimes he thinks these vices are getting the best of him. But isn't she a vice, as well, isn't she the love of his life, the one he wants for forever, the one, his one, his girl? How does he go on about that, how does he even trust reality when she makes it possible for him to feel out of this world? When she’s like this, on her knees, head moving back and forth, lips wrapped tightly around his cock. His eyes are closed, right hand on the back of her head, fingers tangling in her hair. His mouth hangs open when she hollows her cheeks and hums in appreciation; she loves his taste, loves to have him this way. It’s a secret she’s shared not too long ago---that sucking his cock makes her wet, sends her spiraling out of control, she could get off on that action alone. He's a lucky man, no doubt about it, a lucky and foolish man, drunk in love, drunk in her. He's hers until the universe wipes him out of this god-forsaken place, he's hers afterwards too, in the emptiness that follows, he'll wait for her there when it's time, he swears he will. She makes him hunch forward and moan when she swallows him deeper, takes him until his cock hits the back of her throat, holds him there until she gags and her eyes water. His heart beats fast and his hands shake as she slowly pulls back, her lips dragging along his shaft, his cock covered in spit and precome, her lips pink and swollen when she lets him slip away with a pop. “Fuck," he lets out in a breath. "I'm not gonna last like that, sweetheart." She smirks, wraps her hand around him and starts stroking, baby blue eyes scanning every reaction on his face. "No?" she teases. "You're not gonna last if I keep sucking you like that?" "Claire..." he thrusts into her hands, instinct speaking louder here, but he's still got some semblance of self-restraint. "What?" she instigates him further, holds him tighter, rubs her thumb over the head of his cock. "What if I want you to come in my mouth?" He groans at that, the mental image  enough to make his cock twitch in anticipation. She knows exactly what she's doing, what she's saying, she knows it's one of his favorite things: to watch her swallow every drop he has to offer. And she always does such a good job, she's so sweet to him, so kind, takes everything---even after all this time, it means something, it has to. It means something that she welcomes him even after seeing the worst of him. That she touches his skin with an adoration he's certain he doesn't deserve. So he plays her game, reaches out and gently holds her chin up. "You'd just let me, wouldn't you?" he starts. "Would let me come down your throat like the good girl you are." She nods even though there's no need to. He smiles, grabs her by the arms and pulls her up to his lap so she's stradling him while he's sitting on the edge of the bed. He takes a moment to look at her, leans in and plants a small kiss in between the valley of her breasts, makes his way up until he reaches her neck, bites and sucks on the skin there, leaves a tiny, red mark, a small bruise that will be hidden by her hair but will be there nonetheless. His hands run up and down her sides, stop at her hips as he leans in to give her a kiss. It's slow, this particular kiss. Gentle and sweet, demanding in its own promises. She smiles in the middle of it, moans into his mouth, gives him a thrill when she gets lost in it, rolls her hips to get some relief from the ache between her legs. They're out of breath when they break apart. There's a slight flush on her face that makes him proud. He brings a hand up to her cheek, a gentle caress as he drags his thumb across her bottom lip. "I could use your pretty little mouth some more--" "Then do it," she says. "Do it, please," another roll of her hips, his cock trapped between their bodies,throbbing and hot. And she's a needy little thing, she is, when it comes to him at least. No other man has ever made her feel this way, no other man has made her crave for something as much as she craves for him, for any part of him, any form of comfort or touch. He shakes his head, smirking like a boy. Leaning in close, he buries his face on the crook of her neck, breathes in her scent, her perfume--jasmine with a hint of vanilla--only to then whisper in her ear, "But I want your cunt." There's a sharp intake of breath from her, as if his confession has traveled and trembled through her bones, but he's not the one in control here. No, he's a man with a stolen heart and an impossible need. Because holy hell, he needs her. Needs to taste her, to fuck her, to kiss her. He needs her smiles and minutes long kisses, needs her messy hair and grumpy face when it's too early in the morning, needs to hear her voice so he can be reminded that there's still good left in this world. He needs and she gives and he takes because she lets him. She's got him wrapped around her finger. She's so worked up and ready, she places her left hand on his shoulder to steady herself, reaches down with her right one, grabs his cock and gives it a light tug just to hear him gasp. She raises her hips slightly and guides him to her entrance, sinks down onto his length slowly, viciously so, until he's all the way in and she's looking down at him as if he's hung the stars in the sky himself. "Like this?", her tone is candid as she grinds against him, moans when she feels him so deep inside. He closes his eyes, his hands moving down to grab hold of her ass. "Yeah, fuck---" he breaks into a moan when she squeezes around him on purpose. Both  arms on his shoulder now, she holds on to him, works her hips. His mouth finds her breasts, he licks and sucks into one, watches her throw her head back, neck exposed, hair falling behind her like a curtain. It's gotten long, her hair, as long as it was when they first met and she's beautiful anyway but this is too much, too much for him to handle. So he trails a hand up her back, grabs a fistful of her hair, she looks down at him, mesmerized, and he starts thrusting into her, still softly sucking on her breast. She tries to keep up with him but he holds her in place, god, he's strong and handsome and he's got her, he's got her---"L-Leon," she chokes, fingers digging into his skin. "You're so fucking gorgeous," he says, releasing her breast. Her nipples are hard, her left one slightly darker and wet with his saliva. "How are you so gorgeous?" Because I'm made for you, I'm made for you---she thinks and she wants to say it out loud but his thrusts are hard and fast, his pace is overwhelming, she can only close her eyes and feel him, she's so wet and good and he slips in and out of her easily. "You're gonna come for me, sweetheart?" he sounds absolutely wrecked as he buries his cock deeper and then grinds up into her, heart beating so fast he's certain she can hear it. "Gonna come on my cock?" "Yes," she lets out in a rushed breath. "Yes, please, I'm so close, god---fuck," her voice falters when he lets go of her hair and brings his hand down to press his thumb on her clit, caressing it in circular motions, applying the pressure he knows she likes. She makes this keen sound that is half a moan and half a sob and he just wishes every single day could be like this. "You're the only thing that makes sense, sweetheart, the only fucking thing," he says, watching her intently, the expression on her face--eyes closed, mouth open, a few strands of hair sticking to her lips, fingernails sharp on his shoulders--and he feels himself close to his own release. "So soft and perfect--yeah, that's it, come on my cock, be my good girl--" and she does, she does, cries out loud and tightens around him as it hits her, she clings to him and he holds her steady, keeps her safe, helps her ride out her orgasm, his thrusts now a bit slower and deliberate. She comes back from it dazed, holds his face in her trembling hands and leans down until her forehead is pressed against his. "You...you too, I want you---" "Want my come in you? That what you want?" he asks, voice hoarse. She tries to answer him but all she manages is a small nod together with a moan. He increases the pace then, goes harder, stares right into her eyes, the slapping sound of skin against skin filling the room until he thrusts into her one final time and comes with a raspy groan, cock pulsing and twitching, spilling inside her. Breathless, he stares right into her eyes and then looks down at her lips, manages to give her a quick kiss before dragging his mouth down her neck, turning his face and resting his right cheek on her chest, his arms wrapped around her frame, holding her close. She's panting, trying to calm down, and she moves one of her hands up his neck, buries her fingers in his hair and lightly scratches his scalp. They stay like that for a moment, both of them unable to let go. He's going soft inside her and they're both so sensitive that any kind of movement proves to be too much. A comfortable silence sets in, and there's no need to break it. Eventually she pulls back a little, smiles at him and slides off of his lap to lie on the bed, on her back. She can feel her slick and his come slipping out of her, running down her thighs in an obscene display of affection. She closes her eyes for just a second and when she opens them again he's lying right next to her, smiling too, some strands of hair sticking to his forehead due to the sweat on his skin. She fixes his hair for him and he catches her wrist mid-action, brings it close to his mouth and plants a small, quick kiss there on her pale skin. It spreads warmth throughout her body and she chuckles, prompting him to do the same and they lie there, content, in no hurry to be anywhere else. He counts the freckles across her nose in his head, adores every single of them, says, "I love you." It's a rare thing for him, for them, to say it out loud. They've both been robbed of so much sometimes it feels like tempting fate every time they utter such heavy words. "I love you, too,” she says. And he is, he truly is, a man of vices and sorrows and regrets and traumas. He's broken in too many places. Shattered. But he's also a man of his word and he means it with every cell in his body that, in this whole goddamn world, she is the only thing that makes sense.

[gh0stiegirlie]

synopsis: all it took was one glance at the hotheaded boy at the U.A. exam, and you were smitten. for deku, it was a single act of kindness that instigated his immediate attraction to uraraka. several months into school, best friends Skylar and deku are left heartbroken when. uraraka and bakugou start a relationship. when you and deku find yourselves confiding in each other, a question arises; is this love, or loneliness? are you two better just as friends?

a/n: lmao hey im not dead whats gud

word count: 2.8k

<- pt. 2                                                          pt.4 (expect monday, sept 7th) ->

Moments later, the sound Bakugous boots stomping across the linoleum floor echos throughout the hall. He remains quiet as he follows you, not risking the punishment of disturbing other hero classes by spewing his typical demeaning insults or using his quirk  But a glance behind your shoulder reveals how threatening he is, even in silence. His grin is sadistic, and there’s fierce passion in his eyes.

The passion to rip your fucking guts out, that is.

Bakugou's animalistic instincts kick in the longer the chase persists, his mind dismissing everything but you, his prey.

A few twists and turns later, you Bakugous fingers grasp the back of your shirt collar. You gasp as he violently pulls you back into his chest, only letting go once he's thrown you on the ground. He looms over you with a crazed look on his face, his smile crooked and his eyes ablaze. He looks batshit crazy, yet you think it’s insanely attractive.

“You’re going to pay for that, you cowardly bastard,” he growls, his vermillion eyes pouring liquid rage into yours.

Perfect.

You hold his gaze and activate your quirk.

Suddenly, wordless cries reverberate throughout the chasms of his mind. Wails and shrieks pound against his head, desperate to escape. He cowers into a fetal position with his hands covering his ears, a fruitless attempt to keep the howls out. All Bakugou can see before the world goes dark is the glow of your e/c eyes. 

