#its just one of those never ending cycles of grief

[lunarsapphism]

i feel like most of the time i like to joke about how convenient it is to not really have any extended family that i have to deal with but i actually greatly envy people who have that. im so jealous of people who had positive relationships with their family or even just knew their grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins and got to grow up with them at all. i know that they can be a pain and that that experience comes with its own unique struggles but like, thats a whole entire other circle of people that have the potential to love you. same with family friends. im so fucking jealous of the people who had those things.

its genuinely fucking devastating to me when i see people who have actual childhood homes and whose grandparents have lived in the same house their whole life and stuff like that. like memories of your entire life are stored in the walls of those places and the people who live there. and there are people all around you that have been with you for every single stage of your life thus far. who have known you and watched your grow and change. who can even tell you about the generations of people who came before you!

part of me is glad that there are so many people that had the privilege of growing up with that experience and ultimately thats my overarching view on it but part of me hates them for it because they had that stability and consistency and reliability that i fucking wish i had but never did. i dont want to be jealous but i think i always will be, at least a little bit.

[stylesispunk]

"You're the loss of my life"

outbreak! Joel Miller x f!reader

part 2 here

summary: you and Joel went from one kiss to getting married to becoming strangers.

w.c: 5k>

Warnings: angst, implications of cheating, mentions miscarriage. Perhaps some grammar mistakes because no proofreading oops!

a/n: I know everything I write is angst but is what it fits in my mind right now. Reblogs and comments are always appreciated 💌

Dividers by @/saradika-graphics

The day you killed yourself, you woke up. The salty tears streamed down to your ears. There was a pity gaze you didn't want to meet, looking down at you, perhaps asking why. 

You didn't want to talk, even less to answer the pitiful comments from people who thought they had a say on all this.

You remember the fall. You remember Joel running to Sophie to save her life instead of yours, instead of both. You and the baby who was inside you. The one who wasn't there anymore because of its tiny form didn't resist the impact of your fall.

What a tragedy.

Sadness overcame you in the aftermath. In a world like this, treating your wounded body wasn't as hard as treating your heart, which became a frozen glass shell.

The days that followed were a blur, each moment blending into the next, a never-ending cycle of grief and numbness. You avoided mirrors, hating the reflection of a person you no longer recognized. The hollow eyes, the lifeless expression—they belonged to a ghost, not to you.

Joel tried to talk to you, his words a constant hum in the background. "I'm sorry," he'd say. "I didn't know what to do." But his apologies were meaningless, lost in the chasm that had formed between you. He perhaps saved Sophie because he loved her more, because in that split second, she was the one who mattered.

Not you anymore.

You spent hours in the nursery, the room you had so carefully prepared. The crib, the tiny clothes, the stuffed animals—all mocking reminders of what could have been. Your hands would linger on the soft blankets, tears falling silently onto the fabric. It was in that room that you felt the closest to the baby you had lost—a place where the field of dreams you had died.

One night, as you sat in the dark, the pain was too much to bear, and you decided you couldn't go on. The world was too cruel, too indifferent to people's suffering. You wrote a letter, your final words, to those who might wonder why. It was brief—just a few sentences explaining the unbearable weight of your grief and the unending ache in your heart. Meeting your family and beloved ones in heaven sounded better than keeping yourself prisoner in a world that would never be a safe place for anyone.

You took the pills, each one a step closer to peace. As you drifted off, you felt a strange sense of calm, a release from the torment that had consumed you. You hoped that in death, you would find the solace that eluded you in life.

But then you woke up again. The salty tears streamed down to your ears. There was a pity gaze you didn't want to meet, looking down at you, perhaps asking why.

Waking up again felt like a cruel joke. You were back in the same world, with the same pain. But something was different. Joel was there, his eyes red and swollen from crying. He took your hand, his touch hesitant and afraid.

"I thought I lost you," he whispered, his voice breaking.

You turned away, unable to meet his gaze. The wound was still too fresh, and the betrayal was still too raw to face them.

Joel's gaze burned in your back, and the smell of death was in the room. You held your breath for a moment. You wanted to smell the flowers and the baby smell of the little head of your baby, which you would never get to meet.

"Why?" he questioned, and for the first time, his voice did soothe your wounds; instead, it caused your blood to boil inside you and irritated you.

"I want Ellie here, not you."

"Baby- “

"Go." Your voice could slice Joel’s skin.

He recoiled as if struck, his face crumpling with pain. He stood there for a moment, looking lost and broken. "Please, don't push me away," he pleaded, but you couldn't hear him through the rage and grief that consumed you.

"Leave," you repeated, your voice cold and final.

Joel's shoulders slumped in defeat. He turned and walked out, the door closing softly behind him. The silence that followed was suffocating, a void that threatened to swallow you whole. You curled into a ball, the tears flowing freely now—a torrent of pain and loss.

“Go to Sophie,” you whispered to the void, allowing yourself to cry.

Time seemed to stand still in that moment; your sobs were the only sound in the quiet room. You didn't know how long you lay there, but eventually, you heard a soft knock on the door.

Ellie's voice was hesitant when she called out your name, filled with a mix of anger and concern. "Can I come in?"

You didn't answer, but she opened the door anyway, slipping inside and closing it behind her. She looked at you, her expression torn between fury and sadness.

"Why did you do it?" she demanded, her voice shaking. "Why did you try to leave me too?"

You looked up at her, seeing the pain in her eyes and mirroring your own. "I... I didn't think I could handle it anymore," you admitted, your voice breaking. "I lost everything, Ellie. I lost you, I lost Joel, and I lost the baby. I didn't know how to go on."

Ellie walked over to you, her steps hesitant. "You didn't lose me. I'm still here," she said, her voice softening. "But you almost did. And I'm so mad at Joel. He should have saved you both. He should have done more."

“Do you think Joel doesn’t love me anymore?” you sobbed.  The pain in your voice broke Ellie’s heart.

She kneeled beside you, taking your hands in hers. "I don’t know what’s on his mind now," she admitted, her voice trembling. "But I do know he loves you. He's just... broken too. We're all broken."

You pulled her into a tight embrace, both of you crying together, sharing the weight of your grief. “I lost my baby because of him.”

Ellie held you tighter, her own tears mingling with yours. "Cry,” she said softly. "Blaming him won't bring the baby back. It won't help us heal. We have to find a way to forgive and move forward."

The two of you stayed like that for a long time, finding strange solace in each other’s arms. The pain was still there, raw and overwhelming.

You were standing in the small kitchen of your home in Jackson, the dilapidated walls a far cry from the security of the life you once knew. But for a moment, you allowed yourself to dream of something better. Your hands trembled slightly as you held the small, worn piece of paper—a positive pregnancy test, a symbol of new life in a world consumed by death.

Joel walked in, weary from a long day of patrol. His eyes lit up when he saw you, but they quickly clouded with concern as he noticed the look on your face.

"What's going on?" he asked, setting down his backpack and walking over to you.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady your nerves. "Joel, I have something to tell you,” you began, your voice shaking. "I'm pregnant."

For a moment, there was silence. Joel's expression shifted from confusion to shock, and then to something darker—fear and maybe even anger.

"Pregnant?" he repeated, his voice rising slightly. "In this world? How could you be so irresponsible?"

The words hit you like a physical blow, your earlier excitement and hope crumbling into dust. "Irresponsible?" you echoed, your own voice rising defensively. "It takes two people to do this, you know.”

He shook his head, running a hand through his hair. "You know what it’s like out there! Every day is a fight for survival. We can barely keep ourselves alive, and now you want to bring a baby into this?”

“I know this is not the best way, but what do you want me to do?” 

“You know what.”

Tears welled up in your eyes, but you fought them back, unwilling to show weakness at his suggestion. "I know it's dangerous, Joel. But it's also a chance for us to have a future. To have a reason to keep going."

Joel's face softened for a moment, but then the hard lines returned. "And what if we can't protect it? What if we lose it? Bringing a baby into this world... it's a death sentence."

You turned away, unable to look at him. "I thought you'd be happy," you whispered, the tears finally spilling over. "I thought this would be something good for us."

He reached out, but you stepped back, the distance between you growing. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice softer now, but the damage was done. "I just... I can't see how this can work."

You clutched the pregnancy test to your chest, tainted by doubt and fear. “Are you mad because of the baby, or what would Sophie think of this?" you questioned quietly.

Joel's expression faltered, and he looked away, unable to meet your gaze. The mention of Sophie seemed to strike a chord, bringing a new layer of tension to the room.

"Sophie has nothing to do with this," he muttered, but the words lacked conviction.

"Doesn't she?" You pressed, your voice rising. "She's always in the back of your mind, Joel. Every decision you make, every risk you take, it's always about protecting her."

"She's my partner in patrol,” he shot back, his voice growing louder. "I’m just as protective as I am with everyone here! I can't fail her, or you. But this world... it's no place for a child."

You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. "I know you're scared, Joel. So am I. But we can't live our lives in fear. This baby is a chance for us to have something real, something good. Don't you see that?"

Joel's shoulders slumped, the weight of your words pressing down on him. He sighed, running a hand through his hair again. "I do see it," he admitted quietly. "But it doesn't change the reality we live in. I just... I don't know if I can take that risk."

The room fell silent, the tension hanging thick in the air. You turned away from him, your heart heavy with a mixture of hope and despair. "I'm going to do everything I can to protect this baby," you said firmly, your voice steady despite the tears streaming down your face. "With or without you."

Joel looked at you, pain and conflict warring in his eyes. He opened his mouth to say something but then closed it, shaking his head. He turned and walked out, leaving you standing alone in the kitchen, your heart breaking as the small symbol of hope in your hand seemed to grow heavier by the second.

The “I do” and vows seemed so foreign in the back of your mind now.

A week had passed since your almost-death. The days were a blur of grief and small steps toward recovery. Ellie remained close; her presence was a constant reminder that there was still something worth fighting for. In your head, you felt guilt and pity, not strong enough to keep believing you were the same woman who arrived here. You were the gosh of a lively fighter who became a lifeless frame.

Maria approached you in the cafeteria, where you were trying to busy yourself. She had always been a pillar of strength in Jackson and a calming presence for you since the day you, Joel, and Ellie arrived.

"Hey," she said softly, her voice gentle. "How are you holding up?"

You shrugged, not trusting yourself to speak without breaking down. Maria sighed, pulling up a chair beside you. "I know it's hard. But you need to take things slow. You can't rush healing."

You nodded, though her words felt distant. The weight of your grief was a constant presence, making everything seem surreal. "I just... I don't know how to keep going. I don’t know how to do this again," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper as Sarah’s lifeless frame came to your mind.

You had lost another child.

Maria reached out, squeezing your hand. "One day at a time," she said. "And remember, it's okay to lean on others. You don't have to do this alone."

You wanted to believe her, but the pain was too fresh and overwhelming. As the days turned into a week, you forced yourself to go through the motions, trying to find some semblance of normalcy. One afternoon, you found yourself in the cafeteria of Jackson. The noise and bustle were a stark contrast to the turmoil inside you.

Maria was there, talking to a few people, and she caught your eye, giving you an encouraging smile. You tried to smile back, but it felt forced. The weight of your loss was a constant shadow, making everything seem heavier.

As you moved through the line, Maria came over, her expression concerned. "Hey, remember what I said. Take it slow. You don't have to do everything at once."

Something inside you snapped. The pressure, the grief, the guilt—it all came crashing down. "Take it slow?" you repeated, your voice rising. "How am I supposed to take it slow when everything is falling apart? How am I supposed to keep going when I not only lost my baby but also my husband?!”

The cafeteria fell silent, all eyes turning towards you. You could feel the weight of their stares, the shock, and the pity. Your breath came in short, ragged gasps as the enormity of your outburst sank in.

Maria reached out, but you recoiled, your emotions spiraling out of control. "I don't need to take it slow!" you shouted, tears streaming down your face. "I need... I need..." You didn't even know what you needed; the pain was too overwhelming to articulate.

Joel was there in an instant, his face etched with worry. "Hey, hey," he said softly, reaching out to you. "It's okay. You're okay."

But you weren't okay. You felt like you were drowning, the weight of your grief pulling you under. You shook your head, backing away from him. "Don't touch me for fuck's sake! I don't want your dirty hands on me!”

Joel’s eyes glazed, but you didn’t care. He had become the best of the man you had married ten years ago.

Joel's eyes glazed, but you didn’t care. He had become the ghost of the man you had married ten years ago.

He froze, the words hitting him like a physical blow. The cafeteria's silence deepened, the tension thickening. You saw the pain in his eyes, a reflection of your own turmoil, but it did nothing to quell the anger and sorrow boiling inside you.

"I can't do this," you said, your voice breaking as you took a step back, your chest heaving with sobs. "I can't keep pretending that everything is going to be okay. Because it's not! Nothing is okay!"

Ellie pushed through the crowd, her face pale but determined. "Mom," she said, her voice steady despite the fear in her eyes. "We're here. We're all here. We'll get through this."

Joel looked helplessly at Ellie, then back at you. "Please," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "Just let us help."

You looked at him, the man who had once been your rock, now just a shadow of the person you had relied on. The anger still simmered beneath the surface, but Ellie’s presence brought a flicker of something else—a reminder of why you needed to keep fighting.

Ellie wrapped her arms around you, holding you tightly as you sobbed into her shoulder. The room remained silent; the weight of your grief was palpable. But in that moment, you felt a glimmer of hope—a reminder that you weren’t alone and that you had people who loved you and who were willing to help you carry the burden.

Joel stepped closer, his hand hovering uncertainly at your back, not daring to touch you without permission. "I’m so sorry," he murmured, his voice choked with emotion. "For everything. I’m so, so sorry."

You took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to steady yourself. "You killed him," you snapped, your voice barely more than a whisper. "I can’t forgive you.”

Joel's face crumpled, the weight of your words hitting him like a physical blow. He took a step back, his hand dropping to his side. The silence in the room grew heavier, and the tension was palpable.

"I know," he said, his voice barely audible. "I know I can never undo what I've done. I live with that guilt every day."

Your anger burned hot and fierce, like a wildfire consuming everything in its path. "You killed him," you repeated, the words tasting bitter on your tongue. "And you expect me to just forgive you? To move on like nothing happened?"

Joel shook his head, his eyes filled with sorrow. "No," he said softly. "I don't expect you to forgive me. I don't even know if I can forgive myself. But I want to try. I want to make things right as much as I can."

You looked at him, the man who had once been your partner, your confidant, now a stranger in the wreckage of your shattered life. The anger still burned hot within you, but beneath it, there was a flicker of something else—pain, sorrow, and a desperate longing for the life you had lost.

"I don't know if I can do this," you admitted, your voice barely more than a whisper. "I don't know if I have the strength to forgive you."

Ellie's arms remained wrapped around you, a comforting presence amidst the turmoil. She gently guided you away from the cafeteria, her touch reassuring as you stumbled through the hallways of Jackson. The weight of your grief felt heavier with each step, but Ellie's presence gave you a glimmer of strength.

As you reached the door, Ellie helped you inside, guiding you to the small couch in the living area. She sat beside you, her eyes filled with concern.

"Are you okay?" she asked softly, her voice filled with worry.

You shook your head, the tears still streaming down your face. "I don't know," you admitted, your voice hoarse. "I just... I don't know how to deal with all of this."

Ellie reached out, taking your hand in hers. "We'll figure it out together," she said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. "I promise."

You squeezed her hand tightly, grateful for her unwavering support. "Thank you, Ellie," you whispered, your voice choked with emotion.

She leaned in, wrapping you in a tight hug. "I love you, Mom," she said softly. "And I'll always be here for you, no matter what."

Tears pricked at your eyes as you hugged her back, her words echoing in your mind. "I love you too, Ellie," you whispered, your voice breaking with emotion.

As you and Ellie held each other close, the weight of her love and support was a balm to your wounded soul. But amidst the embrace, a knock on the door interrupted the moment, causing both of you to startle.

Ellie pulled back slightly, her eyes searching yours with concern. "Should I... Should I get that?" she asked, her voice hesitant.

You shook your head, wiping away your tears as you tried to compose yourself. "No, it's okay," you said, your voice still shaky. "I'll go."

Ellie nodded, giving your hand a reassuring squeeze before standing up from the couch. "I'll be in my room if you need me," she said softly, giving you a lingering look before leaving the living area.

As Ellie disappeared down the hallway, you took a deep breath, steeling yourself for what was to come. With trembling hands, you made your way to the door and opened it, revealing Joel standing on the other side.

His expression was a mix of worry and remorse as he looked at you, his eyes filled with a silent plea for forgiveness. "Can we talk?" he asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

You hesitated, the memories of your outburst in the cafeteria still fresh in your mind. But despite the anger and pain, there was a part of you that longed for closure, for a chance to understand.

"Okay," you said finally, stepping aside to let him in.

Joel entered the house, his footsteps hesitant as he crossed the threshold. The living room felt suffocatingly small as you both stood there, the weight of your shared grief hanging heavy in the air.

"I... I don't even know where to start," Joel said, his voice strained with emotion.

You took a deep breath, trying to find the words to express the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside you. "I just... I need to understand," you said, your voice barely more than a whisper. "I need to know why you did what you did."

The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the abandoned streets of the city. You and Joel had been scavenging for supplies, your footsteps echoing in the eerie silence that seemed to permeate every corner of the world.

You had felt uneasy all day, a knot of jealousy and insecurity twisting in your stomach at the sight of Sophie, her laughter ringing in your ears like a taunt.

You had implored Joel to come. You just wanted to feel as worthy and important to him as you used to, even in your state. But despite your misgivings, you had pushed them aside, focusing on the task at hand, determined to prove yourself capable and worthy of Joel's love and attention.

And then it happened.

