#introspection fanfic

[myokk]

Ominis Gaunt has always suspected he is cold-blooded.

It makes sense, really

He always seems to be cold: frigid, long fingers that are often stiff and difficult to move; goosebumps raising the skin of his arms and the back of his neck whenever he walks through the drafty halls of the dungeons; even his eyes, he has been told, are reminiscent of ice. They are apparently quite unsettling.

His whole life has been defined by punishments and sometimes he preoccupies himself with the thought that it is the only way he can view the world. Some of the punishments are manifested in curses he inherited from his family. (His parents and Marvolo insist that they are gifts, but Ominis begs to differ.)

(an excerpt from an Ominis POV WIP I have been working on FOREVER & writer’s block is Tormenting me😔🙏)

[artiststarme]

Steve couldn’t understand why the Party wanted him around. He didn’t see why anyone would want to hang around some deadbeat that peaked in high school, he certainly wouldn’t. Case in point, all of his friends were going somewhere. Dustin was a genius, Robin was brilliant, and Eddie was going to be a world famous rockstar like Freddy Mercury was. Max was healing nicely and she would be something important, Lucas was great with people so he’d have a bright future, and Mike was… passionate. El and Will were fabulous so he was sure they would amount to everything.

Why would any of them drag themselves down with Steve? Robin could choose so many other soulmates better than Steve. He couldn’t relate to being a “band geek” in high school or working full time to save money for college, he couldn’t even get into college. In his mind, anyone could be a better friend to her than he could.

And why was Eddie dating him? Beautiful, smart, strategic, funny Eddie. He could have anyone he wanted and yet he settled for Steve. No matter how many times Eddie told him he loved him and couldn’t imagine life without him, Steve couldn’t wrap his head around it. What was so special about himself that all of these people stuck around?

Nothing had changed over the years, really. He was still the neglected boy sitting on the bleachers after baseball practice, waiting for his parents to come pick him up. Even back when he was little, his parents knew he was nothing special. They’d taken the first flight out of Hawkins and had hardly looked back since.

Hell, even Steve’s friends in high school figured it out. Tommy and Carol hadn’t said a word to encourage him to stay, they sent him away with silent glares and indifferent shrugs as if being a friend to Steve was more of an effort than it was worth.

And Nancy, his first heartbreak. She dropped him like everyone else always had. As soon as another boy showed her kindness and affection, she dropped Steve like a hot potato and broke his heart on the way out the door.

Steve knew it was only a matter of time before the Party grew tired of him. Every outing, Steve watched them like it would be the last time. Because just like everyone else, they would all leave and move onto better things. And Steve would be left broken with no one to pick up the pieces.

[bg-brainrot]

Astarion/Tav Fic Recs 📖

Hi! Not only do I write fic, but gods do I enjoy reading it too 🌝

Here are some fics I like in a few categories, all Astarion/Tav, mainly with F!Tav or GN!Tav, unascended Astarion unless noted because I'm a softy. Check the tags/summaries for CWs!!!

Oneshot Smut (with plot)

This Lethal Light Falls Softly by loquaciousquark: F!Tav, post game, soft and loving

all my ghosts by theycallmesuperboy: GN!Tav, met-before AU, covers the whole game

Not broken, just bent, and we can learn to love again by makesometime: F!Tav, post-game romance after in-game Karlach romance

eternity by ChaosFroggy: F!Tav, ascended!Astarion, kidnapping doesn't work for Cazador

Oneshot Smut (no plot)

honey i laugh when it sinks in (a pillar i am of pride) by chloe_petrichors: F!Tav, mirror sex!

Angelic Slumber by mitangy: M!Tav, soft and consent focused

Mine, if Only for the Night by Dogbinary: F!Tav, tiefling party reimagining

Oneshot Fluff

You Have A Type, Don't You? by pokemon216: GN!Tav, the drawing-Astarion fic (also writes a lot of great other fluff)

first light by noyaspeach: GN!Tav, nice morning hangout~

Oneshot Hurt/Comfort

Force the Door by loquaciousquark: F!Tav, injury panic

you can leave a bruise by eyes_of_the_lamb: M!Tav, blood drinking and introspection, great series too

Series (in progress)

Someone to shed some light by thedreamlessnights: GN!Tav, Prince!Astarion AU

shook the love from me by chloe_petrichors: F!Tav, durge retelling

The Fangs Between Us by feyascorner: GN!Tav, deliciously angsty

Series (finished)

Any kind of life (without you, dear) by QueenMaria: F!Tav, feign death goes wrong, angsty Astarion

Seducere by Tlon: GN!Tav, less romance, more Astarion, seriously one of my all time favorites

I Want It All by ShenanigansEnsue: F!Tav, violin playing leads to feelings

Like Stones, floating on Water by Cirrocumulus: F!Tav, beautiful look at their relationship through Astarion

There are definitely more (I read some before I even made my AO3 account, so I had to go digging to find them), so I'll probably have another list down the road.