You push yourself off the floor as Bakugou begins to rub his eyes, a feeble attempt to regain sight. Your attack will keep him at bay for a while, giving you the perfect opportunity to escape to the training grounds. 

At the time you arrive on the grounds, Bakugou wearily rises to his feet. The world spins around him while three words spin around his mind.

What the fuck?!

Granted, Bakugou knew you were powerful.

Well, the better word is he was aware you were powerful.

He considered you were a slimy wannabe hero when he caught you knocking out other contestants to steal their wins during the entrance exam, but decided you were just another extra when you practically failed Aizawa’s physical tests on the first day. His feelings only changed when you almost fought in him at the sports festival. He heard your battle was intense, but half ‘n half managed to blow you off the court before you could incapacitate him. Even though you lost that third round, you made it pretty damn far.

But, he didn’t know you were capable of disabling him with a single glance. 

You’ve impressed him. 

But the cost of impressing and temporarily impairing Bakugou is your strength.  Using your special move always takes a physical toll on you. Bakugous throbbing brain keeps him grounded in reality, while your piercing pain keeps you awake enough to make it to the training grounds.

When Bakugou arrives you’ve collected your bearings, your headache subdued by a few Advils.

“Took you long enough,” you jeer, crossing your arms and standing your ground.

Bakugou is heaving, his vermillion eyes communicating what his mouth can’t.

And they say he’s going to fry you like dead meat.

A low, guttural noise builds up in Bakugous chest. It builds and rises in his body like hot air, until finally he releases it with a battle cry, “I’m going to kill you!” 

He charges at you with explosions from both hands, baring his teeth like a rabid dog. 

The rapid firing of his explosions leave you no time to think of a strategy, so you focus on dodging while getting in close. From this length, you can momentarily harvest some of his thoughts. But honestly, it seems like he’s blind with rage and firing recklessly. 

You should know Bakugou better than that.

He’s aware that after the stunt you pulled earlier, your quirk works best at a short distance. The fact you need direct eye contact to activate your quirk effectively is a clear sign proximity is a limitation of yours. He also knows that powerful move must have exhausted you. Not only will his long-range blasts and constant movement make it nearly impossible for you to make eye contact with him, but your attempts to dodge them and get closer will wear you out even more. Then, depending on if you make an attack from this long-distance and how strong that attack is, he’ll know more about the restrictions of your quirk. He grins to himself, thinking how he’s too amazing for his own good.

You also take a moment to smile to yourself. Little does he know you have the ability to briefly manifest the thoughts of others, and heard his entire plan. You have to admit, that clever strategy would’ve totally defeated you. 

Too bad it’s completely useless.

If he plans to keep you at a distance until you're worn out, that means you have to get in close as soon as possible. Meaning you have to rush in and run the risk of being hit with one of his blasts. 

You know Bakugou isn’t dumb. You notice he never fires from the same position or with the same type of explosion. He’s always moving, constantly searching for your blind spot, and changing how he attacks. One second he’s on your left, using both hands to shoot you with one ginormous fire-ball. The next, he’s behind you and sending a million tiny blasts your way. Finding a way to slip past his advanced combat skills is nearly impossible. 

Nearly.

You’ve been playing this game of cat and mouse for a few minutes now. You’re falling into a rhythm; he shoots, you dodge, and he shoots again. He’s falling into a pattern; shoot, move, shoot again, move again. Knowing where he’ll land next is a matter of understanding the when and where of his reactions. When you dodge an attack, when does he decide to change up his behavior, and where does he go to deliver the next blast?

Bakugou is convinced that your sluggish reaction times are proof of his oncoming victory. While, yes, the heaviness of physical exhaustion is starting to weigh you down, the real reason is focusing on formulating a plan. And for someone with a mental quirk like you, thinking is the most dangerous thing you can do.

When it appears that your body is about to give up, Bakugou runs and aims an explosion in the exact place you expected. You manage to meet his eyes and send hundreds of whispered messages into his brain. He falters on his shot, dazed and confused. You surprise him by sprinting straight to his strategically plotted spot, and therefore, face-planting into his chest. The sudden force of his chest mixed with your momentum sends you both flying back. 

You planned to land on top of Bakugou, which would not only pin him to the ground and secure your victory, but also gave you an excuse to straddle his hips in the way you’ve spent so many math classes dreaming about. But instead, you both end up rolling across the ground. You land on your stomach, and after taking a few moments to recover, you catch Bakugou sprawled out on his back. 

This is my chance.

You clumsily push yourself off the ground and stumble over to Bakugou. You practically fall on top of him, and the sudden weight ontop of his sore core forces a groan to escape his lips. He weakly tries to push you off him, but his failed attempts leave him flailing his arms and legs to try and squirm out from under you. He’s acting like a toddler throwing a tantrum.

"How does it feel to lose, Bakugou?" you smirk. “It’s embarrassing enough that you always lose to Deku, and now you’re losing to his girlfriend too! It’s so pathetic I almost feel bad for you!”

A moment ago, every limb in Bakugous body was screaming at him to sleep. Now, his it burns alive with rage. He uses the rage surging through his veins to generate one last explosion that shoots you into the sky. After a few seconds of soaring upwards, Bakugou launches himself in your direction with the last explosions his tired body can summon. He wraps his arms around your back and pulls you into his chest, one of his hands holding your head in the nape of his neck for extra protection. The two of you spiral in the air like a torpedo.

The sky expels you into the ground like a bullet, and the concrete cracking beneath you.

When you open your eyes, Bakugou is swaying above you. His eyes are half-lided, and blood drips from his nose onto your face.

“Lets… Call it even…” you mumble as he collapses beside you. 

You both spend a few minutes slipping in and out of consciousness, desperately searching at the barriers of your mind for an escape through. Eventually, Bakugou gains enough strength to slip his way through a crack. He picks you up bridle style and carries you to the outskirts of U.A. High. Unable to go any further, he slides against one of the buildings walls into a sitting position, resting your head on the side of his thigh once he’s comfortable. 

Only now does he see how beautiful you are. 

Your resting face is so peaceful, his racing heart calms the longer he stares. Your skin glistens underneath the sun, every bead of sweat rolling down your cheeks looking like a shooting star gliding across the beautiful night sky. Your e/c hair wreathes around Bakugou’s legs like a corkscrew, and he delicately untangles your soft locks. Sometimes your nose twitches as he pulls at your hair, but only when he brushes a stray flyaway out of your face do your eyes finally flutter open.

Your body is bruised and bloodied, and the worst of your injuries are the concrete chunks penetrating deep cuts in your back. Although Bakugou finds every girl looks beautiful after a fight. And you, even with your injuries, are no exception.

It’s not because he’s some kinky pervert, but he sees these injuries as markings of a true hero. A true hero is someone who endures pain but always keeps fighting. He thought since you were dating that nerd you were a pussy, but you’ve proven to him you’re a total badass.

Bakugou’s eyes are inches away from yours. You immediately notice his glare isn’t as… Spiteful, as usual. It’s serene. And it’s making you blush.

“How long have you been staring at me like that for, perv?” You yawn with a stretch. Your forearms rub against Bakugous thighs as you pop your elbows. His face turns a shade of pink, not the angry intense red he’s is accustomed to.

“Hey! I saved your life, idiot. You should be thanking me!” Bakugou fumes, the color of his face slowly deepening to his typical red.

“Yeah, and you’re also the person who tried to fucking explode me! So it cancels out, you asshole!” You yell as you dart up, only to fall back down. You struggle once more to your feet only to collapse in a heap. “Fuck, I can’t---” you mumble, the world around you fading to black. You scream for your mouth to move and demand your legs to stand, but your body refuses to cooperate. Eventually, you succumb to the darkness.

Bakugou’s battered body is only capable of shuffling with you in his arms to Recovery Girls’ office before he passes out too.

You wake up hours later to the feeling of a cold, wet kiss on your back. You “eugh!” in disgust as you flinch away from Recovery Girl’s lips.

“Ah, glad to see you’re finally awake,” she chirps before turning to treat Bakugou. “You two had quite the battle! Hurt eachother pretty bad for a couple of first years.” She fiercely spins around to wag her wrinkly finger in your face. “Mr. Aizawa will be sure to hear about this!”

“No!” you exclaim, before clearing your throat to lower your voice. “Please don’t tell him Recovery Girl!” you plead more rationally, “Bakugou and I were just having a... tactical battle to find out more about eachothers quirks for an assignment, that’s all! I think we just both got a little carried away…” You rub your injured arm awkwardly. 

“Get off me, you old hag!” A now conscious Bakugou commands Recovery Girl. She backs away to her desk to take some notes, but not before calling him an “ungrateful and rude young man”. Bakugou turns to face you, and scans his handiwork (aka, your injuries). “You really got your ass handed to you, huh?” he congratulates himself. You roll your eyes.

“Don’t forget, Recovery Girl is smoochin’ you too. Meaning I did some serious damage.” you point out, fighting a smile. You want to keep your face as smug as Bakugou’s.

“Whatever, loser. We’ll call it a tie,” he smirks at you. “Until I get the chance to beat the shit out of you.”

“Trust me. Next time we fight, there won’t be a tie. Only me standing victorious over your dumb corpse.” you challenge with crossed arms. You can’t help but notice the excitement in Bakugous eyes, and how a genuine grin paves its way across his face. Though when there’s a knock at the door, his smile falls so fast you question if you imagined it.

“Oh! Looks you two have some visitors,” Recovery Girl announces, wobbling towards the door.

Neither you nor Bakugou are in the mood to deal with your significant others. You shake your head and cry, “Please don’t let them in!” But Izuku Texas smashes the door wide open and runs to you, Uraraka following close behind. 

“Y/n! Are you okay?!” he cups your cheeks, and you nod. He ignores your affirmation and scans your entire body for any sign of harm. “O-oh, you have scratches everywhere!” He gingerly pokes a healing cut on your knee, causing a hiss of pain to escape you. 

“Bakugou, where are you hurt?” Uraraka runs her hands down Bakugous biceps, feeling for any bumps or bruises.

“Get off of me,” he growls under his breath, not wanting to draw your attention to them. “I said, get your hands off of me!” Bakugou raises his voice when Uraraka doesn’t listen to him.

