#like not even a fleeting thought to keep mental tabs???

[icefang111]

Caught up w Dr. Stone and thank GOD it seems like next ep. we're addressing the homura and hyoga situation. I was losing my mind that no one was even talking about their MIA satus the whole arc.

[shes4twnksinatrnchct]

Hell of a Show

Jake Kiszka x fem oc

Fifteen years after resigning from Greta Van Fleet, for reasons undisclosed to the public, Coley Payne is asked by her former band members to tell her side of the story.

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, explicit language, angst, fluff, first love, drug and alcohol abuse, mental health struggles, character death, familial grief, reference to sexual situations, *explicit sexual situations (smut warnings will be mentioned pertaining to each chapter it occurs in).

Please keep in mind this is a work of fiction and enjoy!

***LET ME KNOW IF YOU WANT TO BE TAGGED***

***Prologue

***Table of Contents

The Beginning: Part I

COLEY: We never meant for any of this to happen. People roll their eyes when they hear us say that, but it couldn’t be more true. I especially had no intention of going into music. I wasn’t raised up in it in the way that the guys were. Sure, it was on at the house while my parents cleaned or cooked, and of course was on in the car, but dad was an aviation mechanic, and mom was a speech therapist. They’d get home and would both sit together in silence as a means of unwinding, instead of sitting around fires and singing “Kumbaya.” 

The music began for me when I met Jake in the seventh grade. 

2008

Her blue eyes trace along the various notes being scribbled along the white board, the squeak of expo marker causing them twitch every now and then as Mr. Hall tries his hardest to explain the basics of music to his classroom full of young aspiring musicians that he hopes to aid in perfecting their craft. 

“…A half-note,”  He draws an open circle with a stem. “Then half-rest—which you can remember easier by recalling it looks like a tophat. So, half rest is like a hat rest.” He makes himself giggle with that one, coloring in the half rest. 

He examines his finished work, the various quarter notes, half notes, whole notes, and their rests. 

“And remember you’ll know, of course, what sound you’re going to get based on this,” He circles the treble clef symbol he had drawn on the staff, and then does the same to the bass clef. 

“What about Tabs?” It pulls the attention of the class when its asked by who some would deem one of the class loud-mouths, Joseph.

“Well, tablature is a different arrangement entirely because it’s for strings like guitar and bass.” Mr. Hall says but humors Joseph, drawing another staff with six lines and five spaces with “TAB” scribbled vertically down it where the Treble and Bass clef could go. 

Instead of musical notation in the form of what he’s displayed previously, he writes numbers scattered throughout the staff, the sight sending an ache through several heads with.

Coley can’t even bear through equations in math that her teacher insists are “simple,” let alone grasp how to even begin to grasp reading numbers and utilizing them whilst playing an instrument of any sort. The thought of numbers being brought into music outside of the count of time notes or rests should be forbidden.

She’s not alone by any means, a pair of equally as confused eyes crinkling in attempted concentration, causing his dark lashes to further accentuate his brown irises—the red-headed girl sitting next to him taking note and staring.

  He takes note of her taking note, and gives her a little smirk, proud that his plan to sit in the flute section with all the girls is already paying off on the first day.

“Why don’t string instruments use notes?” The girl next to him asks what Coley’s also thinking, and Mr. Hall pushes his glasses up his face and clears his throat, trying to explain it so they can understand as best as seventh graders can. 

“Well, imagine this as the neck of a guitar,” He motions to his drawing of the lines, “With frets, which are the spaces in between the vertical lines you see on guitars underneath the strings,” He draws vertical lines through his horizontal lines, around his numbers. “The numbers tell you what fret you’re in, and the lines here…” He motions to the six horizontal lines he’s drawn, “...Are the strings you pick. So it’s no different, really, than reading off music for a flute or saxophone, or tuba. Only one hand is acting as the control for how much sound is made instead of a mouth, while the other hand controls the placement and therefore the expression of that sound.”

“Is it the same for twelve strings?” Joseph adds. 

“Twelve strings?” Hope now voices.  

“What’s the difference?” Coley finally speaks up, herself, mortified with the thought of what that might look like written out in Tabs. 

Jake’s neck nearly breaks when he snaps his attention to his right, hearing her show genuine curiosity in something he himself wasn’t too bad at. 

He leans forward a bit to get a better look at her where she’s seated two girls down from Hope as Coley adds, “Is it harder to play?” She presses next, nearly stuttering it out when she notices that one half of the infamous Kiszka twins is going out of his way–quite literally–to look at her as she speaks.

Jake’s hand is reaching out before he can stop himself, extending to her as he quietly says, “I’m Jake.”

Coley’s taken back by his forwardness, but brushes off her trepidation, only able to reach his fingers with her own as they’re doing so around three classmates between them. 

Even when they pull away from one another, Jake keeps his eyes fixed on her in a struck look. 

Well, “stare” would be a better word for it, because even when she hides the smile that he brings to her face just by his gaze, and she focuses once again on their teacher, he can’t bring himself to do the same.

JAKE: We were in science together the year before, and our sisters had crossed paths at some point in elementary school and became friends, so I knew of her. And I’d always thought she was cute, but seventh grade was the year that, naturally, girls stopped being just “cute”, and started being regarded as pretty. Which was a bit unpalatable because most of us guys were standing shorter than them, and they barely paid us any attention until the following year.

But it wasn’t hard getting her attention, or keeping it, I learned–and she was an expert at hijacking mine even when she wasn’t trying to. 

She had these stone blue eyes and dark blonde hair that she detested because it was like “dishwater” in the colder months, or when we wouldn’t be able to get much sun… I don’t think she’d appreciate me disclosing it, being that she’s kept it ambiguous all this time, but she stopped getting taller in eighth grade which is why she’d always wear heels later on—even when her feet would be bruised and sore from constantly doing shows, press, and outings. 

She was a pretty girl and I was a hormonal teenage boy, so of course she intrigued me. 

But what really compelled me was her interest in the very thing I lived and breathed.

The initial stun is cut short when Joseph butts in once more to interrupt Mr. Hall, who is readying himself to answer Coley’s question, “Does it matter?”

“I think it does.” She retorts to her classmate, tucking blonde hair behind her ear as he raises his dark brows and quips, “Oh, are you gonna play or something?” 

“I don’t have to just to be interested in how it works, do I?” She turns and looks at her classmate who’s got his arms crossed. 

Jake watches the exchange and scoffs under his breath.

“If you can’t play it anyway, then why waste your time?” Joseph inquires next. 

“Who said she can’t play it?” Hope now turns, scowling at the boy as Jake turns in his seat to also look at him, adding a smug, “Yeah, who said?” shooting a wink at Coley when she glances at him–her eyes rolling at his attempt to stay in her good graces. 

COLEY: Everyone knew who Josh and Jake were all on account of their identical looks and endless array of shenanigans they’d inflict upon teachers and classmates alike—all in innocent fun that made everyone involved laugh—except for the teachers, of course. I only knew them because my little sister, Julianne, was friends with their little sister, Veronica. 

Jake was cute but he was so full of shit. I don’t think he actually gave a rat’s ass about our bickering over girls playing guitar, but I appreciated the notion of him staring another boy down and silently daring him to continue to shove his foot further down his own throat—even if it was probably just because he knew the trick to getting all the girls was to be on our side of things. 

“What? Girls don’t play guitar.” Joseph defends himself as Mr. Hall’s voice falls to the background while trying to get them back on task. 

“So…Taylor Swift just has a guitar she bought just to freaking cry on it?” Hope smarts back.

“She’s rich enough to.” Joseph pipes.  

“Anybody can play anything. Music does not discriminate against gender or age.” Mr. Hall finally speaks loud enough for them to hear him over themselves. “And like I said before, Tabs aren’t relevant here because we don’t work with string instruments. And with that being said, Mr. Wilson, please go do some research on women in music.” He adds to Joseph without even giving him a second glance while laughs are stifled.

The bell eventually dismisses the middle schoolers, all of which either rushing to the bus or heading to the carpool line to be picked up by guardians with the conclusion of the first day of school.

“Bye, Coley,” Hope says to her in passing, pulling a smile from her acquaintance who says back, “Bye, Hope.”

Securing her book-bag over her shoulders, she pushes the door open and turns her head when she sees someone stepping alongside her in her peripheral vision. 

“He’s an ass.” Jake says, grinning down at her as she scoffs and nods out, “Yeah, a little bit. I think he’s just mad I didn’t flirt back with him in homeroom.” 

“I’m Jake.” He holds his hand up for her to grasp, and she raises her brows. 

“We just did this, didn’t we?” She asks him, cutting her eyes and motioning her thumb back toward the bandroom. 

“We did but not an actual handshake.” He explains to her. “Fingers don’t really count. It’s gotta be palm-to-palm.”

“Oh, does it?” She has to bite into her tongue to keep from giggling as his blatant attempt to get her to grab his hand again. 

His efforts pay off, her hand meeting his in a true, firm handshake that has them both grinning smugly.

“I’m Coley.” She says to hopefully push through the ice all the more, to which he quickly states, “I know who you are. We were in Mrs. Snell's class together last year.” 

“Were we?” She plays it off, knowing full-well that they were without wanting to give him a big ego about her taking notice of him. 

“Mhmm.” He nods as they continue walking. “We, um, we’ve had a class together almost every year since third grade, actually.” 

“Really?” This time, it’s not a lie. 

She couldn’t keep up through the years since their school system kept switching between block periods and regular seven period classes–one year even throwing in an eighth period. 

“Yeah.” He nods.

“I thought that was your brother…” She says, next, trying to recall exactly, and he chuckles. 

“Some days it might’ve been. We switched around sometimes.” He explains, recalling the mornings he and his twin would go to each other’s classes and play it off through the day, no one suspecting anything. 

It became harder to do the older they became as differentiating facial features began to develop with their different hairstyles. 

“I wish me and one of my sisters would’ve been twins.” She says to him with a smile, pondering at the bond they must share. 

“No, you don’t.” He rushes to promise, shaking his head. “It’s annoying. I mean, I’m either ‘the other Josh’ or Josh is either ‘the other Jake,’ and people expect us to like the same things, or have the same personality, or taste in music or food…it’s stupid.” 

They’ve slowed their pace down to have more time with one another without even realizing it, Coley nodding as she tells him, “My older sister, Sherri, she’s three years older than me. Well, Dr. Miller looked at me this morning in math and told me how excited he is to teach another Payne because Sherri was such a delight to have…which translates to, ‘she was very smart and was a breeze to teach’...I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I’m probably gonna be the student that finishes off that last patch of hair on his head.” 

He laughs as she continues, “I’ve been getting things like that since I got into Kindergarten, and Jules says she gets the same things about me from her teachers that I’ve had–and I’m sure Emmy’s gonna get it about Jules.”

“Ah, see Ronnie’s a saint compared to me and Josh–easy. Sam has been up until now, at least. Mine and Josh’s old teachers probably thank God that mom and dad managed to have at least one normal one.”

“Sherri’s the saint, I try, Jules is good with school work but she’s mouthy at home at times, Emmy’s only six and is already the coolest out of all of us, and I don’t know about Maisie because she’s only a month old.” Coley says.

Jake keeps the comment about so many girls living under one roof to himself, having heard his mom and dad countlessly say, “Poor Cole,” and “Poor Tammy,” when speaking about the Paynes, though he’s sure that even Mr. and Mrs. Payne themselves would agree fully. 

As they approach the front of the school, Jake finds himself grappling to hold onto the conversation as tightly as he can, clearing his throat and saying, “So, um, I know you said you don’t necessarily have interest in it but I play guitar, and I could—if you want—show you a couple chords or…” He trails off when she stops and looks at him as if struggling to pin-point his motive. “...Or just forget I said anything and I will go lay across the train tracks downtown—”

“No! No, that’s not…no, I just…” She giggles and struggles to put her words together coherently, shocked with his suggestion. “...I don’t wanna…like…” Her mind draws a blank, her eyes closing before she lets out a breath and tries again, “I’m okay with that. I just don’t want you to feel like you have to because of what some ass said.” 

“I want to.” He shrugs. “My dad has a couple guitars, we can do it at my house once a week or something after school—just not on Wednesdays because mom drags us with her when she teaches CCD.” 

Coley ponders what the Kiszka bunch being let loose in a church might look like, but sets it aside as she nods slowly but surely.

“What about Mondays and Fridays?” She suggests to him. 

“I’m fine with it if you are.” He agrees.

“Okay, I’ll talk to my mom and see if she’s okay with it and I’ll let you know.”

“Alright.” He has to force himself from caring too much, or at least appearing to care too much, playing off his excitement with another nod. 

“Alright.” She repeats after him, seeing her sister’s car waiting for her by the curb.

Giving him another smile, she offers a wave and a, “Bye,” to which he returns as cooly as he can while he watches her climb into the old honda civic and pull off—the both of them reeling with elation from the deal they’ve just made. 

JAKE: We had grown up immersed in music, literature, film, art…practically soaked in it the moment we came out of the womb. 

Dad always kept instruments lying out, not really worrying about me or Josh bothering them all too much. But once I could crawl, I immediately became drawn to his guitar that he’d often leave aside on the floor. 

It drove my mom insane, constantly telling him to put it up because she didn’t want me to fuck it up…but it was like dad just knew I needed to start fumbling around with it. 

Sure enough, by the time I was three, I was obsessed, and as I got older my mom’s brother, Dave, would start working with me some on actually learning it in a way that it would sound coherent. 

Everything he taught me, I passed on to Coley. 

A clumsy spill of a single chord echos from the acoustic guitar, her eyes immediately widening as she abruptly pulls back from the instrument, Jake quick to assure her, “No, it’s okay,” with a shy smile.

She relaxes, watching him play the chord again for her on his own guitar. 

Glancing up, she sees Karen step by the bedroom door that has remained wide open, her only condition for the two of them to retreat upstairs for enough quiet to actually concentrate over the sound of The Allman Brothers 

His mom offers her a closed-lip smile and a thumbs up before disappearing, Coley holding back a snicker while Jake hadn’t even noticed the silent exchange. 

“What is it?” He asks her, realizing something else had taken her attention away from the task at hand. 

“I think your mom thinks I’m gonna kill you.” She voices it to him before she can stop herself.

He looks at the open door and lets out a chuckle, knowing the only reason his mother’s lingering every one in a while is solely explained by the paranoia of them being hormonal, curious preteens. 