If Joel had been more careful, he wouldn’t have allowed you to come. But he didn’t want to make you feel worthless.

A horde of infected had descended upon you, their snarls and growls a chilling symphony of death and despair. You had frozen; your mind was unable to comprehend the danger until it was too late.

But Joel had acted, his movements swift and sure as he pulled you away from the oncoming onslaught, his grip firm and unyielding.

And then he had seen her.

Sophie was trapped beneath the rubble, her screams echoing in the chaos as the infected closed in, their hunger insatiable.

And in that moment, something inside Joel shifted.

He had hesitated, torn between saving you and saving her, his eyes flickering with indecision, before he made his choice.

He had chosen Sophie.

He jumped off the horse, leaving you alone. You had watched in horror as he raced towards her, leaving you behind, your heart shattering into a million jagged pieces as the truth of his betrayal washed over you like a tidal wave.

You had screamed, your voice lost in the cacophony of the chaos, your tears mingling with the blood and dust that coated your skin.

And then the world went dark.

You fell from the horse, hitting the cobblestones hard. The pain was sharp and intense, searing through your body like a white-hot flame. You could hear the distant sound of screams and growls, the world around you spinning in a haze of confusion and agony.

Through the haze, you could dimly make out Joel's voice, calling out your name in desperation. But his words felt distant, a mere echo in the darkness that threatened to consume you.

And then, as suddenly as it had begun, the chaos subsided, leaving behind a heavy silence that pressed down on you like a weight. You tried to move, to call out, but your body felt numb and unresponsive. Your world went black.

"I need to know why, Joel," you repeated, your voice trembling with emotion. "Why did you choose her over us? Why did you leave me behind?"

Tears welled up in your eyes as you waited for his answer, the weight of his betrayal still fresh in your mind, a wound that refused to heal.

Joel's gaze dropped to the floor, his shoulders slumping with the weight of his guilt. "I... I don't know," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "I panicked. I made a mistake."

Anger surged within you at his words, a fiery rage that threatened to consume you. "A mistake?" you repeated, your voice rising with indignation. "You left me to die, Joel. You left our child to die. How could you call that a mistake?"

Joel flinched at your words, the pain in his eyes mirroring your own. "I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice choked with emotion. "I'm so, so sorry. You were my wife; I should.”

"Were you my wife?” You sobbed, “Since when is that in the past, Joel?”

Joel's words hung in the air like a heavy weight, his admission of guilt and regret piercing through the veil of anger and pain that enveloped you. But amidst the turmoil, there was a flicker of something else—a longing for understanding, for closure, for a chance to heal.

"You are my wife," Joel repeated clearly, his voice trembling with emotion. "I should have protected you. I should have been there for you. But I failed. I failed both of you."

His words stirred something deep within you—a wellspring of grief and longing that threatened to overwhelm you. "And now?" you whispered, your voice barely more than a hoarse whisper. "What am I to you, Joel?"

Joel looked at you, his eyes filled with sorrow. Not uttering a word.

“Do you have feelings for Sophie?” You asked, fear creeping to your bones, not wanting to hear the answer.

Joel's silence spoke volumes; his hesitation was a weighty presence in the air between you. You held your breath, afraid of what his answer might be and of the truth that lay hidden in the depths of his gaze.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Joel spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. "I... I don't know," he admitted, his words heavy with uncertainty. "

“You love her,” you stated. “That’s why you chose her.”

Joel's silence in response to your accusation only confirmed your worst fears, leaving a bitter taste in your mouth and a heavy ache in your chest. The truth hung in the air, stark and undeniable, like a shadow cast by the setting sun.

Tears stung your eyes as you struggled to process the betrayal, the pain of Joel's admission cutting through you like a knife. The realization that he might love Sophie and might have chosen her over you and your unborn child was a blow that threatened to shatter you completely.

"I can't do this," you whispered, your voice barely more than a broken plea. "I can't stay here, knowing... knowing that I'll never be enough for you. Living in a world like this is already hell, but you made it even worse. You made me feel disgusted by myself, worthless, and ashamed," you shouted. "You're a fucking coward."

Joel flinched at your words, the truth of your accusations cutting through him like a knife. For a moment, it seemed as though he might speak, might try to defend himself, but he remained silent, his gaze fixed on the floor.

"Hate me; I'll wait. Until you forgive," he finally said, his voice barely more than a whisper.

You shook your head, tears streaming down your face as you struggled to find the words to express the depth of your pain. "Forgive you?" you chuckled bitterly. "I won't."

There are two types of grievances. The one who met the spirits in death and the one who met with the ghosts of someone who should have died in front of you. You still couldn't comprehend which one was worse. Both were painful, and both watered your eyes. But having the ghost of someone who brought you warm, freezing your aura while slipping from your grasp, leaving you crying to yourself till your head tired up and there wasn't anything left that fell into the voiceless world of sleeping, where in your dreams, you were still the same woman in the white dress, marrying the love of your life.

"I needed my husband! I need him now! And the worst thing is, I still need you, but you're just a fucking phantom."

"I'm still here," he exclaimed.

"No, you're not.".

"It wasn't even born!" Joel said.

The silence met souls leaving the lovers's bodies.

You were left speechless, tears ricocheting. Your heart was clenched in pain, and your throat felt like it was being torn apart by a monster.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"

"Save it," you spat. You were exhausted, and your heart hurt so much that you couldn't even feel it beating anymore. "Sorry if grieving my baby was such a burden to you."

As you turned back to face Joel, the weight of your words hung heavy in the air, a painful reminder of the gaping chasm of loss that lay between you.

"Let me remind you of something, Joel," you said, your voice trembling with emotion. "Losing Sarah was the worst thing that happened to us, and just imagine how it is for me to know I carried her and this baby just to lose them both."

Joel's expression softened, a flicker of remorse crossing his features as he looked at you, his eyes filled with regret. "I know," he said softly, his voice heavy with sorrow.

"I'll move out," Joel said suddenly, his voice tinged with resignation. "So you can bring your new lover here and make all the babies you want."

His words cut through you like a knife, a painful reminder of the irreparable rift that had formed between you. "You know what really broke me?" you sobbed, the words tumbling out in a rush of emotion. "You... you're the biggest loss of my life, but as much as I love you, I despise you the same. You're the loss of my life I will be yours. There's no way back from this, Joel."

As the weight of your words hung heavy in the air, you reached for the wedding band adorning your finger, a symbol of a love that had once been unbreakable but now lay shattered at your feet.

With trembling hands, you removed the ring, feeling its weight in your palm as you stared at it, the memories of happier times flashing before your eyes like a cruel mockery of the present.

Without a second thought, you flung the ring towards Joel, watching as it spun through the air before landing at his feet with a soft thud.

"There," you said, your voice choked with emotion. "Take it. Take everything that remains of us."

Joel looked down at the ring, his expression unreadable as he reached out to pick it up and his fingers trembling as he held it in his palm.

"I don't want this," he whispered, his voice barely more than a hoarse whisper.

But you shook your head, tears streaming down your face as you stared at him, the pain of his betrayal a raw wound that refused to heal. "I don't want it either," you said, your voice barely more than a broken whisper. "But it's all we have left."

And with that, you turned away, unable to bear the weight of his presence any longer. The wounds he had inflicted upon you ran deep, a festering wound that refused to heal.

[keilanana]

𝑻𝒐 𝑫𝒆𝒇𝒚 𝑭𝒂𝒕𝒆

ᴏ. ʀᴇɪɴᴄᴀʀɴᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ɪs ᴀ ᴛʜɪɴɢ, ᴀᴘᴘᴀʀᴇɴᴛʟʏ

You find out reincarnation actually exists the hard way and sort of maybe go through the five stages of grief?

Your death comes to you in the most embarrassing way on your thirteenth birthday.

On your way home from school, you had decided to take the long route and found yourself walking across the edge of a bridge, arms held out to help you keep balance and your mind somewhere far away.

Unfortunately for you, though, your far away thoughts cost you your focus, so you failed to remember that it had rained last night, and the bridge was still wet from the storm's assault in result.

All in all, your realization came too late in the form of you slipping and falling into dark, deep, rushing water that sung with triumph when your form fell into its embrace and sunk into its depths.

Death didn't last long, luckily enough, but that was only because you somehow opened your eyes just after closing them in acceptance of your inevitable end.

Needless to say, when you woke up—expecting either the gates of Heaven, the fiery pits of Hell, or perhaps nothing—to find yourself staring up into the eyes of two women you had never seen before in your life, you were pretty confused.

One of the women, who just so happened to be holding you, for some reason, had [S/t] skin, long, [H/c] hair, and fox-like [E/c] eyes that stared down at you with such pure adoration, you nearly did a double take to see if maybe your eyes weren't working as well as they used to due to, you know ... dying.

The other woman was quick to take your focus from the other one, though, and that was probably because of the fact that she had horns and goat ears??

Maybe you were right about your eye sight, after all. It clearly must've had something wrong with it now, if you were starting to see people with horns and goat ears.

"[Y/n] ..." The whisper of your name makes you return your attention to the woman holding you, and she smiles down at you, emitting a sort of warmth that had you snuggling closer to her before you could even think of stopping yourself. The action seems to please her, because her smile grows and she pulls you closer, placing a kiss atop your head.

You hear the other woman chuckle, the noise fond and just as warm as the presence of the one holding you, and then watch her from the corner of your eye as she draws closer and slips her arm beneath you, wanting to cradle you as well.

"Welcome to our world, little one," you hear her say, and with their combined warmth, you can only keep your eyes open for so long before exhaustion consumes you once again.

(In the back of your mind, the horned woman's words echo; "Welcome to our world"—something meant only to be a greeting to the new being they've brought to life, yet despite this, you can't help but feel as though it also alludes to something deeper.

But for now, sleep comes first, and you promise yourself that you'll only feel semi-disappointed when you wake up and learn this was all only a dream.)

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

You're going to lose your shit.

It was not a dream. This is not a dream.

You end up balling your eyes out for hours. The two women you had thought to be mere figments of your imagination (your new parents, apparently) panic throughout the entire ordeal and do everything they can to get you to stop, but for as bad as you feel for making them worry, you just can't stop because you were dead you were supposed to be dead how is this even possible—

The only peace they get is when you're asleep, but even then, those moments can only last for so long before the nightmares—the memories have your eyes shooting open to fill with tears in seconds, and then the cycle starts all over again.

Your parents (no they're not they can't be yours and you can't be theirs oh god do they even know what's happened to you back home what happened to your body) are, understandably, very concerned. Since coming home, you've done nothing but cry and cry and cry, and nothing they do can get you to stop. They've already tried taking you to the doctor, believing for a horrifying moment that you must have been painfully ill, but the appointment only ended with the man—eyes filled with sympathy for the couple—telling them that you're actually perfectly healthy.

"I'm sorry, but I'm afraid that there isn't anything that I can do to help you," he'd said, your cries just as loud as ever and making the [E/c]-eyed woman holding you—Penelope Ophelia—gather you up from where you were sitting on her lap to rock you gently in her arms in a desperate attempt to soothe you.

"Really?" Penelope's lover, the woman the horns (that the doctor doesn't seem to notice, mind you), sent the doctor a pained, frustrated look. "Nothing at all?" she asked.

He only shook his and apologized again.

You don't know how long it's been, nor do you care. All you know is that you were dead, and then you weren't, and now all you've ever known most likely doesn't matter, because who knows if you'll ever see it again?

But then one day, as if your world couldn't be turned upside down anymore than it already has, you manage to catch Penelope's loud gasp above your crying, and then—

"Willow! I think I know why [Y/n]'s been crying!" she says, suddenly rushing over to you and lifting you up for a closer look at your head. "They have horns coming in!"

You hear someone—Willow, obviously—spit their drink out from the other room, and the shock you feel at Penelope's words turns out to be all it takes for you to finally stop crying.

'Horns'? Did you hear that right?

Clearly taking your stunned silence as a sign for whatever reason, Penelope begins to coo at you and bring you close to caress your head and kiss it, and—Oh. Oh.

You can feel them: the horns, small bumps on your head (for now), everytime Penelope's delicate hands brush over them. The movements are gentle and careful, obviously out of fear of accidentally hurting you and setting your constant crying off once more, and your mind is so caught up trying to piece together an explanation for—for all of this—that you don't even notice Willow coming into the room, a bright grin on her face as she takes in the small nubs growing from your crown and says:

"Would you look at that?" She laughs and takes you from Penelop's grasp to hold you up in the air like that monkey from The Lion King did. "Looks like I win the bet after all! Ay, little satyr?"

Willow laughs again when she sees her wife playfully roll her eyes, and you—for the first time since you've been brought to their home—remain silent while your entire world crumbles around you.

Satyr?

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The Percy Jackson series was a gift to you from your grandparents on your eleventh birthday, and you've been obsessed with it ever since.

When you found yourself sighing over the boring, mundane life you lived, you would open the books and get lost in the world of Camp Half-Blood: imagining yourself as a camper, wondering who your Godly parent would be, and grinning at the idea of getting to befriend the main cast and join them on their adventures. While you were stuck inside doing homework, Percy and his friends were out fighting monsters and meeting Gods, and a part of you—the part that always longed for something more—would wish you could reach out and join them.

And now here you were, in a world clearly not like your own, and one of your new mother's is apparently a satyr.

(You are, too, but you're not really ready to process that just yet.)

It wasn't possible—it couldn't be possible. It's not like satyrs were only relevant in Percy Jackson, after all; there are plenty of stories out there that included the mythological race! You couldn't have possibly just so happened to get reborn into the world of the book series you've adored for two years! It just—it wouldn't make sense! Clearly, one of your new guardians being a satyr was a mere coincidence. Nothing more, nothing less.

"Chiron wrote to me, recently," sighs Willow as she plops down onto the couch Penelope had decided to read a book to you on. "Looks like the camp's satyr situation is a lot more serious than I thought, if he's sending me letters and asking me to help out again."

You choke on your own spit and have Penelope frantically patting your back before the woman can even respond to what her wife just revealed.

Then, when that whole ordeal's finished, Penelope lays you down in your crib after her and Willow take turns kissing your forehead, and now you're left alone to stare up at the canopy painted to the ceiling, losing yourself to your thoughts.

This ... isn't a dream. Yeah, that's been pretty obvious for a while now, but the assurance made your shoulders feel a little lighter. This isn't a dream and ... it's a lot.

You ... What should you do? You don't know how you got here, and you honestly doubt that there's a way out, so ... Again, what should you do?

Taking a deep breath, you close your eyes and decide, for now, to just go over what you do know:

1. You've been reborn (no duh, but sometimes you just have to repeat that to yourself to properly get it through your head).

2. Your 'parents' are two women by the name of Penelope and Willow Ophelia. Willow is a satyr, and Penelope (as far as you know) is a human.

3. Again, you've been reborn, and into the world of Percy Jackson of all places.

The bigger, more logical part of you kind of wants to start crying again. Out of literally anyone in the world—your world—why was this happening to you? Everyone you've ever known, all you've ever known, are suddenly gone, and all because you decided you wanted to walk along the edge of a stupid, slippery bridge.

It's just ... so frustrating. You were never perfect, you never wanted to be perfect, but you liked to think you were a good person, at least. What could you have done to deserve this? Who could have thought you deserved this?!

Yet, still, for as badly as you want to freak out (to cry, scream, break something) you can't deny that there's a small part of you—the part of you that always knew, even if you didn't want to fully admit it to yourself, that you could never conform to what society expected from you, that wanted nothing more than to just jump into the pages of your beloved books and live out the rest of your days in Camp Half-Blood, fighting monsters and challenging Gods—that feels just a little bit ... giddy about this. Because for as much your old family tried, for as much as they loved you, they just couldn't understand why you were the way you were; couldn't make you feel seen in the way Percy, Annabeth, Nico, and all of the other demigods did.

And, Gods, that was just the biggest part of it, wasn't it?

Even after everything they'd gone through—the ignorance of adults not willing to understand, the apathy of other kids who thought lesser of those not like them, the loneliness and confusion because you didn't know what was wrong with you—they had still found a place to belong. Found people to belong to. And ... and ...

And you wanted that. More than anything in the world, back then.

But this was not your world anymore. This was theirs.

And now that you've thought about it, you realize that there's one more thing you can add to the list of 'Things I Know':

4. You've been reborn into the world of Percy Jackson, and you've already read a step-by-step guide on how to live in it.

(That morning, when Willow comes into your room to bring you down for breakfast, her forest green eyes swell with tears.

Your smile was just as beautiful as her and Penelope knew it'd be.)

Next Chapter ->

[wawawawawawawawawawawawawa]

the amount of times i Do This must be a joke at this point but here i am. doing it once more. izaya's highschool videogame SCREAMS "i just found out i have aspd and i am NOT taking it well." and i shall explain how

a preface: wrt "how did he know in high school, don't you have to be 18?" you do.... with the dsm guidelines. japan, iirc, uses a conbination of the dsm and icd to diagnose mental illnesses, and the age stipulation isn't in the icd. also, shinra could have told him, and lbr shinra wouldnt care about strictly adhering to the age thing

anyway i went thru and highlighted different parts of the videogame's text, so i can easier explain which part means what. i'll primarily be focusing on the chronic boredom associated with aspd- since izaya's game deals with patience, most musings in it will be related to that boredom. but the boredom, especially izaya's, IS important, as its the boredom that drives him to do what he does. to be what he is.