Also, a lot of these are pretty popular, but I want to go digging around for less popular fics in the big ol' sea of them so if you have recs for any along these veins that need a good reading/kudosing, let me know!

[hobbitwrangler]

White Blossom

Summary: Boromir first meets his daughter in a dream.

Character(s): Boromir & original female characters

Rating: G

Word count: 7.2k

A gift for @emyn-arnens whose post inspired this fic. Go read her fics, she's a blessing to the fandom💚

Boromir knew that he was dreaming, and he knew that it was no mere dream. There was a clarity, a reality, a sense of physical presence that he remembered only from that terrible dream that had summoned him north to Rivendell. Instantly he was tense, his eyes darting in search of any new shadow or danger. Yet no darkening skies or words of doom greeted him. He sat in a study, not his current one, yet he knew with a strange certainty that it was his. Afternoon sunlight streamed down onto his desk, dust motes dancing in its golden beams, the polished wood of his desk warm beneath his fingertips. Just like his current desk, it was scattered with mounds of paperwork. Of all the things that should remain the same. The room about him was spacious, furnished with a couch that looked fit to drown oneself in, although it looked to have endured a great deal of scuffing on its legs, and tapestries hung upon its walls. He noticed too that letters were pinned to the wall alongside the usual maps and plans. He was just leaning forward to investigate when he heard a muffled giggle and a rustle of paper. Turning, he was just in time to see a slip of paper slide beneath the door and hear the patter of running feet as the messenger hastily ran down the corridor. Curious, Boromir rose to examine this delivery. The paper had been decorated with carefully drawn spirals and what he took for artistic interpretations of roses and other flowers along the edges. Yet it was the writing at the centre which drew his attention. Written in careful, rounded letters were the words: An invitation to the Captain of the White Tower demanding his presence at the Lady of the Pond Garden’s Tea Party this afternoon. Three in the afternoon exactly.

AO3 link - lovely dividers by @saradika-graphics - also tagging @sotwk!

[honorarybuckley]

and you kiss me in a way that’s gonna screw me up forever

tommy leaves and buck does what he does best. he spirals.

he stands there, in the same spot where they’d kissed, for a long time. his lips are still warm and buzzing and his bad leg is starting to ache from where his knees are locked.

something feels different. everything feels different. he kissed a man. he kissed tommy. and he wants to do it again. can’t wait for saturday where he hopes it will happen again. he feels lighter, like taking off his turnout gear after wearing it for hours. but it’s more than that, he’s been caring this weight around for years, maybe his whole life, and just like that with a meeting of lips, it’s gone.

he makes his way over to the couch eventually, the one he’d picked out with natalia that still never felt quite right. even it feels different now, less stiff and more inviting. maybe it’s the way he sits in his body now. like a shirt that finally fits you just right.

he wants to call eddie, knows that he needs to call him. to apologize and assure him that he and tommy did nothing wrong, weren’t excluding him or trying to make him feel left out. he knows that and he hopes that eddie knows it to on some level. he doesn’t know what makes him feel worse, the echoing pop of eddie’s ankle that he can still hear reverberating in his memory, or the fact that eddie feels like it’s his fault. so he needs to call him.

but if he calls him now he doesn’t think he can hold what happened tonight inside of him. and he should, right? should keep it tucked inside his chest for a little while at least, until he knows what it means. does he like men now? has he always? or is it just tommy? buck doesn’t like not having the answers and he doesn’t think this is something he can research his way out of.

he knows he doesn’t have to label this feeling, that it doesn’t change anything but buck has always found labels to be useful when identifying himself. he’s been buck 1.0 and buck 2.0. he’s been a probie and then a firefighter. he’s been donor, not dad. and now he’s, bisexual? the word makes something inside his chest peek its head out as if to say, ah, i’ve been waiting for you.

but what if he’s wrong. what if he comes out to eddie or hen or maddie too soon and he doesn’t get to keep this feeling. what if this warmth and lightness isn’t meant to be for him. does he get to take it back? rationally he knows sexuality is fluid but he doesn’t want to get this wrong. doesn’t want to feel like a fraud trying to fit into a community where he doesn’t truly belong.

buck sits there until the early signs of dawn begin to brush past the horizon. he has a shift in a few hours and it’s already going to be a long day with eddie not there but he can’t turn his brain off long enough to even think of sleeping.

part of him is mad at tommy, however unfair that is, for coming over and turning everything upside down. for leaving him with these questions. for making him feel so good with just a simple kiss that he feels like crying. still, he’s glad it happened. he’s excited to see where this takes him even if he can’t make out the steps ahead of him.

so he sits and he breathes. he counts his exhales, let’s each one connect himself back to his body until they all come just a little easier. he falls asleep that way, on his couch with light bleeding through his windows, drowning out the vestiges of darkness until he’s bathed golden in it.

[averageanonymous]

Summary: Crowley reflects on all the things he can not say.

TW: very brief (less than a sentence) mention of abuse.

☆•☆•☆•☆•☆

Sitting alone in his flat, surrounded by his plants, Crowley thinks that he could drown beneath the weight of all the things he doesn't say.