Neither of them are that bold, anyway, keeping on opposite sides of his twin bed—leaving plenty of room for Jesus and all twelve of his disciples. 

Before they can start once again, they’re interrupted by the abrupt clattering of Josh running up the stairs and into the room, momentarily halting when he sees the girl. 

“Hey.” Coley greets his twin, offering a smile, and Josh looks at her then his brother, replying, “Hey.”

“Josh, this is Coley.” Jake tells him as if he hadn’t threatened him an hour prior about what he’d do to him if his brother embarrassed him in front of her. “Coley, this is Josh.”

Josh does just as Jake did, holding his hand out to her, saying, “It’s nice to meet you, Coley.”

She takes his hand briefly, offering up a polite, “You, too, Josh.” 

He’s snapping around to dig through his chest of drawers, boroughing for a moment, tossing stray items onto his bed before finally looking at Jake. 

“Have you seen my matches?” 

“No? Mom probably took them because she’s tired of you almost setting the yard on fire.” Jake tells him, Coley sitting silently when Josh flips his middle finger up at him.  

“He makes movies about blowing shit up.” Jake explains to her, her face lighting up as she says, “Really?”

“I’ll let you start the fire if I can find my matches because our lighter is out of fluid.” Josh tells her, opening another drawer. 

Jake only glares at him because of his offer, and she takes the opportunity to clear her throat and start to stand. 

“Where’s the bathroom?” She asks Jake quietly, a smug grin pulling at Josh’s lips as he watches his stony-faced brother melt when he looks up at her. 

“Last door on the left.” He points down the hall and she nods, his hands immediately reaching out to gently take the guitar from her. 

When she’s out of earshot, Josh chuckles. 

“C.J. Payne,” He starts, raising his brows as he plunders through his own things.

“Shut up.” Jake rolls his eyes, already knowing where Josh is going to go with his incoming spiel. 

“You’ve not only gotten her to acknowledge your existence, but you’ve gotten her to hang out with you in her spare time. You're gonna be a God in the eyes of your insufferable gaggle of soccer jocks.” Josh comments with a scoff, adding, “She’s up there with Lily Herndon.” 

“Just don’t be weird about it, Josh.” He pleads despite feeling a bit of pride go through him from Josh’s words. 

 A genuine curiosity about Josh’s current cinema endeavor picks at him, next, and he’s asking, “What’s this one about?” in an attempt to change the subject. 

His brother knows as much, but indulges him anyway…

JOSH: I know it’s difficult to believe that I may be a bit theatrical at times, having a taste for the dramatic, but my devotion first lied with Cinephilia. 

I adored film-making, editing, acting, directing (especially directing because I get to tell people what to do), and of course writing. 

Everyone would see me singing in the band and assume that’s what I’ve always wanted to do with my life—that my dream equated to screaming fans, the flash of breasts, and touring the world.

Storytelling has always been my love language. I could bear being a singer for Jake’s sake once I realized I could tell stories just as easily through music, but my own dream was made with a camera, and it  comes true with each completed project. 

It’s been that way since I was old enough to grasp the basic principles of a story. 

Of course, my earliest projects weren’t complete until some kind of explosion was captured that elevated dad’s blood pressure and worried my mother into a tizzy. 

When Coley returns to the room, Jake’s also in search of matches, a buzz running through the air as they do so. 

“We’ll get back to it in just a second, Coley,” Jake promises her, not bothering to look up because he can’t get sidetracked in the quest to accomplish the poetic ending Josh has planned for his film. 

“Still can’t find them?” She’s asking, raising her brows, and they shake their heads. “Well…do either of your parents smoke?” 

“Um…dad has a pipe and some cigars—why?” Jake asks, closing the middle drawer of Josh’s dresser, pulling the next one open. 

“We can light one with the stove and just use that to start the fire.” She suggests, and the twins stop and look at one another. “Me, Sherri, and her boyfriend, Trace, do it with his mom’s cigarettes to light bottle rockets.” Coley adds. 

Neither of them say a word to her momentarily, but have their own silent bout of communication, smiles slowly creeping to the boys’ faces. 

Within moments, Jake is sneaking into his parent’s room to snag a cigar from the box on their bureau, Coley being the lookout while Josh eases downstairs, casually, as the smell of hamburger helper wafts through the air. 

“What’s up?” Karen inquires to her oldest, stirring the stove-top meal, while Sam sits at the kitchen table and doodles, and Veronica looks over her homework. 

“Oh, nothing.” Josh shrugs, sitting at the table with a shrug as he eyes his two younger siblings. 

Ronnie cuts her eyes at him as he suspiciously smiles at her, offering a polite, “Hey, sis—”

“—What do you want?” She cuts through the crap, not having time to bustle back and forth with him. 

He merely scrunches his face up and scoffs out, “I can’t just talk to my sister?”

“I’m not your sister, remember? Mom and dad picked me up from a drop-box at the fire-station.” Ronnie reminds him of what he and Jake have always told her in jest, and he rolls his eyes. “I’m not doing any chores for you.” She quietly states, next. 

“I don’t want you to do my chores.” He tells her, glancing at their mother who has her back to them... 

Upstairs, Jake’s having a harder time locating the cigars than he expected, the box on the bureau empty—but he knows his father always has more than one box stored somewhere. 

He’s quick to step to his parents closet, opening the door and looking up at the top shelf. 

“Hey, mom?” Veronica asks with a roll of her eyes, Karen humming out a, “Huh?” while her daughter glares at Josh.  

He nudges Ronnie’s foot with his own and she begrudgingly continues, “Can we talk?” 

“Talk about what?” Her mother inquires. 

His brows raise as he stares at his sister, Sammy glancing between the two of them after finally looking up from his drawings. 

“‘The woes of puberty’,” Josh mouths to her and she sighs out, “Puberty, mom.”

His foot once again bumps into hers, and she adds, “And the woes.” 

Sam wrinkles his nose and silently judges his siblings’ back and forth. 

SAM: Ah, man, my brothers were always the stars of the show growing up—me and Ronnie just tried to be out of the way when mom and dad had to inevitably go put out whatever fire—sometimes figurative, sometimes literal—Josh and Jake had sparked up. 

Mom’s always said that Josh makes things happen, while Jake does things—it’s been that way since they could communicate with one another, and only got worse when Coley started coming around. 

I think my parents were hoping she’d provide a voice of reason to calm their thirst for chaos and dissatisfaction with stagnation, instead, she encouraged and cheered on their dumbassery. 

But I can’t talk too much shit, I was right there with them. 

I kept to myself more times than not until high school, but if my brothers invited me on whatever adventure their warped minds came up with to embark on, I’d tag along. Always. 

Karen looks at her and raises her brows, clearing her throat at Veronica’s words as she curiously dreads what the conversation may entail. 

“Can you give me, like, two more minutes?” Her mother asks her, Josh jumping in to chipperly offer, “I can finish up for you, Ma.” 

Meanwhile, Jake’s staring at the fresh box of cigars, caught between not stealing from his father and potentially not seeing tomorrow, and having fun with the girl out in the hallway.

Coley darts into the bedroom when Karen and Ronnie start up the stairs, the blonde whispering out a sharp, “Your mom!” 

He’s plucking a cigar from the box, replacing it swiftly, and dragging her into his parents bathroom—the two of them jumping into the shower to hide. 

They listen as Karen and Veronica step by his parents bedroom, his mom mumbling, “You know you can talk to me anytime, kid, I know you’ve been going through some stuff lately…” Before Veronica’s subtly knocking twice on her bedroom door as she closes it behind her and their mom—signaling to Jake that the coast is clear. 

“Okay, let’s go,” He wastes no time, the two of them flying down the stairs quietly as Josh has removed the hamburger helper and turns the stove top up to the hottest temp. 

“Ronnie’s getting us at least three workable minutes.” He assures them. 

“What’re you idiots doing now?” Sam asks. 

“Don’t tell mom and we’ll let you come with us.” Josh tells him as Jake says, “You gotta cut it. Dad always clips it,” to Coley. 

“Clip it? With what?” She frantically looks around. 

“Here,” Josh hands her a knife to slice at it, as messy as it is before the three of them look at one another. 

“Who’s puffing it?” She asks them. 

“I’m not puffing it.” Josh retorts. 

“Mom’s gonna be here any second.” Jake throws in. 

“It was your idea, Sister Golden Hair.” Josh elbows her gently. 

“It’s your movie.” She argues with him. 

“I’ll do it.” Jake grabs at the cigar, raising his brows when Coley pulls it away from him. 

She grabs a fistful of her hair in one hand to hold it back, while she leans down—wincing from the heat radiating off the burner—touching the end of the cigar to the stove, and puffing at the cigar in a much quicker, shittier way than what they’ve witnessed their father light up, but it works decent enough. 

The taste is rancid and the smoke smells as putrid as it tastes, plumes of it spilling from her mouth as Josh hurriedly says, “Puff, puff, puff,” her shoulders in his hands while he rushes her to the back door where his massive pile of cardboard and wooden set pieces he’s constructed are stacked up in the backyard and already doused in lighter fluid. 

Grabbing his camera he put in the chair his father typically sits in to have a smoke and drink a beer whilst they do yard work, he leads her to the spot he needs the fire to start while her head begins to spin from the quick intake of cigar smoke. 

“I put a shit ton right there,” Josh points to a splintered slat of wood soaked in lighter fluid, and the end of the cigar glows red before she’s touching it to the wood. 

Veronica tries her hardest to keep carrying on and on about fictitious drama at school, over-exaggerated swings in bodily changes, and anything else that opens a new can of worms and invites her mother to share her own experiences in coming of age—anything to buy time for her brothers downstairs. 

All her effort is in vain, however, when her mother suddenly stops her rambling, eyes going wide before she’s scrambling to the window to see a blanket of smoke covering the air outside. 

The massive pile of flammable objects that Josh has been pestering her and Kelly to burn for him in order to finish the last piece of his movie he’s been working on—the pile that inspired his parents to hide anything capable of producing a flame from him and his brother—is engulfed in flames. 

Coley’s vomiting, Jake’s holding her hair back, Sam is yelling at his brothers and Josh is filming whilst dramatically narrating.  

Karen snaps her attention to her daughter, who looks at her guiltily. 

 COLEY: Josh failed to mention to any of us that he had put a couple bottles of rubbing alcohol in that damn pile of junk he wanted to burn so bad. 

JAKE: I didn’t notice that…I was too busy focused on Coley once the cigar sickness hit her. 

SAM: A couple neighbors that lived within a mile of us kept calling mom to ensure our house wasn’t on fire.

JOSH: It wasn’t easy to sacrifice the sanity of my mother for art’s sake but it was something that, unfortunately, had to be done. 

However, the incessant screeching of my name that can be heard in the background of the ending of that film—that I slaved over for hours—was an unnecessary additive that could have waited until after I got the shot that I needed. 

The three pre-teens can still hear the curdling, “JOSHUA!” that Karen had let out upon realizing what her son had orchestrated—even over the sound of Tammy tearing into them once Karen gives it a rest momentarily. 

The two mothers have taken turns berating them for their stupidity while Josh, Jake, and Coley all sit on the couch, the latter holding a damp cloth to her forehead as she pays the consequence of wasting a good cigar far too quickly. 

They all listen—partially, at least. 

Jake is too focused trying to look at Coley from the corner of his eye at times, fighting back a smile at the fact she’s sitting so close to him despite her angry mom looming over them. 

When Tammy tires out, Karen starts again, and by the time Karen takes her breath, Tammy catches her second wind. 

“…What the hell is wrong with you?!” Tammy now glares at her daughter. “Karen and Kelly were generous enough to let you come over—Kelly lent you a guitar and Karen was cooking for you and this is how you repay them?! Stealing from Kelly and committing arson in their yard?! You could’ve been seriously hurt if something had gone wrong!”

“It wasn’t her fault, Mrs. Payne.” Jake takes a surprising stance, speaking up to defend her. 

Coley and Josh both look at him, his brother more-so out of curiosity to see what lie he’s about to pull from his ass. 

“It was my idea to use one of dad’s cigars, and I’m the one who got it.” The partial lie is believable enough when he confesses it so easily. 

“I appreciate your honesty, Jake, but Coley knows better. And she should have tried to talk better sense into the both of you, instead of running along with it.” Tammy tells him, once more settling her glare on her daughter. 

 “Your dad’s gonna be thrilled when he finds out that Tammy and Cole trusted us with their daughter and it ended with you two inviting her to damn-near obliterate the back yard with you.” Karen says, next. 

Josh bites into his tongue to keep from respectfully interjecting that they didn’t destroy the yard, and no damage was done—deciding he’s not yet ready to die. 

“Not to mention getting Ronnie and Sammy involved! I mean, you two sneaking around behind our backs isn’t enough?! You gotta get them in it, too?!” She continues, at a loss of words. “Now it’s coercion, theft, and arson, what the hell are you gonna be doing once you turn sixteen?! Absolutely nothing.” Karen laughs out. “You two are so beyond grounded it’s not even fathomable.” 

“Mom—”

“No!” She exclaims, further enraged. “You owe Coley, and Tammy, and apology.” She adds to her boys, raising her brows. 

“Coley participated in potential conflagration in your backyard after smoking one of your husband’s cigars. She should be apologizing.” Tammy assures Karen. 

None of them answer, wanting nothing more than to melt into the couch and hide from the wrath of their mothers.

“We’re waiting.” Karen snaps to them, crossing her arms. 

“I’m sorry,” Josh and Jake mumble to Coley’s mother, while Coley simultaneously looks at Karen and says, “I’m sorry.”

The two women finally exhale, catching their breath as they look at one another and sit down across from their children, calming once they get seated.  

“We want you guys to get along and be friends, but come on.” Karen starts. 

“You’ve gotten along a little too good.” Tammy chirps, rubbing her forehead while Karen adds, “And if one of you can’t use some critical thinking in the future we can’t let you hangout anymore. You cannot pull anything like this again, do you understand me?” 

The three of them exchange glances. 

Now that the boys know that Coley contributes to any fun ideas they have, and Coley knows that they don’t take much of anything too seriously, whether they’ll get into stupidity in the name of having a good time in the future is a no-brainer. 

They’ll just have to get smarter at ensuring they won’t be found out.

“Yes.” They all say collectively, accepting their defeat—only momentarily. 

.

.

.

.

.