(shoutout to miyukiwinter for the scan)

so... the red bit. this relates to izaya's worldview of the need to keep evolving to escape the mundane, and it not mattering if you aim high or low. now at this point, izaya was solidly in some shady shit and clearly on the path of the low aim. but the thing is, about aspd... the boredom is all consuming. you'll do ANYTHING to not be bored. i've seen people say they developed substance abuse problems to escape the boredom, and i confess... i've done it too. it truly is THAT bad

i say all this because... izaya will never be able to stop going lower, and lower, and lower. he's fated to fall forever. maybe he wouldve been able to brush his behavior off as teenage craziness, but with a diagnosis like aspd it becomes increadingly obvious that there is no "oh, i'll mellow out once i reach my 20s." it's not going to happen, at least, not without great effort. and lets be real, nobody has any faith in aspd's recovery rates, less so in the early 2010s, so izaya upon diagnosis would see NO FUTURE for himself. no escape from the cycle. he's trapped.

the blue bits are a bit more vauge, but the undertainty turning to loss evokes the next stage after the initial shock of diagnosis: grief. and make no mistake, there IS a grieving process with mental health diagnoses. you go from being shocked and scared, to being depressed and numb.

but there's... another layer to this, with aspd. you see it with cluster b disorders in general, but aspd is HUGE in the pop culture zeitgeist

the layer is, the idea that People Like That don't feel emotions. that any emotional display is false and an explicit ploy to mainpulate someone

and when this inevitably ends up untrue, you might start to feel... odd... about feeling those emotions people say you can't feel. and one of the biggest emotions aspd gets that with, is fear and by extension, anxiety.

some aspd people genuinely do feel reduced fear! but it's far from being a diagnostic criteria, and aspd can actually be comorbid with anxiety disorders. but scientific facts and wider culture rarely match up, so the idea persists

so izaya might have started to think.... was he ever truly anxious? or worried? was he really more rotten than people thought; was he just mainpulating people the whole time? does he really not feel anxiety? was his nervousness over things like shinra leaving him or hell, this diagnosis, rendered null and void?

and then we reach the teal portion.... despair

(just a sidenote, tumblr has no teal color option so it'll just be blue)

in this sense, "the hole" refers to the endless downward spiral, and his diagnosis- but not just having it. no, "the hole" most likely refers to the moment izaya developed it in the first place.

who are you, if you thought you were in control your whole life, but you found out that the reason you do the things you do were because of foeces beyond your control? who are you now, having a label you know will cause everyone to see you as nothing but a stereotype?

why was he still alive, suffering like this? what point is it to be alive, controlled by something you can't fight, forced to make your life worse and worse and worse, until you die young?

so now what? who did this to him?

in the game, the hatred is towards "the player." and honestly this could have multiple different meanings when applied to izaya's own life

does he hate god? was he raised religious, his father being a christian, and was this what made him lose faith? what loving god would condemn someone to suffer like this?

does he hate his parents? after all, it was their genetics that passed this down, their upbringing that nurtured it, their neglect that made him the way he was. is it their fault?

or... does he hate himself, for being the way that he is? for having it in the first place, for not being able to overcome it, for having such a bad reaction to it?

for being too cowardly to kill himself?

which brings us to the final segment. awareness.

he says outright, the game is depicting the player's life. in the game itself, this ties into his mockery of players, but in a meta sense, it could be a hidden admission that it's depicting his life

especially the talk of meaningless games- fooling around with nakura creating small gangs, betting pools, and his eventual adult pastimes of messing with people. is his life enriched? no, it's merely occupied, and he knows it. he might have repressed it as an adult, but here, in high school, at this moment, he knows.

and if he can never truly alleviate his boredom, never truly be fufilled, then he can act like he's in control all he wants, but he's no better than a man falling in a hole.

[sovereignjojoz]

Distraction

Pairing: smoke/Tomas x reader, I don’t even know if I can tag this Bi-Han x reader because it’s not, but just know Bi-Han has complex ambiguous feelings towards the reader that even I don’t know?????

Summary: The grandmaster disapproves of smokes lover for some reason unbeknownst to them, so he tells them to end it. Two endings.

Warnings: angst but there’s also a separate comforting ending, one mention that reader wears a dress, self-loathing reader in the angst part.

Notes - this was going to be more angsty originally I just couldn’t picture a meaner scenario, because smoke is too nice so I just lessened the angst to something bittersweet (cry) (I want to write something gut wrenching) anyways might write something for syzoth/Bi-han next idk. Requests are always open!!

Bi-Han, the ever stoic Sub-Zero, found himself in an unexpected dilemma, and it was all Tomas’ fault.

Or more specifically your fault.

Recently, Tomas had gotten a lover. Although some may think otherwise the grandmaster was not adverse to such things so long as they didn’t become a distraction.

You were a distraction.

You couldn't be more different from the warriors of their clan. You were like a breath of warmth in the icy corridors of the Lin Kuei compound, bubbly, kind-hearted, and devoid of combat prowess, you stood out like a flower in a field of snow.

While smoke was smitten with your gentle nature and somewhat naivety, Bi-Han couldn't shake off his disapproval.

Your unfiltered presence felt like a disruption to the disciplined order of their lives, a stark contrast to the solemn silence that usually enveloped the Lin Kuei.

Even now he could hear Tomas trying to hush up the sound of muffled laughter and giggles from the other side of the compound, was a place of komat and violence really a place for laughter to make home?

The grandmaster often tried to keep his distance as a result hoping that the incompatibility of you in their lifestyle would become increasingly clear, yet it had been months and it seemed as though you had no intention to leave Tomas’ side.

He didn’t understand what Tomas saw in you, of course your exterior beauty was clear to all (although Tomas wasn’t one to judge on appearance alone) but you were a non fighter. Bi-Han likened your presence to a fragile glass sculpture delicately balanced on the edge of a precipice, it was as though you needed a box to protect you from the harshness of the compound as it seemed as though a mere wispre could shatter your delicacy - and they were never one for whispering.

Perhaps Tomas could be considered the box you sought out, a sanctuary where you could retreat from the harshness of the world and cocoon yourself in layers of protection, so not to mar your fragile heart.

Yet was Tomas considered capable? Many occasions he’d returned home bloodied and bruised, wracking your heart with grief where you should have been finding solace. Sniffles and sobs lined the walls of the corridors while smoke tried his best to be comforting. He knew how this song and dance played out, a few forlorn touches whilst being patched up then the distress would cease (and in its place came the sound of affection).

Such a cycle will be futile for the one who is considered soft hearted, would it not? With enough pressure even resilience can shatter.

He supposed that was the good thing with his younger brother, he never put pressure on you which is why you were always able to be somewhat resilient and converse freely with him.

He was a firsthand witness to this many times and coincidentally one of those many times he overheard you two freely conversing was currently taking place.

“Tomas please don’t,” you begged loudly, and pouted willing him to look you in the eye.

When it came to many things Tomas was strong willed, but you were his one exception, you’d leave him inexplicably weak “pretty, you know I have to, water is quite literally gushing out of the chamber you stay in.” He countered as he pulled you along behind him.

You made a dismissive gesture with your hand, “But you know that is no issue to me, in fact it will just be like sleeping on a water bed.”

Tomas chuckled heartily, “you’re funny you know baby. Okay then it’s not an issue with you but it is an issue with me, can’t have you getting sick.”

You tried to hold him in place by hugging him, “my immune systems is top notch you know!” But he just threw you over his shoulder with ease and continued walking. “Besides can’t I just sleep with you?”

He felt your smaller fists pound on his back urging him to let you down, it was akin to a marshmallow pounding on wood. “You know I would love that but the grandmaster forbid us from sharing a room because of last time.”

You rested your face on his head sighing, “it was your fault, you were the one who squealed.”

He pinched your hip lightly, although it was enough to make you involuntarily yelp. “Let’s not forget who bit me.”

“Hey you knowingly signed up for that when we started dating.”

He flashed you a smile as he threw you down on the couch and brought out an imaginary key to lock you up with.

You gasped betrayed, “I know I know, ‘m sorry! I didn’t want to have to resort to this but your presence is too captivating, just give me three minutes my angel then I’m all yours.”

You relented beckoning him to go on so you could brood whilst you waited for him, the grand master watched this whole debacle go down and decided to make his presence known.

His presence startled you leading you to jump up upon his entrance, “good evening grandmaster.” You palmed at your dress in a state of nervousness.

The tall male eyed you up and down, “where is Tomas.”

“Smokey-” a disapproving frown crept onto his face, you cleared your throat, uncomfortable, “Tomas just left.”

He clicked his tongue, annoyed. “Yes that is evident, to where.”

You bit your bottom lip “he, um, went to the bedroom to fix a broken tap.”

His eyes flickered to you, a harsh glare almost making you want to flinch, “everything in the lin kuei compound is made to perfection, how did it break.”

You took a couple steps back as his proximity slightly intimidated you, “we shared a bath together a-and I must have splashed around to much, I’m really sorry grandmaster please don’t blame smok-”

“Enough.” His glare was enough to silence your nervous rambling. “Sit. I’m going to speak to Tomas, do not disturb us.”

It seemed as though you wanted to say something but you held yourself back deciding to sit down like he instructed you (good choice).

When Tomas heard footsteps approaching he initially thought nothing of it, thinking you had tired of being by your lonesome and wanted his attention again.

Then he heard the heaviness to the footsteps, those weren’t your delicate footsteps.

He used his vestment to wipe the sweat off his brow before answering the door.

“Grandmaster.” Tomas greeted.

Bi-Jan forced his own entry into the room, locking the door behind them, tension hanging thick in the air.

Smoke tried to read his expression his but it was unreadable, although it seemed like a form of inevitable confrontation was about to occur based on the face he was currently making.

“Is there anything-?”

“You are becoming reckless Tomas.”

Smoke furrowed his brows in confusion, he had no idea what the grandmaster was referring to. “What?”

“You broke a tap.”

Tomas rubbed his nape sheepishly, “technically you could say that, but I’ve already fixed it.”

Bi-han stepped closer to smoke, “It is beyond unacceptable.”

“It was a mistake.”

“Do we tolerate mistakes?”

Smoke had a lingering suspicion this issue ran deeper than the tap, of course Bi-Han would be displeased about his broken tap however he seemed to snappy for the issue to just be about the tap.

“We don’t but [name] didn’t mean to-?”

“Answer.”

“No?”

“Yet irregardless of that you did not show up to morning training.” A look of recognition flashed across smokes face, “as your grandmaster that will not be tolerated. You must end your relationship with [name].”

A look of disbelief overcame Tomas’ face. “What? Where is this coming from, why would I do that?” He asked, hurt seeped in his voice.

Bi-Han pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled, “[name] is a distraction and a liability, if [name] were here now your focus would slip and you would struggle to focus on anything else evidently shown by the way you missed morning training.”

“That was my own decision.” Tomas answered defending you from Bi-Hans criticism, “[name] only asked if I would join, I was the one who said yes full well knowing about the training. If anyone is to blame it’s me.”

“It doesn’t matter Tomas. The fact you even said yes proves how far gone you are. [name] is not a warrior nor a medic but a weakness, an attachment to you that makes you vulnerable and puts us all at risk.”

Tomas’ jaw clenched in frustration, “Grandmaster please excuse me but you have no right to judge. You do not understand what you are talking about, [name] is not my weakness.”

“You are being selfish in your pursuits Tomas. Perhaps if she were a warrior there would be room negotiate but someone so tenuous is pitiful.”

“Then forgive me for being selfish grandmaster but I will not relent.” Tomas turned sharply on his heel to exit the room.

Angsty ending

“You will. If you dare to disobey me then take your stuff with you because you will no longer reside here.”

Tomas stopped in his tracks, his hand shakily hovering over the door knob.

He knew he had no more room to argue but he wanted to, more so than ever since it was a battle between his head and his heart.

Tomas threw his head back, exhaling angrily through his nostrils, then he pulled opened the door brashly and stormed out.

He rubbed his hand over his eyes, cursing under his breath.

“Smokey?” He saw your head appear into his view from around the corner, “is everything alright?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you sure?” You wrapped your arms tightly around his middle hoping to comfort him, “you seem tense?”

Smoke said nothing and just pulled you close with a desperate longing that was almost too tight. There's a sense of safety in the closeness as your breaths synchronise with his. You frowned pitifully and pulled his head down to your shoulder, gently caressing his hair.

“It’s okay.” You kissed his cheek.

“It’s not.”

“You can tell me what’s the matter?”

He lifted his head up trying to maintain his composed mask, “Bi-Han wants us to break up.”

Your shock lead your grip to loosen on him however he reacted quickly putting it back where it once was.

“Oh.”

He ran a hand through his ashen hair, “don’t worry, we’re not breaking up I’ll just deal with the consequences.” He spoke attempting to give you a reassuring smile but it came out more wry.

It was quite hard to process your current emotions but you were trying your best, “what are the consequences?”

“I’m out.”

Shock painted your face, “you can’t do that this is your whole life, you love it here.”

He brought your hand to his face, “I also love you.”

“I know.” You sniffled and tried your best to wipe the unruly tears that slipped out of the corner of your eyes.

You sighed. “He hates me, right? I must have done something again and now he’s had enough of me, it’s all my fault, I-I’m so stupid-!” You hit your head twice before smoke caught your hands and held them together tightly.

“stop it.”

Despite your hands being bound, you got past him and manage to wrap your hands around his blade, “what if I just cut my hair or if I talk less, I’ll change whatever he wants, I’ll study everything and become more proper…I’ll do anything to make him like me more for you-” smoke tuned out the rest of what was being discussed as he felt you trying to pull the blade towards your hair, he knew irrationality was getting to you. You tried your best to overpower him yet you knew it wouldn’t be possible, he was a warrior you were nothing.

The blade flicked out of your hand and made a small gash on your cheek, but the wound stung more from your saline tears than the actual sharpness of the blade.

His thumb wiped the blood and tears off of your soft skin, “it’s okay, you’ll be alright and I don’t care what he think I like you how you are, I never want you to change.”

“Well that would be good if the grandmaster didn’t hate current me that you love. Why does he hate me, he probably has a good reason anyway…All I want is to be with you…nothing else. but I’m not going to hold you back regardless.”

Smoke purses his lips. He had no answer for you, he couldn’t quite wrap his head around what the grandmasters peculiarity with you was or where this sudden snap came from, he didn’t want to doubt his grandmaster but he felt like there was more to this so called ‘dislike’ if he could even call it that.

His head was a mess.

“There is no good reason.” He didn’t answer your question, instead he just pulled you close into his embrace.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault Tomas.”

“Yeah but still, it’s not fair. You shouldn’t doubt yourself like this thinking it’s your fault and our relationship shouldn’t be ending. Period. I should be able to do something but…If only things could have been different.” Or the grandmaster could have understood instead of being an arrogant ‘know-it-all’, “then…” the words died out on his tongue.

Your lips sadly turned upwards as you stroked his cheek, “but they’re not so there’s no time for lamenting, so I guess this is goodbye Smokey.”

As you took your hand away from his cheek he immediately felt the loss of warmth, replaced with a coolness he didn’t think he’d ever be forced to get used to.

But at least his heart was ignited one last time seeing you smile, even if it was in sadness and not long lasting, it would be a while before he let that smoke fizzle out.

“Goodbye sweetheart.”

Comforting ending

Before you were even aware of what was happening to you, a tug of your hand was pulling you forward leaving you stumbling to catch up with your feet.

“Tomas? Where are we going?”

He continued walking at a brisk pace, not stopping till you were outside the compound, “just for a walk, need to let some steam off.”

“You need to cool off some smoke?” You joked laughing at your pun.

That managed to crack a small smile from him, “and Bi-Han wants this to end,” he muttered under his breath.

You tilted your head at him in a curious manner, “what?”

He stopped beneath a tree, decorated with soft glistening snow on top of the wooden branches. He tuned towards you and squished your cheeks together before giving you a soft kiss. “Don’t worry.”

“Okay!”

You couldn’t figure out what it was but he was heavily concentrated on something in the distance right now, his face was clouded by a far a way look till he abruptly turned to face you. “Hey, do you want to get married?”

You gasped surprised, “really? You’d marry me!”

Smoke grinned enthusiastically, “would I? Of course I would!”

You jumped on him to excited to contain yourself making him stumble backwards before he steadied himself and you, “okay! It would probably only take me like two days to find a dress and we could just go down and sign the documents unless you wanted to have a big official thing but I’m not sure how that would-”

He pinched your lips while laughing to silence your rambling, “how about now?”

“But we have nothing I-!”

He cut you off once more, “we don’t need anything, just us, it will make it special! sure it will be informal but only us two will get it!”

“Here look,” he grabbed your smaller hands in his larger coarse hands, “[name], may I be forever yours.”

“Yes, you may Tomas.”

He grinned and pulled his face towards you, giving you a tender and lasting smooch. “Now we’re married!”

“You hit him lightly on his shoulder, “you were meant to wait for me to repeat it!”

He pulled you down to the floor, making you sit on his lap, “M sorry, ‘m sorry! I couldn’t wait.”

You sighed content, laying your head on top of his muscular shoulder, “it’s okay, you have forever to make it up to me.”

His lips curled upwards as he rested his head on top of yours.

Yeah, forever sounds nice.

[elysiaheaven]

hellooo!!! i dont know if youre accepting requests but feel free to not write this one if you are unable to!! 🫧

maybe.. ronin with a reader who is like yoisaki kanade from prsk?

https://projectsekai.fandom.com/wiki/Yoisaki_Kanade heres her wiki for a brief reading about her character if you are willing to do this! have a great day ^__^

When you were young, your mother’s lullabies were the only melodies that could soothe your restless mind. But those songs faded into silence when she fell ill and passed away, leaving a gaping void in your heart and your home. It was just you and your father now—a musician who scraped by on commissions. Music became the only way the two of you communicated, filling the spaces words couldn’t.

Your father, though worn down by grief, saw the brilliance in you early on. "You’re blessed by music," he’d say with a weary smile, his hands calloused from years of playing. He found hope in your compositions, and as you grew older, your melodies began to replace the conversations you never had. Music became your lifeline.