“You,” Izuku glowers at Bakugou, “You did this to her,” 

“Izuku, leave him alone,” you plea. He ignores you.

“You hurt her again.” Izuku mumbles, Bakugou quirking his head at the word “again”.

“Zuzu, Bakugou didn’t do shit.” you grab Izukus shoulder to spin him towards you, but he uses his quirk to brush you off. But Izuku ‘brushing you off’ with his quirk means with a single finger flick, he propels you into the wall at the other side of the room. 

“Oh dear,” Recovery Girl gasps through a hand over her mouth

“What the hell?!” Bakugou barks, darting over to you. Uraraka catches his arm and holds him back. 

You struggle to rise. Your legs shake under your weight, but you force them to support you. You glare at the ground, absolutely mortified. Even though you’re disgusted with Midorya, you manage to look him in his eyes.

“We’re done,” you mumble. At this point your whole body trembles, but you can’t tell if it’s from rage or exhaustion.

“Wuh-what?” Izuku’s puppy dog eyes pout in disbelief. He takes a step towards you but you step away. 

“Sorry, was I not loud enough? Allow me to be more clear,” 

You shut your eyes. When you open them, they’re neon e/c.

You’re using your second, and final special move to announce to the whole school Izuku can go to hell.

Your sonic blast. 

“Izuku Midoriya, you and I are done!” You scream into the minds of the hundreds of students attending U.A. You specifically aim your eyes at Izuku, so he receives the worst of it.

Izuku falls to his knees, his green eyes welling up with tears. You might’ve burst his eardrums with that emission. Good.

With that, you run out of Recovery Girls' office and straight to the gym.

All the emotions you've kept bottled up for this entire year suddenly spill out of you. With every punch, your forbidden feelings for Bakugou wiggle back into your heart. Your pent-up rage for Izuku turns into a feeling you've repressed ever since you started dating.

Regret.

You regret twisting your frustration with Bakugou's and Urarakas relationship into feelings for your best friend. 

You slam your fists against the bag, more hot tears streaming down your face with every punch.

You regret ever kissing him that night.

You wish you would've stayed just friends.

omg i have taglist now🥺: @soa1eater

[agathaharknes]

Till Human Voices Wake Us (And We Drown)’s timeline so far:

Tissaia:

Year 696, Crown Princess Skylark is born in the late hours of the night during the Winter Equinox to King Lestyn and Queen Amicia of the Kingdom of Acaidal aka “The Continent’s heart” aka "The Golden Kingdom” with a mark in the form of a lilac on the nape of her neck. This alerts everyone that she was blessed with a soulmate, which means that by holy and mortal law she can never enter an arranged marriage; this also confirms she is the prophecy child and is destined to destroy the world.

Year 708, Since infancy Skylark’s strange behaviour has caused rumours to circulate and because of this and her parent’s refusal to accept any and all offers of betrothals, Acaidal is attacked during the ball hosted for the Princess 12th birthday (”the age of consent back then,” according to Tissaia). When their army is defeated and the castle surrounded, the palace is set on fire with her family and the courtiers inside, effectively trapping them. After her parents and her grandmother say their (rushed) goodbyes to her, the Queen takes off her signature pendant and gives it to her daughter, instructing a soldier to try and take the Princess out through the tunnels below the castle. Once outside, the building collapses on itself, triggering her conduit moment and the complete destruction of her kingdom by their attackers’ hands and her own.

Year 709, Skylark is saved from unknown captors, from an unknown location by Rectoress Depraysie after months of physical/psychological torture. Upon reaching Aretuza she tries to kill herself and sometime during the week she spends in recovery (after the Rectoress saves her), she argues with the woman and is forced to endure her Enchantment prematurely in retaliation. Depraysie changes the colour of her hair (her most famous feature) and makes her indistinguishable from Princess Skylark’s remaining portraits, lastly erasing all evidence of what had happened to her during her time in captivity. She is, however, unable to get rid of the mark on the girl’s neck, much to her frustration. – The trauma produced by the fall of Acaidal, her imprisonment and her Enchantment would soon cause her to develop PTSD and worsen her depressive/anxious tendencies. Depraysie also suspected that a throat infection she had contracted during her stay in the dungeon would be to blame for instigating her genetic predisposition towards OCD into violent existence. – Afterwards, Rectoress Depraysie procures a body that is similar in build to her already favourite apprentice and “proves” by various methods to several monarchs that it really is her, successfully tricking people into believing that Princess Skylark is dead. After spreading some more rumours, she gives Nilfgaard’s Emperor, the late Queen Amicia’s brother, the corpse for safekeeping. Centuries later that same skeleton would be returned to its “homeland” when the first king of the newly restored and named Kingdom of Cintra was anointed. Occasionally, new monarchs are known to ask mages for confirmation that the bones are indeed Skylark's and it is always given.

Year 714, She meets fifteen-year-old Lytta Neyd aka “Coral” aka “The overbearing, nosy friend she absolutely just tolerates”. At first glance, the redhead tells her that her name is now meant to be “Tissaia” and she embraces it, going by it from that day forwards. With time she grows to love the medium like a sibling and trusts her with the truth and the many painful, distressing side effects of the bond (both things which Coral already knows due to her psychic gift).

Year 718, Tissaia meets fourteen-year-old Margarita Laux-Antille aka “Rita” aka “The bane of her existence”. At first, she considers Rita “needy” and “annoying” and thinks that she “weeps too much”, but she’s a girl recently orphaned, afraid and alone, so Tissaia takes pity on her and threatens a younger student into changing rooms with her so she can take care of the blonde, who insists on sleeping in the same bed with her when Rectoress Depraysie is particularly horrid. With time she grows to love the blonde like a sibling and trusts her with the truth and the many painful, distressing side effects of the bond.

Year 720, Stregobor asks for permission to court Tissaia, now a gorgeous twenty-four-year-old young woman, but is denied and warned off of it by Rectoress Depraysie. This second-handed rejection causes the man to turn on Tissaia and the sorcerer tries to punish her for his humilliation for centuries.

Year 721, Coral is allowed to depart for Temeria’s court after her Enchantment, leaving a distraught, resentful and confused Tissaia behind.

Year 723, Rita “steals” Feyre’s assigment after their Enchantment and departs for Kadwen’s court. Tissaia de Vries finally departs for Redania’s, determined to succeed and prove Rectoress Depraysie wrong.

Year 832, Tissaia commits her first premeditated murder. It is an act that will slowly change her magic in a brutal, unknown manner.

Year 810, Tissaia is sexually assaulted by the grandson of the first king she served, killing him is self-defence and “slaughtering” him in revenge. Margarita makes the scene seem like an accident, and Coral and her take her away to – hide her in – Skellige “for many, many months” so she can recover.

Year 846, Falka’s rebellion commences and what first was a “noble” war changes into a peasant one, further degenerating into a massive witchhunt in which Mirthe, an ancient city of mages, is burnt down.

Year 860, She founds the Chapter of the Gift and the Art, and the Brotherhood of Sorcerers with the help of four other mages, amongst them future Rector of Ban Ard/Arch-master Stregobor and future Arch-master Artorius Vigo. Three centuries later, she’d still be the only woman in the Chapter.

Year 870, The prologue - In late October Tissaia has one of her worst episodes to date, instinctively making a mess of her office and later getting high on a concoction she stole from Rita, who in turn bought it from an elf, to try and negate her powers (which tend to be unpredictable and escape her control during those instances). Amidst the delirium and a high fever she is still able to subconsciously summon an incredibly aggressive thunderstorm to the isle of Thanedd.

Year 1188, After 477 years of being constantly “tormented” by their bond, Tissaia finds her soulmate in Yennefer of Vengerberg when the girl stumbles at her feet in Tor Lara. In her desperation to not be parted from her, she strikes a deal with the girl after she expresses her desire/duty to go back to her family. She subsequently wins their bet and when they return to Aretuza the strategy she used prompts the girl to have a breakdown where Tissaia has to stop her from dying after she slits her wrists. That same night she abducts the girl’s father and portals to an abandoned barn in Cintra where she taunts and proceeds to torture the farmer, ultimately killing him after his body gives out by having him eaten alive by wild boars to cover up her tracks, locking all exits and setting the place on fire when she’s certain he’s passed away.

Yennefer:

Year 1173, Yennefer of Vengerberg is born in the early hours of the morning during Beltane to a half-elf father and a human mother after over 18 hours of labour with a crooked spine and a mark in the form of an orchid next to the deformation in her back.

Year 1788, Her conduit moment is triggered by a teenage couple whose almost assault causes her to create a portal to the Tower of the Gull. Immediately enchanted by the stranger who finds her she almost follows her through another one but stops herself when she realises she’d be abandoning her family. She strikes a deal with the “lady”, where either she’ll prove that Yennefer is deeply unwanted in her home or she’ll fail at doing so; in the first scenario, she is to come back with her and in the latter “her chaos will be bound and she’ll never hear from her again,” which Yennefer simultaneously does and doesn’t believe. Hours later she is cruelly bought from her father for four marks by the witch (as her mother calls her), losing their bet. After being locked in a room, she breaks a mirror and in a desperate attempt for control tries to kill herself by slitting her wrists with a shard of glass – “four cuts for four marks” – but is immediately stopped by her “new master”.

[naancypants]

A big, fat Nancy x Ace character analysis

My mind is so blown at how Nancy and Ace are literally just perfectly aligned with each other. In EVERY WAY. It’s soooo subtle and yet it’s not??? Not if you’re looking?

The way his calming, laid-back personality is SO well-suited to her tendency to get worked up; if she’s upset, he will back away and let her figure things out on her own time, which is exactly what she needs. Nancy is the kind of person who needs space to work through things before she can open up about them. Otherwise, if you try to make her talk before she’s ready, the results are usually explosive. It causes her to feel strained and mentally claustrophobic. She is otherwise a very smart and sensible person, so we know that this is simply her emotional process. Emotions can be messy, and I think it’s the one area of intelligence that she isn’t totally comfortable dealing in. If Nancy feels external pressure to talk about her feelings before she even knows what they ARE yet, it’s going to make her uncharacteristically cold. That’s what brings out the worst in her - and it’s something that is bypassed altogether in her relationship with Ace.