Tag list: @edgingthedarkness

[rocorambles]

Perfect

Pairing: Akaashi x Reader

Genre/Warnings: NSFW, Yandere, Toxic Relationships, Manipulation, Non-Con/Dub-Con, Forced Impregnation

Prompt: “I told you to stay still”

Summary: The perfect couple always has children. Multiple children. A full family. A house full of laughter and home-cooked meals. And you two are the epitome of a perfect couple. So why are you still so hesitant about taking the next big step?

Author’s Note: This is my contribution for my HQ Discord Server’s NSFW collaboration. There are so many talented writers on the server and I highly encourage you to check out the collaboration masterlist here to see how everyone decided to run with this spicy prompt. (Masterlist goes live Tuesday 6th October 11:00pm U.K. time!) 

Akaashi’s always been an overthinker. He can admit that. He knows it’s a flaw he’s always had and could never seem to shake off. But just because he realizes it doesn’t mean he does anything about it. And the overwhelming pressure he places on himself in everything he does only fuels the suffocating thoughts until they’re screaming in his head. Unfortunately for you, his sweet darling wife, that only means terrible things for you and suddenly every move you make is alarming, every word you say is suspicious, every breath you take painstakingly monitored. 

Akaashi just wants to be the perfect husband, the perfect lover, the perfect provider. He wants the two of you to be the perfect happily married couple, to live the perfect domestic life. So after years of playing house, of devoting all his attention and love on you, of spoiling you rotten with everything you could possibly want, when you tell him you aren’t ready to have children yet, he feels his cool facade slip and the incessant thoughts begin to drown him. 

The perfect couple always has children. Multiple children. A full family. A house full of laughter and home-cooked meals. And you two are the epitome of a perfect couple. So why are you still so hesitant about taking the next big step? Are you tired of him? Do you not want to have kids with him? Are you planning on leaving him? 

You nervously shift from foot to foot, intimidated by the chaos you see in blue eyes and you tentatively reach out to your husband, trying to understand what’s wrong, but you sigh in relief as he jolts at your touch, staring blankly at you before setting his face back to its usual serene countenance, slightly smiling at you as he nods in understanding and affectionately kisses your forehead. This is the Akaashi you’d fallen in love with and you happily sigh as you wrap your arms around his waist, letting yourself be rocked in his arms in a warm embrace, ignorant of how his face hardens as soon as his chin is tucked above your head, eyes thoughtful, mind scheming. 

It takes some coaxing, some patient conversations during your most vulnerable moments when you were still groggily rubbing the sleep out of your eyes or yawning as you lay your head on the pillow to sleep at night, but he finally gets his answers and he smiles in endearment as you worry about whether or not you’re ready to be a mom. Would you even be a good mom? Oh. He’s sure you’re going to be the perfect mother and he makes a mental note to prove that to you until you see it for yourself, but he’s grateful for the darkness that hides his grimace when you go on to talk about how you also want to focus on your career for now. It’s not that Akaashi is against women working. He doesn’t hate how happy and fulfilled you feel as you ramble on and on about work, about your coworkers, about your salary and title. He just thinks you’d be even more perfect as his pretty little housewife and he quietly plans and strategizes as your breathing gets heavier and heavier until you’re fast asleep besides him on your shared bed. 

He waits until your chest rises and falls in even rhythms before reaching over for your phone. You’ve always been so trusting, probably too trusting of him, but that works in his favor now as he flawlessly types in your password and dives into your alarms and work emails. A swipe there, a deletion here. He meticulously combs through your phone turning off your alarms, deleting important meetings, getting rid of urgent emails waiting for your response before he quietly places your phone on the nightside table by you, pleased with his work and he closes his own eyes, a small smile on his face as he peacefully sleeps. 

Luckily, he leaves for work much earlier than you, so he’s out the door before you can even realize the messy day you’re about to have and he can’t be blamed for not waking you up when your alarm doesn’t go off. He patiently waits and waits, glancing at his phone every now and then, waiting for the onslaught of panicked and distressing texts he knows you’ll send his way as your day gets progressively worse and worse. And sure enough, his phone vibrates over and over again as you send a flurry of texts steeped in negative emotions and like the perfect husband he is, he sends the consoling and comforting notes you need. And when you call, crying and sobbing about being yelled at, about how awful at your job you are, he’s there to soothe you. 

“Don’t cry, love. It’s not your fault. You’re an amazing woman. Maybe this just isn’t the right job for you or the right company for you.” 

He plants the seeds of doubt in your mind and you let them be watered by the sweet suggestions he sprinkles on you. And with just a few more flicks of his wrist in the middle of the night when you’re asleep, ignorant of your phone being used without your knowledge, and a little bit of time, you’re finally fired and he’s there, rushing back home to wrap you in his arms. But he smiles when instead of being distraught, you merely sit there quietly as you tuck yourself against him. 

“Maybe this just wasn’t the right job for me, Keiji.”

He encourages you to take some time off from the workforce. You had worked so hard for so long. You deserve a break. And you mindlessly nod along to his silky voice. Relaxing does sound nice. You had thrown yourself into your job so much that you’d forgotten what it was like to have so much free time and you begin to excitedly ponder what hobbies you could pick up to fill the days, what projects around the house you could finally get done.    

Akaashi sighs when his alarm goes off the next morning, but he sits up in confusion when the smell of freshly brewed coffee wafts through the air and he blearily turns to your side of the bed, freezing when he finds it empty. But his groggy mind begins to put two and two together and he rushes towards the kitchen where he feels like his heart might burst at the sight of you humming, an apron daintily wrapped around you as you pour a generous amount of dark caffeine in his favorite mug. And he can’t stop himself from closing the distance between you as he tenderly wraps you in his arms, turning you around until you’re face to face as he captures your lips in a good morning kiss. He wants every morning to be like this, he thinks, as he mentally captures the image of you smiling and waving goodbye to him from the apartment door. The perfect loving wife seeing her husband off.

You spend your long days at home tidying up the house, decorating spaces in the house you’d always wanted to spruce up but never had time to before, spending hours in the kitchen cooking and baking everything you’d always wanted to try. It’s nice to fall into a domestic rhythm with Akaashi and work is far from your mind as you cheerily greet your husband when he comes home, as the two of you pleasantly chat while he eats the piping hot delicious meal you’ve prepared for him, as he hand feeds you the brownies you had made as the two of you sit on the couch and watch a show together.

But as time goes on, you find yourself twiddling your thumbs a bit with just a little too much idle time on your hand now that the interior of the apartment is exactly up to your dream standards of cleanliness and decor. And you can’t help but wonder how nice it would be to have a small child running about the place, keeping you company while Akaashi is away at work. You freeze when the thought crosses your mind and your brows furrow in confusion. Where had that thought come from? You’d never wanted kids before. And yet...You quickly shove that fleeting idea to the back of your mind as you refold laundry that had already been handled, throwing yourself into anything that could distract you from the strange desires plaguing your mind. 

Little do you know how much Akaashi has influenced you in the time you’ve been stuck at home. Little do you know that the daily evening walks he takes you on after dinner are always purposefully done around the nearby children parks. Little do you know that the little comments and remarks he makes about how adorable that child is, how silly this child is aren’t as offhand as you think. They’re strategically strung together words just for you and he slightly smiles when he sees them weaving through your mind as your eyes soften and a longing smile begins to tug at your lips when you turn to look at what he’s talking about. Little do you know that it’s no accident when the two of you go shopping and find yourselves passing aisles of children’s toys and clothing. And Akaashi feels his chest tighten with affection when you unconsciously skim your fingers over the tiny shoes and onesies, asking him for his opinions. 

“Aren’t these cute, Keiji?” 

And he nods his head as he reaches down to hold your hand, interlacing his fingers with yours as you continue perusing. 

He knows he almost has you right where he wants you. He can almost see the cogs turning in your head, see you imagining a life with him and a family...your own little family. It’s time for the final step and he secretly keeps tabs on the convenient period tracking app you have on your phone waiting and waiting until your next ovulation period and when it comes, you squeal in surprise when he impatiently whisks you off to your shared bedroom and presses you down onto the bed as soon as he steps into the house after work. 

His movements are so hurried, so rough, so unlike how Akaashi normally is, but you eagerly reciprocate, excited to see this side of your husband and you’re a moaning, writhing mess as he bites and sucks every inch of your skin, a trail of red skin following in his wake as he marks up your neck, collarbones, and breasts. You’re already dripping wet by the time he finally reaches down to rub your clit and slip his fingers inside of you and your hips buck up into his touch, urging him for more. Your head is swirling with lust and you whine when he briefly slips away to guide the tip of his cock against your leaking hole and you shudder in desire when you feel him running his tip along your slit. But even in your dazed state, you feel yourself hesitate a bit when you see that he isn’t using a condom. 

“Keiji, I’m ovulating. You need to use a cond- AH!”

You’re cut off as he slides his cock inside of you, your slick walls greedily sucking him in with little resistance and you try to muster up the words to repeat yourself, but you can’t articulate anything as he leans down to suck a perky nipple as he begins to thrust in and out of you in a sensual, but thorough pattern, making sure you can feel every inch of him rubbing against your clenching walls, making sure you can feel him sink balls deep inside of him, making sure you can feel him stimulate the spongy spot inside of you that has you seeing stars. And you give up, trusting that he’d at least pull out before he cums, and you lose yourself to the feeling of being so used and filled, feeling the coil in your stomach grow tighter and tighter, and when blue eyes gaze down at you and he hungrily leans down to capture your lips in a searing kiss, you fall over the edge, your pleasured wails swallowed by your husband’s lips as he chases his own end. 

You lay there in mind numbing bliss as he continues to sink in and out of your tight heat, letting out little mewls of overstimulation, but when you feel the erratic rhythm of his thrusts and you see the telltale look on his face as he closes his eyes that indicate he’s close and he makes no attempt to pull out, you weakly shake his shoulders, squirming and wriggling your body from underneath him as you try to pull away. 

“K-Keiji, NGH you can cum on me. Okay? AH B-but, you can’t cum inside me.” 

You scream when large hands roughly grab your waist in a bruising grip and forcefully pull you down until he’s fully inside you once again. 

“Stay still.” 

You whimper, trying to be good for him, but anxiety is beginning to cloud your pleasure and you struggle once again, pleading with him and telling him you don’t want to get pregnant. But you keen when that only spurs him on to fuck you rougher, harder, deeper and your eyes roll back as you try to register the almost painful overstimulation you’re going through. 

“I told you to stay still.” 

And this time you do stay still, unable to do anything else but lay there like a good obedient wife as he pistons in and out of you, your mouth open in a persistent silent scream as your hands desperately scramble to find purchase in the rumpled bed sheets and you brokenly moan when he finally shoves inside of you with one final thrust and your stomach feels hot as spurts of liquid spill inside of you.

You’re in shock as he stays buried inside of you, trapping your body with his as he lays down on top of you, nuzzling and kissing the crook of your neck as he keeps his cum inside of you and you’re not sure how much time passes as you just lay there, mind blank as you try to come to terms with what had just happened. But when you feel his cock begin to twitch and harden inside of you once more, you frantically try to push him away from you, try to separate yourself from him. 

“Keiji, stop it! I need to go get Plan B or something. I-” 

Your mind is a chaotic swirl as you try to figure out next steps to avoid this unwanted pregnancy and you think you might throw up at the idea of being pregnant, having a child, all so suddenly, so fast. 

You’re not ready. You’re not ready. You’re not ready. 

Your thoughts are shattered to pieces when you’re shoved back down onto the mattress and you loudly wail when Akaashi begins an unforgiving pace once again, brutally slamming his hips into yours, his cum acting as lubrication, making it easier for him to plow into you and take you over and over again. And the last coherent thought you have is that you were such a fool to not realize just how much stronger, how much larger Akaashi is compared to you as your attempts to shake him off are easily ignored by the man above you. 

You don’t know how much time has passed. It feels like an eternity and you’re not sure how you’re still conscious as Akaashi breeds you over and over again. Your mouth is open in a persistent silent scream, your eyes are rolled so far back in your head you can barely see, tears and drool mar your face. Everything feels so good, too good, and you can’t stop sobbing from the overwhelming pleasure you feel as Akaashi keeps on spilling load after load of sticky white liquid inside of you and you curl into Akaashi’s body instinctively for comfort when he sinks down on top of you, exhaustion finally catching up with him. And the two of you just lay there, chests heaving as you both heavily pant, his flaccid cock still buried inside of you, plugging his cum inside of you. And even though you want to yell at him, to be angry at him for forcing this on you, you’re so spent, head empty of anything except for Akaashi that you let yourself be maneuvered until you’re both on your sides, facing each other, your lower bodies still intimately connected. 

You let out a little whimper when you feel a large hand gently stroke your cum-filled stomach, but you can feel your face and body grow hot when his other hand gently nudges your chin up to look at him and you see the look of pure love and adoration in his eyes. 

“You’re going to look so beautiful with your belly bulging with my children, our children.” 

You let out a breathy gasp when he teasingly fondles one of your pebbled nipples and palms your fleshy mound. 

“You’re going to look so beautiful when these swell up with milk. I wonder if our children would be willing to share some with their father.” 

Sweet word after word spills from his lips and you listlessly lay there listening to him go on and on, painting a picture of what your future lives together would look like, and before you can catch yourself from falling deeper into his trap, your mind betrays you and images flash across your vision and you unconsciously draw even nearer to Akaashi, cuddling into his body affectionately as picture perfect scenes of you braiding a little girl’s hair while Akaashi teaches a little boy how to play volleyball flicker across your imagination. And when Akaashi feels you gently place your hand on top of his hand that’s still cradling your stomach practically sloshing with the amount of liquid he’s gifted you with tonight, he knows he’s got you hook, line, and sinker. 

That night the two of you fall asleep, dreaming about the perfect life you’re going to have together.

[i-lionheart]

Memories | Kylo Ren x Reader

You are Kylo Ren's apprentice and second in command, ruling the galaxy and the First Order at his side. When Kylo notices you acting strange, he calls you to the throne room to investigate.

Before you read: 1.4K words, sfw, fluff, feelsy fluff, hurt/comfort but like... emotional hurt rather than physical, i guess it's technically fem!reader but its only mentioned once (when Kylo calls her "good girl") so make of that what you will

You were surprised to see a message from Kylo Ren when you checked your wristpad. He usually only messaged you when he needed something and couldn't leave the Finalizer's bridge to speak with you face-to-face. Though you had been busy finishing up some work on your ship, he had retired to his quarters almost an hour ago for the evening meal. You opened the message.