One cold evening, your father struggled to compose a piece for a contest. No matter how many times he adjusted the notes, they refused to fit, like a puzzle missing its final piece. Watching his frustration build, you hesitated, but in the end, you offered a section of your own. His tired eyes lit up with cautious hope, and he used it.

To your surprise, the song won the competition, and soon it was everywhere—playing on radios, in commercials, in cafes. But as the accolades poured in, something shifted in your father. The song’s success rested heavily on the part you had written, and clients began demanding music in the same style—something he couldn’t reproduce on his own.

He threw himself into his work, driven by pride, desperation, and guilt. Day after day, night after night, he composed relentlessly, his body breaking under the pressure to keep up with the spark you.

After that, you wanted to write a song. But, there was no inspiration.

After that, you met him.

He was your muse.

You sit in your cluttered apartment, the low hum of your computer fan blending with the unfinished melody you’ve been cycling through for hours. The notes taunt you from the screen—nearly perfect, but not quite enough. It’s always like this. Every sound you create feels like it’s missing something, slipping through your fingers just as you’re about to grasp it. Your body aches from exhaustion, and the cold air from the cracked window brushes against your skin, reminding you of how little you’ve slept.

You don’t have time to care. This song has to be perfect. It has to save someone, or what’s the point?

The door clicks open without a knock, and you barely register it. Only one person ever shows up unannounced like this. You hear his boots first—heavy, deliberate—and then the familiar clink of metal against leather as he drags his crowbar lazily in his grip.

"Still at it, huh?" Ronin’s voice cuts through the room like a rough, playful chord. He leans against the doorframe, his plum-colored hair spilling messily from under his black beanie. A lazy grin spreads across his lips, but you know better than to mistake it for kindness. His sharp gaze sweeps over your unkempt figure, cataloging every missed meal, every hour of lost sleep.

You don't bother looking up. "I’m almost done." Your fingers hover over the keys, trembling slightly. You’ve been saying that for days now, and he knows it.

Ronin strolls over with that familiar, unhurried saunter, like he’s got all the time in the world to spend on you—or break you, if the mood strikes him. He crouches next to your chair, his arm draping lazily over the backrest.

"Y’know, darlin," he whispers, close enough for his breath to tickle your ear, "if this song’s supposed to save people, it’s doing a pretty bad job of saving you."

You wince, the guilt settling like lead in your chest. You’ve spent so long trying to atone for what it was your father's hard work—every song, every sleepless night, is your way of making things right. But here Ronin is, unbothered and always five steps ahead, poking at the cracks you try so hard to hide.

"Ronin," you mutter, "I don’t have time for this."

He hums, amused, leaning closer until his lips graze your temple. "Sure, sure. I know. You’re saving the world one sad little melody at a time." There’s a hint of mockery in his tone, but beneath it, there’s something else—something darker, harder to pin down. "But what if I don’t let you?"

You glance at him now, your tired eyes locking with his. That smirk of his widens. He’s enjoying this—teasing you, watching how far he can push until you finally snap.

"Go home, Ronin."

He laughs, soft and low, and it sends a shiver down your spine. "Nah. I think I’ll stay."

Before you can react, Ronin slips a hand under your chin, tilting your face toward him with deliberate slowness. His grip is gentle, but there’s a warning in the way his fingers linger. "If you won’t stop for yourself," he murmurs, his eyes gleaming with something dangerous, "then I’ll stop you."

You open your mouth to protest, but he presses a quick kiss to your forehead, cutting you off. It’s not sweet—it’s possessive, like he’s staking a claim.

"You’re mine, after all," he whispers, brushing his thumb over the curve of your jaw. "And I don’t share what’s mine with some stupid song."

The words hit like a dissonant chord—jarring, unsettling, but somehow... comforting. Ronin’s chaos has always been like that—off-kilter, unpredictable, but weirdly grounding in a way that makes the world feel less lonely.

With a smirk still curling at his lips, Ronin pulls away, yanking the power cord from your computer. The screen goes black. Your heart lurches, panic clawing at your chest.

"Ronin!" you shout, your voice hoarse with frustration, but he just chuckles.

"Relax, sweetheart," he says, tucking his crowbar into his belt like this is all some grand joke. "Song’ll still be there tomorrow. You, on the other hand..." He drapes an arm over your shoulder, pulling you into his side like it’s the most natural thing in the world. "You’ve got about ten minutes before you pass out from exhaustion."

You want to be mad. You should be mad. But the warmth of his body against yours and the steadiness of his presence steal the fight from you.

"You can fight me tomorrow," Ronin murmurs, his voice soft but laced with that familiar edge. "For now, sleep."

And for once, you listen. Because maybe—just maybe—letting someone else carry the weight doesn’t feel so bad. Not when that someone is Ronin.

[thatonebirdwrites]

Sneak peak from my as yet unreleased fic, Shattered but Whole (this is an excerpt)

EXCERPT (from second part - Unravels. There is also Lena's Tale from The Event and Kara's Tale also in Unravels. A third part Integration is still being written. I'll post full fic at end of month hopefully):

Sam's Tale

Sam places the soup on the coffee table. The lack of sleep burns behind her eyes, partly due to Rory's tendency to wander. She sits down on the sofa and manages a smile for the huddled form under the pile of blankets.

Stubborn and unflinching like steel, Rory has failed to eat more than a few sips of broth for the past day. Frustration boils in Sam, but what can she do? She can't let that emotion show.

So she takes a deep breath to calm herself. Pictures the tidal pools, where her, Ruby, and Lena used to walk on weekends before Lex's escape and carefully crafted lies and manipulations that strangled the leadership of two countries and nearly killed them all.

Sam remembers the fires that raged from the satellite weapon. One blast had incinerated parts of Kansas, burning wheat fields, and destroying the town of Smallville. Then another blast had ripped through downtown Metropolis, obliterating one of the news stations and its neighboring buildings.

At the time, Sam had been making dinner when the flash of red swept across the sky. Next came the booms and the brief quake, then the horrid silence before the sirens started up. Most channels in town had gone off-air, but those from one state over functioned fine. It relayed images of the destruction, and how the Claymore satellite turned toward space again. Sam had started packing immediately, while she did everything she could to keep Ruby distracted.

Then hours later, Lena had called.

Sam won't ever forget how her voice whispered Sam's name over and over in a pained, panicked way, as if Sam was the rope she held tightly to keep from falling. In the background, she had heard booms and white noise. At first, she feared Lena had been near the epicenter, only to learn she was instead on the other side of the country. And the booms were just thunder.

Sam runs a hand through her hair. Stress and anxiety hangs like a shawl, the intense rush to reach National City still sizzling in her limbs. She should have returned sooner, before this tragedy.

“Rory,” Sam says gently. Grief coils in her chest when Lena's face turns to her, only for Rory's wide green-blue eyes to meet hers. As always, the haunted expression breaks Sam’s heart a little more. “It’s okay. I’m not angry. I’m just worried. Eating will help you feel better. So how about a few bites?”

Tentatively, Rory reaches out to prod the spoon in the bowl. It swirls the ingredients in little whirlpools.

For Rory to front this long? Without any sign of Kieran or Lena? Worry joins Sam's grief and exhaustion. It's been two — possibly three if she counts the night of Supergirl’s rescue— days with no sign of the others.

“We had to. We had to end the cycle.” Lena's words said so brokenly.

Sam isn’t a fool. Lena/Kieran killed Lex and burned the evidence. She still doesn't know how this came about or why it transpired in Northern California.

Will burning it all be good enough? Should she devise alibis just in case? This really isn’t her purview — Lena is the strategist or Jack. Sam is more of the ‘wild ideas and toss at wall to see if they stick’ person.

Advice definitely needed, but who to call?

Sam taps her fingers against her knee and teases her mind for solutions. How would Jack or Lena approach this? Systematically. Sam is decent with math, but she's never been able to keep up with those science geniuses.

Systematic she can do. She unlocks her phone to peruse her options.

Alex Danvers, FBI agent, who likely knows what they need for alibis. Can Sam trust Alex not to align with her job and bring in Lena?

The news this morning documented Supergirl's fight with Lex and the liberation of the alien power plant. Catco released the first part of a three-part article that exposes of Lex's megalomania and genocidal plans. Kara really outdid herself with that piece.

The tide favoring Lex shifts slowly. No, she can't trust anyone associated with the government. Not until Sam has definitive evidence they won't turn on Lena or Supergirl still.

Fine, whose next?

Kelly Olsen, Lena's therapist. Or soon to be ex-therapist due to Kelly dating Alex Danvers now. Due to Lex's brief reign of terror, Kelly and Lena — as far as Sam knows — hadn't had time to find a suitable replacement to continue Lena's work on integration.

Kara Danvers then? A rather naive journalist, who apparently is Supergirl's alter ego. Or maybe Supergirl is Kara's alter ego. That stormy night Supergirl rescued Lena confirmed they are one and the same.

Lena adores Kara, but her words that stormy night: “Did you know Kara is an alien?” had held a layer of pain.

Sam sighs and rubs her temple. The only other number she has is for James Olsen, who she doesn't trust farther than she can spit. He may have dated Lena, but he'd never truly let go of Lena's last name. Sam wishes she'd never pushed Lena to try, but that was before she understood the depth of Lena's feelings for Kara.

The clink of a spoon echoes softly in the sterile apartment. Rory still hasn't attempted food. Only swirls and swirls, the whirlpools sink into the depths of the cup and reveal bits and pieces of vegetables.

Sam watches and blinks back tears. Jack would have known what to do. He'd likely be mobilizing alibis and lawyers already, but he lay in a coma, trapped since the nanite catastrophe that destroyed Spheerical Industries. A memory Sam tries to avoid. Kieran and Rory had fronted for weeks after that disaster.

“Lena,” Sam whispers, “I know you're in there.” She reaches out to brush black hair from Rory's face. “How would you or Kieran handle this?”

Rory glances at her, her eyebrows scrunched as if in thought. Her other hand lifts from under the blankets and forms the sign for ‘endure.'

Yes, Sam knows Rory is the one that endures. Helplessness seeps through her limbs. She looks down at her phone and flips through the contacts again with her thumb. One by one names trickle by until she stops at Kara Danver's name.

“I’m going to make a phone call,” she tells Rory. “When I get back, I want at least some of this soup eaten. Then we can watch your favorite show. Or maybe play a game?”

Rory tilts her head, and her face contorts — wrinkles in forehead, scrunched eyebrows, flared nostrils, slight grimace, and sucked in cheeks — a sign of a possible switch.

Sam holds her breath in hope.

The expression fades, and Rory tugs blankets tighter around her body. One hand grips the spoon again and forms the whirlpools once more.

Sam lets out her breath. “Promise me, you'll eat? Otherwise, no games later.”

Rory narrows her eyes but reluctantly nods. Sam will take that as progress.

Standing, she glances at her daughter, who sits curled up in the armchair by the sofa. Her latest book — a science fiction novella about nonbinary monks and robots — lays open in her lap. Ruby's fingers crinkle the page right before she turns it.

Sam marvels for the millionth time how much Ruby looks like her. Only her nose and thicker build gives any hint of the worthless father.

Her baby, the reason for much of what Sam does. Today, Ruby's hair curls down past her shoulders, still damp from a shower, and her brown eyes scan the pages of her book. She looks up at Sam, her eyebrows furrowed in worry.

“Keep an eye on her, Rubes. I’ll be on the balcony.”

Ruby gives her a thumbs-up. She knows the drill. In a way, she and Rory act as sisters, which puts Sam in the weird-ass role of mother figure when Rory fronts.

So very different from the best friend role Sam holds for Lena, and the nebulous more than friend role for Kieran. All aspects that leaves Sam in a strange limbo of not able to ever confess her feelings.

Outside, the wind blows cool, the taste of salt off the ocean. Sam leans against the railing and struggles to hold back her tears. Is this disaster the one that finally breaks her best friend?

Sam had promised herself long ago to make sure Lena was never alone wih Lex, and yet, three days ago that exact scenario played out while Sam was stuck in Metropolis. She'd been there for the past three months fixing a major production and accounting mishap, which meant Ruby temporarily enrolling in the school in the interim.

Convenient that such a mishap happened just when Lex strolls back into Lena's life. Sam rubs her eyes and slumps against the railing. The mishap she repaired had been sabotage, that Sam knows, but she can't scrounge up enough evidence to confirm by whom.

Even though in her heart she's positive it was Lex's way to separate her and Lena.

To isolate Lena slowly. Like he always does.

Sam can't ever forget the moment she learns of his abuse. During the initial merger, years ago, Lena had been sitting in her office after a meeting with Lex. Sam only came by to drop off her report, but what she found alarmed her. Lena's expression had been twisted in what looked like pain. Her red, chafed skin and the red mark on her left cheek ignited a deep need to protect in Sam.

Yet she'd failed. All their work to free Lena from the Luthors shredded by Lex. The urge to scream and rip apart the world seethes in Sam.

At least Lex is dead. The fucking bastard. But it should have been her hands that did it. Not Lena's.

She rubs away her angry tears and pulls out her phone. Thumbs through the unlock and hovers over Kara's name. A number she's had since the worldkiller crisis ten months ago. That time of horror is where Sam finally understood viscerally the amnesiac episodes.

***

Sam stands in an alley. Her boots are muddy, and her head stuffed with cotton. Her breath catches in her throat, her lungs raw. Her body feels not her own, like a puppet on strings. She looks down at her hands, the grime under her nails unfamiliar. Her stomach twists in knots, her head aches, and she wants to curl up and weep.

How did she get here? Where is she?

Fog coils in her mind and sizzles with lightning. The air charged with apprehension despite the cloudless night glaring down at her.

Memories seep through slowly: She was skating on a rink with Ruby, who easily kept pace with her. Sam had turned to skate backward and make faces at her daughter. Typical pre-teen response of rolled eyes, but the hint of a smile gave away Ruby's amusement.

She'd just turned to skate forward again when a ringing started in her ears. Ruby passed her, while Sam's vision fogged over. Whispers crept into her ears: let go, let go.

Dark woods loomed then, while the fog tugs her from the fluorescent lights of the indoor rink. Bare branches curved like hands that reach for her, until darkness coats her mind and body. Freezing cold slithers through her.

Only to wake here, in an alleyway, alone.

Terror ignites.

Ruby.

Where is Ruby? She digs through her pockets but finds nothing. No phone.

Wait, why is she in khakis and navy blue button-down shirt? Where is her jeans and T-shirt she'd been wearing skating?

Why is one of her sleeves caked with blood? But she has no wounds.

Ruby. Her feet jerk into motion, and she sprints from the alley.

Car engines and horns assault her ears. She’s a block from L-corp. Definitely phones there to borrow. She dodges through the slow, meandering traffic, and ignores the driver's curses and car horns.

She bursts through L-corp’s doors. To the left is the security desk, where a lone guard reads a magazine, his only light a small lamp. The rest of the building is dark except for the fluorescent lights near the elevators and stairs. Sounds of traffic fade into a faint roar, only interrupted by the crinkle of pages.

Shadows stalk across the foyer, like the woods of her nightmares. One shadow forms the figure of a woman, red eyes aglow. She takes a step backward, her breath caught in her throat and her stomach bubbling with nausea.

“Ms. Arias?” the voice cuts through her frozen terror. The figure vanishes.

Sam turns to see a plump, older man at the security desk. His hazel eyes look up from his book, his mouth in a confused grimace.

“Are you all right?”

No, she most definitely is not. She can't let it show. Breathe, she tells herself. Four, eight, twelve, sixteen, twenty… she counts until her hands stop shaking. “Bill," she asks, slowly, "can I use your phone?”

“Uh, sure.” He turns his desk phone around to face her.

Sam dials Lena’s number. Her fingers tremble despite her attempts to calm down.

To her relief, Lena picks up after one ring. “This is Ms. Luthor speaking.”

“Lena, oh thank god you answered," she clutches the phone, almost in tears at her familiar voice. "Please, where are you? Where is Ruby?”

“Sam?” Relief floods Lena’s voice. “Sam, I’m at the office. Where are you? I can—”

“I’m coming upstairs.” Sam hangs up and sprints for the elevator. As the elevator ascends, she paces back and forth, terrified and nauseated. Her body aches from head to toe as if she’d been in a fight, but she has no memory of the past few hours — days?

It's been two months of horrific nightmares and amnesiac episodes. One month of trying to hide it all under a veneer of practiced poise.

Shadows play across the elevator walls, and one sneers like a face of a demon. She jerks backward, her back hitting the wall. Whispers in a language she can't quite distinguish sinks into the dark. Strange symbols form on her arms, and she tries to rub them away to no avail.

The metal of the elevator forms a face with red eyes.

No. No, no! She hits the buttons on the elevator desperate to escape. The elevator shivers and clanks. Horror stalks her.

"Four, eight, twelve," she says, out loud, desperate to calm herself. "Sixteen, twenty…"

The elevator doors open to darkness, except for a red light at the end of the hall. No, she can't enter that. The doors shut, and she slumps to the ground, her arms around herself. The doors open three more times, and each time she's met with a gloom so deep, she swears she can hear the creaking of branches.

She’s never been more terrified in her life. For these episodes to increase in severity, for them to now impact her daughter? Sam wants to scream and rip herself to shreds.

The fourth time the doors open, light cascades into the room. She throws herself into the precious light. Scrambling to her feet, her boots pound against the tiles as she sprints down the hallway, past a conference room, past Jess' empty desk, and finally to the door of her office.

She tugs open the door, her breaths sharp and agonized.

A figure sits at the desk, the glow of a tablet across her porcelain features and glossy black hair. A fluffy scarf wraps around the woman's neck, her jacket open to show a shiny red shirt that is far too reminiscent of blood.

Recognition sparks. Lena. It's only Lena. Relief stops her mad dash. “Where’s Ruby?”