He tries not to dwell on it.

After all, what good does it do?

But sometimes, in the dark and the quiet, he finds himself reflecting, suffocated by solitude, caught in the realization that his entire existence is built upon an amalgamation of half-truths tangled in an increasingly complex web of lies. Their weight rests heavy on his shoulders, every false word leaving a bitter taste on his tongue.

Meanwhile, every true thing he has ever thought or felt is kept on a leash, chained to his heart and left to starve.

It's exhausting.

The way he pretends he gives a single shit about Hell, or Satan - he doesn't. He must play his role, though, and play it well, crafting whatever narrative is required to ensure he will never be required to take up a position back in the dark, stinking Pit. So he does, taking credit for so much of the awfulness that humans inflict upon themselves. Immersing himself in their cruelty, their wickedness, reporting on it as though it were his own cruelty made manifest, and all the while wondering, questioning in silence, how God could have created something with the capacity for such evil.

But he must never speak his loathing for the devil, for damnation, for Heaven and Hell and the Plan, the Great bloody Plan, and never admit the way the suffering of the world and all the people in it hurts him.

And it does hurt.

It hurts every time Heaven turns a blind eye to a hungry child, refuses the prayers of a beaten woman, denies the pleas of a prodigal son.

It shouldn't though. Not for him.

He's a demon, after all, stripped of Grace, damned by God Herself. He had Fallen, burned alive in boiling sulfur, been changed into this cursed shadow of himself. Hadn't that been punishment enough?

It wasn't, apparently. More penance must be owed because he, an immortal being, must watch these humans in their misery, and it hurts. What's worse is that Crowley does not understand Why.

He thinks he will never understand, and isn't sure he wants to.

And even if he could give voice to this pain, this confusion, who would hear him? God's ways are Ineffable, and all the while, Satan laughs. There is no one, no one, who sees, who cares, not the way he is compelled to see and to care.

No one, except perhaps...

Aziraphale.

The sense of drowning begins to become unbearable, sinking deeper, reaching farther. All of the pain of hiding from Hell, of cursing Heaven, of seeing the beauty of humanity dragged through the mud again and again and again by its own fallibility, it is all amplified by the agony of the lie that consumes him most of all: the facade he crafts each and every day as he forces himself to act as though he - a demon - is not entirely devoted, black heart and broken soul, to an angel.

He loves him.

A plain, simple truth.

And it is a torture to pretend as though he doesn't; as though he hasn't loved that angel for over six thousand years. To pretend that the angel is not beautiful, and precious to him beyond imagining. To pretend he isn't a balm against Crowley's brokenness, soothing his pain, easing his confusion, bringing him some semblance of peace.

But in loving him, the web of lies only ties itself tighter, and the loneliness only grows. Crowley knows, he knows, he must not reveal this truth, for both their sakes. And so he forces himself to let the years pass, not seek the angel out too often, not contact him needlessly, not ask him to go to dinner, get a drink, go for a walk, do anything, anything at all, so long as they do it together.

Oh, the way his entire being vibrates with the desire to be near him, though, near him always, his every cell and atom yearning towards him like a light-starved flower towards the sun.

The way he has to physically restrain himself from touching him when they are together: his hair, his face, a brush of fingers or legs or lips.

The way he has to hide his eyes for fear they'll give away the truth in his soul, that he would do anything, give anything, be anything, for him.

The way he cherishes every smile, every laugh, every glance, collecting them like flowers, pressed between the pages of his memories.

The way he dreams of an impossible future where they are together.

Together.

Just the two of them.

Away from all this; from Heaven, from Hell, from God and the devil, from humanity and all its suffering.

He sits in his flat, head in his hands, his plants leaning toward him as though they can sense his loneliness, as though they could help.

In the quiet and the dark, he loves, and he loathes, choking upon his silence, crushed beneath millennia upon millennia of dammed emotions, a reservoir held within the fragile walls of his heart, the pressure building, demanding release, begging for relief, but he will find no catharsis and he knows this.

He knows it

and he drowns,

and drowns,

and drowns.

☆•☆•☆•☆•☆

Thanks for reading 🖤🤍

I imagine this "scene" would happen sometime in the years prior to the Armageddon that wasn't. And yeah, it's literally the opposite of "Because, underneath it all, Crowley was an optimist." But know what? I'm in my feels today, so Crowley gets to be too, and that's that.

[vanlegion]

TUCKER IS -

Teal! He's Teal. Hands down. I have solved it. How you ask? I'm obsessed with a certain Maroon Nerd and on a filter in my art program I hit Difference and was like 'Huh... OH!' Also this:

HA! Which makes Caroline Cyan. And then I did this for Shits and Giggles:

Hehhahaha~ I love how the show joked about first Grifs colors then Tuckers colors. X3 Hehe. And then for some more fun Sarge Red FF0000 vs Caboose Blue 0000FF Maroons hex is 800000 and is seared into my brain now along with FFA500 which is "FUCKING ORANGE" (A very bright orange) Random - I always thought York was Gold.