Are you still working?

You typed a response.

No. Just finished. Why?

His answer was almost immediate.

Throne room. Now.

On my way.

You typed your final message and swiped the screen of your wristpad, which obediently went black. As you made your way from the docking bay to the throne room, you wondered what he needed so urgently right now. The fleet had spent the day at a supply outpost, gearing up in preparation for your next battle. You had just finished a successful mission and debriefed with Kylo when you had returned around midday, hours ago now. As far as you knew, the First Order was running smoothly, like the well-oiled machine you knew it to be. If something had happened, you would have heard about it.

What could he possibly want that was so urgent?

You arrived at the throne room and scanned your wristpad at the door terminal, as you had a thousand times. The door slid open with a whoosh. You stepped inside, continuing through the corridor that greeted you until it widened into the vast throne room.

The room had once belonged to Snoke, but much had changed since then. Now, walls marked the perimeter of what had once been a half - suspended platform, their previous blood red color replaced with a sleek jet black. Though unseen lights created a dim glow throughout most of the space, a spotlight cast the raised dais in the center of the room - and the figure on the dais's throne- into sharp relief.

Kylo Ren lounged lazily in the throne, legs spread, elbow resting on a thigh, head resting on his hand. He wore only the comfortable boots and simple, breathable long-sleeved shirt and pants that he preferred to his usual robes once he had retired for the day.

As you stepped forward into the room, his eyes settled upon you, taking in your appearance. He regarded you for a moment, and then spoke.

"What's bothering you?"

The question caught you off guard. You looked at him quizzically. "Can't you just read my mind and find out?"

"You're blocking me."

"Again?" you said, surprised. He nodded in confirmation.

"It's worse, today. Usually I can at least read your emotions, tell what you're feeling, how strong it is, maybe even catch a glimpse of what triggered it. Today?" He raised his eyebrows. "Nothing. I've had to surmise what I can from your body language alone."

That was unusual. Kylo was particularly gifted in using the Force to sense the thoughts of others. You were just as Force sensitive as he was, but had spend most of your life forced to hide it, and it had been causing you problems lately. At times, you unconsciously used your powers to throw up walls between your mind and the world. You and Ren had guessed that it was your unconscious way of trying to protect yourself. These mental walls helped stop your emotions from being projected outward and communicated to those around you who might wish you harm, but they also stopped Kylo from getting in, which was a problem. He needed to be able to keep tabs on you. If he couldn't, you were in danger, and you knew it. However, despite the serious nature of the situation, you couldn't pass up the chance to take a jab at him.

You let out a gasp of mock surprise. "You mean you have to read nonverbal cues? Like a normal person? How horrible!" you lamented, sarcastically feigning pity.

Kylo Ren was not a man with a great penchant for jokes, especially when they were at his expense. In fact, most officers in the First Order would probably tell you that he didn't have a comedic bone in his body. But you knew him better. Though he steepled his fingers and lowered his head to his hands, closing his eyes with a sigh of exasperation, you saw the corners of his mouth briefly twitch up into a small smile. You smirked in satisfaction. "I'm right and you know it. Behavior cues are something you have no right to complain about."

He raised his head and looked back at you with a shrewd expression. "And they are why I know that, as much as you attempt to deflect with humor, you are having difficulty. Tell me."

You blushed at the call-out. "It's nothing, really, I-"

He held out a hand, stopping you mid-sentence. "Don't lie to me, little one. Tell me what's bothering you." Though the rebuke was gentle, and his tone was tender, you avoided his gaze, choosing to observe the durasteel floor rather than let him see the shame rising in you.

"It's the memories," you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

"It's your mother again, isn't it." It wasn't a question.

"Yeah, I just-" you broke off, feeling a lump rise in your throat. "I just- what if she was right? What if I am broken, what if it is my own fault that I failed for so long? What if I can't keep this up, what if I fail again? I don't know, I just spent all day remembering everything she told me, and I thought..." You finally wrenched your gaze away from the floor, looking up at your Supreme Leader through eyes full of tears, praying that he would see the cry for help in your expression that you were too afraid to put into words. "What if I don't deserve this, either?"

With that final admission of insecurity, you lost what little composure you had left. Silent tears began flowing freely down your face as you sunk back into the ocean of memories that had been threatening to drown you for most of the day.

A voice with all the tenderness and softness of a spring rain cut through your thoughts, pulling you out of your daze.

"Come here, darling."

Obediently, you crossed the throne room. As you approached the dais, you looked up at him, wiping your eyes with your sleeve. He had shifted in his seat, his new position an implicit invitation for you to join him on his throne. You kicked off your boots and ascended the dais, gratefully climbing into his lap and bringing your knees to your chest, melting into the body that was so familiar to you. He pulled you close to him, one arm supporting the small of your back, the other hand pressing your head to his chest despite the tears creating ever-growing dark spots on his thin shirt.

"Shhhh," he murmured. "Listen."

Obediently, you quieted your breathing, paying attention to your senses. Slowly but surely, you found the steady sound of his heart beating in his chest.

"Good girl." A pause, then he continued, impossibly gentle. "Now, match my breath." Obediently, you observed the rise and fall of his chest, then adjusted your own to match.

Inhale.

"Good." His hand stroked your hair.

Exhale.

"Just like that, darling. In..."

Inhale.

"...and out."

Exhale.

"You're doing wonderfully."

A moment of comfortable silence. No strife. No memories. No galaxy to rule. Just the two of you, breathing together.

The way you were meant to be.

He spoke again, continuing to caress you. "Remember where you are."

Inhale. Exhale.

"You are here, with me, and you are safe."

Inhale. Exhale.

"You deserve every star in the galaxy, every atom in the universe."

Inhale. Exhale.

"You deserve your place at my side."

Inhale. Exhale.

"Your mother was wrong. You deserve everything you have. And every time you are with me, I thank the Force for allowing me to rule with you by my side."

"Thank you," you murmured, words muffled from being spoken directly into his chest. God, you loved him, but managing to find the words to express that out loud was impossible.

His voice spoke inside your mind.

"Don't bother. I already know."

You felt, rather than saw, the smile that backed his words.

"If the memories ever bother you again, come find me. I'll help you."

A beat.

"You never have to face this alone again."

You sat there, pressed against him, too overwhelmed with emotion to speak. Grateful to simply be with someone who had vowed to always be by your side.

"I love you," you thought.

"I know."

-

if you enjoyed this fic, please consider reblogging so it can find other people who might enjoy it!

[sugar-petals]

understanding gemini as a sign: a few astro pointers

the 3rd house ruling schools, students, siblings, neighborhoods, and intellectual interests will show you where geminis love to dwell: the most mentally stimulating place with instant gratification, hence relatives and your neighbors that you can talk to in a heartbeat. on tumblr, same thing, your mutuals. mutual culture is gemini incarnate.

symbol association: the twin, or janus the double-headed god of season change and doorways. it’s two people yet ironically the ‘same’ person bouncing ideas back and forth. being among likeminded, close peers is gemini’s first and foremost need. 

love long distance like sagittarius, scorpio or pisces — too hard on them, unless their venus or 7th house is in those signs. mutable air is often impatient with lots of input needed, long preparations for interaction will bother them. anything rather improvised and face-to-face suits gemini better despite them being nervous about it.

virgo is actually the part of mercury that plans. it’s the 6th house of the workplace after all, ruled by earth which makes thoughts practical. but gemini takes the part of mercury that is airy and fleeting, doing everything on the fly. a quick mind map they’ll never look at again is their way of conceptualizing.

it’s the sign of random creativity (e.g. doodling, rambling, sketching) as opposed to libra representing carefully curated fine art or aquarius being responsible for unusual but needed inventions as big steps for humanity. gemini is the most creative in an impromptu sense, aquarius takes more time and thinks far ahead since it’s fixed air. gemini cares less about form than aesthetic libra, it’s more about the theme and topic to them. so that’s how they differ in terms of crafting something.

sagittarius and the 9th house shows the long journey, gemini and the 3rd is the quick trip. that’s why they’re opposing signs and gemini hardly seems to be on an island vacation. they’d rather run and drive around from place to place randomly with the chance to return home where all their hobbies are anyway. that’s why they don’t feel the need to escape physically like sagittarius, but rather, in the mind, and they can do that wherever they are.  

the 3rd/9th house axis also shows hands-on wit in youth (mercury in the southern chart hemisphere of the early path) vs abstract wisdom of old age (jupiter in the northern chart hemisphere of the advanced path). that’s where gemini’s humor and childlike quality comes from. the fact that the 3rd house even precedes the 4th house of our upbringing shows which stage in the zodiac journey they occupy.

mercury is not a benefic or malefic planet, it is neutral. gemini similarly rests in between polarities and rather looks at them both. libra goes back and forth stressfully, never choosing, gemini never thought they had to make a pick to begin with. they are the mere observer and jack of all trades, hence gemini represents many branches of experimental science. 

meme comes from the greek word for ‘imitation’, mimema. gemini being the identical twin sign, it’s logical why they’re the meme masters. gemini also makes a great biographical actor and comedian since they impersonate and copy expressions to a T through their dual sign nature. 

the 3rd house represents the person’s prowess and courage in the widest sense of the word — gemini is hence the sign that’s magically good at everything. the reason being, they dare to dabble in every random topic and learn fast due to their flexible air element. their courage to learn causes said skill that they then extend to their community sphere (=air), resulting in that reputation and their social butterfly character. in order to learn and meet strangers, you need bravery, that’s why vedic astrology often calls the 3rd house the realm of what we want.

da vinci and michelangelo both have sagittarius rising, putting gemini in the 7th house of business, art, and socializing: that’s why the world would regard them as an universal or creative genius (gemini applied to a venus house) while they themselves would’ve said something way else.

cardinal signs start something, mutable signs change it around, and fixed signs either maintain or terminate something. gemini being neither cardinal nor fixed — but also borrowing a bit of both since they’re in the middle — of course has 20 tabs open that they constantly refer back to and always re-open in their browser when they go online.

mercury orbits the sun the closest, being the solar messenger, hermes in greek mythology correspondingly. that’s why geminis love the internet and phones, all kinds of quick posts and messages can be sent back and forth, all interests are in one spot. through the air so to speak, hence libra/gemini/aquarius are so tech- and SNS-obsessed. twitter is the most gemini-friendly platform since it’s all about microblogging with several trending topics at once to keep their mutable thinking on its toes.

[justasimplesinner]

Please for the love of fuck give me a happy ending to the riddler/scarecrow breaking hcs that may or may not start off with the reader running into them again and being understandably pissed. I just want to throw a vase at Eddie. I can have a mature conversation with Johnathan with some raised voices and some crying from both parties but I want to throttle that green goblin lookin motherfucker. I want to see fear in that man's eyes as I curbstomp his stank ass for living in my head and never paying rent. Cause that shit broke me no pun intended.

I'm a soft bitch I need someone to put a bandaid on the hurtie and kiss is to make it feel better.

ugh, you fuckin' softies. continuation of this post

Arkham Knight!Riddler getting his happy ending hcs:

like i stated in the previous post, you two may have not been together anymore, but that didn't mean he'd leave you alone. you were the last bit of his sanity, at this point, he didn't know how to live without you. he was constantly lying to himself and you about the motives behind his calls and visits, but truth was, he was just trying to cling on. he couldn't let you go, you were his raft in the middle of the fucking ocean, if he let you go, he'd... he wouldn't survive that. he didn't know how

but it doesn't mean that this whole thing sat well with you. fucking bastard, neglects you for years, treats you like the very dirt he walks on and now has the gall to fucking invade your private space? ruin you completely? it's like it didn't matter if you were with him or not, he'd still find a way to fucking destroy you. and you, on one hand, genuinely wanted out. you wanted him out of your life, because you had only one and you didn't want to live it in misery, you didn't want to just suffer and take it like a good puppy. you weren't even sure he realised the extent to which he fucking hurt you, because he was constantly focusing on himself and no one else, because selfishness was his coping mechanism and he wouldn't change

it was only logical that at some point, you'd have enough. you didn't want to fucking live like this. he didn't have a right to just sit there and do nothing and yet simultaneously do damage. he was a grown fucking man and it was time he made a grown fucking choice

– Well, well, well, look who decided to finally show up-... – you didn't give him the chance to finish, your fist connecting hard with his nose, or maybe it was his cheek, though you hoped it was his eye so it'd hurt the most. You didn't really know, you didn't really care, you've had fucking enough. You knew he was there, in your house, before he even opened his yapping mouth, and you didn't fancy being greeted in your only safe (or, apparently, not-so-safe) space by a fucking insult from the man responsible for all your current misery.

You didn't feel a pang of regret, quite the contrary, his stumbling form and widened eyes gave you this weird feeling of satisfaction. You kind of understood why Batman did what he did, beating Ed's ass was just too rewarding.

– I've had fucking enough of you and your stupid charade! – you didn't plan on beating around the bush anymore, it was time he was fucking faced with the consequences of what he did.

He didn't have the time to recover from your last blow before the first thing you could grab collided with his shoulder - a vase, apparently, and it shattered into small pieces upon impact. Great, now he fucking ruined your favourite vase, too, as if your life wasn't enough for him!

– You have no right to fucking invade my house and treat me like shit even after I've dumped you! – with every word, with every step you took forward, he took one back, eyes wide in genuine fear as he tried to back away from you, maintain a safe distance, as if anything could save him from your wrath now.

– If I mean nothing to you, then why the fuck are you even here?! Why the fuck do you insist on getting me all tangled up in your stupid games?! I'm not gonna fucking sit here and take it like an obedient pet just because you can't get over the fact that we're not together anymore! – you raged on, and you had no intention of stopping, you watched him back away, you watched him stupidly bump into the side of your couch and fall on his stupid fucking ass. He deserved to fall on the floor, not on a set of nice, comfy pillows. But he had no way out now. He had nowhere to run, not when you fucking rounded up on his shock-still form.

– I-... – he dared to try and interrupt you and it was truly the last straw, it was all you needed to have angry tears blur your vision and your hands clenched in fists again.