“Sam! Thank god you’re okay.” Lena sweeps to her feet, her Irish accent faint, which means it’s Lena fronting. Kieran always has a heavy Irish brogue. She takes a few hesitant steps around the desk, but pauses a few feet away. Her concern etched into her perfect features. “Ruby called me right away. I took her home. I — I thought I’d check the office again in hope you’d return here. Like you had the other times.”

“Oh my god.” Sam turns away and presses her hand to her forehead. “How could I do this to her?” She throws her hand down and starts to pace. “What if I’d been driving at the time?”

Her imagination unhelpfully provides a vivid image of a crash and a bloodied body. Bile rises in Sam's throat.

Lena holds up her hands as if to placate her. “She’s safe, Sam. She did the right thing by calling for help.”

Right, help. Good. Emergency plan enacted. Yet Ruby never should have needed it.

Sam takes a deep breath and turns back to Lena. “Was she scared?”

Lena’s shoulders droop then, but the tension in her body shows in her creased brows “Yes. We all are.” Cautiously, Lena approaches her, one hand still upheld. “Do — do you remember anything?”

Sam shakes her head. Whispers, shadowed woods, and fog provides no clues. “No. No, I don’t. Same as always.”

Lena tugs at her fingers. “Ruby told me about the other times.”

Sam stares at her, unable to fathom at first Lena's meaning. “She doesn’t know,” she says, finally. “I — I haven’t told her yet.”

“She’s a smart kid. Had a time-line of dates, times, and places —”

“You told a twelve year old that her mother is sick with a illness no one can diagnose?” A coiling horror mixed with anger shudders through her body. No, Ruby can't know. “Seriously?”

“Sam, she already knew.” Lena holds up her hands again, as if to ward off Sam’s anger. “I simply reassured her that you didn’t abandon her. That we’re looking into this.”

“Si—”

The world sears in sudden frigid cold. It weaves into her bones, as dark grey fog coils. Let go, a whisper curls into her ears. A face forms in the mists, skull with no eyes, and hands reach up from the ground.

Bare branches leer over her like clawed hands. She staggers backward, only to hit the desk.

She’s back in the office. “What — what…” Bile burns her throat.

Lena stands on the other side of her, her arms around herself, and a haunted look in her eyes. She blinks and drops her hands to her side. “Sam? Are — are you back?”

Sam slowly backs up until her legs hit a chair. She lowers herself, shaken.

“Sam? Did you just have a blackout?”

Terror throttles her breathing, her gasps sharp and pained. Nodding, she shivers and grips the chair.

Lena holds up her hands as if to calm her down. “You don’t remember anything you just said?”

Tears blur her vision. She shakes her head. “I need help,” she whispers. Something more than therapy, more than Alex’s MRI and CT tests. Something that can dig deep into why these episodes happen when it’s never happened prior.

“Sam, do you trust me?” Lena drops to one knee next to Sam’s chair, and gently grasps her hands.

Sam clings to Lena’s warm and grounding touch and nods.

“Let me run some tests. You’ll have to stay in the basement lab for the night.” Lena bites her lip and looks down at their hands. “If I’m right about this, you’re in grave danger.”

Dread weighs heavy on Sam. “Whatever is needed, do it.” If anyone can find what’s wrong, it’d be her best friend. The person who understands amnesiac episodes, the one who is a genius with biology and engineering — the person Sam trusts and loves more than anyone else in the universe. “You’ll watch Ruby?”

“Of course. She’s in a safe place right now, and with someone I trust to keep an eye on her.”

Her words help only marginally; Sam can’t help but worry for her daughter. To not be able to see her? Out of fear of what she might do in an episode? The tears escape despite all her attempts to hold them at bay.

“I promise you I’ll figure this out. We’ll find the cure together.” Lena wraps an arm around her shoulder, while her other hand rubs her thumb over Sam’s knuckles. Exactly the same way Sam does during Lena’s panic attacks or amnesiac episodes. Oh, how the tables have turned.

True to her word, Lena sets her up in a medical bed in the basement lab and runs the battery of tests. Her best friend says very little, her entire focus on her work — like always when she hyperfocuses.

Needles used shimmer with a hint of green and leave a weird ache after. Hum of machines scan her insides, and the tool to scrape a sample from inside her mouth feels cold and unnerving. The only words spoken are gentle but short explanations of each procedure.

She knows Lena does it to try to calm her.

Nothing will calm her. Not until they know the truth.

Sam wonders if feeling shattered or scared is how Lena is all the time. If so, how does she cope? Admiration for Lena’s strength and resiliency floods Sam. Lena’s spent a life like this, while Sam falls apart after only a few months.

“This last test relies on you sleeping.” Lena stands a few feet away, her hands clasped in front of her. Her accent has stayed faint these last few hours, which means Kieran hasn’t fronted once. “Do you think you can sleep?”

Sam rubs her eyes. “Maybe. I’m exhausted enough.”

For a moment, Lena stands silently, her expression contorts almost in pain. She takes in a sharp breath, and her shoulders straighten, her posture rigid. A switch.

“Then rest.” Her best friend steps up to the bed, her accent a thick Irish brogue, where each word is pronounced slowly as if she tastes each one. That signals this is now Kieran. “We will watch over you.” She gently kisses Sam’s forehead and smooths back her hair.

Sam aches to hold her and be held in turn. Instead, she grasps Kieran’s hand. “Can — can you really cure this?”

“Not me, luv,” Kieran says, tenderly. “Lena can. She has a plan. We just need more data.” Her hand continues to stroke Sam’s hair, her other tightly holding Sam’s left. “Close your eyes now, and I shall sing you to sleep.”

Of Lena’s many parts, Kieran is the only one that can hold a tune, and she sings an Irish ballad. It ripples over Sam and encases her in warmth. She finally drifts to a dreamless sleep.

When she wakes, her head aches, her vision blurry, and her shoulder hurts. She reaches up and realizes there’s a device there, but she can’t quite see what it is.

“Lena? Kieran?” She’s not sure who is fronting for her friend.

“It's Lena.” Lena looks up from the desk, where several papers are scattered along with a tablet and a laptop. She gives her a faint smile. Dark circles line her eyes. Likely barely slept. Typical of her. “How do you feel?”

“Achey. What — what is this?” She taps the device.

“Precaution.” Lena stands and walks closer, only to stop a few feet away. “I — I have good and bad news.”

“Surely not as bad as the world ending?” Sam jokes.

Lena doesn’t laugh nor does she smile. Her eyes narrow instead. “I reviewed our data and the timeline of your episodes.”

The seriousness in Lena’s stance, the faint wisp of her accent, and the pain in her tone makes it clear that Sam isn’t going to like her next words. She braces herself.

“Your episodes align with when Reign appears.”

Sam jolts upright in shock. “No. That’s crazy.”

Lena frowns. “The data I’ve taken has provided proof. I suspect when you left on your trip ‘to find your origins,’ you were possessed. The time and date of that correlates to the timing of Reign’s cult leader escaping prison.”

Sam shakes her head. There’s no way.

“Let me show you then.” She picks up a remote and turns on the television. It plays a segment from a news report of a murder. “Two months ago you report a black out. Reign appears and kills three robbers and leaves an odd symbol all over National City. The same symbol the cultist gave Kara during her interview exactly two weeks before your ‘trip’ happened.”

Sam can’t believe her ears. She shakes her head again.

“A week later, you have another black out.” She hits the remote and another news segment appears. “Seven people killed at a warehouse. Their bodies mutilated.”

“Lena, why are you doing this?” Sam stumbles out of the bed. “You — you can’t— I get squeamish whenever Ruby asks me to kill a spider. Why — how — there’s no way I’d ever kill those people!”

Lena sighs. “I don’t think you did.”

“So what, I’m like you? Split personality now?” She snaps as she starts to pace. A weird energy tingles through her, and the area where the device is aches.

Lena takes a shuddering breath. “Sam, that’s —” She turns away and fiddles with her tablet. “Is that really what you think of us?” she asks quietly.

“No!” Sam put her head in her hands. “No, it’s not at all. I — I don’t know why I said that. You’re absolutely lovely. All of you.”

“Sure.” The flat tone to her voice hurts to hear.

“Lena, I mean it!” Sam drops onto the bed. “I’m not thinking straight. My body feels weird, and my head hurts, and — and I’m scared. Do — do you have dreams of dark forests with mists that whisper frightening things when you switch?”

Lena’s head shoots up, and she stares at Sam.”No, I don’t. I thought you said you don’t remember anything.”

“I don’t. But when — when I got angry at you at the office, I — I was briefly there, and, god, it sounds crazy, doesn’t it?”

“No, it doesn’t.” Lena picks up the tablet and types something into it. “That’s valuable information.”

“Do you know what’s wrong then?” Sam needs answers. Some sort of tangible goal, not this nebulous grey.

“I think Reign is possessing you,” Lena says, bluntly. “When she fronts, you lose all awareness. Your DNA essentially rewrites itself. None of my alters rewrite my DNA. Believe me, I tested myself to verify. It’s likely the Reign cultists targeted you, but what they used to cause this, I’m still researching.”

Sam stares at her, shocked.

“Please, Sam, understand, I wouldn’t tell you this if I wasn’t sure.” Lena’s words are sharp, firm, but her hands tremble, her eyes red-lined as if she’s been crying.

“This is ridiculous.” Sam starts to pace. Her body vibrates with energy, and she feels ill. Like her stomach’s acid eats through her intestines. Looking at the TV makes it worse. “I’m going home to Ruby.” She turns and walks straight into a wall. Startled, she stumbles backward. There’s nothing there.

She reaches out, tentatively, and her fingers bounce against an invisible field. “Lena, what the hell? Let me out!”

Lena shakes her head. Tears shine in her eyes. “I — I can’t. You asked me to help you. This is the only safe way.”

“No!” Sam slams her hand against the field. “Let me out, Lena. I want to see my daughter.”

“Until I find a cure, no.” Her voice shakes, but she holds her chin defiantly.

“So this is how it is?” She has the urge to lash out, to draw blood. Energy jolts through her, and her vision blurs further. Whispers of a fog curls around her mind and body. “Lena Luthor holds her best friend hostage —”

Lena breathes in sharply. “Sam, you asked me to help you.”

“I didn’t ask to be held in a cage!” Sam shoots back. “This was supposed to be just tests.”

Lena closes her eyes and turns away. Her shoulders shake, and her expression contorts. A sure sign she’s fighting against a switch. “I need to check on Ruby.” She takes the tablet and leaves.

The door clangs shut behind her. Silence envelops Sam, and with it, shadows plague her periphery. The light flickers. Fear swiftly replaces her frustration.

The TV still plays news segments. A desk with a monitor and keyboard sits under it. Distract. Must distract, otherwise the shadows creep closer, and the eerie sense of being watched looms larger.

She switches off the TV and settles in the chair. Clicking the start menu, she finds only generic games and a word processor. No internet connection and the clock is hidden. Meaning, she has no clue of the date or time.

Turning, she slams her fists against the forcefield, but it doesn’t budge. She grabs her chair and hits it against it again and again, but still nothing. It stays firmly there. Trapped.

A scream erupts from her throat, and she throws her body at the field, only to slide to the ground in a fit of panicked weeping. Claustrophobia claws through her, and she desperately wraps her arms around herself. Taps her shoulders again and again until the soft beat of her hands transforms the panic into a quiet, anxious simmer.

She thinks through all the years she’s known Lena, and nothing implies a trajectory to this situation. Her blackouts is the new data-point, which means, Lena doesn’t trust her as long as she has them.

Sam doesn't trust herself as long as they keep happening.

She rubs away her tears. Decides to focus on Aikido exercises to pass the time. Thinking about her situation only induces more panic, and she needs to try to stay calm for when Lena returns.

Hours pass. Or maybe minutes. Time flows unsteadily, the buzz of monitors her only sound. When her muscles tire, she plays solitaire and later a generic racing game. Finally, sleep slithers up her spine, and she manages a nap.

When she wakes, Lena sits at the desk again. This time a picture frame lays on the desk by her tablet. “Good morning,” she says with her boardroom voice, a carefully modulated and emotionless tone. “Have you thought about what I’ve told you?”

“Lena, please, don’t play games with me,” Sam pleads. Being alone messes with her mind, and she fears the silence. “Let me go home. I told you, if I killed people, I’d remember.”

Her fingers tap against the tablet. “Amnesiac episodes would not allow you to remember such things.”

“Then give me a better explanation than, ‘hey, you’re a supervillain in your spare time,’” Sam snaps. “Aren’t we family, Lena? Locking me up like this isn’t cool.” Frustration tingles through her limbs, and the urge to lash out bubbles through her. “I guess the saying is right,” she says.

“What saying?” Lena frowns.

“Ask an oncologist what's wrong, they'll say cancer. Ask a pulmonologist, they'll say asthma. Ask a Luthor…” The words freeze on her tongue. What is she saying?

No, no, she can't finish that thought.

Fury radiates from Lena’s eyes, her fists clenched, and her accent is nearly nonexistent. “They'll say Supervillain?” she finishes for Sam. “Maybe on some deep level you do know.” Her voice is cold, deadly almost, as the most unnerving alter of all comes to the front.

Sam shakes her head. “No, no, I didn't mean —”

“Let’s take a look, shall we? How about Morgan Edge, the bastard who tried to poison a city for profit.” Angry Lena walks back and forth by the edge of the forcefield, while her thumb punches the remote.

The television turns on behind Sam to a news segment of the attack on Morgan Edge.

“What I wouldn’t give to see how that played out.” The sneer on Lena's face looks foreign.

Sam scrambles to her feet and backs away, only to hit the other side of the forcefield. “What — what — no.”

“Or what about Supergirl? What did it feel like to connect your fist with something that solid? That powerful?” Another news segment appeared on the screen, where Supergirl falls motionless from a great height. “Or those men?” A third one flashes into view that depicts entrails and mangled bodies. “You tore those men apart. Ripped their limbs from their bodies.” The fury in her voice accents each verb with deadly accuracy. “Did you delight in their deaths?” Angry Lena steps closer, her stormy eyes boring into Sam.

“No!” Sam clenches her fists. Her whole body vibrates, and she feels like she’s about to explode. “Stop this! I just want to go home to my daughter!”

“As if I’d let you near Ruby again,” Angry Lena snarls. “How did it feel living in that house with her day in and day out? When you could easily snap her in half with your bare hands?”

“Stop this!” The energy rattles through her bones, rises up toward her head, and she feels frantic. Something terrible looms, and she can’t stop it.

When Angry Lena speaks again, Sam fails to comprehend. Her words trigger a flare of pain that rips through Sam’s body, catapults her mind into a frigid, grey fog.

Her feet slide on rocky soil.

Branches creak but there is no wind.

Shadows coil in her periphery, whispers caress her ears. Let go. Let go.

Misty hands brush against her ankles. She kicks them away and staggers backward, only for her hand to hit something soft and moist. She screams and jolts her hand away. Her feet slip on the gravelly soil, and she tumbles into a ravine. She curls up with her hands above her head and whimpers.

“Four, eight, twelve,” she counts, just like she did many times with Lena, “sixteen, twenty...”

The coldness abates, the fog fades, and light warms her eyelids. Pain burns through her body. She gasps and opens her eyes to find herself flat on her back.

Around her, the bed has been torn in half. The desk shredded. The monitor is ripped apart, and the television swings back and forth on its cords. A video plays. She watches the last bit of Angry Lena's cruel words, then the monstrous change ripples through Sam's body.

Not-Sam unleashes heat vision and tears apart the room with her bare hands.

Terror freezes her, her eyes wide. Metal snaps off the bed and hurls at the force field. It shimmers brightly. Lena ducks behind her desk in the video, and that sours Sam's mouth with bile.

She leaps forward to stab at the TV’s buttons in desperation. “Turn it off, turn it off!”

The television goes silent.

“We — we needed you to see it for yourself.” Lena’s voice whispers, pain in her voice. “And we didn’t know how else to do it. You — you weren’t listening. I’m sorry, Sam.”

“All those people…” Sam crumples and breaks into tears. Her hands are coated in blood. How can she ever face her daughter again?

The forcefield flickers and drops on one side, while Lena springs to her side. “Sam, Sam, it wasn’t your fault.” She wraps her arms tightly around her shoulders and presses her forehead against Sam's. “You weren’t in control. When Reign fronted, I got samples of her DNA, okay? And knowledge is power. We’re going to get you through this, okay?”

Sobs cascade through her body. She doesn’t know for how long she cries, but Lena rocks her gently. Kisses her temple, and strokes her hair.

Her voice changes to the thicker Irish brogue of Kieran. “It’s okay, luv. It’s okay. You’re not alone in this. We understand. We can cure this. Lena has a plan, and I’m sorry we spoke so harshly. It won’t ever happen again.”

Sam clings to such frail hope. Slowly, her sobs slow. She shivers and pulls back. “Kieran, you — you can’t be in here with me then. Not — not if I could turn into Reign.”

Kieran brushes hair from Sam’s face and cups her cheek, her eyes a turquoise color instead of Lena's usual emerald. “We know the risk.” She pulls out a phone and gently places it in Sam’s hands. “Call your daughter. We’ll clean up.” She kisses Sam on the forehead, and stands with a sad smile.

The affection in Kieran's voice takes the breath from Sam. For a moment, she stares up at her best friend, the part that has stayed fiercely loyal to Sam, and always touches her with such reverence.

Kieran doesn’t just love her as a friend, but perhaps more than one.

But Sam can never act on this realization, not with her complex roles in Lena’s life — Lena’s best friend, this nebulous more than friends with Kieran, the almost motherly role for Rory, and the grounding role for Angry Lena.