[finalfantasyandnerdiness]

Epilogue

Fandom: Final Fantasy XIII Pairing: Hope/Light Rating: G Words: 2.5k Summary: The epilogue and its aftermath told through Hope's point of view.

Hope’s heart was already pounding in his chest when the train he’d been waiting for finally came to a stop. He’d been standing outside the small station for about thirty minutes, and his pulse had been completely out of control the entire time. His emotional state kept switching between joy and terror, rarely landing on anything in between. He’d been dreaming about this moment for an entire millennium. If he screwed it up, he would never forgive himself.

A gentle breeze played with his silver hair, most likely ruining his weak attempt to turn the gravity-defying mess into something more presentable. He’d spent an embarrassing amount of time in front of the mirror that morning, navigating the fine line between too formal and too casual. In the end, he’d left the house in a button-down shirt and slacks, which was a decision he felt somewhat comfortable with. His hair, however, was a wildcard. He didn’t usually care all that much about his appearance, but on a day like this, he’d prefer looking like an independent researcher rather than an eccentric scientist.

At least it wasn’t raining.

The train doors opened, and there she was. Hope watched as she crossed the platform with confident steps, his surroundings fading away until all he could see was her. To him, she’d always shined as brightly as her nickname, but the inner glow she was currently radiating had to be visible to anyone. Her outfit was similar to his, leaning more towards casual but worn with far more elegance.

Warmth bloomed in Hope’s chest. Just by looking at her, he could tell that at some point during her travels, the seasoned soldier had finally put away her sword. When she gazed up at the sky and smiled, he knew that it had all been worth it. He’d nearly sacrificed his life, his soul, and his very existence to make this reality come true, and for that smile alone, he’d do it all again.

Read on AO3

[masterangst]

Wicked Witch

For those wondering who my pfp is. This is the side character of a short character study fic I'm writing that's Gojo centric.

Chapter One can be found here

[miss-conner3]

Summary: An introspection of the last moments of the life of a sheep named Ando.

An introspection of the last moments of Ando's life—it is not all, but it is something.

Answering questions about him inspired me, so here I bring you this little story (ouo)

¡I hope you like it!

[leafannarchive]

pack up your car (put a hand on your heart)

[dabilove27]

Character: Joey Wheeler

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, Public masturbation, Male Masturbation, Joey is depicted as 21+, Not Beta'd. If I missed anything let me know!

Word Count: 1.4k

A/N: Hello hello! So this is a bit different from what I normally do so please excuse it if it's horrific. This comes from a lovely requester who wishes to remain anonymous. Here is the request: "For my request, can you write a oneshot featuring Joey Wheeler (aged up) but with public nudity please? In the story, he gets the idea to try walking through downtown Domino City late at night wearing nothing but his birthday suit. You can decide on where he'd go, but I'd like it if Joey was focused on walking through without anyone catching him also masturbating/cumming along the way." I hope you like it!!

other a/n: my dumbass had to keep editing this aye aye aye

Joey perceived himself as a daring risk-taker, always ready to face danger with no second thoughts. As he entered adulthood following high school, he remained labeled as reckless by others. However, as Joey entered his early adult years, he carried a secret within him. His constant drive to push his boundaries led to a diminished excitement for ordinary experiences.

Joey was uncertain about the process through which he realized that this was his area of expertise.

It started on a scorching summer day when he set out for the pool unaccompanied. The sparkling sun drenched the area in a golden light, its rays softly brushing against his skin. Lacking ambitious aspirations, he merely craved the soothing comfort of the sun. Strangely, not a single person was there on this beautiful summer day.

Rather than going into the bathroom to change, Joey took a risk and changed right there, in the open air. A powerful voice of persuasion boldly called to him. A combination of fear and excitement filled him as he removed his clothes.

Joey's heart throbbed as he rapidly stripped off his shirt and shorts, attempting to be swift and unnoticeable. A surge of adrenaline washed over him as he reveled in the thrill of engaging in forbidden activities. The voice he heard in his head gave him confidence that he would go unnoticed.

After changing and getting into his swim trunks, Joey felt sweat rolling down his forehead. With a nervous glance, he quickly checked to see if anyone had caught sight of his unconventional actions. The pool remained quiet, with no one in sight.

Despite feeling uncomfortable and always being concerned about getting caught, Joey found a sense of liberation. Being bound by societal expectations had been his reality, but this rebellious act briefly liberated him. His inner voice muttered words of encouragement, compelling him to embrace his genuine self.

With a surge of confidence, Joey descended to the pool, prepared to express his true self. With the weight of secrecy gone, he felt a newfound sense of empowerment. He finally accepted that the little voice in his head had been right all along. He was ready to face the consequences of his actions, knowing that he wouldn't be discovered.

As Joey leapt into the invigorating pool, he could feel a surge of courage and determination propelling him forward. The voice in his head had become a powerful force, motivating him to break free from societal conventions and embrace his true identity. From that moment forward, he embraced the voice that resonates deep within him, promising to follow its guidance as it led him towards a life of genuine purpose.