– You never even fucking apologized to me for anything either! Did it ever fucking occur to you that if, instead of tormenting me and calling me an idiot, you just fucking said you're sorry, pushed your idiotic pride aside and genuinely fucking said you're sorry, then I would've taken you back?! That maybe we wouldn't be here, in this fucking situation, if you just weren't selfish for once and apologized for all the shit you did to me, all the pain you've put me through-

– I'm sorry. – it was so quiet you almost didn't hear it. So shaky and breathy, so fucking... guilty. Heartbroken. So utterly pathetic. Just like he was, just like he looked. Just like you wanted him to be, but now that he was, you hated it. You hated his glossed over, wide eyes, the shame in them, the guilt, the pain. You hated his arms, slightly risen in a protective manner because he expected another blow. He deserved another one, but... it's like he was just a child then. Just this small, broken boy that was afraid to admit he was wrong, that was afraid of the punishment that awaited for him. And all over again, he made you want to pull him close to your chest and kiss it all better, make it so he'd never experience this pain again. And you hated yourself for it.

you've destroyed the fucking dam then. you haven't heard this man apologize to you once in your entire life, and suddenly, you were swarmed with sorries, with regrets and sorrows and his tears. suddenly, he remembered every smallest thing he ever did that made you upset, and he apologized over and over, for everything and anything, and you thought he was going to suffocate with how he was crying and rambling on your couch

god, he wasn't fucking worth it, you knew that, but suddenly, he was in your arms again, and you were soothing his shaking form, again. you were back there to ground him, to comfort him, to make him feel loved, even if he didn't deserve it. you were there to listen to his - probably empty - promises to change, even though you knew he most likely didn't have the power to change at this point, and god dammit - you believed it. or wanted to believe it. you wanted to believe that maybe you were important and that maybe he will put the effort in changing for you this time as you kissed him breathless and let him cling onto you for dear life. you wanted to believe that he deserved a(nother) second chance and that there was still hope for him as you clung right back. you missed having him right there, in your embrace. despite everything. and maybe you were just plain out stupid, or maybe he truly made a promise he, for once, intended to keep. and honestly? you weren't sure if you were ready to find out

you also apologized for throwing a vase at him. he wasn't mad. if he was, you'd throw another one. he had no right to be mad

Arkham Knight!Jon getting his happy ending hcs:

Jon genuinely thought about seeking you out, hoping that maybe that would give him some closure, that it would make him able to work and function properly again. but he realised how stupid, how selfish and disgusting that was. he swore to himself he won't even fucking force you to look at his ugly mug again. he had no right to come to you, expecting the person he pushed away in order to work to help him get back to work. he didn't fucking deserve to even breathe the same air as you

he kept tabs on you though. he had to know where you lived now, where you worked, and knowing where you were at all times would be ideal too, but he didn't dare go that far as to have someone stalk you. it's not out of some creepy obsession, it's actually out of... concern. sounds ridiculous, especially since he hadn't expressed any concern for you for the past few months, but he... he really didn't want to ever hurt you again. even accidentally. even if you were to be collateral damage. he needed to know the places he could target and the places he couldn't, he needed to know when, where and on who he could test his freshest batches and when, where and on who he couldn't. he hurt you enough. he destroyed your mind enough. he wasn't about to subject you to your worst fears too

but a reunion was inevitable, it seemed. one way or another, fate was bent on bringing you two back together. and so, he missed the fact that you changed your jobs and started working at Ace Chemicals, front desk actually, passing around exactly the information he needed about the company, it's building and resources

You genuinely couldn't believe your fucking eyes. You couldn't believe his cheek. The gall he had to be standing right here, in front of you, in his tattered, dirty "glory", milky eyes seeming wild behind the mask, as if he didn't expect you to be here. As if he hadn't planned it all.

– What are you doing here? – you didn't even have the strength to get angry at him anymore. You just resigned yourself to the fact that he was going to haunt you every single day for the rest of your life, be it in person or as a fleeting thought in your mind. You weren't allowed to get rid of him. You weren't allowed to forget.

– I could be asking you the same question. – his tone was hard to decipher. As if it was emotionless, but at the same time wasn't. Like there was something behind it, something he didn't want you to see. Something he himself wasn't ready to face.

You were already too exhausted mentally to give a shit.

– I work here. – you sighed, using that mocking tone he always used on you whenever you asked "stupid" questions. Funny, how one day he tells you there are no stupid questions and that you can always ask away, that he will always listen, and then treats you like an idiot when you do.

And yet you still loved his sarcasm, loved his quips and biting remarks. This was who he was, and you did, after all, love him as a whole.

– I didn't know that. – you were actually ready to believe that, what with how he was still standing there, practically in the doorway. He didn't round up on you yet, he didn't corner you like you were his prey. Actually, it seemed he thought you were the predator, like he was... scared to come closer.

Maybe that was better for the two of you. Who know what you'd do if he started to come at you like he owned you and this whole place.

– Oh, didn't you now? – you couldn't allow him to know though. It was his turn to get the cold shoulder for once. Not that he cared enough to be hurt by it. Not that he ever cared. About you, about anything. Anything but his work.

Jesus, fuck, you couldn't break down in front of him. You already did in the past. Way too many times. You weren't going to give him the satisfaction of having the upper hand.

– You shouldn't've gotten a job here. – he seemed to feel as if he had it anyway – I work with chemicals on a daily basis and you know I'm planning to gas the entire city, it is only logical for me to take advantage of having a huge chemical factory right in the middle of it. It was obvious I'd come here sooner or later. – every word he said, he took a step closer to the desk. Every word he said, he beat you down into the ground harder. Obviously, you were in the wrong. Yet again. Always your fault. Why would you distract him from his goal yet again? Why would you meddle? It seemed that even if you didn't want to, you proved to be an inconvenience, a chink in the chain that was his research. It didn't matter what you did, it was never going to be good enough.

You two weren't compatible, after all.

– Yep, I'm stupid, I get it. Go on, psychoanalize me too, tell me how I did it knowingly just because I wanted to see you again. – you couldn't stop yourself from snarling at him. As always, he only came to you to break down what you've so carefully built back together. It was always that way, if you really thought about it. Every time you were starting to get used to his absence, starting to truly live on your own, he suddenly appeared, acted like everything was fine, acted like he loved you, and you believed it like the fool you were. You believed it and then he left you alone again. You believed it and then you woke up to an empty bed again. Every single time.

Maybe you really were a fucking idiot.

– And did you? – or maybe he was one, because this comment only resulted in riling you up more and yet he dared to fucking ask.

– I fucking hate you Jon. – you weren't ready to believe that what he just did at your words was flinching. That it hurt enough for him to physically move away. – If I wanted to look at your face again, I'd just turn on the news.

– I don't want to hurt you. – that was bullshit. He never did anything else. Hurting you was what he was best at, and he prided himself in it. – But I need access to the vast supply of chemicals your workplace has to offer. – even when you two fucking argued, it always came down to his work. Even when you told him you hated him, all he offered back was that he didn't care and came here just to get shit done. He didn't even fucking care enough to at least say he hates you back.

– You don't want to hurt me? That's a new one. – you were really tempted to just roll your eyes and go back to work. To ignore him, like he always did to you. But suddenly, you realised just how close he was. Practically leaning over the desk. His scarred face hooded and covered in a mask, hidden away from you. That face you wanted to stare into every time you woke up, that face you wanted to be the last thing you saw every day you went to sleep. That face that you wanted to kiss better, to make him know. Make him know you didn't mind. Make him know he was still handsome as ever. He never believed you, and you saw that. You saw that very clearly in his milky eyes. It's like they were fogged, like his mind was surrounded with fog and blurred reality with imagination, like there was this barrier between the two of you.

It wasn't there at first. But then he changed, and you didn't really know who he was anymore.

– I'm sorry. – it felt like pity. Like he pitied you. Like he was saying it just so you'd shut the fuck up and move out of his way at last.

And maybe it was better if you did.

– Save it. I won't get in the way of your plans, don't worry. I'm not getting paid enough to sacrifice myself for this place either way. – you were gathering your things, leaving the computer on, the information unguarded. You could use a day off, anyway. To cry in peace or whatever.

No such luck apparently, since Jonathan immediately had you in a grip, his fingers flexing against your arms.

– No, (Y/n). I'm sorry.

you really weren't ready for that conversation. not at all. you would never be ready for that. seeing Jon apologizing, hell, seeing him crying, genuinely crying in front of you, over you, wasn't something you ever expected to see. Jonathan, despite being a skilled psychologist, never really talked about his emotions. he was always hellbent on talking through yours - well, at the beginning he was, until the whole "spiralling into his obsession" thing started. then, he stopped, because he didn't have time for you. or, as he now explained, didn't have the courage to face how much he's hurt you. you really wanted to fucking punch him then, when he told you that he knew. that he knew all the time what he was doing, and yet never stopped, as if he purposefully sabotaged your relationship so you'd leave him. you knew he had his problems and you couldn't blame him for that, but you could blame him for running away from them. you could blame him for treating you like shit since he woke up from his short coma after the incident with Killer Croc. hell, he took the blame full on

you've never heard him so... bare. so raw. so vulnerable. when he apologized to you, thanked you for everything you ever fucking did, for always helping him, for sticking by him for that long, for enduring him and showing him how it feels to be loved, he was but a broken man. for the first time in... assumably ever, Jonathan didn't hide behind any walls and just... let the words flow. both of you knew that wasn't enough to compensate for what he did. nothing will ever be enough. he will never give you back everything that he took from you, and your heart will never fully heal. even if you two got back together, he wouldn't resign from his research either, and more likely than not, it was all going to end exactly the same, with him hiding away from you because apparently, acting like he didn't love you saved you from the heartbreak, and you having to mend your broken heart on your own, alone, knowing you will never get all your lost time back. you will never get back the time you spent crying in your home because you knew he wasn't coming. and yet, you - like the idiot you probably were - dived right back in. because you fucking loved him. and maybe it was stupid, and maybe his arms clinging onto you as you kissed him for the first time in months were stupid too, but if being stupid meant being happy, even for just one moment, you were going to take it

Jonathan still had a lot to make up for. you didn't think he will ever manage, honestly. but you were excited to see him try

[watermelonlipstick]

Nerves (Request)

This was my first request, and it was fun to write! Anon wanted a reader around Sam’s age whose nerves Dean mistakes for fear until he confronts her about them. Thanks for reading, and of course I would love any advice or critiques!! If you have a request, drop it in my inbox and I’ll definitely write it if I feel like I can do it justice. Just a little bit of weekend fluff. 

Title: Nerves

Pairing: Dean X Reader

Word Count: 2715

Summary: When helping Sam’s college friend, the reader, Dean can’t figure out why she’s so scared of him. 

gif from forgetthisbull

“Dude, Dean, I’m serious. Don’t be a fucking creep to her,” Sam said, shutting the door to the Impala and following his brother into a greasy spoon called Little Bavaria with white scalloped curtains.  

“Dude, Dean, I’m serious,” Dean mimicked in a nasal sing-song. “And when am I ever a creep?”

Sam glared at Dean in exasperation. “Please? Just please? Can I have one friend you don’t hit on?”

“Fine! Drop it!” Dean snapped, yanking open the door and pulling his face immediately into a saccharine smile for the rosy-cheeked grandma-type standing behind a cash register that could not have been made after 1983.

“Thank you,” Sam said, obviously relieved. He scanned the room before seeing her sitting in a back booth.

You waved excitedly to Sam as he walked toward you, looking like a sun-kissed and confident man rather than the floppy haired boy you remembered.

As the brothers made their way over to you, a waitress dropped off plasticized menus and glasses of water. Sam waited for you to stand up before wrapping you in a bear hug. He smelled clean and familiar in a way that made you feel slightly lighter immediately.

“I like the new hair, it looks good on you,” he said, charming as ever.

You reflexively touched your head. “Oh! Right, I forgot that was after college. You look great!”

Sam’s smile was easy and wide as he turned to Dean. “This is my brother Dean.”

Dean raised a few fingers in a weak wave, decidedly not giving you anything Sam could construe as bedroom eyes or a flirtatious smirk. “Nice to meet you. Sorry it isn’t under better circumstances.”

“Yeah, well,” you trailed off.

“Should we sit?” Sam asked, graciously offering you an out.

After the requisite coffees and Dutch babies were ordered, Sam looked across the table angelically. “I’m really sorry this is happening,” he said, his voice smooth and soothing.  It was all Dean could do not to roll his eyes, one arm slung across the booth behind Sam as he slouched back. He tried for the appearance of nonplussed neutrality. “If it’s okay with you, I think you should stick around us until we figure this out. I don’t want to leave you alone in that house,” Sam urged.

You kept the relief off your face better than you’d expected you would. You were trying to play it cool in front of Sam and his hopelessly cute older brother, but you were scared enough of going back your new house that you just repeated what they ordered, unable to focus even on the menu. As you had been doing for the last day and a half since you called, you thanked God for the small instinct to call Sam. Sam, who you hadn’t seen in a few years but was the least judgmental person you’d known in school. Somehow you knew even if he thought you were crazy he would come anyway. Now he was here, bigger and looser than you’d remembered, not making fun of or pitying the girl who thought her house was haunted, and you felt like you could take a deep breath for the first time in weeks. In a weaker moment you might’ve cried, and for that reason it was better that Sam had brought his brother. It might not have been so embarrassing to break down with an old friend, but you couldn’t ugly-cry in front of the Rebel Without A Cause at the table, all pillowy lips and long eyelashes. Distractedly you tried to remember if Dean looked this good in the two or three pictures Sam had scotch-taped to his dorm wall but couldn’t call them up. You channeled all the chill-girl energy you could muster and shrugged. “If you think that’s better, I can.”

“I do, yeah. It’s just that we don’t know what’s going on yet,” Sam offered. “If you need to get some stuff from your place, we can come with you. Right, Dean?”

“Sure,” Dean said, his tone clipped and his lips pressed tight. “Whatever Sammy wants.”

You heard a thump under the table and Dean smiled slightly more reassuringly.

Over breakfast Sam had about a hundred questions about everything you’d been up to lately. He seemed genuinely interested as you told him about the new job you’d moved here for, wanting to know more about the goofy drama between your coworkers and odd clients as though it was fascinating. You’d forgotten how much you desperately missed him until you saw the crinkles at the corners of his eyes and heard his laugh twinkle out over the coffee steam and powdered sugar. All the while, Dean seemed to be boring into you with those green eyes, sometimes adding a meaningless trite comment or chuckle but not genuinely engaging. You tried only partly successfully to ignore him, focusing on Sam and your food and how nice it was to feel safe.