Her current state mars her roles, darkens her impact, threatens to sever their connection. The hurtful words they hurled at each other fade to a dull ache. Instead, Sam holds back a sob of grief. Her roles in Lena's and Ruby's lives define her.

Without them, who is she? How can she be useful to anyone?

She looks down at the phone and sags against the wall.

Kieran pushes out the shattered bed and desk. Sweeps away the glass and metal. A new bed she rolls into the enclosure.

As she works, Sam unlocks her phone and stares at the number for Ruby’s emergency phone. What does she even say? Grief lances through her, her heart charred by the horrors.

Her best friend finishes and pauses at Sam’s side. “Call,” she says, quietly. “You need to hear her voice as much as she needs yours.” The thicker accent is gone, and Lena’s deep emerald eyes meet Sam’s. She reaches out to gently trail her fingers along Sam’s right temple. “I’ll be just outside the enclosure, okay?”

Sam nods. She waits until the hum of the forcefield activates before she finally speaks. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I shouldn’t have said what I did earlier.”

“It’s okay, Sam. We’re sorry too.” Lena sits down on the other side, her tablet on the ground next to her. “We understand how scary this is. But a cure is possible. Whatever the cultists did, we can undo, okay?”

Sam shudders and tries to believe Lena, but her hope is fragile. Her mind keeps spinning back to the news segments, to the deaths by her hands — even if she wasn’t the one fronting. Images of entrails clog her thoughts.

No. Think of anything else. She takes a shaky breath and lets it out slowly. Thinks instead of the softness of Lena's hands against her face.

And the smile of her daughter as she eagerly shares a story from school.

Precious grounding moments.

She finally hits the dial button.

“Mom?” Ruby's voice shakes at first but then steadies. “Is it you?”

“Hey Rubes, it’s me. I wanted to check in on you.” She doesn’t dare tell her where she really is. In case it puts her in danger.

“Mom, are you okay? Is Aunt Lena with you?”

“Yes, she is. And the truth is, I am sick, so I have to stay in the hospital for a little while longer. But I don’t want you to worry about me.”

“Can I come see you? I miss you.”

“Oh baby, I miss you too.” The tears flow harder, and she chokes back a sob. “But you can’t. It may be contagious, and I can’t risk you. Aunt Lena will be by to check on you, okay? And I’ll be home as soon as I’m better.”

It feels so futile. So banal of a promise. She can’t bring herself to lie further.

“But Mom, can't I just put on one of Lena's special hazmat suits? I'll be good!” Tears mangle part of her words, but Sam understands.

“No, you need to do what Aunt Lena says is best. She's good at what she does, okay? She's helping me too. I promise you, we'll get through this, okay?”

Ruby's sobs echo in Sam's ears. “Mom… I love you, okay? And maybe we can do a video call instead?”

No. No, she can't let Ruby see her in this state. “We'll see. I love you, Rubes. Love you so much. Be good for your Aunt Lena.” She hangs up before Ruby can say another word.

Lena speaks then. “Don’t worry about Ruby. I’ll take her to —”

“Don’t tell me where she is,” Sam interjects with a strangled sob. She looks up to see Lena fighting tears too. “Not until I’m cured.”

Lena nods as a few tears escape. That Sam can’t bear. To be the cause of it? She hides her face against her knees and curls up against the wall. Sobs broil down her body.

Behind her, Kieran’s Irish brogue sings a haunting tune that wraps around Sam, soothes her pain, until her sobs fade to ragged breathing and counting in multiples of four.

The next few weeks is torturous. Sam's hold on reality untethers as her sense of time and space evaporates into a haze of pain and fear. A war of fluorescent lights versus seething grey fog. They learn that the place Sam's mind goes is an alternate dimension related to the possession.

Waking from that dimension leaves Sam in a cold sweat. She leans against the forcefield with Lena leaning against the otherside. "How do you deal with this daily?" Sam wipes away her tears. "I — I don't know how to move forward. Not with — with that monster inside me."

"Acceptance of the truth is the first step," Lena admits. "I always had Kieran. They wrote in our shared journal and signed the entries. But to learn of new alters? Practice acceptance. You're already good at it."

"How can I accept that a blood-thirsty killer is inside me?" Sam whispers. "I never want to hurt anyone."

"It's not about accepting their actions, Sam. It's about accepting that they exist. You don't have to nor should you accept what they do." Lena shifts to press her hand against the forcefield. "Look at me, hun."

Sam turns and meets Lena's green eyes.

"My alters are me," she says, quietly. "We may have split into separate parts, each of unique in a way, but they are still me. But Reign is not you. Reign was forced on you. Accept she exists, but resist her control. This is your body."

"How do I do that?" Sam presses her hand over Lena's, the forcefield separating them from feeling the other's touch.

"You do it with me often. Ground oneself in the present. For you, ground yourself in your body. In your senses." Lena taps her ears and above her eyes. "It may feel like a fight, but you are strong." She taps her leg and tilts her head, her accent still the light one of Lena. "Since you go to that other dimension, try focusing on your body and how it feels. Imagine each sense, the height and weight, and clothes. Imagination is a powerful tool."

Sam ponders Lena's advice and wonders if she can pull it off while terrified out of her mind. Maybe if she practiced enough? "Can we go through this as an exercise? To practice?"

Lena smiles, faintly. "Sure."

They spend the next two hours practicing, and make it part of their daily activities. Each practice session, Sam feels a little stronger, more like she might actually be able to pull it off if she gets trapped in the other realm.

A week later, Lena attempts to capture data during Sam's times in the alternate dimension. One day she accidentally causes both Sam and Reign to manifest in that terrifying forest.

Branches curl toward her, and whispers coil around her. Shivering, she turns and freezes. An exact copy of herself stands a few feet away, clad in black, except her eyes are red. They shine in the dark fog.

She dives behind a tree.

“Sam, do you truly think you can resist me?” the words slide off the other's tongue like poisoned honey.

One second Reign is several trees away, and the next she's at Sam's side. Her hands reach for Sam's shoulder.

Sam throws herself backward. “Don't touch me.” She strives for bravado. Grabbing a stick, she swings it desperately.

Reign stalks her, moving unnaturally fast. One moment on Sam's left, the next on her right. Fog billows around her like monstrous wings, and the air charged with sparks of black lightning. Trees creak despite no wind. The cold leeches away Sam's energy.

Stay focused. Sam adapts her breathing to her Aikido training, her stance to a loose defensive one. This time her swing hits Reign in the chest.

Reign snaps the branch like a twig, and darts forward to snag Sam's throat. She's slammed against a tree. Red eyes bore into her. Whispers from the broiling fog chant, let go, let go.

No! She can’t leave Ruby. Or Lena.

She knees Reign in the stomach. The grip loosens enough for her to twist and perform a throw. Gasping in air, she stumbles backward. Her body — she needs to imagine what her body feels like. As she runs from Reign, who is staggering to her feet still, she pictures how her legs feel while running in the real world. How her muscles pump, how the fabric of her clothes rub against her skin, the way her hair falls across her neck and back, and the sweat that dampens her hair's roots.

She trips and falls through the ground and into the soft blankets of the medical bed. She's back in the forcefield room, far from Reign. Sam weeps and curls up, the fire in her veins pulses from the device on her shoulder. “No, no, don't do that again, Lena.”

“What happened?” Lena presses her hand against the forcefield, but she doesn't lower it or come closer.

“I was there with Reign.” Sam shudders. “God, that monster. You got to stop her, Lena. Please.”

“Oh crap.” Lena drops her hand to her side. “I — I got a sample of the enzyme causing the change just now. While you were passed out. I think I can synthesize a cure from it.”

Sam clings to the first good news in weeks. But like all good things, the very next day, the world erupts into chaos.

Two aliens rip apart concrete and metal and break into Lena’s lab. Seconds later, Supergirl and three others teleport into the room in a flash of red light. In the ensuing fight, Sam loses control.

She crashes into the nightmare realm. Mists seethe over her, and this time she can’t find her way back to her own body. Claw-like branches leer over her, whispers to let go tug at her ears, and the ground heaves like it breathes.

Desperate, she stumbles to her feet. Faces form in the mists and dive at her. She ducks and runs.

She trips over something soft. Turning, she gasps and jerks her leg off the body. A Korean woman lies there, her face locked in a silent scream.

Sam gasps and scrambles backward. Slipping, she tumbles down a ravine and into a cavern. Flickering blue light shimmers in its depths. One hand against the wall, she stumbles forward.

Turning a corner, she stops in shock. Black woman carves words into the sandstone rock. Names, places, but other words make no sense. Over and over, she carves and mutters incoherently.

"Hello?" Sam tries, but the woman doesn't respond. She only carves and shivers.

That’s when Sam sees firsthand how this realm eats away memories. Tears down the mind, until there is nothing left but to die.

She doesn’t know how long she’s there. But soon the whispers and growing pain starts to eat into her too. Her mind grows foggy, her memories slither away like oil.

She keeps the other woman company but struggles to remember why. Finds her own sharp rock and carves her name, Ruby's, and Lena’s along with anything else she can remember.

Faces form in the mists, and whispers slither like hands across her shoulders. She shivers and carves until her hands and arms ache.

The woman coughs, shakes, and freezes with glassy eyes. Sam watches in horror as the woman ceases to breath and tips over as if frozen solid. Mists coil over the body, faces form in the shadows, and mist hands sweep over the body.

Horror spikes, and Sam scrambles deeper into the cave. Near bubbling pools, one clear and one muddy. The walls of the cave close in on her.

Sobbing, she carves the names over and over. Figures coalesce, familiar until their faces twist into snarls, their eyes empty sockets. She huddles closer to the rock wall, ducks her head, and digs her rock deeper into the sandstone.

Her nails start to bleed, her palm raw. Still she carves.

A voice calls out her name. An almost familiar one. “Sam?”

She keeps carving. It’s another phantom. Another to distract her from her task.

“Sam. Sam, it’s me.” Gentle hands turn her face.

She looks into emerald eyes. “No — not real…” She tries to tug free, but this one is solid unlike the others. Fear curdles through her. She’s too weak too fight. Now they’ll kill her like the others.

“Sam, please, I really am here.” The green-eyed lady strokes her cheek in a familiar, almost calming way. “Count with me, okay? Four, eight, twelve, sixteen…”

“Twenty, twenty-four, twenty-eight…” Sam murmurs. Slowly, a memory surfaces of her doing exactly this with someone she loves. The name peels back. “Lena. You’re Lena.”

“Yes.” Lena embraces her. “Yes, it’s me.”

“But you — you’re not real.” Sam clings to her and a sob clogs her throat.

“I am. I really am.” Lena cards her fingers through Sam’s hair. “Supergirl and her friends helped me reach this place. She’s here with me, see?” She turns to look back, her arm still tight around Sam’s shoulders.

Two people stand behind Lena. One in a red cape with a red and blue suit. The other dressed in black with red hair cut short. Both familiar but the names escape Sam.

“Hey Sam,” the red-head says. “Remember me? We hang out a lot with your daughter. Gone clubbing a few times. You can drink me under the table.”

“Alex.” More names and memories bubble through the fog. “Supergirl?” She looks at the caped hero.

“Yeah, it’s me.” Supergirl smiles sadly. “Lena found a way to help you, but we need to find Reign first. We got to capture her. Go back to your body and signal us.”

“I — I don’t know how.”

“Hun, you do,” Lena says fiercely. “Just like you’ve always done for me when I’m lost in the fog.”

“Fog…” Sam struggles to remember, but the memories dance just out of reach. “What — what did I do for you?”

Lena breathes in sharply. She gently brushes Sam’s hair from her face. “I’ll teach you like you taught me. Count and breathe with me. Feel your body, use all of your senses.” She resumes counting. “Thirty-two, thirty-six, forty…”

Sam closes her eyes and leans her forehead against Lena’s shoulder. “Forty-four, forty-eight, fifty-two…” The multiples of four ground her, centers her breaths, and she feels a faint tug in her mind. She smells the air, feels Lena's touch against her skin, the weight of clothes on her body. As she continues to count with Lena, that tug grows stronger until it broils over.

She breaths in sharply and finds herself in a large cavern. On either side of her, two woman clad in a grey and black suit similar to her own chant in an unfamiliar language. Beyond them stands two people dressed in black robes with hoods, but they stand silent, eyes closed.

Energy seethes from the Reign-like women’s hands and her own. More sparks fly into the well in the center of the room. To her horror, with each pulse, the well burrows deeper, the bottom almost out of sight.

Quakes shimmer outward from the well, but the energy roots them. Meanwhile, the cavern itself shakes at each pulse, and a few stones fall near the hooded figures. Behind her, she sees a control panel with a blue crystal glowing in the center of it.

A memory surges through the simmering fog in her mind. That’s the same crystal she’d found when she went to speak to her adopted mother. It came from a pod in her mother's garage. Attackers had descended on them like rabid coyotes. She'd defended her mother, until a song ensnared her with pain. A dark fog blinded all her senses. She’d been trapped in a shroud of whispers, until she woke the next day in her bed at home.

Fury ignites. Lena is right yet again. Cultists did something, and it relates to that damn crystal.

It takes all of her strength to jerk herself out of the energy circle. Sparks sear across her skin.

She throws herself at the control panel, just as the two hooded figures call out in anger. She tugs it free. The energy currents flicker and go dark. She smashes the crystal against the console.

Howls of fury screech behind her. She’s ripped away from the panel, thrown across the cavern, and slams into stone. She stumbles to her feet, angry and desperate to stay in control.

The other two aliens attack, and she blocks their punches. Falls into her defensive stance. Throws one with a breath throw, and the other she dodges. Beyond them, the hooded figures start to chant, a harsh discordant melody. Black fog rises from the ground.

Sam knows she’s running out of time, but if she’s to get the signal out, she has to take out these assholes first.

She blocks their punches and tosses one of the Reign-like woman into the console. Strength beyond what she's ever felt burns through her, and she rips apart a rock to slam into the first Reign-like woman. She slumps against the broken console.

The second one catches her by surprise and slams a fist into her head. Sam stumbles, only to get another punch in the gut. She gasps and falls to her knees.

Dark fog curls around her legs.

But her body is still in the transformed state. She lets out a roar and ignites the heat vision. It slices through the cavern’s roof, burning through to the sky above.

The other Reign-like being punches her, and she skids across the ground. Her heat vision sputters to a stop. Another kick spends her spinning, and she lands far too close to the hooded figures. The dark fog coils around her, suffocates her breath, but dammit, if she’s going out, then she’s taking them with her.

She hurls herself into the hooded figures. One raises a hand, and she bounces against a shield.

Their feet still connect with the earth though. She digs her fingers deep and tugs upward with all her strength. The ground splits and the hooded figures shout. One tumbles into the pit, and the other snags a rock, holding on for dear life.

A chant sounds behind her. The remaining Reign-like asshole and sings a grating melody that bleeds into Sam's consciousness, like a worms burrowing into her flesh.

She can feel her consciousness start to slip away. She’s running out of time.

Desperate, she gathers the last vestiges of her will and rips up the ground and hurls it into the pit. The remaining figure falls screaming. Energy shoots upward, and the cavern shakes. Rocks slam down atop her. Her vision blackens.

She tumbles through the earth and hits the misty cavern of the nightmare realm. But no one is there. Lena and the others are gone. Shadows leer, lights flicker like sparks, and the pools behind her broil with wisps of light.

Terror threatens, but Sam grabs a rock and slams it against the sandstone. Ruby needs her. Lena needs her. She must hold tight to hope. Let it fuel her and burn away the memory-consuming fog.

She resumes her carving, and hours — days? — later violet energy sears into the ground around her. Pain rockets through her, and she screams in agony. Her cells rip and reform.

She’s thrown backward, through the earth, and slams into cold tile. There she shudders against the ground, spent.

“Sam?” Lena’s sweet voice, the one with the wisp of an accent, breaks through her exhaustion.

A warm blanket falls across her body. Sam blinks upward to see Lena holding a beaker stained with a black liquid. Relief surges at the sight of her beautiful face and emerald eyes.

“Do — do you have some Tylenol?” Sam manages a faint smile.

Lena drops to her side in relief, the beaker falls, and rolls under a half destroyed table. All around her lies the remains of a wrecked laboratory, and there, seated crosslegged near them is a cape-less Supergirl. She sights Alex and two others she doesn’t recognize sorting through the rubble.

“Sam.” Lena wraps her arms around her. Her warmth a balm to the cold that still clings to her from the nightmare realm. “God, I’m so glad you’re back.”

“You did it then?” She feels weak, shaky, but whole. Like a massive weight been lifted from her shoulders. “Destroyed Reign?”

“Obliterated her to dust,” Supergirl says, softly. “All thanks to Lena’s genius and a fancy, magical rock that hurt like hell to touch.”

“We couldn’t have done it without you, Sam,” Lena protests. “That signal you sent worked.”

“You stopped the cultists too,” Supergirl says, proudly. “Found them unconscious in that energy well. And you knocked out Reign. Made capturing her easy.”

“She did get feisty during the administering of the antidote,” Lena adds. She smiles tentatively, but her eyes still shine with a deep worry and sadness. “but we handled it.”

The tears in Lena’s eyes hurt to see. To know that Sam — even if it was some creepy alien possession using her body — caused that hurt? How much did it hurt her daughter too? How will they recover?

She wants to go home and hug Ruby, to reassure her that she’s back for good this time. To return to being just a CFO for Lena’s company. Back to her singleton self — as Lena often calls her.

But first, she wants to wipe away that worry from her best friend’s face.

“What can I say?” Sam jokes. “I just got that killing punch.” Her joke falls flat, and she ends up in tears instead. Who is she kidding? She can’t ever go back to the way things were after this. Her hands are stained now, even if it was another entity that used them for evil.

Lena holds her, gently rocking her. “Let it out, Sam. You’re safe now.”