It was a sequence of events that led Joey down an unexpected path, eventually resulting in him finding refuge in an alley where he could savor the refreshing coolness of the evening air in Domino City.

Something had unexpectedly motivated him that evening, which led to his actions. The voice he heard at the pool years ago might have caused this sensation. In a swift motion, he untangled himself from his jeans and allowed them to cascade down, landing softly on the earth, all while the crisp air of early fall danced teasingly across his legs.

A surge of adrenaline coursed through Joey, making his heart pound. Intensifying the sensation, the cool air sent shivers down his spine. A surge of electricity seemed to have sparked his senses, awakening every nerve ending in his body.

With his jeans pooled around his ankles, Joey stood there, overwhelmed by the weight of his past and the uncertainty of his future. The memory of that voice, from two years ago, lingered in his thoughts, urging him to heed his gut feelings, abandon the ordinary, and embrace the unexplored.

As the city lights shone brightly, the alley came to life, with long shadows that waltzed gracefully across the brick walls. Excitement and a touch of anxiety made Joey's legs tremble as he stood there, bare-skinned. The sensation of the crisp air on his skin was both invigorating and unsettling, a physical manifestation of his decision to step outside his comfort zone.

Joey's inhibitions gradually faded away with every passing moment, leaving him with a fresh feeling of liberation. Allowing himself a moment to take a deep breath, he embraced the coolness of the evening air that entered his lungs, providing an additional boost of invigoration. By placing his jeans on the ground, he metaphorically shed the weight of societal expectations, visually expressing his yearning to embrace the uncharted path that lies ahead.

In the alley, Joey's veins pulsed with a wave of courage and determination. The chilly wind acted as a catalyst, igniting his spirit and increasing his curiosity. Wasting no time, he took off his shirt and boxers. Aware of his vulnerability, he realized that this moment held the potential for self-reinvention and the revelation of his deepest desires.

As the days grew shorter and autumn arrived, the gentle breeze continued to brush against his legs, as if inviting him to embark on fresh adventures and explore his true self. Joey closed his eyes, fully immersing himself in the sensation, and silently vowed to obey the persistent voice that had haunted him for years. With a fresh perspective on life, he courageously moved ahead, leaving his clothes and venturing into the unknown, fully prepared to embrace whatever came his way.

A refreshing coolness fills the air. The gentle wind rustles through the trees, creating a soothing melody. With the perfect weather in place, Joey's plan is ready for success. Domino City holds no secrets for him, as he is intimately familiar with its every corner and neighborhood. It's the prime spot to begin his voyeuristic quest, where he can surreptitiously observe the unfolding scenes around him.

Joey leisurely starts his stroll, thoroughly enjoying the sensation of the wind against his bare skin, while he meanders towards the pathway that encircles the deserted lake. The rush he feels from the anticipation of being caught pushes him onwards, compelling him to stay watchful for any sudden nocturnal wanderers that may cross his path.

Even though ten minutes had elapsed, Joey had encountered no one at all. Not discouraged, he persisted through the eerie stillness of the night, cautiously navigating around abandoned vehicles, his heart racing with every step. The expectation of a potential individual inside the car caused an adrenaline rush, leading to unpredictable bodily responses. Sensing the need for haste, he hastily sought sanctuary in an industrial area, desperately yearning for a moment of relaxation.

Eventually, he finds the perfect hiding spot concealed behind a tall oak tree, where the moonlight filters through the leaves. With a careful balance of openness and seclusion, the environment allows Joey to explore his desires freely without worrying about unwanted attention. Deliberately, he reaches down, his hand encountering the velvety texture and warmth of his manhood, causing a tingle of anticipation to travel down his back. While he strokes back and forth, a euphoric symphony escapes his mouth, blending with the gentle rustle of leaves and the distant chirping of birds, forming a seductive melody in the embrace of nature.

With each stroke, Joey could see the pearlescent pre-cum glistening on the tip of his cock, heightening his pleasure. With each movement, a cacophony of loud, wet sounds filled the surrounding space. Lost in the sensation, he couldn't help but moan audibly as his hand traced the contours of his firm stomach.

Sensing the release was imminent, Joey quickened his pace, eager to reach it. His forehead and chest glistened with perspiration as small beads of sweat formed in response to the heat.

With each moan, Joey became less and less hesitant.

Joey firmly gripped his hands around his throbbing member, his fingers tightly encasing the pulsating shaft. His moans grew more intense and resonated throughout the room with every powerful thrust. The air carried a distinct scent of longing, blending with the intoxicating aroma of sweat. His lips, slightly parted, released a series of breathy exclamations, punctuated by the occasional whispered “oh fuck.”

Joey couldn’t hold it anymore and a sudden exclamation escaped his lips, “Ah, F-Fuck!” To ease himself, he expelled a significant load onto the grass, feeling a sense of relief wash over him.

Before finally going back to get his clothes, Joey lingers for a while, savoring the moment with a hint of reluctance.