Not that we got to see this onscreen, but the fact that she was drawn to him before they even really knew each other in that she felt it was safe to vent to him about her personal problems with college.

Ace’s area of expertise (hacking & technology) is exactly where Nancy’s is not, so they can both contribute equally when they’re on a team. Speaking of which, when you combine ALL of their skills and knowledge there is SO MUCH TALENT between the two of them?! Between Nancy’s bold interrogation skills, ability to crack out a plan of action, fearlessness/fortitude, & of course her brilliant mind and Ace’s knowledge of hacking, ASL, morse code, and his instinctive smarts - like holy cow. They’re covered on all bases. Not to mention they’re both notably skilled in lockpicking.

Nancy is such a high-strung go-getter and Ace is so chill, yet dependable. He’s totally ride or die and will always be there if she wants to do anything, e.g. follow up on a lead. Like Kennedy said in her interview, they’re the ones who are always ready to go, go, go. Nancy’s the instigator, but Ace is along for the ride. Whatever she needs. (even if he originally insists that he won’t go 👀)

I also feel like there is kind of an unspoken understanding between the two of them. It’s not even that they’re super similar, but they’re both perceptive and they just... GET each other. Especially Ace; I think he has this really inherent grasp on who Nancy is, and while he’s been sort of a background player for her up until recently, she’s starting to see that and appreciate it as she spends more time with him. There’s this electric undercurrent of mutual respect between them and I LIVE for it.

I think Nancy needs someone like Ace to keep her grounded. By not asking her to open up, he encourages Nancy to open up to him. When Nancy is all stressed out in her head, Ace is there with sympathy and a relaxing spirit. If she needs to go somewhere or get something done, no matter the reason, he will be there with no questions asked. He serves as a steady guidepost, a rock, a beacon of calm and stability for her.

On the other hand, Ace may not need Nancy in the same way but she’s exactly the kind of person who will ENHANCE his life and make it better. Her presence allows him to explore his sleuthing abilities, something he’s totally adept at, and solving mysteries with her provides him with what feels like a purpose. That was something he said to Laura around mid-season 1; he felt like had a purpose in Horseshoe Bay. He has an opportunity now to care about other people, and to work towards a common goal for the greater good.

Ace is also very protective of Nancy when she has her emotional guard up. Twice in the last two episodes we saw her broach an uncomfortable topic in front of her friends (1x17 Ryan being her biological father, 1x18 “it’s where (Owen) used to.. have guests over...”), and BOTH times Ace immediately did what he could to divert attention away so she wouldn’t have to confront it with anyone before she was ready to. THAT’S LOVE, FAM.

Also, he’s constantly saying or doing things that make her give him that fond, amused little smile like she’s so surprised that someone with his brain could exist. It’s CUTE.

[atomicfilm]

what do you think of INFPxINTP?

Note: when I use the term relationships I don’t only mean romantic ones. 

Also, all types can make it work if they’re willing to. INTPs in particular tend to collect diverse people to keep themselves entertained with multiple perspectives. 

You can skip to the “What I Like” section at the bottom if you want to as it functions as a summary. 

In my opinion, most of my closest friends and family are INFPs. This is a pairing I really like for the most part. I think intellectually, INTPs and INFPs are quite similar, although INFPs approach problems in a way that INTPs often find to be quite annoying which is that they are often very biased towards one outcome, even if it’s not very logical, because they are sentimental towards it. This sensitivity is not in itself a bad quality and I often admire it, except it can spell trouble for INFPs if they rely too much on their heart's desires. I find this typically leads them into a lot of toxic relationships and eventually, they have so many that they tend to abstain from relationships completely for long periods of time. I don’t know many other INTPs, but I abstain from relationships because someone isn’t the right fit for me and I can tell it’s going to go south very early on. INFPs, unfortunately, tend to ignore too many red flags and often end up heartbroken. They’re not to blame, the world is just crueler than they want it to be and they tend to get caught up in daydreams. 

WHAT I DON’T LIKE: 

A few things that annoy me about INFPs is that sometimes they rely on me too much. My mother, for example, asks my opinion on everything. Should I buy this house? Should I make this career move? Should I date this person? Should I go to this church? Should I purchase this car? Ect. ect. She asks me every possible question she can for my opinion and then if I tell it to her, she usually ends up ignoring it anyway. We both annoy each other in that we’re both very flaky when it comes to decision making. She’s flaky in that she doesn’t really care if a decision makes sense. For example, right now she is trying to start a coaching business and wanted my help choosing which seminars she should make. She wanted to do something along the lines of  “How to be Your Authentic Self” and I said that was fine but people were likely only going to buy such classes if she taught them how to make money from it or improve their relationships. It had to have an end goal, or most people wouldn’t see the point. 

Because of this, I believe she doesn’t really like my advice style. It’s often too blunt and I won’t fake my support if I don’t agree with something. In return, I expect the same. However, when I am supportive, you know it’s genuine and I personally make sure to make it obvious that I’m proud of people. 

 I’m flaky in that I tend to make a decision from the beginning and then alter it as I go along and am provided with new information, which can also be a source of frustration for INFPs at times, even if they are the same way. INFPs tend to be more of follower types whereas INTPs are truly independent and don’t really want to boss people around. The phrase “that’s your decision to make” will likely come up often.

If you’re searching for a lot of emotional comfort, INTPs aren’t often your best bet. If you’re sad, you can likely expect someone awkwardly patting you on your back and trying to find you a blanket or comfort food. Sweet words of encouragement will only come with practice. This is Fe, Fe can be developed and in my case, I’ve put in the work on it because I think in terms of social standing, Fe is the easiest way to improve myself. Oddly enough, I learned the most about Fe from mimicking a peculiar ENTP because handling emotions is a very foreign process to me, despite being surrounded by feelers. I’m not sure what people expect from me unless they tell me. 

From the INFP perspective, they give and give and give and give. And they do, they usually are extremely generous people, whether it be with their time, money, or emotions. An INFP may become frustrated if they do not feel like their efforts are being returned in full. This is a high expectation for INTPs who usually do whatever they want to when they want to. That being said, sometimes INFPs can be selfish when it comes to listening to my problems because they don’t expect me to need their comfort. My dog is currently in surgery and it’s possible she might die. When we were at the hospital, the only thing my mom said was “this is going to be expensive” and I was the one bawling uncontrollably. With INTPs, when Fi hits, it’s something we really don’t know how to cope with very well so we get overwhelmed and INFPs, despite all of their empathy, aren’t so good with Fe. She did manage to cheer me up by saying Jesus in Czech over and over again in really ridiculous ways so I wouldn’t call her a lost cause, I just wanted her to be crying with me in that moment. Also, INFPs can kind of dominate conversations when it comes to talking about how you BOTH are doing, but I think this is because most people leave them deeply unsatisfied attention-wise.

Anxious INFPs ruin me. I cannot handle your anxiety on top of my anxiety. Give me a moment to decide my next move. Don’t ask me what it is. I’ll say it when it’s developed. 

Unhealthy INFPs are also extremely sensitive and turbulent. I would say the only type as toxic as an unhealthy INFP is an unhealthy ENFP. They become moody and a strange mix of aggression, manipulation, and self-focused. A lot of that comes from Fi. Unhealthy INTPs become complete ghosts. They flicker out of existence. Depression tends to be a major issue in both types. 

WHAT I DO LIKE: 

I love INFPs because they’re one of the few types that understand what INTPs need. Yes, they are demanding emotionally and there are bound to be complications because of that, but for the most part they’re worth it. They make me feel something and at their best, they are some of the most idealistic, moral, creative, and cheerleader-like personalities. They show up. Where most people won’t come through, they will, except in areas that don’t align with their passions. They may be flighty or reclusive at times, but they make up for it by having high Ne and teaching INTPs about how to be a generally good person. INTPs at their worst detach from their compassion and their emotional side and a healthy level of correction to this instinct is much needed by the INTP from the INFP. I would say INFPs also need INTPs to some extent to guide them. Also, while INFPs have low Te, Te is something I admire because it’s nice for getting a different perspective. And gosh diddly darn it, have you ever met someone with Ne who wasn’t hilarious? 

Generally speaking, I think ISFPs, ISFJs, INFJs, INFPs, and ENTPs all are the best pairings for INTPs as friends. I like ENFPs a lot too, but I always have toxic relationships with them that involve a lot of fights. Fights with INFPs tend to either absolutely never happen (one of my best friends is an INFP and I haven’t fought with her once in the past 4 yrs.) or if they happen they go something like this: 

INTP:  I don’t like you very much.

INFP: FINE, I DON’T LOVE YOU, I’M NEVER GOING TO TALK TO YOU.

INTP: I was joking.

INFP: STOP TALKING TO ME.

INTP: Yeah, okay, I’m sorry, that wasn’t a good joke, I love you.

INFP, 5 minutes later: Okay, I’ve cooled down, I love you too.

It’s usually INTPs who instigate and then INFPs escalate it. INTPs aren’t usually intentionally fighting with people so those kinds of fights end in a few minutes. 

I think INTPs will fall for any INFP quickly, and that will probably make them uncomfortable. An INTP may not want to pursue a romantic relationship with an INFP if they think it will become overly emotional, which it’s quite possible it will. But the good thing is that once an INTP commits to something, they are unlikely to give up on it easily and this is a source of comfort to INFPs. Plus, INFPs (and also ISFPs) are skilled at drawing out the INTP’s soft side which they secretly like. 

 I would say that as long as it’s healthy, an INFP x INTP relationship is one of the most beautiful and long-lasting of them all. The most important thing to focus on here would be communicating your feelings often and directly, but also providing the INTP with a bit of help. Tell them why you feel this way, whether you like this feeling, and what you would like for them to do. They may not be able to pick up on that on their own unless you have known each other for years. Also, to appease the INTP, try to find a common intellectual pursuit, even if it’s something as simple as listening to NPR in the car together or making a two-person book club. While INFPs aren’t really boring per se, they can become dull if they don’t stimulate the INTP’s brain enough and focus too much on small talk, routine obsessions, or debating with obviously biased information. 

[anchcred]

→ ABOUT MAHA.