“I’m so sorry,” Sam whispers. She clings to Lena and huddles under the warmth of the red cape. “All this horror? All those people dead?”

“Hey, that wasn’t you.” Lena strokes her hair. “Don’t take on the crimes of another.”

“She’s right,” Supergirl says, gently. “Reign was forced onto you against your will. You are a victim. A survivor in this. And in time, you will heal. Take it in steps.”

Sam takes a shuddering breath. Those words are ones she’s often said to Lena. What had once been abstract prior, now blossoms into a deep understanding. Lena may not be trapped in a nightmare realm when other alters front, but the pain and fear that amnesiac moments cause? Sam understands now.

And now she can do better. For herself, Lena, and Ruby. To find a new path forward.

[swallowtailed]

palisade 41

honestly don’t really know where to begin here.

because, like, we all kinda knew this was coming, right? odds were it had to happen sometime. now it has.

but there’s still a real cosmic unfairness to the timing of it. figure died right after they decided they didn’t want to. breaking the wheel of their resurrection is fine and all, but they fought so hard to escape clem and join perennial that it doesn’t really ring true to me.

hearing future in the same sentence reminded me that there’s another suite of definitions for figure, aside from the noun meaning shape or form—the verb meaning guess, consider, imagine.

i’m inclined to read future and perennial as two sides of the same coin—two views of the principality. future sees an inevitable road toward culmination, perennial sees that it’s all the same fucking cycle. also, future seizing on a moment of power from perennial and turning it to their own ends.

real gur just cannot catch a break. they’re stuck with future, inside their own reanimated corpse, guarded by the shell of figure? some real eternal torment there.

so, you know. shit sucks!!

i was really, really hoping eclectic would steal future, and it would also have been incredible for gur sevraq (who, as we know, stole the future) to be stolen from future, but the dice fall as they will

really interesting contrast between the two sides of this arc wrt divine/axiom/mortal/etc relationships. thisbe is guiding integrity and communicating with ebullience, building relationships across ways of being. figure is destroyed just by exposure to divine power, subsumed by the weight of a god rearing up on its own. the axiom being willing to treat with thisbe, the divine destroying figure. which is maybe less about those powers than about the hands moving them—instrumentalization as always a core theme of palisade. 

of course it is also a cautionary tale of the capriciousness of dice. if figure and gur had gotten to speak with future i can imagine it going more like thisbe’s side. but maybe not! we’ll never know.

characters being demanded to envision a future was one of my favorite beats in partizan and it was really cool to hit that again (and to call back to leap!). but also heartbreaking. cori, happy and safe…

aw fuck the crew’s still gonna have to find out that figure is dead… mortality of course goes hand in hand with grief. much like valence’s death i think the positioning of figure’s death is ultimately going to be shaped most by reactions to it

dre’s pc deaths are always so fraught, huh. valence and chine were also kind of messy, sudden deaths—no clean tragedy. which, like, is life, but also, ;-;

the music was incredible. like breathing. and the way the dirge just stops—blinks out.

eclectic drawing up the seismic power of opposition, his own power, was really moving. a bit of grace in that moment.

i’m not sure where they’re gonna go from here, especially in terms of character arcs. it’s a rough downbeat. kind of falls in line with the conflict turns, though—fighting back and forth down to the bitter end. might be a bleak finale although at least one more thing seems set to unfold in this arc so honestly who knows

incidentally, bets on that: the smell of computer parts immediately made me think of the nobel, but the mechanical whine heard across the continent made me wonder if it could be palisade waking up (/being woken up). either way, it’s definitely getting to be alarm clock time, right?? (on the other hand maybe this is just motion activating all across palisade, but a bunch of motion factories just got taken down.)

it’s nice that the a-plot crew were having a fun heist though. cori deserves an alise breka mission

tragedy-ass podcast.

[their-dearest]

The day he met his demise.

[Tw: death and mentions of blood and injury.]

It was quiet. Too quiet, save from the deafening gasp leaving his mother's lips. Each passing second is gnawing upon Ruu's patience and, soon, his sanity.

How much longer does he have to play the part? Days? Months? Years? Maybe centuries? Spirits, he lost track of every moment.

All he knows is that this cycle happens every three days.

If only he had joined his dearest friends, maybe he would have at least gotten to—

"Ruu," his father—no, Grandpa Mata called upon him—"The Thunderbird awaits you."

Those words, no matter how many times it reaches his ears, never fail to make his throat dry.

He tried to find some response, anything, but all of them slithered underneath his tongue. And when his eyes met his father's, he couldn't help but notice how his eyes glistened under the dimming sky.

Are those tears?

No, his father was never the one who wore his heart on his sleeve. Always so distant and unwavering just like the fog Thunderbird blessed Tsurumi. And yet, in that moment, he saw a side he had never known existed. Vulnerability and humanity.

After all, his father bleeds the same shade of crimson as him.

"Yes, Grandpa Mata."

The boy nodded, pulling his coat around himself with his trembling hands. It wasn't even cold in the slightest, and yet the very atmosphere sent streams of sweat to trickle down his forehead. With each step he took, his knees would tremble under his weight, until one particular pebble makes him lose balance for a second.

He braced for impact, but it never came.

Ruu's mother, Sak, rushed to his side, cradling his form before his knees met the brash cobble. Her hands, often soft and gentle, held on his shoulders with an iron grip, fearing that if she'd let go, he'd lose her too… just like the children before him.

"You don't have to do this, please. Please, let's return home, Ruu." His dearest mother bargained. Each syllable was shaken with desperation and stained with grief for what's to come.

"My boy, why must you sacrifice yourself?"

Why did he have to die? He never wanted to die. No one does. But if it'll make the island a better place… he's willing to be that sacrifice.

Her indigo hues met his own, and for once in a long time, his mind was silent. It was like staring at his mirage, a glimpse of what he could've been—sharing the same azure locks and the same fickle hope in their eyes.

"She chose me for a reason, Mom."

His frail yet calloused fingers grazed hers before setting her arm to her side, "Please, let me do this for you. For all of us."

Her shoulders went limp.

Ruu's heart faltered, along with the remaining hope in her mother's eyes. She took a step back, then another, until she resided in her spot by the altar's base, along with the village women.

Each flock to her way, offering ounces of solace to her grieving heart. But none can soothe the flood of tears cascading down her face.

With a quivering sigh, the boy turned his back and dragged his feet to the altar. He has done it countless times, each moment ending the same. But the blade slashing his tongue doesn't sting less, nor does the blood taste any less vile. And her resignation didn't hurt any less.

There it was. That Makiri resting on his father's sash. Ruu knew that blade far too well.

His feet move on its own, taking a small, yet rehearsed step forward. He remembered wielding that very carving knife when he was half his age as he cut through the flesh of a small rabbit, his first hunt, all while his father guided him through the entire process.

And now, that very knife has been and will continue to carve against his flesh.

When Ruu found his way to the top, his gaze lingered on the golden goblet to his left. The mere sight of it made his knees tremble. Was it out of fear or exhaustion? Perhaps so, perhaps not. But he paid no mind as he laid his back against the cobbled altar. His eyes drift to the skies once more, specks of magenta, scarlet, and ashen gray swirled together to form a maelstrom of colors, a symbol of Her Thunder.

Ruu took a few deep breaths, relishing the way his lungs would rise as he let the weight of his eyelids take over. His father's footsteps echo with the cobblestone, each step grew weaker than the last. And soon enough, his shadow loomed over his head. His small hands balled into fists as his nails dig through his coarse skin.

For what's the point of watching if he knew what's to come?

A droplet. Then, another.

When the boy opens his eyes, his eyes widen at the sight above him.

Tears? Is he seeing things?

His father, Grandpa Mata, weeps above him. The every-stoic man, the face of their tribe, is reduced to a mourning man. His hand trembled at the handle of the carving knife as every teardrop fell against Ruu's cheek. Every breath he took was a laboured one, as his shoulders quivered.

He cries on his son's behalf.

"Grandpa," His voice wavers ever so slightly. But his words are met with silence. And so, he continued. "Grandpa, please, don't cry."

Ruu's hand gripped his trembling limb, guiding the glistening steel to his lips.

"I believe in you," his voice trails off before he can even finish, “Dad.”

As Mata took a deep breath and tightened the knife in his hand, Ruu's heart raced. He knew that the first cut would hurt the most. The pain would be unbearable, but he prayed that it would also erase the burden of his people.

Mata's hand trembled as he raised the knife. The boy closed his eyes and breathed through the anticipation. One final, calm breath before the agonizing storm. With a quick swipe, Mata made the first incision on his tongue, and Ruu felt a flash of intense pain. He winced and clenched his hands as tears streamed down his face.

The pain was like nothing he had ever experienced before. It was searing and sharp, as if someone had taken a hot blade and sliced cleanly through his tongue. But that is far from the case.

He felt an intense aching in the area where his tongue had been split. The taste of blood filled his mouth, and he could feel the crimson, coppery liquid running down his throat, while salty tears flooded his chin.

But even through the agony, Ruu felt a shred of hope. The sacrifice had begun, and he prayed it would grant his people a second chance.

He would make this sacrifice over and over again if it meant regaining Her gaze once more.

Splash!

At the seventh slash, his tongue plunged into the pooling blood in the golden goblet.

Ruu's tongue, flesh and blood, stared back at him mockingly. The sanguine-tinged liquid waves in a nauseating manner, and spirits, it burns throughout his mouth. His senses dulled as the warm blood seeped from his lips and all the color bleeds from his face.

It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. Please, make it stop… I don’t wanna die anymore.

Ruu is fading fast. His vision clouded, and his mind was heavy. Panic rose in his chest like the inferno oozing from his mouth. The world began to slip away, and the last thing he remembered was the burning sensation in his throat, rising, rising until it consumed him completely.

The weight of the world rested on his eyelids, as exhaustion took over him. In his last moments of clarity, the boy's mind wandered on one thought, all while his indigo hues met his mother's.

And a boy named Ruu took his last breath.

It was quiet, too quiet, save for the wailing of a grieving mother.

[scarlet--wiccan]

Do you have any criticism on how the Darkhold was handled in the Multiverse of Madness?? And the lore building in general if you want to rant more

Yeah, although, honestly there's not much to say besides "it sucks." To date, the Darkhold has been used in three different M C U/ M C U-adjacent properties-- Agents of SHIELD, Runaways, and now Wanda/Vision and the subsequent titles-- some of which contradict each other, and none of which have attempted to adapt any aspect of its canon history or lore.

The Elder God mythos does not exist in these continuities. Chthon is only mentioned once, and is described simply as a "demon." The Darkhold is otherwise just referred to vaguely as the "book of sins" or "book of the damned." Without the context of Marvel's unique cosmology, it becomes either a cheap stand-in for the Necronomicon, or a stock horror prop that relies on an implicitly Christian worldview of sin, damnation, and "dark magic" to make sense. WV, MoM, and Agatha have specifically leaned really hard into that treatment, despite ample opportunity to do otherwise, and it's disappointing. Honestly, I think it speaks to the disdain that these filmmakers and showrunners have for the source material-- they can never just take it at face value, and they often do away with the things that make it imaginative and unique.

This is especially problematic for Wanda, whose relationships to chaos magic, Chthon, and the Darkhold are central to her character and to the major themes of her narrative. None of those relationships are carried over, and the M C U undermines and betrays those themes at every turn. It creates a narrative that, I think, is actually less sympathetic to Wanda, although you can tell that the writers believed they were doing something progressive. She has more autonomy in this storyline, but she also has fewer things to overcome besides her own poor behavior. Although the Darkhold appears to have a corruptive influence, Wanda's lucidity and control is repeatedly affirmed, even in the midst of the Hex. At the end of the day, she's responsible for her own actions.

You could argue that her descent into villainy in MoM is a product of the Darkhold's influence, but even that just feels like cruel moral determinism. She becomes the Scarlet Witch through a combination of trauma and prophecy, and as the Scarlet Witch she's apparently destined to claim the Darkhold and the temple on Mount Wundagore-- which will, apparently, lead to inevitable moral decay. Or perhaps the temple was always meant for her to destroy-- the movie is frankly unclear. Either way, it was built for her, and it led to her downfall. It seems excessively cruel, and without a possessor or abuser to overcome, Wanda has no way to free herself from this cycle besides suicide. Maybe it's stale, but I'd prefer a standard possession storyline over that any day.

And anyways, the whole corruption thing is moot, to me, because there is already an established pattern in which Wanda uses her grief to justify harm. Years before she began to manifest her magical powers, Wanda's grief and outrage led her to volunteer for HYDRA, and she continued aligning herself with a fascist robot until his violence reached her own (white) community. That wasn't magic-- she just got radicalized by neo-Nazis! And again, we're repeatedly shown that she's aware of the situation and has the ability to control her actions, and the conditions of the Hex, in WandaVision. Yes, the viewer empathizes with her grief and inability to let go, but she crosses too many lines, and she doesn't learn from it. She's locked in this pattern from day one and never grows. Maybe that's not her fault, but at the end of the day, her story in the M C U is tragic and cruel in the ways the comics never were, and it offers far less hope of redemption. If and when she is redeemed, it won't feal earned or plausible like it did in the comics.

[ateez-himari]

ATEEZ(에이티즈) - 'NOT OKAY' Official MV

📷 Screen Captures

🎬Clips

.. The man lets himself fall backwards yet instead of crashing onto him she lands on a couch surrounded by screens, displaying images of canvases covered in black scribbles accompanied by broken paintbrushes, a bird clawing at its cage and gloved hands wrapping around her body, all the while she seems to be fast asleep.

.. She wakes up crying, instantly reaching for the camera supposed to be on the table next to her only to find its broken pieces spelling the words 'Face It'. Looking down she then realizes that her wrists are shackled, trapping her on the couch while several men force her back into a lying position with a hand covering her eyes once more.

.. Seemingly trapped in another nightmare she finds a microphone on its stand in the middle of the glass box inside which she stands and in an attempt to free herself she hurls it at the closest wall, shattering it. That very moment, her eyes open once more to the screens displaying the same words as Hongjoong's phones with soundwaves indicating that they were being played through a speaker, causing the young woman to cover her ears while screaming.

.. In a state of pure panic she throws the remote sitting on the coffee table into the largest monitor which causes a glitch to appear on the surrounding televisions, stopping the figures in their tracks as they ran towards her. Now curled up into a sitting fetal position both hands come to tangle themselves in her hair as teary eyes look into the camera, one more shackle visible around her neck.

📖Diary Film

.. In the segment 'Himari's Chains' we find out that in order to escape the grief of losing her parents amongst other negative emotions that followed, she turned to the pursuit of art, creating something beautiful any time happiness vanished even for a moment. With these distractions her focus was on fixing the sketch's crooked lines, her voice's false note, the flaw in her body's movements in contrast to the rhythm, drowning out the ever growing darkness inside of her own mind.

.. These 'shadows' eventually grew so dark that they locked her in a never ending cycle of nightmares, tears and despair, closing herself off to everyone without even knowing why, helplessly watching her own self. These created chains that were now forcing her to face every piece of darkness that had spent years being ignored, engulfing her with every passing moment.

💭Interpretations

.. Music serves as a way for Himari to free herself from the shadows, which is why the item used to break through her nightmare was a microphone. In real life the music industry brought its dark aspects into her already fragile headspace, so it could have been incorporated into the lore, which would be why she hears and sees those words the moment she 'wakes up'. - Nyangnyangari (TikTok)

.. With the shadows not moving no one could have put that last shackle on her neck, so maybe she was crying because she realized that all along it was her own self creating these restrictions and working against her. - 1024 Lover (Twitter)

.. Outside of the glass box we can see other figures that are just watching her like a mere circus animal and it could be a metaphor for the fact that even though there are indeed people that could help in the outside world, the shadows are keeping her trapped, only allowing her to watch the surroundings from a secondary perspective, never letting her speak about what is happening or reach out. - HorangieSarangie (Twitter)

[dittolicous]

part three of raging stealth black!sanji i guess! (part one - part two)

sanji is very aware that he's just a means to an end. that he's being lied to and used and manipulated. he was given a butchered version of his 'life history' to make up for his amnesia, which included the strawhats abandoning him when he proved too weak and got hurt, something which he had no frame of reference to doubt when he first awoke from death

but if vinsmoke judge is anything, its being ridiculously bad at foresight and little details

honestly, how did he really expect to hide the relative truth with the strawhats being such big names? their journey has been documented, and while its clearly got some biases, sanji can read between the lines. little details are his *job*, thats all espionage is!

so, yeah. he knows hes being used to get the strawhat pirates, knows that he and his siblings are nothing but manufactured tools

it just adds another coal to the growing fire pit of rage in his stomach. its really all he can feel these days, this growing red hot anger, so bright that he perpetually, endlessly fights to keep flames from dancing along his form. he cant place it at first, has no reason to dislike his fathers hand on his shoulder the night he finally awakens, yet the weight lights something within him. his skin prickles where the hand had rested. he wants to scratch it off, to remove the tainted section of his body

he says nothing. good children are seen and not heard.... hes good, yes? right? thats... what he wants?