3 cups of weak coffee after you’d finished eating, knowing you’d be jittery but not caring from the giddiness of the reunion, Dean took out his wallet and threw about double what you’d guessed the tab might be down in cash. “Should we go get your stuff?” he asked.

“Uh, yeah, sure,” you answered, taking one last sip before getting up from the table. A look you couldn’t decipher passed between Sam and Dean so quickly that you would’ve missed it if you hadn’t been staring right at them. You followed the boys out of the restaurant, feeling a very odd and fleeting moment of jealousy when Dean thanked and winked at the older woman behind the cash register, giving her a slow languid smile like warm honey. He was so pretty. As quickly as the thought had come over you, it was replaced with disgust at yourself. At a time like this, when your whole world was in chaos, you were worried about some hot guy—who clearly wasn’t into you from the way he was acting—instead of your own safety. You were still cursing yourself mentally when you slid into the back of the gigantic black car they’d arrived in.

Sam’s friend was cute. Like, really cute. Beautiful, even, and Dean was beyond annoyed that this was the one time he promised Sam he wouldn’t hit on one of his friends. Not that it seemed to matter, because she only had eyes for Sam. It was like she melted when she saw him, staring only straight at his kid brother all through the time they stayed at the breakfast spot. If Dean was being honest with himself, he was more than a little hurt, not used to being looked at with anything less than adoration by the women he wanted. What added even more salt to the wound than the way she seemed so infatuated with Sam was the way that she looked when she saw Dean. Dean peddled in monsters and the looks of attractive women, and he knew fear when he saw it. He’d spent the rest of breakfast with Sam’s comment about him being a creep running through his mind on a loop, careful not to lean too close into her or say anything less than strictly G-rated. Unfortunately, that limited him more severely than he realized it would.

When she got into the back of the Impala, she sat straight up like she was in a cotillion class, not comfortable enough even to sit normally in his car. Was Sam right? Was he a creep? Dean suddenly felt weird and predatory, like maybe the blood and guts of hunting was changing him in some irreparable way that people could sense. He tried to smile agreeably the way Sam did up at her in the rearview mirror and saw a shark reflected back at him. Looking quickly away, Dean put both hands on the wheel the way he thought someone non-threatening would.

It didn’t help that Sam thought something was off, which meant Dean wasn’t pulling off his act and maybe couldn’t even pretend like he wasn’t the kind of person who makes a beautiful girl’s eyes go wide in fear. Each time Sam had side-eyed or kicked him under the table, the point was re-emphasized. Dean was desperate to relax but worried he’d freak this poor girl out somehow, so he kept himself tightly wound as he took directions to her house.

By the time they’d finally figured out the problem—not, as you thought, that your house was haunted but that a coworker was in fact a witch trying to torment you—the three of you had gotten into a semi-comfortable rhythm. You were crashing on the couch in their motel room, carrying your toiletries into and out of the bathroom every morning like you were at sleepaway camp and trying to keep your clothes as wrinkle-free as possible while living out of a suitcase. Some parts of it were so nice; you were still just as grateful for the protection you felt as you had been in that café, and you had forgotten how comforting it was just to know there was someone else around. Other parts, however, were not. You hadn’t slept on a couch, let alone a scratchy-creaky motel one, for so many days since college, and you were remembering why. On top of that, Dean was so compelling that it felt like you expended half of your energy each day just trying to keep yourself from staring at him.

And naturally, the more you got to know him the harder it got. He was not only the pretty boy that was obvious from the first time you met, but also so kind and respectful, seeming to be very aware of the potential discomfort of immediately sleeping in the same room as a strange man and giving you a wide berth for as much privacy as possible. He even picked up coffee in the mornings before you and Sam got up, that first day getting a black coffee, a nonfat latte, and ‘whatever the coffee guy said was most popular’ because he didn’t know what you’d like. If anything, it felt almost as though he was being a bit too gentle, and you wondered if Sam had told Dean you were some kind of fragile and delicate bird that startled easily. When you’d asked Sam about it after a couple days, he just shrugged and said he hadn’t really told Dean much other than some stories from college. You decided to drop it. Maybe Dean was just like this, which made it all the harder not to develop the kind of crippling, blushing, oh-my-god-is-he-going-to-sit-next-to-me crush you hadn’t felt since middle school.

When the coworker had been ‘taken care of’—a careful answer from Dean that you chose not to pursue��you were left feeling unmoored. It wasn’t like you could go back to the now-destroyed house, or even imagine how you’d explain away the chaos of the last couple weeks to the few people you knew here. Sam seemed to pick up on it intuitively, and offered for you to come along with him and his brother until you figured out what you were going to do next. Like it had when he had driven across the country and tossed you the last life raft over the formica table at Little Bavaria, it felt like Sam was saving you. He seemed excited when you said you would, and was out grabbing sandwiches for the road while you and Dean packed up the motel room when Dean asked if he could borrow you for a minute.

You were so embarrassed at the small, cartoonish voice that agreed, sitting on the side of the bed while Dean draped himself effortlessly—God, how could he look so cool even just sitting down—over the arm of the sofa.

“I, uh, if you’re going to come on the road with us I think we should talk,” he started. Your pulse started thumping in your chest and you hoped you weren’t blushing as you raised your eyebrows, signaling for him to continue. Dean cleared his throat and fiddled with his ring before continuing. “Listen, I don’t know how much Sam told you before we met, or whatever, but I swear I’m really not that bad.”

You’d been focusing so hard on not looking desperately infatuated that you weren’t able to keep the surprise off your face. “Bad? Of course not, you’ve been amazing. You and Sam saved my life. I’m so grateful,” you sputtered.

“Right,” Dean said, looking slightly confused. “Then I’m sorry if I did something maybe, because I don’t want you to think I’m some, like, animal—”

You cut him off. “Dean, you’ve been unbelievably sweet, way above and beyond what you needed to do. I’ve felt so safe the entire time I’ve been with you guys, and now you’re letting me stay with you for even longer; I don’t know how I can repay you, seriously.”

Dean looked up at you, his confusion tinged around the edges of his eyes with something wounded. “Then why are you so scared of me? You jump whenever I come in the room, you only look at Sam, you don’t even slouch when I’m around. I know I can’t do Sam’s puppy dog eyes act, but come on, I wouldn’t let anything happen to you. You act like you’re waiting for me to sock you.”

You opened your mouth and closed it again, realizing you didn’t know what to say. It was hard enough to think with Dean’s eyelashes sweeping over his cheekbones like the most delicious metronome you’d ever seen, let alone process what he was saying. “I—Dean, I’m not scared of you,” you finally squeaked. His face didn’t change with the spark of recognition that would’ve allowed you to stop there with a soggy handful of dignity left, and you took a deep breath to steel yourself to continue. “God, this is so embarrassing,” you murmured under your breath. “Okay,” you started, hoping your voice sounded resolute and firm. “I mean, it’s just that you’re so cute, and cool, and self-assured, and I was worried I was going to do something weird or whatever, and now I guess I have anyway. I’m truly sorry if I made you uncomfortable, or especially feel like I wasn’t anything other than thankful for you and everything you’ve done. I’ll try to act like less of a total freak, I promise.” 

You winced, waiting for the inevitable pity from this gorgeous man who must hear these proclamations from every woman he meets. Instead, Dean chuckled, which was maybe even worse. Pity you were ready for, could swallow and heal your ego from in private, but open ridicule was too much.

“Okay, well, that was fun. Sorry,” you said, smacking the tops of your legs and getting up from the bed. Dean grabbed one of your wrists as he pinched the bridge of his nose, rubbing his eyes.

“No, wait, sit down,” he said, smiling.

You obeyed, feeling a little lump of embarrassed tears forming in your throat but not seeing a way to extricate yourself from the room gracefully. Dean’s callused thumb swiped affectionately across the back of your hand.

“That is way better than what I thought,” he insisted.  “Sam made a big deal about how I shouldn’t act like a creep to you, and it got in my head. I thought I was coming off as a total perv or something.”

His eyes locked you in like quicksand before you could answer, not pitying or withering at all as you’d thought, just soft and tender and the impossible green of a perfect matcha. “No, I’m the perv here,” you offered, attempting to make light of your shyness.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, sweetheart,” Dean purred. Heat swelled up into your cheeks, and Dean brought your hand to his lips, pressing a warm kiss to the back of your hand as he gazed up at you.

As you were desperately scrolling through the Rolodex in your mind for something witty to say, Sam opened the door to the motel room. You were equally and fiercely relieved and stymied as his hulking frame filled the doorway, grabbing the duffel he’d left on the tile. “You guys ready?” he asked, his smile bright and carefree.

Dean dropped your wrist and winked at you as he got up from the couch unhurriedly. “More than ready, Sammy. Let’s hit the road.”

-

Thanks again for reading! If you liked it, check out my Masterlist or send me a request!

Tags: @sams-sass, @akshi8278​, @dream-believe-and-love​

[nurseofren]

Keeping Your Promise - Chapter 22

Read on AO3

Read chapter twenty-one

Title: CONNECTION LOST

Words: 5800

Warnings: Rape (bow out if you need to, I will include a brief summary in the end notes), graphic descriptions of violence, graphic descriptions of trauma.

Summary: When it rains, it pours. And then the world starts to explode. So it's all just a giant mess.

ST Rambles: Did not upload yesterday because I wanted to take my time instead of rush this thing out. I truly hope you all have enjoyed the story thus far.

Okay, so. My ADN classes and clinical start again on Thursday. What this means: I'm taking a 2-3 week break from writing so I can get into a good rhythm for school and just find my bearings. I think this is a perfect place to take a break. It'll act as an intermission in a way. Jeez, I think you all have earned one by now.

[MASTERLIST]

Excess saline dripped in crimson creaks toward the floor, a bog forming beneath a shaking foot onto a towel. Two empty flushes laid in their respective positions, remaining diagonal to each other as they’d landed earlier. Another towel was set below your thigh as you propped it onto the bathroom counter with your knee bent over the edge, choosing to remain standing rather than chance losing the ability to crawl up from the floor if you’d sat. With every thumb-push of the syringe plunger new streaks of liquid agony soaked into the red, throbbing, raging wounds; each lick of searing solution reminding you of their harbinger, your tongue stained in acrid remembrance of the words which had fallen from it.

I hate you. The phrase you’d feared most had turned out to be the least insidious, its existence light-hearted in relation to the ones that came quickly after. The simple statement had catalyzed the catastrophe, its memory burning what remained of your heart, ashes now dormant and gray within your chest, each beat superficial in the way it sustained a life you no longer wanted. It was difficult to name what you were feeling, the uncertainty rooted in the fact that you were twisted in the clutch of grief and guilt while also floating in a nebula of numbness, the contradiction dissonant and dizzying.

With each haunting phrase, each sharp with a venomous bite, new collections of misery scathed into the scarring tissue, each tear acidic in its salty existence. A recoil was earned whenever recalling the wrath that inhabited Kylo Ren’s tone when he called you a liar, its mental presence ricocheting between your ears and setting your skin aflame with goosebumps, each wave of heated chills revitalizing the blistering burns as they settled into their intentional permanence.

Upon your left thigh, bright and belligerent and baleful, sitting just above the hem of your uniform, stung the evidence of Kylo Ren’s indignation. Staring down at the welts – two pointed, laser-sharp letters – shame accompanied the initial longing regard you held for the brand. You now bore the undeniable truth of your time with Kylo Ren, a raised K set in finality next to a partnering R, the pain-inked initials tied to a turmoil laden conflict you didn’t want to acknowledge. It was too pitiful, too pathetic and disgusting even in the infancy of its consideration.

At the fringes of your mind, the dark corners of consciousness you rarely visited, sprung an aching truth that thrashed against every belief you thought you’d once held. Yet, with each shiv of shaky air, every dagger of dread pitted in pain, you came closer to accepting it. Barely below the surface now, even as the injury pulsated with piercing torment, smarted in sync with the blatant beat of your heart, you could not deny the fact that you felt deserving of its detriment and relieved by its reality. As you tended to the wounds, using whatever scrapped supplies you’d accidentally brought home from the med bay, you fought to react in a way that would be appropriate to this situation.

The malice-born mark should have tinged your blood with fury. In its wake, the aura of red which bled outward from each initial should have filled your lungs with an indisputable hostility towards their maker. Right now, suffering in solitude, you were supposed to be cursing Kylo Ren, spitting his name and screaming hellfire over him as he’d singed into you. There was an overwhelming presence of heavy self-set expectation to sink into an unrivaled hatred for the creature you’d left in that room, the same who’d left less permanent proof in the past. Though, while the targeted tissue throbbed below your trembling hands as you attempted to apply an antibacterial protectant, you found it impossible to feel anything but misery for him.

The haunting image of Kylo Ren’s fleeting soul tore talons into your chest, a coughed sob echoing in your empty residence as you replayed the tangible change in his demeanor. Had light been scarce you swore you could’ve seen the shroud of darkness fog into his sclera, set his jaw flat and firm as he’d backed away from you. Swiping the salve over your wound you shuddered into yourself, time barely hindering the void tone with which he’d rescinded his trust, the abandonment in his voice contradicting the promise you’d made him the night he’d spoken protection over you.

Time ticked on, each second one of slow suffering. As you healed the outward wounds, inward ones formed fresh and raw, head pounding with pain and regret. Even that made wrought you with guilt. The whole reason you’d gone through with Snoke’s plan was to save Mason; his life had been equated to a trading card and it had been your doing. The least you could do was free him from the hell only intended for you. But, similar to the way regarded your new scars, shame took root in the acceptance that you didn’t deem the deal a fair wager.

Maybe it was just the immediacy of the situation, or maybe you were crueler than you’d once believed, but as you’d watched Kylo rip away from you, there was a silent moment where you wished you could allow yourself to embrace the selfishness that would keep him in your life. If you’d had the time to think on it, or if the ultimatum had been less dire, less fatal, in that moment you were swallowed by the fact that your choice would have been Kylo. Completely, entirely, wholly, undoubtedly, instantaneously. Mason had been a comfort for years, someone to rely on, the boy you’d founded a fictional future with. But you’d never wanted him the way you did Kylo. It was the most foreign, mortifying thought you’d ever held, but, however small, there was a part of you that would always choose Kylo. Over Mason. Over anyone.

“Fuck!” Anger swelled as a flare of pain lashed under your touch while applying a saline saturated gauze. “I hate this!” No one was around to hear you, but that was always when the harshest truths hit.