DETAILED ABOUT.

“Take it back! I never asked for it!”     - Mahanon Lavellan, DA:I.

General Characteristics

Name: Mahanon Lavellan. Appearance: Slender build, red-brown hair, blue eyes. Red detailed Elgar'nan vallaslin.  Pronunciation: Mah-hah-known Lah-veil-ahn Name Origin: Dalish. Name Meaning: ‘He who moves ahead towards a good place.’ Other Names: Maha. Titles: Inquisitor, Herald, Your Worship, Lord Lavellan, Master Lavellan. Theme Song: The Gardener - Sarah Sparks Zodiac: Pisces.

Personal Characteristics

Birth Date: 9:14 Dragon. Birth Name: Mahanon Lavellan. Manner of Birth: Natural. First Word(s): Ahn? (Huh?/What?) Primary Objective: Defeat Corypheus; save the world. Secondary Objectives: Restore order, spread peace. Priorities: Assisting those in need. Motivation: Lack of options. Self-Confidence: Low. Embarrassments: Falling asleep in strange places. Worries: Failing. Disappointing people. Losing everyone. Soothers: Comforting words. Visits from friends. Letters from his clan. Instigators: Lack of sleep. Pushing past boundaries. Shouting. Aggressive behavior. Harsh criticism of his actions/decisions. Earliest Memory: Light filtering through the leaves of trees, the smell of woodsmoke, laughter, warmth. Fondest Memory: Receiving his vallaslin. Worst Memory: Seeing the future in which he fails. Favorite Dream: Traveling with his clan again, forgetting this all ever happened. Worst Nightmare: Corypheus capturing his friends and infecting them with red lyrium. Desires: Love, comfort, support, reassurance. Wishes: The happiness of the members of the Inquisition. Confidantes: Cole, Varric. Soft Spots: Emotional hurt, crying, loss. Simple trinkets, carved figurines, soft cloth. Cruel Streaks: An eye for an eye thoughts on judging people, though he often errs on the side of mercy. Musical Instrument: Wooden pipes. (He’s not very good.) Quirks: See headcanons. Dominant Hand: Right.

Mental Characteristics

Known Languages: Elvhen (Limited), Common, Orlesian (Learning) Memory: Good. Savvies: Dancing, scouting, carving. Ineptities: Politics. Temperament: Phlegmatic. Hobbies: Carving, studying, training. Pet Peeves: Unnecessary cruelty, untidiness.

Intellectual Characteristics (1-10)

Logical-Mathematical: 4 Spatial: 6 Linguistic: 6 Bodily-Kinesthetic: 8 Musical: 3 Interpersonal: 10 Intrapersonal: 6 Naturalistic: 8 Existential: 4

Philosophical Characteristics

Morality: Strong sense of justice and right and wrong. Sometimes skewed perception due to limited interaction with the world prior to leaving his clan. Etiquette: Proper, as far as Dalish are concerned. Learning to be polite in other situations. Attitude: Nervous. Outlook on Life: Grim, uncertain. Perception: Glass half-empty. Standpoint: See world state. Philosophy: Kindness.

Spiritual Characteristics

Animal: Rabbit. Religion: Elven Pantheon. Devotion: Believes and respects, but not 100% invested/devoted. Superstitions: See headcanons. Virtues: Temperance, charity, kindness, humility. Vices: Lust, envy.

Highs and Lows

Likes: Fall, firepits, lively music, laughter, warmth, physical affection, emotional support. Dislikes: Loneliness, silence, snow. Favorite Animal: Rabbit. Favorite Arts: Stained glass. Favorite Color: Amber. Favorite Country: Ferelden. Favorite Drink: Water. Favorite Food: Roasted berries and toasted nuts with fresh bread. Favorite Flavor: Mint. Favorite Number: 6. Favorite Pastime: People-watching. Favorite Season: Autumn. Favorite Story Genre: Romance. Favorite Subject: Herbalism. Favorite Words: Lethallin/lethallan, lath'sal'in. Least Favorite Color: Purple. Least Favorite Country: Tevinter. Least Favorite Food: Very heavy meats. Least Favorite Pastime: Lectures (of the chastising sort). Least Favorite Season: Winter. Least Favorite Story Genre: Political Intrigue. Least Favorite Words: Goodbye.

Apparel

Accessories: Carved wooden ring, delicate floral design. Dress Style/Wardrobe: Light armor, thin boots, leather gloves. Equipment: Dual daggers.

Social Characteristics

Communication: Excellent. Criminal Record: Never caught. Discriminations: Poor opinions of Orlais, wary of Qunari. Dominance: Submissive. Ego: Tiny. Emotional Stability: Fair, but fragile. Expression: Intricate wood carvings to vent feelings on. Humor: Quick to laugh. Liveliness: Fair. Mannerisms: Very polite, if inquisitive. Patience: That of a saint. Reputation: Good. Sociability: Fair, if somewhat awkward.

Intrapersonal Connections

Immediate Family: Mother (warrior/hunter) in clan, Father (healer) deceased. Close Relatives: Cousins, uncle, and aunt in clan.

Acquaintances: Allegiance: Inquisition. Allies: Mages, Grey Wardens, Celene of Orlais. Enemies: Corypheus, Samson. Followers: Members of the Inquisition. Heroes: Hero of Ferelden. (If Dalish.) Inspirations: Hero of Ferelden. (If Dalish.)

Reactions

Angry: Clenched fist, locked jaw, red cheeks, few words. Anxious: Toying with fingers, touching items, avoiding eye contact, fidgeting. Conflicted: Chewing lower lip, frowning, deep breaths. Criticized: Lips pressed together, shoulders forward, cheeks red, arms crossed. Depressed: Avoiding eye contact, avoiding conversation, few words, absentminded responses, listlessness. Excited: Wide eyes, big smile, lots of hand gestures. Frightened: Shoulders forward, quick breaths, wide eyes, lax mouth, tense posture, head slightly lowered to protect throat. Guilty: Biting inside of cheek, hands clasped, averted eyes, stumbling words. Happy: Warm smile, open expression and posture, small hand gestures. Humiliated: Red-faced, lips in a thin line, shallow breaths and slumped shoulders, averted face, mumbling words, avoidance. Instincts: Light steps, relaxed posture, stands with back to a surface if possible. Mistaken: Brows drawn together, subtle frown, head tipped. Nervous: Fidgeting, avoiding eye contact, speaking quickly. Offended: Clenched jaw, sharp, quick answers, avoidance. Praised: Flushed neck and cheeks, uncertain smile, eyes down, hand rubbing at neck or arm. Rejected: Avoiding eye contact, ears red, lips pressed tight, mumbling, eagerness to leave. Sad: Quiet, few words, lowered head, forced smiles. Stressed: Fidgeting, snappiness, frequent pacing, quick speech. Thoughtful: Absent expression, tracing lip with finger, quiet, slow speech.

Physical Characteristics

Species: Elf. Nationality: Dalish. Skin Color: Fair. Height: 5'5”. Tattoos: Elgar'nan vallaslin in red. Face Shape: Almond/Oval. Hair Color: Red-brown. Hair Length: Short. Hair Type: Healthy. Hair Style: Messy. Eyebrows: Medium. Facial Hair: None. Eye Type: Almond. Eye Color: Blue. Teeth: Slight overbite.

Health and Fitness

Allergies: Bees. Broken Bones: Left arm, in childhood. Disorders: PTSD. See headcanons. Birthmarks: Small collection of dark spots, right hip. Dexterity: High. Diet: Fairly healthy. Exercise: Plenty. Figure: Slim. Fitness: High. Hygiene: Decent. Posture: Poor. Scent: Wood.

Sexual Characteristics

Gender: Male. Gender Role: Male. Orientation: Gay. (With a few exceptions.) Turnons: Slow build-up, foreplay, neck touching/kissing, ear nibbling, hip rubbing. Turn-offs: Violence, not to be confused with rough play. Virginity: Not a virgin.

Residential Characteristics

Abode: Skyhold. Culture: Dalish. Traditions: Dalish. Sleep Patterns: Poor.

Vocal Characteristics

Accent/Dialect: Free Marches. Laughter: Breathy.

Other information to be added via headcanons and developed through interactions.

[edelwoodsouls]

all roads lead - ch. 3

When his mother dies, Stiles runs away, straight into danger - only to be saved by Peter Hale. Seven years later, after burying their alpha, Stiles and Malia return home.

Word Count: 3,357 | Also on Ao3 | Other Chapters: 1, 2, 4, 5,

Chapter 3: FATHER

Stiles stares up at the house.

He knew the address was familiar, felt his feet leading him unthinking, a familiar route from one house to the other. Lingering muscle memory of another life.

Yet he still finds himself rooted to the spot just before the garden gate, unable to move forward, as if the wooden barrier were made of mountain ash.

"Just walk up the path," Malia says, hovering impatiently by his shoulder, but she doesn't push him.

Stiles was ten when he left Beacon Hills - ran away, from everything he had ever known, unable to face a new reality filled with pitying looks from strangers, whiskey-stinking nights, empty spaces where his mother should be. He never really stopped running, afraid that doing so would allow him to remember how much he'd thrown away.

Things like this house. A boy with a crooked jaw and wheezing lungs, the brightest smile in the entire world.

Scott McCall. The name lodges something in his throat, more than being back in this town, more than the idea of seeing his dad again. Scott had been the one truly good thing in his life.

It's been seven years, he thinks fiercely. Get a grip. Things change. People change.

His father lives in the McCall house.

And the McCall house smells of werewolves.

He notices the scent the moment he finally pushes into the garden. Wet fur and pine needles, earth, something like freshly cut wood; the clear scent of another wolf nearby.

No- another alpha.

The something lodged in his throat expands, becomes a tightness in his chest. The sun is too hot, his skin itches- he wishes he could tear out of it, flee to the woods, lose himself in the animal heart clawing at the cage of his ribs. But his body refuses to do so much as breathe, and his head spins-

A sharp pain cuts through the overload, crystalises the world in a sudden burst of clarity. He gasps, air flooding back into his chest.

Malia waits a few moments before removing her claws from his arm. "You with me?" she asks, her voice soft. She saves these moments of gentleness just for him, just for his worst moments, when her instincts yearn for an enemy to fight for him, yet find only his own mind at fault.