(can he even want? everything is so empty, so quiet... why-why-why-)

his brother's hollow laughter, the smell of bins full of rotting food, the bubble-filled cloning tubes, the taste of his sisters poison in the air as it lays waste to their enemies, the joyous smile on his fathers face...

sanji also knows he shouldn't be able to feel, yet he can very clearly name this white hot feeling taking root deep within him - rage, unabashed and uncontrollable

when hes not dreaming of sea salt, citrus, or distant laughter, he dreams of vinsmoke blood staining the ground, of satisfaction as his heels dig into ribs, of inflicting every wound they ever gave him right back at them (an odd thing, his waking mind supplies, seeing as his family has never hurt him...), of crushing the shells to the sailing snails which house this tyrannical kingdom

he had hoped to exorcize the demons haunting his dream by gathering knowledge, hence why he sought outside information sources (ie where ever judge deemed worth attacking), surely these unbiased sources would clear away this doubt that should never have exsisted!

instead the roots of his vitriol are set. there is no going back to sanji that woke to his family's supposedly loving faces

they are warmongers, destroyers... liars... they take more than they could ever need or desire... he isn't a son or brother, hes nothing more than another plunder of victory. a walking symbol of their prowess

what do these fools even hope to achieve with their senseless grapples for power? kingdoms?? glory of germa66? scientific might?

don't make him laugh

sanji might only be a means to an end, but so are they, not that those arrogent buffoons even realize

(he cannot say how he knows nor does he really care, but the danger of the world government runs deeper than any outsider could ever grasp - the five shadowy beasts of his dreams tell him so with guttural voices and air-tainting bloodlust)

all too soon it becomes clear that life is nothing but pointless suffering, engineered by tyrants just like vinsmoke judge, just like the shadow beasts whos screams having him waking in cold-sweats, there is no end... they are only free from this horrible cycle in the embrace of death. the dead cannot bleed nor starve nor struggling to breath through grief filled lungs. life is children sobbing over the prone form of their parents or hollowed faces taking mouthfuls of poisoned water to quiet aching stomachs...

the vinsmokes take blindly and foolishly, they took everything from him, took his life, his memories, his heart, left him nothing but a tense anger that leaves his muscles aching and fingers twitching to destroy, pride blinding them to the encroaching cliff into hell

if they wish for hell so badly, who is sanji to deny them? he will bring down the flames of hell and rip clean through the earth to deliver them personally. every sensless act of violence, every life taken without a blink of an eye, every drop of blood the fed the ground, sanji shall return tenfold, yet deny them the relief of death just as they stole him from his

he'll go along with their little plan to draw out the strawhat pirates, give them the easy satisfaction they desire, and just when they feel victory by the tips of their fingers.... they will learn what life is truly like by sanji's very own hands

(and if he holds tightly to the fleeting moments of calm like a balm on his burned exoskeleton, brought on by the face of his former captain or flashes of green from the perpetually lost swordsmen, no one has to know

none of it will matter in the end)

[torturedcoveydepartment]

I’ve noticed you’re a fan of both Taylor Swift and tbosas, so what songs do you think radiate Lucy Gray Baird vibes?

IS THIS REALLY THE REPUTATION I HAVE ON HERE? LOVE IT. I have a burning passion for both of these!! This will by all means become a fangirling moment of mine, but that’s the thrill ain’t it? No but really. Here’s my list of songs that could have been written by Ms Lucy Gray Baird, originally from the musical genius and cat lady Taylor Alison Swift <3

Should’ve said no is definitely a song that she would’ve written as discovering that Billy Taupe went behind her back, messed up badly and became a total asshole.

“It’s strange to think the songs we used to sing. The smiles, the flowers. Everything gone // You shouldn’t be begging for forgiveness at my feet. You should’ve said no, baby and you might still have me”

Mean walks the same path. I’d like to imagine her singing it wherever she went after Coriolanus went crazy, whether that’s up north or in the afterlife. Also something after Billy Taupe’s fuckery.

“I bet you got pushed around, somebody made you cold. But the cycle ends right now cause you can’t lead me down that road and you don’t know what you don’t know // Some day I’ll be living in a big old city, and all you’re ever gonna be is mean”

Never grow up fits as something the covey would cook together about Maude Ivory and Clerk Carmine. Potentially also about Lucy Gray. Though I feel like she could have written it about her younger cousins - especially after the games, wishing they’ll never have to go through the capitol’s sick entertainment game.

“Your little eyelids flutter cause you’re dreaming. So I tuck you in, turn on your favorite nightlight. To you everything is funny, you have nothing to regret // Don’t you ever grow up, it could stay this simple”

Haunted feels like a Lucy Gray written song right after witnessing Coriolanus shooting Mayfair. Especially something she came up with after he lied to her about “his old self”. We know the covey claims Lucy Gray to be the poet in their family, so she could easily have came up with it even in the moments of doubt and fear.

“You and I walk a fragile line, I have known it all this time, but I never thought I’d live to see it break. It’s getting dark and it’s all so quiet and I can’t trust anything now. And it’s coming over you like it’s all a big mistake // Something made your eyes go cold”

Sad beautiful tragic makes me think of Lucy Gray right before the games as she gets to the point where maybe? just maybe she’s falling for Coriolanus.

“I meet you in warm conversations. We both wake in lonely beds. In different cities and time. Is taking its sweet time erasing you, and you’ve got your demons and darlin’ they all look like me. Cause we had, a beautiful magic love there. What a sad, beautiful tragic love affair”

Before the reaping a part of her still missed Billy, so Better man could possibly fit into those mixed feelings of disappointment, longing, grief and aggression.

“Sometimes in the middle of the night I can feel you again. And I just miss you and I just wish you were a better man”

I bet you think about me as she watched Coriolanus continuing torturing and kill children because of a relationship that ended on bad feet.

“I bet you think about me, in your organic shoes and your million dollar couch. I bet you think about me when they say oh my god she’s insane, she wrote a song about me”

Bad blood. Utter disappointment and anger. When Coriolanus “chased” her down the woods.

“Cause baby now we got bad blood. You know it used to be mad love. So take a look what you’ve done. Cause baby now we got bad blood. Did you have to do this? I was thinking that you could be trusted”

Look what you made me do gives me vague vibes of hate towards Coral and her pack. Trying to poison them (succeeding with one of em!! Too bad Dill died)

“I don’t like your little games. Don’t like your tilted stage // I’ve got a list of names and yours is in red underlined // I don’t trust nobody and nobody trust me. I’ll be the actress staring in your bad dreams”

MY TEARS RICOCHET. UGH MY ALL TIME FAV SONG. ISNT IT OBVIOUS? The bridge is SO Coriolanus and Lucy Gray coded after they fell apart. Lullabies stolen by death.

“And I can go anywhere I want, anywhere I want just not home. And you can aim for my heart, go for blood. But you would still miss me in your bones. And I still talk to you, when I’m screaming at the sky. And when you can’t sleep at night - you hear my stolen lullabies”

Mad woman. No one really accepted her for who she was. Not district 12. Definitely not the capitol. In the book the hanging tree got banned to perform due to its real upbringing on unfair and cruel practices.

“No one likes a mad woman, you made her like that // I’m taking my time, taking my time cause you took everything from me. Watching you climb, watching you climb over people like me”

The lakes. OBVIOUS. AGAIN. Song she wrote during their visit at the lake, her, Coriolanus and the others of the covey. Planning on running away with him to live in the wilderness, catching their own food and never looking back.

“What should be over burrowed under my skin, in heartstopping ways of hurt. I’ve come to far to watch some namedropping sleaze tell me what are my words worth. Take me to the lakes where all the poets went to die - I don’t belong, and my beloved neither do you”

There is something about Cowboy like me that gives off Lucy Gray energy, especially right before the games. Her job is practically putting on a charm and performing (not to mention she’s REAL GOOD at it. Accustomed to tricking others by feigning love, probably like coryo and her as they tried to gain affection out of one other.

“I’ve got some tricks up my sleeve, takes on to know one // You’re a cowboy like me, perched in the dark, telling all the rich folks anything they wanna hear // Now you hang from my lips like the garden of babylon. With your boots beneath my bed, forever is the sweetest con”

Anti-hero, SHE’S DEFINITELY NOT ONE. But when first speaking to Coriolanus again she claims herself to be a murderer when in reality, she’s just a girl with willingness to survive. Lucy Gray is a confident and determined girl, but there’s a not a doubt her mind is playing tricks on her from time to time - especially after the games.

“It’s me. Hi! I’m the problem it’s me. At tea time everybody agrees. I stare directly at the sun but never in the mirror. It must be exhausting always rooting for the antihero. // Did you hear my covert narcissism. I disguise as altruism? Like I’m some kind of congressman. Tale as old as time”

Would’ve, could’ve, should’ve. None of her past lovers have stayed true, besides her life never treated her fairly either. Coriolanus and the capitol really did steal her childhood, even if it was hers first.

“And now that I’ve grown, I’m scared of ghosts. Memories feel like weapons // God rest my soul. I miss who I used to be, the tomb won’t close // Living for the thrill of hitting you where it hurts. Give me back my girlhood it was mine first”

Carolina from where the crawdads sings is such a covey tale song!!

Safe & Sound is pretty self explanatory, ain’t it?

[rashoumon-homo]

BSD Theory - The DOA's Objective

I’m super excited to be able to theorize about this since I joined the fandom late and haven’t read the manga. Lots of spoilers, so this is continued under the cut.

My theory

I think the DOA (mainly Fukuchi) wants to use the book to re-write history so that abilities don’t exist at all, and never did. 

Fukuchi’s motivation

In the recent episode, there were a lot of flashbacks hinting that the formation of the DOA and its true objective can be traced back to Fukuchi’s time serving in the Great War. Fukuzawa guessed that his goal was revenge, but he said that wasn’t true. I think that when Fukuchi witnessed all that horror, he realized that the existence of abilities would only fuel the endless cycle of war. Revenge is such a future-focused concept; it implies that the past cannot be changed, only dwelled on. Fukuchi’s goal is more solution-based. If he were somehow able to get the book and rewrite the world so that abilities never existed, he would both end future suffering and reverse the suffering that has already been inflicted. 

Big risks aren’t actually that risky

This theory would also explain why the DOA is so nonchalant about killing people— if their plan succeeds, those deaths will be overwritten anyway. They’ve been almost reckless with their moves, like they aren’t thinking long-term. They’re able to make such bold moves because they’re betting on their success. A little loss is worth it in the long run as long as one of them is there to write on the page and set everything right again. 

On being “Overpowered”

I think the space-time sword serves as an excellent piece of foreshadowing. It introduces the idea that nothing that happens is set in stone. Even the past can be rewritten. If I’m right, that concept plays on a much larger scale in the DOA’s plans. Battles lost can still be won. People who have died aren’t gone yet. 

I think it’s funny that people get so mad at Fukuchi’s character for being too overpowered. It’s ironic, really, since he is to the other characters what ability users are to everyone else. Like, yeah, of course a time traveling sword feels like cheating. But then doesn’t bringing people back from their deathbed? Doesn’t transforming into a tiger and regenerating limbs? Gravity manipulation; a coat that can cut through any material and become stronger than armor? Regular people never stood a chance. If ability users want war, people will die. 

The name “Decay of the Angel” makes more sense with this theory in mind too. Angels are powerful, untouchable, holier than everyone else. The only way to achieve true equality is to knock them down a peg. In a world without angels, there are just… people. No more overpowered shortcuts. No more cheating. 

Atsushi’s reaction to learning the true motives of the DOA

All the pain and suffering Atsushi has experienced in his life has been directly caused by ability users. Even his own ability caused him a lot of grief for a very long time. The abuse he endured at the orphanage was in great part because of his ability, even though he didn’t know it at the time. And (as revealed in Dead Apple) he was tortured nearly to death because of Shibusawa’s greed for his ability. 

I think that after imagining the past rewritten without abilities, he realized that the DOA’s plan was actually a pretty good move morally. Nobody dies and the millions of people who have already died in ability-fueled wars would get their lives back. 

After finding out the truth about the DOA’s plans, he ran to tell Fukuzawa because Fukuzawa’s current course of action was to try to stop Fukuchi (and that would cause a greater net death in the long run). At the very least, sharing the new information with him would give them both a chance to think things through. 

Sigma’s story becomes even more tragic

The unfortunate side of things is that if I’m right, Sigma would be an even more tragically fated character. He was already brought into the world for the sole purpose of serving the other members of the DOA; people who seem to have no regard for his wants and needs. The only home he ever knew was blown up in one of their scuffles, and he was left for dead. But if the DOA’s plan truly was to erase abilities from existence, he was created with the full knowledge of his creators that he would not survive. 

Since he was born from an ability, from the page itself, he is intrinsically linked to ability use. If the DOA rewrites history to be free of abilities, he would also disappear. I suppose it’s slightly less cruel than killing him; it’d be more like in time travel movies when someone accidentally erases their best friend by stopping their parents from meeting or something. If he never existed, he isn’t technically dead. But the DOA still would have created him knowing he had no chance at a normal life. A disposable human, if you will. 

Conclusion

I have no clue if any of this is right or even if it’s been disproved somewhere in the manga or something. I’ve only seen the anime and Dead Apple, so I’m already working with a lot less information than I could be. But as I mentioned earlier, I absolutely love theorizing about these things, so I’m so glad the manga chapters and the anime episodes are starting to catch up to each other. 

Someone take my computer away from me, I am up at nearly 1 am writing a full goddamn essay about my favorite anime…

[ottpopfic]

Daddy always said you can tell Shakespeare's romance or tragedies apart like this: If people get married at the end, it's a romance. If people die at the end, it's a tragedy.

For a while when she was little Katie thought all stories went into those two little boxes, Love or Death. It makes sense with how her world worked, the strangeness and wonder of living through demigod life, all the stories follow the same formula.

So yes everyone got married at the end of the ‘story’ in her family, but there was a lot of dying and heartache too. Is a tragedy that everyone survives and marries still a tragedy? Is it still a romance when there is so much pain? Romeo and Juliet is a tragedy, but also a romance, because they get married, but they die in the end, so it's a tragedy. Uncle Leo and Uncle Jason are a romance, but also a tragedy, because they die a bunch, but they get married in the end, so they're a romance.

As Katie got older she figured out that not everything is Shakespeare, and just because people get ‘happy endings’ in real life life will just keep going. In real life you can get your romance, but you're still going to die in the end.

Everyone dies in the end, it really is the only consistent

Katie doesn't think the dying part is what makes the tragedy. Sure death is sad in a way, all endings are, but its just another part of the cycle. You can't have life without death, it's a universal truth. When you die you just become something else. Your body becomes nutrients, your energy gets redistributed, your soul finds a new home. Every part of you is reused

The tragedy part is who and what you leave behind. When you die you are dead, you are not there anymore. You cross the river and have your judgment, but you leave behind more than you take with you. You leave behind people, loved ones and stories and legacies, the real tragedy is in the grief and what they do with it. Grief is a dangerous thing, it creates revenge and depression and madness. Grief can do horrible things, it can make the best person into the worst creature imaginable. Grief can wield a knife, grief can sail the ship, grief can tie a knot, and grief can point the finger

So at the end of the day it's not just that people die at the end, anyone can die, the tragedy is if there is someone else there to experience it. Death and Love, Love and Death, so intrinsically interlocked that they become the same thing, grief

But grief is not a bad thing, it is a human thing. To be a person is to love, and to be alive is to die, so grief is inevitable. Katie would rather love and loss than never be a person at all

Doesn't mean it doesn't suck ass

[fduck0]

As someone who never stops thinking abt Wendy and Abigail, I've always seen Wendy's rework animation as less of a hallucination and more as a simple but effective rundown over Wendy's struggle with her grief through how she remembers Abigail's death. Most notably, I believe the last bit with the bush is either a slightly older memory stitched in or deliberate misremembering as a defense mechanism of sorts. My main reason for thinking this is partially cause yeah no that just didn't happen, but also because to me it makes the previous moments hit so much harder because of the harsh contrast between Wendy's attitude towards Abigail in the two scenes. In the previous, she's dismissive, and has to be dragged away from her books, and is clearly much more reluctant about doing things than Abigail. And in the next scene, Wendy is smiling, laughing, and playing with Abigail. This actually fits quite well with Wendy's dialogue too, but that's besides the point. And with the ending bit, I see it as a basic snap to reality from a deep daydream. Also, one detail I love is how Jack does look concerned for Wendy and briefly tries to reach for her before giving up, which just is soooo good like a big part of Wendy's hashtag issues was not just losing Abby, but also seemingly having very little support after that loss. In general, a lot of Wendy's messy and sometimes contradictory statements and actions are incredibly easily explained by the fact that she's a traumatized and grieving child who in no way has the tools to healthily cope with her emotions and very little support even outside of that. This is why Wendy makes me want to start biting things and why that's my favorite don't start animation 👍

YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS THIS PERSON GETS IT.

Tbh while ive never thought ab Wendys animation like that, that is SUCH a good fucking take on it and tbh PRETTY GOD DAMN FITTING to wendys rapid change of emotions in the animation. and with this i have to say, YESSSS SOMEONE IS FINALLY POINTING OUT THE JACK THING.

I feel like a lot of Wendys fear of letting go of Abigail comes from this. Its like a god damn tragedy cycle. feel alone without Abigail- get no support from family- feel more alone and abandoned- cling to the fact Abigail WOULD have been the support and form an unhealthy coping mechanism around it- grow MORE dependent on her and restart. It is essentially what makes her SO god damn afraid and i feel like this quote from her forge vignette puts it best "Wendy clings fiercely to the grief over her sister's death, for fear that moving on would cause Abigail's memory to fade."

With the lack of support from her family and being "left behind", Wendy most probably feels to some extent she is the ONLY one trying to keep Abigail's memory alive. Abigail is the ONLY one she has ever had.

And with this last thing, another YES. A lot of Wendys contradictions can be boiled down to her conflicted and jumbled emotions as a child trying to cope and her fears getting the best of her. Wendy doesnt HATE colours, Wendy hates what memories those colours bring back and the cheerfulness she doesnt feel anymore. it is all a mockery to her grief, but there is STILL a part of her that longs for that part of her childhood back, which leads to a lot of the conflicted quotes as a kid who doesnt know what she wants anymore.

But yeah, we going off again bc WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH Wendy lore is both so cool and complicated and idk how to write down my opinions so they just come out in rambles but like YEAH Keese you are so fucking right