Steadying yourself with the counter and the door, you hobbled away from your working position, affected leg just barely grazing the ground while you made your way into the kitchen. “How did this even fucking happen? Why did it have to be me?” You stood away from a drawer, activating it and digging around until you found a roll of paper tape. “I left here this morning hating him. Why can’t I just go back? I-,” a strangle of tears came, fingers prying uselessly to find the start. “I want to go back.” Thick and faltered, the words fell from devastated lips.

Giving up on your hands you ripped your teeth into the waxy material, spitting the torn tape from your mouth once you finally found the start tab. A rush of hysterics hit, lungs stuttering in defensive laughter. “You can probably fucking hear me, I bet! What, you saw me then, why not now? Why wouldn’t you see me like this, you fucked, disgusting, wretched, voyeuristic scum!”

Pressing down on the damp gauze, keeping it in place, you reached into the drawer once more to grab a roll of left over Kerlix. Tearing it open – again, with your teeth – you pressed it against your upper thigh and held it in place, regarding your scars covered the surface area that spanned the length of your pinky, both horizontally and vertically. Wrapping the rolled gauze continuously around your upper thigh, you couldn’t help but appreciate how precise and clean the letters were. Even brandishing a pen of pain Kylo Ren’s handwriting was beautiful, the thought bringing you a hesitant warmth with a short burst of guilt. The uproar of conflict currently battling in your soul would surely be the death of you.

Taking the last strip of tape, you secured the dressing, smoothing your left hand over it to make sure friction was minimal. While doing so, you caught sight of a flashing message scrawling across in bright red capital letters. The radar had disappeared altogether, not only vacant of the red dot indicative of Kylo’s location, but even of the faint red lines it had moved across. Waiting until the message cycled through until the beginning, you felt your lungs empty as the last letter solidified the severance from your Master.

CONNECTION LOST

“No. No. No no no. Why?” Frenzied fingers tread through sweat sodden roots, pain shooting up your leg as it bore new weight. “I didn’t ever want this! Why? Why? Why?” Sinking to the floor, willfully basking in the pain, you crumpled onto the tile until ice bit the backs of your calves.

Heaves of air collected and left in rushed lungfuls, choked cries reverberating through the room while the heels of your hands dammed the influx of tears. A frantic effort was made to think of anything else, a distraction sought in the face of your now official loss. Cycling through this morning you recalled conversations held by stormtroopers on the Command Shuttle, sharing news and celebrating in the fact that the Republic had been destroyed just prior to landing on Takodana. Mason had gone out of his way all those weeks ago to tell you of the mandatory rally, only for neither of you to be on Starkiller to attend it. It had to have been at least two hours since it occurred, its contents and importance still a mystery to you. A shawl of shivers fell onto heavy shoulders, that feeling of dread you’d felt this morning reminding you of how this day had begun on an off note, like it was destined for doom.

A click and a hiss came from behind, your heart stalling and nose sniffling. The only other person who could have access to your residence was-

“Kylo?” It was a quiet plead.

There was no response, no movement. Unease struck the hairs on the back of your neck. Looking back to your watch, the same message still running across the screen, you didn’t know what to think. The first thing that came to mind was to grovel, to take his sudden presence in stride and fulfill your wishes of selfishness. This was your opportunity to tell him everything, already knowing the excruciating truth of not doing so earlier. Him coming back gave you the chance to right all the wrong done today.

Sloppy, careless movements brought you to your knees. Seething, you remained here while the stinging diminished. “Kylo, none of it was true! You were right. I don’t hate you. I don’t. I promise, I don’t. I can’t.” Confessions were abundant while he evaded your senses. “Snoke. It was all Snoke. He threatened Mason, and, and I had to. Please, you have to understand!”

There was still no answer, but a hiss; it was similar to the mask’s muzzle, but not exact. The difference was strange, like your ears were playing tricks. The sound was closer than the door, still out of sight.

“Kylo, I’m so sorry! I’ll do any- ah!” No matter how tender you tried to be, attempting to stand without pain proved impossible. “I’ll do anything. But please know that I didn’t mean any of that! You aren’t irredeemable. You’re not a bastard. I never… I never want to forget you.”

“And you won’t, I promise. Though, I’d prefer you call me by my name.”

Just as soon as you’d regained an upright posture, you nearly lost it. It was Robbie. He was in your residence. He was here. Robbie was here, talking, with you. At you.

“You know the one.” He came into view, armor intact other than his helmet. “Miss me?”

“How are you- how did you get-,”

“Mm, you really should be more careful, especially with belongings like this.” Robbie, wicked eyes slithering down your stature, held a black rectangle between two fingers. “You never know who might get a hold of them.”

As light glinted over the object your chest sunk in instant realization. It had been so long ago, such a minute occurrence that you hadn’t thought anything of it. All those weeks ago, only a few days after Kylo had barred your practice, you had lost the keycard he’d given you. The one that had been folded into his note was lost in an accidental run-in with a stormtrooper. Its absence had only been noticed a few hours after losing it in the cafeteria, when leaving Mason’s and having to get an emergency replacement that day.

“Don’t do this. You don’t have to do this.” A hobbled step neared you towards the counter.

“I told you the last time we spoke—” the card hit the floor with a booming clip, its sound lost in your pulse “—this isn’t over.” A slow step carried him forward, sending you back further. “Almost, but not just yet.”

His presence was mutilating, every muscle tensing even as your leg throbbed in rejection. The edge of the counter bit at the small of your back, hands gripping into the edges.

“Why are you doing this? Why now? Why me?” It seemed that was the question of the day. Two quivering lips took turns quieting pain and hiding fear.

“Why am I doing this?” He was a madman, visage void of sanity. Another calculated step forward, your pulse peaking. “I knew you were stupid, but this? Come on, you don’t actually think you’re completely innocent here, do you?”

One final step and he was smothering you, fury sweltering as it drifted from his skin to yours. His jugular vein was throbbing to match one prominent on his forehead. Kylo’s eyes may have resembled the emptiness of death, but Robbie’s were swimming with a vengeful desire to deliver it. Vomit rose when you smelled his breath, felt it hot over your nose in his proximity.

“Maybe you can learn, though.” He brushed a piece of your hair behind your ear, clammy hands slick over burning skin, scanning eyes set in thought. “Maybe you’re not completely helpless after all.”

Two hands strangled your own, tightened them to the counter as he pressed his chest against you, leaning down until he could bury his nose in the collar of your uniform. A complete breath hadn’t come since seeing him, head dizzying with thoughts of blame, rejection, and emergency.

“Why are you apologizing to Ren, huh?” Violating lips pressed into your neck, a whimper leaving as you fought to escape him, searching for the fasted route to safety while he couldn’t see you. “Say sorry to me, baby. It’s that simple.”

Self defense was useless against his armor. His lips pulled at your lobe, a gag forming at the touch. Twisting away from him, you peered down to the drawer and found a pair of scissors, their red handle bright in your periphery. The crushing weight over your hands became bruising, your throat thirsty for escape. The only way to evade him was to indulge him, to distract him with the very thing he sought most.

Repulsion clawed at your stomach. “You want me to apologize, correct?” Sultry words hid the sickness they brought.

Robbie hummed into your neck, nose now buried in your hair while he bucked his hips into you, fire sprouting from your wounds under the pressure. “That’s all I’ve wanted this whole time,” just as Snoke had claimed your last name, Robbie clutched your first, rolling it off in a purr.

“I bet you want me to say your name, too, right? You’d like that a lot?” Today had tested your ability to hide your true intentions. Brushing your thumbs along his hold, as much as you could under their restriction, you eyed the scissors. “The name I gave you?”

A grunt left him, another thrust into your brand fuzzing your vision. “Yes. Say my name. Apologize to me.”

Eyes shut tight while Robbie continued in his unwanted nearness, you swallowed hard. “Kiss me, then.” He stopped moving, shoulders still as air stalled in his lungs. “Kiss me and I’ll apologize. I’ll say your name.” It was a desperate hope to hold that he wouldn’t hear the shakiness of the offer.

“Dammit,” he breathed, “you can’t be taught.” Rage grated against his throat, grip leaving your hands and wrapping around your neck. He leaned you back over the counter, the stance awkward and agonizing. “What a stupid bitch! You think this is a trade? You ruined my life! You gave me an identity and ripped it away like it was nothing! Like I was nothing!”

Black pulsed at the corners of your vision, his face doubling and dizzying as you reached for the drawer, fingers inching over nondescript items. “Apologize! And maybe, maybe! I will let you leave here. How does that sound?”

Grappling your free hand over his clutch, you gagged for words, none escaping his compression while you collected saliva at the back of your mouth. You mouthed his name, eyes full of feigned pleads while your fingers found the scissors’ handle.

Robbie’s jaw quivered more while he watched you struggle. Your manipulation was working. That seemed to be a theme today. Though, this one was much easier to endure. Two murderous eyes flickered between yours, quicker and quicker with each movement until he released your throat just enough for you to form words.

Fist locked onto your weapon, adrenaline readying, you stared directly at him and hocked a gob of hot spit into his eyes. He went to shake it free, but your hand came up and slashed down through his brow and over his left cheek. Robbie’s hands flooded towards his face as you pushed him out of the way, scissors still in hand while you rushed for the door. But your leg was a hindrance, dragging behind you, eventually only hopping on the one when the pain began to cut deeper with each stride.

The door activated per your touch and basked you in the light of freedom, only for your head to fly backward as a fist dragged you away from safety. A string of winces left in line with a pouted scream. It barely registered but the exit hissed shut again, your forehead cracking against it with the same force that’d just been around your throat.

“This is what I’ve been waiting for—” a harsh inhale came at your nape “—you knew it all along. Away for months only to get new fucking security the moment you return?”

He had you pinned, legs splayed and arms flung out. Your forearms framed your head, his hands flat over your wrists and stealing every bit of opportunity. The scissors hung loosely under your hand, teetering closer to the floor with each second.

“You left me! I woke up and you were gone. Such a fucking cunt, and for no reason.”

“You are psychotic you sick, vile creature!” Pain seethed into your tone, bandage rubbing into the raised skin.

Robbie trembled with anger, his body vibrating at your back as he pressed further into your right hand so the scissors finally fell. “Maybe that voice was never beautiful.” His right arm bent your elbow behind your back so his abdomen could trap it there; when he was satisfied, he reached it around you so it lay flat in front of your mouth, grip wrapping around your left forearm. His head pushed into yours so your mouth went flush with his arm and your nose could barely attempt at breathing. “Maybe it was only ever annoying. Useless.”

You couldn’t escape him. There were no defenses left to attempt, the only one now bloodied at your feet. All you could do was endure. There was nothing left. No time. No saviors. All that remained was an overwhelming sense of guilt and a pestering question: did you deserve this? After all you’d done, all you’d been forced to do and go through with? In some way, was this karma? In turn for hurting the one you loved, you would be hurt by one who you’d wanted to love? Was this the restoration of balance?

A stifling hand rushed under your skirt, taking time to grope at the flesh over your underwear. Every effort to flex away from him was wasted, and there was so little left to fight for. The message that flashed over your left wrist taunted you, held you just as captive as the monster behind you; in saving two lives, doing what you thought was right, you had given up every aspect of your own. Robbie had snaked his touch beneath the thin fabric, now moving it aside and preparing his own clothing, and the only thing you could focus on was the patterned scrawl on your watch.

It was mocking you, emphasizing its point in the darkest moment of your life, your body stiff and scared with no lasting dignity. There was less than a person, less than a shell now. Each organ working to keep you alive was doing so in vain, purpose fleeting from your foggy thoughts; you’d returned to heal wounds you’d grown to want, and now you wouldn’t live to see them scab over.

You wretched onto his arm, biting down onto the flexed muscle, when you felt the head of his penis swipe over the back of your injured leg. Vomit threatened when his hips circled and he moaned, breath thick and satisfied.

“No, you’ll never forget me,” he huffed, “You won’t have the time.”

Robbie readied himself for penetration, your tears hot and obstructed at his arm, your eyes peering over at the watch as you tried to die at your own will first. Furious, unrefined disgust and shame stabbed your soul when you felt him proceed, felt him buck into you. Your brain couldn’t decide whether to catch fire or burn out, didn’t want to accept this as one of the last things you’d feel.

His breath shuddered at your neck, your cries silent and shattered beneath him. He attempted to speak, but something happened. Something sudden and fleeting and rapturous. A miracle born in the absence of hope.

The lights went out. Pitch blackness swallowed you, enveloped him and in tow distracted him. His restraints weakened and you slammed your head back against his, adrenaline softening the blow.

“Fuck!” Robbie tripped backwards, leaving you completely.

Stunned at the event, you stalled, not knowing what to do. You couldn’t move quick enough, Robbie catching your knee in his bent over position. It was nearly impossible to see him, but the red cast of your watch threw crimson shadows just far enough to glint off his bloodied features. He wasn’t going to give up until one of you was dead.

“Get off of me!” Of course he’d attached himself to the leg currently rippling pain through your body.

“We’re not finished!” A rough tug brought you down next to him where he attempted to climb on top of you, your fingers digging into his eyes and sending him to his back.

“No—” scrambling fingers searched the dark for your earlier weapon, drying blood sticking when you found it “—we’re not.”

Red. Everything was red. Robbie’s face. The blood which dripped from it. Your hands, the same blood streaking and drying in place. He couldn’t see you’d gained the upper hand. In a final glance over the animal beside you, searching him for humanity and drawing a blank, you felt your heart stutter with a decision that would mark you for life. A mark you’d make yourself.

Interlocking your fingers over the red handle, two steady hands pulsating over the hard object, you brought your arms up and slammed them down with insurgence, hitting the break in his uniform over his right inner thigh. Robbie roared in response, his howls echoing into the nothingness which surrounded him. The red haze of your radar glinted off the pool of blood forming beneath him. With each second, each flashing moment, it grew wider and fuller.

With a hard swallow, relief barely recognizable, you looked into his wide eyes just as the ground began to shake. “Now we’re done.”

Without dropping his stare, your hand slammed to activate the door and you backed out of your residence, watching him fade from view when it locked in front of you. It had to be done. He would’ve done the same. It was him or you. In searching for a reason why, you saw a change in the light coming from your watch. The flashing was different, and it started vibrating. Lifting it to your face, you found the message missing and the radar returned. It was fading in and out, though.