[harleyquilt]

Still Calling (Disco Elysium fanfic)

Summary: Dora is haunted by thoughts of her past after Harry calls her in the middle of the night, just before dawn. She laments what has passed and finds the resolve to continue as she has always done.

Words: 2,362~

Notes: The BrainRot is taking hold! Finished the game recently, and frankly, I'm obsessed. Just an introspective piece based on my favourite moment in the game. Hope you enjoy!

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

Dora’s hands tremble, loosening her fingers around the cold, curved spine of her phone. She leans back against her soft cushions, the hard, wooden headboard underneath keeping her from collapsing entirely. She lets out a long, shaky sigh and squeezes her eyes shut, hearing the rustling of bedsheets beside her. A hand touches her shoulder – a light, delicate gesture, skin against skin – and she flinches, her eyes opening. Wide and alarmed. Her husband is watching her, his brows knitted together. He’s worried, she knows, and in hopes of relieving him, she offers a wry smile, placing her hand on top of his and giving it a small squeeze. 

“Sorry, I should’ve woken up sooner.” He speaks quietly, the room still dark. The sound of birds can be heard singing their morning songs just beyond their bedroom window. “It was him, right? Harrier.”

The name makes her heart clench. Her chest hurts.

Thankfully, Dora doesn’t need to say anything, her husband having answered his own question. Even so, she nods, biting her bottom lip. She looks back at the phone, and as if summoning him, the sharp trill of her ringing phone begins again. 

Calling. 

Calling. 

Calling. 

Still calling…

Dora’s husband leans over her and ends the call, silencing the excruciating, ringing noise. He leans back, now sitting up, and places a hand against Dora’s cheek. She leans into his palm, shutting her eyes again. Expecting Harry to call again, she waits silently for the phone to ring once more. But it doesn’t. She is instead left to wallow in the bitterness and pity that continues to ooze out of the picked scab that are her memories, a scab Harry picked through with his dazed ramblings and desperate pleas. She can almost smell the alcohol in his breath. It has been some time since she has last felt like this. Two years maybe, or three? She tries not to keep track, wanting to instead forget the history both her and Harry once shared. And for a while, she had, focusing instead on the present, with her husband and daughter. But it is never enough, it seems, the painful ache in her heart as prominent as it was the day she left him standing there, dumbfounded, on the crosswalk. 

“I shouldn’t have talked to him.” Dora keeps her eyes lowered, her bottom lip now sore. “I know I shouldn’t have. You don’t need to tell me.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything.” Her husband responds, his voice a soft embrace she desperately craved. “He caught you off guard. It was unfair to you. Selfish.”

Dora nods slowly, swallowing. There is an uncomfortable lump in her throat. “Yeah.” Her voice is quiet now. Hoarse. “Let's get back to sleep. I need to go to work soon.”

“Sure.” His hand falls away. She looks up then, relieved to see the understanding in his eyes.

“Thank you.” She truly means it.

Her husband lies back down, pulling Dora against his body and holding her in his arms. They’re long and thin, but comforting nonetheless. Just…different. She only remembers how different his arms are during moments like these, when the sound of Harry’s voice, his words, his fear, twist around her mind, smothering her thoughts with a steel-like grip. An intrusion to a peace she's trying to desperately maintain. Her husband kisses the back of her head, banishing her anxious imaginings, and his fingers lace through hers, their bodies tangled together. She wonders if he can feel the thudding of her heart, gradually slowing back to a calm, steady rhythm. 

Your voice sounds so beautiful.

Such words once made Dora’s cheeks grow warm and her body feel light and airy with an innocent, naive joy she will likely never experience again. It was a reminder of a youth untainted by the reality that would eventually find her, find them, while they blindly crashed into the mirage that was once their dreams. There would be no returning to what once was, they knew, and that realisation was enough to burn away whatever remnants of the child-like joy that had originally brought them together. Hearing those words again, after so long, left her chest feeling hollow, his love an echo rupturing the pillars of bone and soft, fleshy innards within. Why could he not move on? Was this her punishment, for thinking she could walk away from the burning wreck of their relationship? For knowing that there was no repairing what was unrepairable? 

Dora takes a deep breath, wishing away these tormenting speculations with a long, slow exhale, willing herself to sleep again. She listens to her husband's breathing, his chest rising and falling in tandem to her own. The birds continue to sing, the darkness of the sky giving way to the light of dawn. Soon, the sun will peek between the tall, brick apartment buildings, bringing with it the morning and its warmth. It is a comforting thought, knowing time will continue to move on, as it has always done, as it will always do. And soon, sleep pulls her back into the depths of her mind, spindling her imagination into shapes, colours, and sounds – a spectacle of dreams that will swarm her mind with emotions she will never be able to describe, not with words. 

.

.

.

“Harry…” Dora sighs, feeling his rough, calloused hands hold hers. They’re large– could easily crush hers, if he really wanted to – but he instead holds them like they’re made of glass. Like they will break under the slightest pressure. Perhaps he is right, a notable tremble in her limbs.