"I'm with you," he assures her, the words a familiar refrain between them. He's not going anywhere, he needs to tell her, not leaving her, not dying, not wandering away with his thoughts, never to resurface.

He's not not-himself. Again.

He squeezes her hand. "You smell it too?"

"Werewolf," she nods. "A pack. At least five."

Stiles blinks. In all the panic of smelling anything supernatural, he never bothered to discern the overwhelming overlap of scents. Malia's nose has always been far better than his, but after a few moments the weave of pack begins to separate into individuals.

"So much for no supernatural," he mutters as he picks out two, three, four, five different werewolf scents lingering around the house. There's other scents too, some human, some not quite, but the nuances are smothered by age and unfamiliarity.

There's only one person in the house right now. He wasn't a werewolf the last time he saw his father, and yet Stiles knows him instantly. Gunmetal and printer ink, so familiar he has to blink away the sudden sting in his eyes. Because it's not just familiar, its a reminder of those seven long years that form a chasm between this man and his son. The stink of whiskey is almost a memory, and a light floral scent clings to him like perfume.

Someone else's perfume.

His feet carry him up the path, Malia trailing, on edge, behind him. He feels the past trying to settle over him like a veil, begging to be let in. The air is heavy against his skin, his body that is alien to this space where his mind calls to it like home. That strange paradox itches against his soul, held at bay only by the rhythm of Malia's heart behind him.

"Hide your scent," he whispers to her. As he knocks sharply on the door he does exactly that, wraps his wolf carefully beneath a veneer of humanity. It's always been a useful skill, allowing himself to appear weaker, less of a threat in the eyes of other creatures, but now the trickery comes especially easy to him. His thoughts flash to a fox disguised as a wolf disguised as a human, layers of deceit folded so effortlessly into each other they blurred the truth.

If you drop me I'll crack, but if you smile I'll smile back. What am I?

He barely notices the absence of his own scent - has barely gotten used to its new smell, laced with power and all-but absent of darkness - but the loss of Malia's from the air around him sends such a wave of sickness through him, like missing a stair in the dark. He reaches out blindly for her hand to assure himself she's still there, still warm, still real.

And so they wait, listening to his father winding slowly through the house, inevitably towards the door.

Nerves begin to climb Stiles' throat, reaching up to choke him on his own panic. The dull ache that lives ever-present in his bones begins to thrum in time with his racing heart.  What if his father hates him? What if he slams the door in his face? Yes, Stiles never returned because he believed his father was dead, but he still left in the first place. What if his father shouts for him to leave, after all these years, he doesn't need a runaway son, a werewolf, a murderer, just go-

The door swings open, stealing the rest of Stiles' breath.

John Stilinski has aged far more than the seven years Stiles has been gone. His hair is thin, stranded with grey. His face is creased deeply with lines that aren't from smiling.

And yet, though it appears to be his day off, his clothes are nice, and clean. He holds himself with a deserved height and authority that had been long forgotten in those dark days before Stiles ran away. There's a brightness, a lightness to his eyes. Happiness.

That Stiles is about to tear to pieces.

"Can I help you?" his father asks. There's a frown forming between his eyes, a tug at his lips that implies an underlying unease, trying to place a familiar face into a jigsaw that won't quite fit. All of a sudden, Stiles desperately wishes he could be anywhere but here.

He swallows. "Hi, dad."

John's face crumples, predictably. He stumbles, body betraying him in shock. "Stiles?" The word escapes him like a gasp, an arrow loosed directly into his heart. Stiles feels it as if the wound were his own.

"Yeah, dad." He waves a small gesture, almost bashfully, wishing he had any better words. "It's me."

"Stiles," his dad repeats. He stares at his son - hasn't even registered Malia. And then, abruptly, he turns and walks back into the house.

Stiles blinks at the suddenly empty corridor, unsure. What is he supposed to do here? Why can't there be a manual, a step-by-step guide on how to reintroduce yourself to the parent you thought was dead, who likely believed the same of you?

"I think we should follow him," Malia whispers a little too loudly in his ear. "I mean, he left the door open. That's gotta be a good sign, right? It's, like, a really deep metaphor in one of those boring books Peter liked. The open door." She wiggles her fingers in front of his face to emphasise the phrase.

Stiles almost snorts at that. But she's right. She has to be right.

He steps into the house, wrinkling his nose as he's assaulted by the smells of other. His wolf rises despertely inside him, warning him about trespass, about the violence between packs, held in line by the thin veneer of civility and rules. Stiles is the invader here, the instigator - stepping into this house could be considered a declaration of war. He's been witness to a fair few bloody fights in his time - Peter had a very special talent for pissing other people off - and it's not something he's keen to repeat without him. Especially not with Malia at risk.

Five on two. The former him, the beta, would've laughed at those odds. Before the snap and fizzle of half his bonds. Before he knew what it was to have blood on his own hands.

He struggles to smother his wolf back beneath the surface. Those other wolves need never know he was here- so long as he smells human, it won't even matter.

And, surely, doesn't his father's presence negate those rules? Stiles clings to this loophole like a lifeline, drawing him through the dark halls of the house, to the man hiding in the kitchen.

John Stilinski is making coffee. The movements are robotic as he rummages through the cupboards, organises three cups on the counter. Three, Stiles notes- far more observant, or maybe just more compartmentalised, than he gave his father credit for.

"I need caffeine," John says, without looking towards them. "Before I go through anything new, I need this."

Stiles nods wordlessly. Anything new?  A thousand questions bubble through his mind, beginning with werewolves? and ending in what?

The three of them stand uneasily in the kitchen as the water boils, unsure of whether to move, to sit, to talk. So they simply stand. At some point Malia frees her hand from Stiles' and begins wandering around the kitchen, exploring the new space, the new scents, with all the lack of subtlety he loves about her.

The timer dings, cutting through the silence like a shot. Stiles flinches, as does Malia.

His father watches the two of them with a detatched, analytical curiosity that Stiles knows he inherited from him. He's not used to being on the receiving end, being watched, being perceived so acutely, it feels like a knife under his skin.

The silence remains in place until John begins making up the coffee, and Stiles blurts out, "Malia doesn't like sugar."

With that, the spell shatters. John slumps into a chair at the dining table, all pretense of distracting his hands and mind vanished in an instant. He rubs his large hands over his face; Stiles is drawn to a thick gold band on his left. A wedding ring.

But not the one Stiles' mother gave him.

Stiles suspected as much, and still he's surprised by the knife to his heart. Seven years is a long time by any count of the clock.

He's alive, he tells himself. He's alive, and that's far more than Stiles ever expected.

John sighs and finally parts his fingers to look at him. "Are you really my son?"

Stiles thinks up a hundred ways to answer this. Who else would I be? No, I'm his twin. No, I'm his ghost. Instead, he nods.

"How?" Now the damn has broken, words pour forth. "Why? What happened? Where have you been? I thought..."

I thought you were dead.

"It's..." Stiles grasps for the words. "It's a long story, dad. But I thought you were dead, too. I would've tried to come back sooner if I'd known you were alive."

Is that the truth? Stiles honestly doesn't know.

"Stiles." Malia's voice demands his immediate attention. She's standing across the kitchen next to the noticeboard, pulling aside a few postcards and bill notices to reveal a piece of yellowed paper beneath.

A piece of paper pinned exactly where Stiles had pinned it seven years ago, written in his own childish handwriting. A chasm opens up beneath his heart.

"You said you wouldn't be gone long," John whispers, as transfixed as everyone else by the paper. "A few hours. And I-" his voice breaks, "I didn't even notice it for three days. I was too..." Too drunk. The words hang in the air, unspoken, because if they were then something - probably his father - would break from the impact.

"I didn't mean to be gone long," Stiles finds himself half-laughing. "A few hours. A normal day. But."

But.

He remembers the day he met Peter Hale like it's seared into his eyelids. The sun beat down as he climbed through overgrown trees in the Beacon Hills Preserve. He had been coming this way for months now. At first there had been no real goal except away, and that was enough. He had longed to travel further, to run as far as possible and never return, hike all the way to the East coast if he could manage it.

Instead, he had found the burnt-out shell of a huge house deep in the preserve. Blackened wooden structure, creaking in the breeze, still smelling of charcoal and ash and an awful acrid smell he would one day learn to be cooked flesh.

Five months since the Hale fire. Eleven since the death of Claudia Stilinski.

Even as a child, morbid curiosity had consumed him relentlessly. Hours spent exploring these ruins had revealed a treasure trove of what the young Stiles had called evidence, clues to the origin of the fire, or the identities of the people who had once occupied the home. A blackened cutlery set buried in the remains of what was probably a table. A teddy bear burnt half to cinders, holding its shape only until Stiles reached to touch it, and it blew to ash on the wind.

He'd cried and run away as fast as his short legs could carry him, that time.

This house of fire and ghosts had been his safe haven from the dark hollow of home - emptier and scarier for the fact that it still had two living residents haunting its halls. At least the Hale house reflected its occupants.

No childhood home should be so unwelcome.

That day, when his life had blown to the wind just like the ashes of the house he found sanctuary in, had started like any other. He'd left the house that afternoon with his usual, unnoticed routine. A torch with extra batteries, a water bottle, a pack of nuts for if he lost track of time and got hungry. A note for his father, scrawled as a hasty afterthought - pointless thus far, but it would be just like his father to emerge from his haze long enough to call a search and rescue, to find Stiles in the woods, to ground him once and for all inside the house. Imprisoned with no escape at all.

His visits had been kept to the ground floor of the house until then - his parents had instilled enough common sense in him to not risk the rotting stairs giving way beneath his feet.

But the basement, with its chiselled stone steps, was an entirely different question. Fear of the dark had kept him out this long, but curiosity of the unknown would always win out.

Even with all his preparation, descending the stairs in the Hale house felt like descending into hell. His torch guttered every few steps, despite a change of batteries, and as the shadows swallowed him he found himself wishing his father was there - not the father he had now, so much fuel in his system a stray cinder would set him ablaze. But the father who cried when they watched movies. Who made him hot cocoa on nights when the house felt too hollow with just the two of them. Whose smile was like sunshine filtering through clouds, who made the world a little bit warmer. The father who had thrown himself between every punch and barb his mother had thrown at her son in those last, awful days.

He knocked the torch against his head as if to clear them both. The light steadied. His thoughts grounded to here, now, and he descended into the dark.

The walls of the basement - a huge, round room, supported by columns at regular intervals - were made of rough stone, construction so old Stiles could barely fathom. His torch beam washed over scars in the stone, deep, repetitive gouges like claw marks. They layered the walls like paint.

Somewhere at the end of the room, pale daylight fell through a grate near the ceiling, washing the space in something other. This felt like somewhere ghosts lived and died. Where the walls between worlds were less than paper thin. He shivered, but not from the cold - this room was an oven, the memory of flames trapped between the bricks. He could smell the aftermath of smoke, see the char coating the bricks in places where the fire had burned brightest. He even thought he could hear the crackle and snap of wood and oxygen ablaze.

His heart dropped like a stone. He could hear something. At the other end of the room, a low rumble, like an earthquake cracking upwards through the floor, or a huge animal breathing. The crackle of dead leaves disintegrating beneath a shifting form.

Breath escaped Stiles, vanished like so much smoke. He gasped - a choked, aborted sound - and stumbled back towards the stairs. An animal that big should not exist, certainly not here, in California, in Beacon Hills, in this house which had become his haven. How long had it lurked beneath the dying floorboards? Had it listened to his movements, waiting for him to come to it, knowing somehow that a meal would walk to it with open arms if it just waited?

The next moments are little more than a blur. He remembers, in flashes. The sudden stillness of an animal waking, listening, waiting. Tripping, falling onto the stairs, his knees and palms scraping against stone in his desperation to get away. The face of death looming over him, a creature of towering shadow and fur practically falling over itself in its desperation to get him. Yellow claws, yellow teeth, sharp as razors.

Then fire - he was alight, ablaze, burning right along with the rest of the house, except it wasn't his flesh but his veins, fizzing with energy and adrenaline.

He was a phoenix, though he hadn't known it then, crumbling to ash only to emerge newly gold.

He hadn't known that crazed, ravenous creature in the basement to be Peter Hale then, hadn't connected him to the handsome stranger who'd happened upon him hours later in a crumpled heap of blood and dying leaves. And by the time he'd realised they were the same person, years later, he had already forgiven his alpha for any past crimes committed in the haze of fire-sparked insanity.

He had never told Peter he knew. He was willing to let the weight sit on his shoulders, allow Peter's to remain free of any more, for fear this would be the blow that crushed him to the ground. That was his job as beta, as family, as pack.

He's more than a little willing to let his father wallow in his mistakes, though. What does he owe this man sitting before him? Everything, a small voice tells him, the child of sunshine smiles and hot cocoa. Nothing, another voice argues, all jaded smiles and sharp edges. Stiles is neither of those voices, not anymore. Not entirely.

I have three heads. Cut off one, I become stronger. Cut off two, I become ten. What am I?

"I'm here now, dad," he finds himself saying. "I'm alive. You're alive." There's something aching in his chest, something he's been repressing beneath layers of time and pain, and now it threatens to consume him.

Strong arms wrap around him, and he is eight years old again. His father smells of ink and metal and flowers. The world feels small, feels safe, for just an instant.

"Stiles, Stiles," John murmurs into his hair like a prayer, as if it will keep Stiles here, keep him real, keep him alive.

Stiles cries, a dam he's kept below water finally crumbling; it doesn't feel half as awful as he'd feared.

[turtledragons]

Could you tell us about relations between Raph and Donnie?

Yes! Ok ok so Raph and Donnie get along the best and also the worst.

Raph was the one that tried the hardest to both get Donnie back and to adjust to his new behaviours. In turn Donnie tried harder to be less feral. It’s not much but it’s enough for the both of them. They can talk like humans in full dragon form but Donnie and Raph will speak to one another purely in dragon speak. Don greatly prefers this language while it’s easier on Raph’s vocal cords.

Raph having become more touchy feeley than he was before he Greatly welcomes Donnie’s new grooming habits and lack of feeling embarrassed or shame for how he acts. Donnie on the other hand is just thrilled that there is at least one member of his flock that doesn’t push him away. They spend a lot of their time together completely allowing their instincts to be wild.

While most of the time they get along beautifully, they also are the most vicious of the brothers when it comes to one another. Most of the time the family forgets that Donnie is a dangerous wild animal with intelligence greater than most every human. Raphael does not. He is the one that takes charge when Don snaps. He has to assert himself as flock Leader and that his rules must be followed.

When they fight they fight for real. Don will go for the kill and while Raph won’t go that far he will not hesitate to break bone to make Donnie submit. While Don is fast, agile, and can cut and bite through Raph’s tough hide Raph is much much stronger and can take more hits. Comparatively Donnie is as fragile as thin ice compared to Raph who is like a stone wall. One good hit and Donnie is out.

Depending upon what it is that Don went feral about he may or may not back down instead of actually fighting. When they do everyone knows to leave immediately.

It doesn’t take them long to make up from their fights though. It will take at most an hour after their fight ends for Donnie to make up. Raph being flock leader and in the right has to wait for Donnie to come to him otherwise he lowers his position. Don will walk up to Raph with a completely submissive body language making himself vulnerable as he approaches. they will exchange a few noises before Donnie starts to clean wounds and just like that all is completely forgiven.

On the rare occasion the fight starts because Raph is the one in the wrong (usually because Don was protecting some young one and Raph got too close with the wrong body language) Raph will be the one to instigate asking for forgiveness. In that case he will treat it like he is approaching a mother dragon who was only protecting her young. He’s not submissive but he is careful to be non threatening.

Oh geez this is a long one, I hope you don’t mind but I absolutely love questions like this -w-

[magpiemorality]

Virgil and Deceit (but mostly Deceit), a ramble by me

I got ideas for days about these boys, lemme tell you.

I already sorta touched on Deceit and Virgil a bit in the last ramble, but the connection between them and their huge difference to the other sides is just too interesting not to talk about further (and yes Remus is also different but for a whole other reason that deserves it’s own post).

So in the last ramble I went over how I think Patton could be responsible in his emotional reaction to his moral conflict for creating Virgil and then Deceit. Deceit either with, through or fuelled by Virgil’s power in some way (the latter I think is less likely as I'm of the strong opinion that a lot of Virgil's anxious existence stems from Patton feeding Thomas's insecurities rather than creating the anxiety himself autonomously and then passing it on to, in this case, Patton).

People in the fandom talk about who the opposites are of each side kinda a lot, creating these diametrically opposed pairs, and while I'm not sure that's entirely accurate and is kind of an oversimplification of each one individually; there is something to be said for certain sides being practically anathema to one another, but that’s the second topic I’ve mentioned now that I’ll get to in it’s own time. The subject itself however, implies that each side is created equal, and that now that we have 6 sides that each one matches up nicely. Which, well, they don’t. For one because there’s almost certainly more sides out there, and for two? Because not all sides are created equal.

Virgil and Deceit, for example, don't necessarily feel like sides of Thomas's personality in the way the others do; so much as a tool that interacts with that personality and is entirely influenced by the other sides, and just so happens to have developed into an entity of their own because of the other sides and Thomas's perception of them as separate parts of his identity (read: Patton’s perception of them as separate parts of Thomas in order to distance himself from them as parts of himself). 

What I mean by sides of the personality and not, is as follows: for Patton for example; emotions and morality (and the difference between those two things makes me wonder curiously if there's a head canon to have about two smaller sides merging at some stage...) are fundamental basics of any person, just like logic (in his base form as essentially education and knowledge) and creativity (essentially being original thought) are. I’d argue it’s almost entirely impossible to have a human that isn’t comprised of those three things. 

Deceit (who should really be named Denial, and my two cents here is that Daniel would make a great name reveal for him but that's neither here nor there) however, is what Patton put into place in order to both hide certain Anxiety-inducing parts of himself and keep Thomas convinced- for what Patton clearly believes is Thomas's own good- that he's a good person because he doesn't have those aspects at all. Lying to yourself isn't a personality trait in and of itself; but something quite different. In the case of the Sanders Sides series I guess we could consider him a lackey for Patton- his 2IC in maintaining Thomas's sense of inherent goodness as a person. I'm surprised Deceit wasn't more miffed by Patton's opposition to his job, and I have my fingers firmly crossed that they'll hash it out at some point. I mean really- even the Are There Healthy Distractions video was full of Deceit's handiwork- it's textbook denial to distract from an issue and take your mind off it. And Logan pointed out exactly how that can be good for you, right...? In fact; Logan in Dealing With Intrusive Thoughts went against Patton’s Patented Moral Compass quite a lot while pointing out what Remus was (just a part of Thomas’s imagination) and why he was only personified as bad because Thomas (and Patton) had decided he was (and no I’m totally not worried for Logan because I think he’s going to be the side to push Patton into dangerous self-reflection and force him to face his actions and consequences and therefore come under fire from Mr. All-Powerful... But that’s also for a different ramble).

Now going back a bit to pre-Deceit (if I was a better writer I'd have done this in order); Virgil/Anxiety was most likely formed early on when Patton started to emotionally react badly to being confronted by those parts of Thomas that morally he doesn't think he should have. He maybe took the place of a much smaller and weaker Fear (fear of the unknown, instinctive fear, survival instinct) that had been around for a long time as Patton distanced himself from his own conflict and brought it to life as Anxiety instead, and was just allowed to really flourish while Patton was fuelling him unconsciously (maybe a little bit consciously). And I'm so convinced it was Patton because why would Roman as ‘original thought’ be at all bothered by his own intrusive side at that stage? Why would Logan be bothered by anything internally when he's generally not that kind of emotive? Only Patton has the motive and profile to instigate Virgil's growth, and it's entirely reasonable to me that as Virgil got a bit out of hand, Patton took it upon himself to sort things out for Thomas. (Even as I'm writing this I'm wondering if its possible that Logan was involved, with his calm and blunt solutions to problems, that at that stage may not be as well researched and healthy as they are now... But I'd like to give him the benefit of the doubt and say he would have advised against it for Thomas's sake and must therefore have not known about the situation, especially with his track record of having Thomas face his own truths recently.)