“Please,” he’s shaking his head, and though the sound of the city continues its loud barrage of noise around them, his quiet voice persistently reaches her ears. It reminds her of the music that once brought them together, except that it is now warped beyond recognition. “Please, let’s head back home. Let’s talk about this. You don’t have to leave, not like this.”

“No, Harry.” She looks back to the aerodrome station down the street, and then her watch. Time continues to tick away, mercilessly so. No, this is a favour, to her and her alone. Time is doing her a favour. “We’ve talked enough. I need to go, or I’ll miss my flight.”

His lips quiver, trying to find the right words to say. Going down his list. Trying every line, pursuing each question. Hoping to find a combination that will work. Again and again, until there’s nothing left to say. It would have been less painful had she left during the night, she thinks. No, even then, he’d realise something was off and find her, just as he had done now. It was inevitable, just as it had been inevitable for her to come to this decision.

“I don’t–” He struggles to speak, his voice cracking as tears begin to roll down his cheeks. “I can’t do this without you, Dora. Don’t do this.” 

Perhaps he saw at that moment that there was no changing her mind, the resolution settled in her calm, ocean-like eyes. There was no compromise to be seen, no remaining doubts to pry into, no alternative to dig out with his bloodied, bruised fingertips. It was simply too late, the moment of no-return having passed long ago. And realising this, a panic seizes him, a despair in not knowing what to do next. She hoped that it would be enough to walk away, but…

He falls onto his knees, still holding onto her hand. An anchor slipping out of his grip. There are people watching, their eyes set on their tragic display. It is nothing more than a performance to these people, and for this play, Dora is playing the role of the villain. She bites her lip, finally tugging her hand free, her breathing unsteady.

“It’s too late, Harry.” She’s already moving, moving quickly down the street, knowing that he continues to watch her, begging through his heartbreak. “I have to–

“Dora?” 

Dora blinks and gives her head a quick shake. “Hm? Sorry, I was lost in thought.”

Her co-worker is quiet for a moment. “You look tired.” He finally remarks, pushing a cup of brewing tea towards her. “Did you not sleep well?” 

There's a strained smile on her sore lips. “Not really, no.” She takes the cup of tea and holds it between her palms, the warmth seeping into her skin. “Bad dreams.” 

Before the co-worker can respond, however, the academy bell begins to ring. A loud, shrilling noise that is uncannily similar to a phone ringing. Dora’s stomach continues to twist and turn with anxious rumination. Looking back from the ringing bell, her co-worker gives her an encouraging pat on the shoulder before heading off to his next class. It is a free period for her, and so, she leans back against the counter and brings the cup to her lips. Dora watches the world outside from the window beside her as she savours the aroma of her berry-flavoured tea. 

The sky is overcast – dark and dense, the clouds heavy with rain – and the world below is a dull array of browns and greys. It will be spring soon, but the touch of winter decay continues to linger, the ground muddied and damp, and the trees naked, their branches rattling against the wind. Mirova is beautiful during the warmer months, but during the late autumn and winter, it isn't too dissimilar to Revachol. 

Revachol…with its congested roads and snake-like rows of buildings, fat and bloated from the tenants lurking within. All the colours seemed muted, accommodating the pessimistic depression that hung over the city. There was a charming ugliness in it all, and alongside the constant noise of the city, she could hear the symphony of urban life: passing cars, distant shouts and petty arguments, a faraway gunshot or two, and the sound of music interlaced between it all. Yes, the music – that is what Dora remembers most about the city. A stream of different tunes, rhythms, and beats flowed between the cracks in the pavement stones, cutting through the smog that permeated the city, interconnecting the entirety of Revachol with new age melodies and lyrical agony. Disco was the rage when she was young, Dora remembering the flashing lights and outlandish dancing that made your heart race with unrestrained exhilaration. Revachol parties, they used to say. They – the voice of the city itself, said with distinct pride. She can almost hear the music now, Dora's eyes fluttering shut. 

She met Harry through Disco. He was just a regular man back then. No, that is not entirely true; he was The Man, a Cool Dude, stylish, yet manly. His body was broad and muscled, softened with the charming smile she vividly remembers admiring. That she remembers seeing falter year after year. In fact, much of what he became is unrecognisable, compared to who he once was. 

Dora frowns, remembering how she eagerly filled his head with hollow dreams, pointing him down a dead-end path. It was the age of disco – there was no anticipating the cold, cruel future that awaited them, like a sneaking predator and its bleeding prey, waiting and watching for the right moment to pounce, crushing the prey's neck between its blood-soaked jaws. Maybe they should've realised sooner, should've understood that life wasn't so forgiving. Maybe they would've, had the music not been so intoxicating. 

Even so, Dora continuously questions if it was her fault that they ended up the way they did, having been the one to convince Harry to become a cop. She shakes her head, drowning out her thoughts with the hot, sweet taste of her tea. Her tongue tingles after she swallows, pushing back the memories leaking into her mind. 

She has already spent too much time thinking about what ifs, about what she could've done differently. She has already lamented her failings as Harry's partner, wishing she could somehow break the laws of the universe and turn back time to the moment she convinced him to take that cursed job. But she can't, and it is a truth that she has accepted long ago. 

“I shouldn't have talked to him.” She mutters, her grip tightening around her cup. “Why did I talk to him…?” 

She looks back outside, seeing a young couple walk arm-in-arm towards the academy. One looked remarkably like Dora when she was younger, the girl's hair a bright blonde, and her round, innocent eyes a vivid blue. Her partner is a handsome man, tall and dressed neatly. A businessman, perhaps? They stare longingly into each other's eyes, exchanging secret messages only they can hear and envisioning a future only the inexperienced can hope for. 

Is it bitterness rising up Dora’s throat? Regret? She had nothing to regret, knowing that she is truly content with her loving family and stable job, a dream life she has managed to finally achieve, despite the failings of her past. So what is this discontent? She looks away, her eyes downcast. 

“I had hoped…” Dora mumbles, squeezing her eyes shut. “That you would've moved on.” 

But what more can she do? The greatest favour she can do for him is one she has already decided upon – to leave him be, to allow him to be his own person once more. It felt irresponsible in some ways, as if she were willingly leaving him to rot someplace her eyes cannot reach, but it was the only solution that she could find when despair continued to converge onto her. Onto them. Yes, this is the only solution, both back then and now. 

Disco has come to its natural, inevitable end and it was time to move on.

Taking a deep breath, she finishes her drink and walks away from the window, ready to continue with her day. It won't be easy, but she has trudged through deeper depths than this. She'll be fine, she knows. 

And far, far in the distance, beyond the twisting, enigmatic span of the Pale, where the icy winds cut through the dark, wintery night, and the air carries the stench of an unsolved murder, a detective finds the motivation to continue with his investigation. 

[buddieswhvre]

Several sentence sunday

A wip I'm working on for Buddie week. This one's pure fluff with maybe a smidge of angst? Anyway I LOVED writing Buck's relationships till now while throwing as much crack as possible.

Finding Eddie was the best thing that could have ever happened to him. From having each other's back at work to being each other's family, Eddie was everything Buck always wanted but was never brave enough to dream for. Being with Eddie was not being trapped in a box or flying high and falling hard, it was like finally getting a chance to breathe all while knowing that Eddie was right beside him. Being with Eddie was knowing what it was like to live and my God did Buck love that. He loved Eddie, he loved Eddie so damn much that it felt as natural as breathing. He loved Eddie but he also started to love the version of himself that loved Eddie. He loved Eddie and this time he dreamed, dreamed and dreamed again.

He dreamt of adopting cats and dogs, maybe getting a new house, maybe even adopting kids in the future. He dreamt of getting married, sometimes at Bobby's house or the beach or a garden or a conservatory or a courthouse or even in their own backyard. He also dreamt of them getting older and standing in the front line when Eddie gave Chris away for his wedding.

[yujeong]

Fic snippet #8: VegasPete

Pete looked calm as he leaned on Vegas’ shoulder. Peaceful. It made Vegas realize that serenity was a foreign sight on Pete too. A suit that didn't quite fit. Pete had been sleeping differently at the safehouse, in a way that seemed uncomfortable and strained to Vegas now. As if he had been drugged, as if being unconscious had been against his will. As if closing his eyes would equal his defeat.  Vegas had found him beautiful nonetheless. 

[sinimake]

In the newest story you posted as Johnny was dying did Kenshi read his mind? If so what did Kenshi hear and what was he thinking?

Not only Kenshi knew Johnny's mind, he felt every pain and every love. He knew Johnny loved him and that was the tipping force in his decision to kill Johnny bc you see, when Johnny said "he kills for survival and survives for the kill", it is very much true—Johnny is just living to kill Kenshi one day.

He once spared Kenshi and it haunts him endlessly. When Johnny has the man at point blank second time, he still can't do it—if he could kill Kenshi, he would not have reasons to live beyond that. If he doesn't kill him, Johnny will live through his mistake again.

Kenshi realizes that the circle won't end when Johnny comes to terms with that and the fact that he still believes in the good of Kenshi.

In the matter of whether Kenshi really loved Johnny, yes. He just couldn't accept Johnny's love, bc in his own eyes, he is irredeemable and Johnny only loves the old version of him.

We didn't get time to read more into Kenshi's parting words since its Johnny's pov and he was kinda busy dying but we break it down like this:

“I'm here and I offer you eternal peace. For how terrible it is to love something that death can touch.”

To love something death can touch doesn't only refer to human's mortality. Kenshi is saying that it's terrible that Johnny loves the Kenshi who died—the old version of him.

“For the mercy I have for us. I shall let you go.”

To break the circle of agony, a small mercy he can give to Johnny is death. They're two sides of a sword, forever opposing but always of one root. Only when the sword has one edge, it can be a katana—with stronger core, sharper efficiency.

So if Kenshi knew Johnny's thoughts, he knew. He knew that the last of word in Johnny's mind was undoubtedly his name.

Here is the playlist i made while writing. You can check out with you want! Ty for reading again.