And that's not even going into depth on Remus... Guess that makes Patton a real deadbeat dad, of three poor misunderstood Dark Sides. One a worrying mirror of the worst parts of himself (Virgil); one just trying to work hard to please him (Deceit) and one who literally doesn’t know any better and was given up for adoption away from his picture perfect twin. 

Gosh I hope they address some of this! :D

[imperfectcourt]

Andreil Anastasia Au

So I was gripped by something and I wrote this on my phone. Don't look too closely at literally any detail I just was smacked in the brain by an andreil Anastasia au and it was supposed to be short but now it's a lovely, unintelligible 2.1k

So.

I mean, Neil is obviously Anastasia, and the Monsters are going to take him on a grand road trip back to his father

And Neil lost his memory when his mother died while on the run. He doesn't remember how, just that there were flames and that he needed to run change lie

He knows there are gaps in his memory and despite his instincts to flee he's filled with a desperation to be someone and he has a postcard in his duffel bag that's worn and wrinkled so much that he can't make out the words on the back but the front is a picture of an old brick house and Edgar Allen Poe and he doesn't know when he got it or why he's kept it but if Neil from Before kept it he should too

Now the monsters. They need a bargaining chip. They have Kevin. The Moriyamas want Kevin back very desperately. Have been hounding and threatening them for months.

See, they had a great investment that went missing several years ago and they can't afford to lose Kevin as well. No, that just won't do.

So Andrew strikes up a deal. If he can find their lost investment and bring him back, they can keep Kevin. One investment is better than none and reuniting a poor kidnapped boy with his poor heartbroken father would do well for their reputation after the skiing accident.

Now, this is all on Andrew. Because Andrew has a promise to keep and he's going to fucking do it. He's heard enough stories and rumors and Kevin's drunken ramblings to know about Nathaniel. The Moriyamas pass a message that he was last seen north of Seattle so that is where they monsters conveniently vacation right after the semester ends. Aaron thinks it's a dumb vacation destination. Nicky loves the lgbt scene. Kevin follows Andrew.

At night, Andrew holds auditions for someone who can pass well enough as Nathaniel Wesninski to convince a few people who had met him when he was ten. According to Kevin, his father probably didn't actually want anything to do with him unless it was to kill him so chances were they'd never meet. If he can find and train someone good enough in the same city as Nathaniel's most recently known whereabouts, it should be good enough.

And the tip wasn't completely off. Nathaniel was on his way to Seattle because he thought it was time to come back through the continental u.s. Neil is looking for a place to crash and breaks into a boarded up motel whose aura makes him want to vomit and he's counting on that to keep others away.

When Andrew sees this short, flighty looking bastard with a shitty dye job skulking around his audition space he can't deny the shockingly blue eyes are exactly what all the others have been missing. Neil flinches at the name Wesninski and blames his feeling of dread on the blood stain next to the empty metal bed frame. (He doesn't need to know that his body is reacting to both things. His brain might not remember the sight of his mother being struck but his heart does).

He's desperate for a purpose and desperate to run change lie and it might not be an accident that he allows Andrew to stop him. It is an accident that he lets his guard down enough for Andrew to get a hold of the post card and make a comment about the Edgar Allen House in Baltimore. He'd never known what the weird house was. And really, that's the only reason he agrees to go on this crazy adventure. Possibly being reunited with a man who lost his son? Someone who shares his eyes and who comes from the same place as his only personal item? Learning who he is? Going to college? Playing a sport? What's the worst that could happen?

He agrees to go back with them. Andrew tells the others the plan- teach this kid enough about Exy to be useful by the time they get to the east coast so he can attend Edgar Allen University in Kevin's place. Neil is excited about a college education and answers and family and a purpose. Kevin feels sick with relief and guilt and clings to Neil's desire to go through with it.

And so they road trip. In a pinch, coast to coast is 40 hours of straight driving. They meander their way back and stop by any public court they can. Kevin teaches him how to perfect Exy (god, Neil feels so alive and right this is exactly what he's been missing why did his body know and crave this sport so deeply that his bones ached for it)

Andrew and Neil are both overly cautious, still. They trade as many truths as you can with someone who lost their memory. Neil can't trade his past but he can trade himself and he becomes so desperate to stay in the game that he begins giving away everything he's kept close (why had he? Why run why change why lie? Being known was everything, as long as Andrew was the one knowing).

He thinks he's been to Europe because he can never find chocolate that tastes exactly right and he knows some German and Russian. He has spent time in England probably because sometimes he uses words that make Americans tilt their heads. He knows French but usually speaks Quebecois French and he starts to do it around Kevin because it makes Kevin a little bit nuts and Neil is an instigator at heart.

These start out as secret truths. By the time they get to Wisconsin, he is much more open with these little bits of himself, as if others knowing them meant they are real, he's real (Andrew always knows first, though)

One day at a court near a public park in Madison, he mentions that he thinks he really likes math and Kevin snorts. "Russian, England, math. You sound more like Abram Besikovitch than Nathaniel Wesninski. Now set me up for that play again, it was terrible."

But Neil doesn't set him up again. He stops and stares at Kevin's mouth and then walks away in without a word all the way back to their shitty motel. Andrew follows him and puts the chain on the door to keep the others out. It's Neil's turn for a truth so he just raises his eyebrow and Neil doesn't need a clarification after weeks of zigzagging across america. He tells Andrew that Kevin made a joke and Neil didn't like it for some reason. Andrew says that Kevin will not say it again. When they smoke that night, Neil is solemn and feels like the void he'd been filling all summer has cracked open even wider in his chest.

In Chicago, some fans spot Kevin and ask for some selfies. Neil stands off in the background with Andrew and Aaron and Nicky and pokes fun at PR Kevin in rusty German.

Andrew gets a text from an unknown number later that says he has done a good job.

In Cincinnati, Andrew kisses Neil after a day of no Exy. In Pittsburgh, Neil kisses Andrew after a game with some local college kids. In Morgantown, West Virginia they stay in a decent hotel and kiss on the roof until the sun comes up. In Weston, Kevin has a panic attack and refuses to look Neil in the face and they order pizza and Neil falls asleep on Andrew's shoulder. In Ripley, Andrew does not believe in regret but he does believe in mistakes. On Route 77, he rummages through Neil's duffel while they all take turns peeing in the woods and its mildly helpful.

At a campground in Kenna, Neil goes missing.

While Nicky drives, Andrew chokes Kevin in the back seat and demands to know what he realized last week.

Neil doesn't know the woman who took him but his lungs do.

In the car, he remembers. The smell of burning flesh is pungent and unforgettable and singes his brain now like it did under the iron years ago. He screams and struggles and pleads. He thinks about Andrew and Kevin and the way the Maserati smelled after they drove too long with a broken air conditioner and the weight of an Exy racket and the absolute peace of kissing Andrew for hours and hours and of being known.

In Baltimore, he doesn't know how he could ever forget. He stares at his father and remembers. He remembers getting a postcard when they were at Uncle Stuart's house. He remembers the pipe to his mother's stomach. He remembers the car accident when he realized what had happened to her and the fire and stumbling through the California woods away from the emts and rescue and passing out near a stream. He remembers waking up and passing out all the way to the Canadian border where he used French that he didn't know he spoke and a passport he didn't know he had to cross into Vancouver.

He asks his father why, but really it's for Andrew.

Did Andrew know? Did Kevin recognize him? Had this always been the plan? Was any of it real? Was he real?

Desperation to fulfill a purpose. That was a joke. Desperation to survive was the only thing that mattered. Run change lie. Nathaniel fought his way away from his father, pulled himself across the concrete floor with his torn up arms, closed his body around the foot that kicked him in the ribs to trip, stall, anything.

A crash. Pop Pop. Thud.

Uncle Stuart wasn't surprised to see Nathaniel. Neither were the emts or feds. Nathaniel didn't have the energy to care anymore. He let them take him. His father was dead and he had no obligation to the Moriyamas and they had no real claim to him. What was it to him if the FBI had some questions.

It was all in exchange for some legal paperwork. Neil was back and he had some college credits in his back pocket and a decent high school GPA and absolutely no prospects outside of possible witness protection.

2 nights before his release from the hospital, Uncle Stuart comes back with a folder of paperwork for a university in South Carolina. He pats Neil awkwardly on the shoulder and says that the FBI aren't the only ones who can pull strings. Neil asks why this school. Uncle Stuart says that's where his friends go. Neil says that people who trade in people are not friends. Uncle Stuart asks if Neil really wouldn't sacrifice a stranger to save someone close to him. Neil says he has no one close to him and hates that it feels like a lie. Uncle Stuart asks if he still loves Exy.

In 2 days, he leaves the hospital and an agent drives him south.

A paper in the folder has an address and apartment number on it. When Neil presses the buzzer, he is let in with a disgruntled sound over the intercom. When he knocks on apartment 724 he comes face to face with a tall man who asks why he's so late to summer training and then how he expects to play in that condition. Neil asks what the fuck is going on. So does Kevin. Neil asks what the fuck again.

See, Stuart was always going to come after Nathan but a call from a boy who should not know his number had pushed up the date.

See, Andrew had looked for literally any clue that could be useful in Neil's duffel bag and found a phone number coded into a paper of numbers. Abram had been the key.

See, after Andrew had choked Kevin he learned that he had been surprisingly successful in acquiring an Exy investment for EAU. He learned that death would not pass over this unknown mistake, it would come looking for the runaway. He called the number, he asked about Baltimore, he told Stuart who he would probably find in that basement.

Neil hummed and waited on the couch. Andrew entered the apartment with a crash and did a poor job of looking unaffected. He clutched at Neil's bandaged cheeks and cursed him out for nothing, just to curse him. Fuck you you fuck you stupid fucking idiot you fucking dumb exy fucking fuck.

Neil asks about the promise. Andrew says that he always keeps his promises. Neil asks about the deal. Andrew says that the promise will just have to be long term babysitting if it can't be solved permanently. Neil asks about the kisses. Andrew says he doesn't believe in regret. Neil asks yes or no. Andrew doesn't answer with words.