No matter, you were rushed back into the reality of people running past and into the floor lobby. A crowd surrounded the elevator, anger being pushed into the button when it wouldn’t respond. You and your floormates were exiles, the floor continuing its violent shaking. A cloud of rushed and flustered conversation plumed down the hall before every face turned towards you.

“Stairs,” said a quiet collection. “Stairs!”

A group of two dozen people stormed in your direction, their speed scaring you past your pain and into the stairwell. The group moved over each other, the leader switching between you and two men. It was a hushed chaos of stomping feet and fast breath. Nobody would make any noise other than the occasional grunt. On the fourth flight of stairs, more and more people piling out from the doors of their respective floors, your leg began to ache again. Though every step burned into you, you knew you had to escape this. You’d escaped much worse just a minute ago, and, for whatever reason, you were still living. Unknown to you, only revealing itself when it was entirely too necessary, there was a fight in you, and whether it be for yourself or someone or something else, you indulged in it with each step.

When the now stampede of officers of all backgrounds pushed past the doors into the Elite docking bay an alarming new mayhem ripped into realization. Hoards of people were fumbling and climbing over each other while screams tore through the room from all directions. TIEs were being crowded with as many bodies that could fit, and then some. The group you’d arrived with all flailed out, each person on their own journey towards safety.

Right where you’d left it earlier, before every horrible thing had gone on, sat the Command Shuttle. Even this far you could hear the engines stirring. Your legs took over and carried you as fast as they could, no matter the injury or barricades of people. The hell that had been born on this forsaken base would die with it, but you refused to do the same.

Each stride brought you closer the now ascending ramp, watching it close as you caught a glimpse of the future you wanted and were going to fight like hell to protect. One, two, three sloppy paces and your foot caught on the elevated ramp, your body sliding into the ship as it closed completely under you.

Desperate breaths stifled a groan as you slid across the floor. A white boot stomped in front of your face as you remained splayed and heaving beside it.

“Clearance?” It was a command, however useless as you felt the ship lift from the ground.

A dark thought crossed your mind – well, do you want my watch, or my keycard, or my uniform, or my leg? Rolling over you found General Hux standing on your opposite side. A thick gulp came as you patted your left arm to your chest, tracing over R – E – N to point towards your position.

“I’m his nurse.” Each word was separate and gasped. “His. I’m his. Commander Ren, I’m his nurse.”

The stormtrooper looked to Hux for approval, only for Hux to look at you with grim, stunned eyes and nod his head. “She’s authorized,” he said. He turned toward the bow of the ship. “Proceed to Ren’s location.”

Remaining on the floor, you felt the ship vibrate into your tired chest, felt the adrenaline course through you in violent pulsations. A veil was cast over your mind, everything close yet distant, present yet past. The only thing you registered was when the ship descended once more and sent your body towards the hatch again. Gripping onto the edge of a seat you strained your arms to keep still, not knowing what was going on, just aware you were still breathing.

Six pairs of boots crowded and fled the now open hatch, frigid air stinging over heated skin. “We’ll get his right, you three get his left!”

Ren’s location? Get his left? “What’s going on? Where is Ren?”

Your questions fell on absent ears, Hux now standing and staring out at the threshold until turning his body to allow the men more room.

“He’s breathing, General, but-,”

“But what?” It was the loudest you’d been since screaming in the halls.

Forcing yourself onto your knees, relying on the adrenaline keeping your own pain at bay, you stood to see your Commander being lowered onto the ground, three men at either of his sides seemingly struggling under his weight.

It was an automatic response to rush to him, to begin searching for injuries and checking for airway, breathing, and circulation hindrances. There wasn’t much hiding the emergency residing over his right side, splitting the skin and muscle apart in a broken, bloody stripe. It flayed his face, red streaks spilling from it and glinting in the low light of the ship.

“Stars! Someone get me some light!” you screamed, command taking over. This was your patient. This was your future. You were going to protect him. No matter what, that’s what you were going to do.

Two soldiers jumped at your voice, flooding away and falling into the wall when the ship catapulted upward once more. One grappled for the back wall and pulled a black box with a red medic symbol engraved on top. He threw it to the second and the three next to you scattered so he could open it for you and shine an overhead light.

“Hey! You three—” you barely glanced at the men before gesturing them down “—take these and apply heavy pressure when I say, understand?”

None of them moved when you threw three dense collection pads toward them. “DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?” They all quickly grabbed one and waited for your go ahead.

Angling yourself so you could finally find Kylo’s eyes, you leaned over him and watched as he seethed away; you didn’t know if this was a reaction aimed towards you or due to the very obvious pain he was in.

“Kylo,” you whispered, knowing it was too loud and chaotic for anyone else to hear or care, “you’re going to feel pressure and then it’s going to be really painful, but I need to make sure the bleeding stops. Just be prepared.”

He looked up at you like he’d never met you, like you were a perfect stranger. It wasn’t the nothingness from before, but instead something more alive. Wonderment, almost. Or shock. That was a more reasonable emotion at this moment.

Keeping his stare, you gestured the three waiting men with your hand. “Now.”

The men plunged the sponges into his wound and watched as the material expanded and filled with blood. Kylo’s jaw set firm and fluttered by his ear. A quiet grunt left him while your own breath caught. Watching him so pained and wounded was an impossible act. The only thought you’d allow yourself to have was of the relief you’d have once he was being cared for by a team from wherever the ship was heading.

Something warm washed over your right knee. Looking away from him you found it was more blood, another wound on the side of his abdomen dripping through his uniform.

“Fuck, I swear!” You threw your hands over it, pushing deep into his tissue. “How much longer till-,”

The ship answered your question before you could finish it, slightly angling to the side as it went into a rough, screeching landing. Kylo grimaced at this just slightly, lip trembling only a second before he returned to that same shock, staring up at you in silence.

Light seared into the ship when the ramp fell without effort, hitting the floor with two loud bangs. Before you could register, a team of medical professionals slid a transfer board below him and went to move. You grabbed one of the handles on the side, remaining at his waist while you watched him, keeping steady pressure over his abdomen. Blood sopping onto your hands and burying Robbie’s.

“How long has he been like this?” came an indiscriminate voice from behind you. A man, again. The same one who’d helped you with Talia. The physician you’d worked with to save your patient.

“We collected him probably five minutes ago. Initially I only noticed the one gash but found another two minutes ago. There has been constant pressure applied since discovery. The patient is semi-alert, not responding verbally, but appears to be awake.” There was no time for stuttering, the group closing in on the entrance to the Elite med bay.

“Another one right over his shoulder, sir.” Another voice, female this time, came from behind.

“I’m ordering stat fluids and blood replacement therapy. Along with that I will instruct the pharmacy to have antibiotics ready and for the arrival team to gain the appropriate IV access first thing.” The team pushed into the assessment room you’d come to know all too well, your feet stopping as the physician’s did next to you.

“Do you approve of those orders?” He snaked his head to get your attention.

Stunned, shell-shocked eyes peered up at him, head dizzy and ears rushing with blood. “I’m sorry, what?”

“You’re his nurse. You got him this far. Do you think anything else needs to be added to the immediate care plan?”

You’d meant to say no, to agree that the physician was appropriate and logical in his treatment. Instead, your eyes fluttered shut as sound began to fade. The ceiling grew in distance while you felt your knees give out.

“Get her head!”

The last thing you registered was a hand at the back of your neck and the sound of urgent feet rushing toward you. There was a faint set of three beeps which accompanied your fall, monitors running beyond the threshold where Kylo was receiving care. A team was caring for him. He was safe. You could rest now. You could heal now.

And so you did.

[kimistorm]

X-Men First Class: Reader Insert || Part 11 || Doom

Masterlist

It wasn’t very long until you noticed the plane circling over the two lines of battleships on either side of the embargo line.

“It looks pretty messy out there.”

“We are literally moments away from a whole out nuclear war.” You mentioned and then the brunt of the situation finally landed upon yourself, “oh my gosh. We are literally moments away from a nuclear war.” You put your face in your hands and looked wide-eyed at the ground.

“Don’t think about it, it’ll make things all the more terrifying.” Erik remarked.

Charles was off in his own little world as he read the minds of  the Russian soldiers below, “the crew of the Aral Sea are all dead.” He informed the rest of you, “Shaw’s been there!”

“He’s still here!” Erik yelled and looked through the window, “somewhere.”

“He’s set the ship on course for the embargo line.” Charles elaborated and pointed to the ship that was continuing to move forward, even though the rest of the Russian fleet had stopped.

“If that ship crosses the line, our boys are gonna blow it up.” Moira explained, “and the war begins.”

“Unless they’re not our boys.” Charles declared defiantly. He focused and you could tell he was controlling the actions of one of the russians. It was confirmed moments later as one of the russian ships launched a missile into the air.

“Hold on!” Beast yelled and the plane did spins in the air to avoid the missile rising into the air and then falling down to explode the Aral Sea. “A little warning next time, Professor.” You nodded and you noticed the other passengers nod along with you.

“Sorry about that. You alright?” Charles asked in concern.

“Yeah.” Hank confirmed.

“That was inspired Charles.” Moira applauded once it was clear that the Russians weren’t approaching the embargo line anymore.

“Thank you very much.” Charles acknowledged, “but I still can’t locate Shaw. (Y/n)?” he turned to you.

“No can do.” You shook your head, “he has a helmet on, and if you’re encountering it, I can’t get past it either. It works against telepaths and empaths.”

“He’s down there.” Erik insisted, “we need to find him, now!”

Charles looked towards the cockpit, “Hank?”

“Is there anything unusual on the radar or scanners?” Hank asked Moira.

She shook her head, “no. Nothing.”

“Well, then he must be underwater.” Hank concluded, “and obviously we don’t have sonar.”

The plane fell into silence until an eager voice shouted,“yes, we do!” Sean’s face brightened and you noticed the determination coursing through him.

Charles looked at Sean and nodded as well, “yes, we do!”

The two of them got up from their seats and Charles shouted to Hank, “Hank! Level the bloody plane!”

You noticed Erik’s anger getting the better of him which was causing the plane to crumple. You sent your mind out to him and tried to smother his anger with calming emotions. Moments later, the plane righted itself.

“Beast, open the bomb bay doors!” Sean yelled and the doors opened.

“Remember!” Charles shouted over the wind, “this is a muscle. You control it!” Sean nodded and jumped out of the plane. He dove into the water and you could only guess as to what he was doing. You sent out your mind to keep tabs on him, and when he was filled with joy, you knew he found Shaw’s sub. “He found them!” you called out.

“Are you ready for this?” Charles asked Erik as the two of them waited near the open doors.

“Let’s find out.” Erik replied evenly.

“Remember, the point between rage and serenity.” Charles coached.

Erik nodded and used his metal powers to lift the submarine out of the water. You inwardly laughed to yourself, you wondered how the sailors on the ship must’ve thought of all of this. A giant submarine being levitated in the air underneath an unknown plane.

“Yes!” you cheered Erik on, “you can do it Erik!”

The hatch on the submarine opened and you recognized the guy with tornado powers, “oh no.”

“Erik, take my hand!” Charles shouted as he grabbed onto Erik to keep him from flying away as the tornado ripped it’s way towards you.

“Hold on guys. It’s gonna get bumpy.” Hank warned as he attempted to keep the plane from going completely out of control. You desperately grabbed onto the various handles along the walls and hoped with all of your might that the plane wouldn’t get torn to pieces.

Hank was able to maneuver the plane from landing in the water, but instead of that, the plane was sent rolling onto the beach with fire and flying pieces of metal. You let out the breath you didn’t know you were holding when the plane stopped rocking and unbuckled yourself from the seatbelts holding you in.

“Moira? Moira, are you alright?” Charles asked as he helped said woman get out of her restraints.

“Yeah, I’m okay.” She replied.

“I read the teleporter’s mind.” Charles filled the rest of you in to what was happening, “Shaw is drawing all the power out of his sub. He’s turning himself into some kind of nuclear bomb.”

You gasped, “we have to stop him!”

“Moira,” Charles turned to her, “this is what we’re gonna do. Get on the radio and tell them to clear both fleets out immediately.” She nodded and ran to find the radio on the plane.

“I’m going in.” Erik declared and stepped out of the wrecked plane.

“Beast, Havok, back him up.” Charles ordered, “Erik, I can guide you through once you’re in, but I need you to shut down whatever it is that’s blocking me, then we just hope to God it’s not too late for me to stop him.” You frowned, the plan was banking a lot on chance, and Erik, but what other choice did you have?

“Got it.” Erik nodded and the three men darted out of the plane towards the submarine’s wreckage.

“Good luck!” you called out after them.

Raven made her way out to follow them but was halted by Charles, “Raven, stop!”

“I’m going to help them.” Raven proclaimed.

“We don’t have time for this.” Charles shook his head in denial, “if anything comes in that entrance, you’re taking care of it, yes?”

Raven harrumphed, “fine.”

“What about me?” you asked suddenly.

“I need your help to make sure Erik doesn’t do anything rash, we could completely lose him and start world war three.” He answered somberly.

“You know, you trying to control everything isn’t going to result in something good.” You murmured. Charles looked at you, but decided against refuting it.

“Erik, make for the middle of the vessel.” Charles lead Erik through the maze of the submarine. Even after knowing him for nearly your whole life, it still amazed you the extent of his powers. “That’s the point my mind can’t penetrate. We have to assume that that’s where Shaw is.”

You raised your eyebrow, you thought it was his helmet that was keeping Charles out, apparently it was a room. You sent out your mind through the ship to see if you could locate Shaw yourself. Sure enough, there was a big blank hole in the middle of the ship. You groaned, right when you thought you could’ve been helpful.

“There’s the nuclear reactor.” You heard Charles next to you, “disable it.” There were moments of silence as you assumed it was action going on that didn’t require step by step instructions from Charles. “Erik, you’re there. You’ve reached the void.” There was a silence and then Charles’ voice had an edge of panic in it, “what? He’s got to be there! He has to be! There’s nowhere else he can be!”

You took this as your cue to delve back into the sub to try and calm Erik down. A panicked mind can’t think clearly, and for the plan to work, you needed Erik to be able to think rationally. You latched onto his mind and gave him some calming emotions. He still needed his anger to keep him motivated, but it was a delicate balance he needed to be in.

“Erik? Erik.” Charles was calling out to the man who went into the sub.

You noticed Shaw flicker in and out and you grabbed the chance to try and change Shaw’s emotions. “No!” you shouted and Charles’ eyes flicked to you in surprise, “I can’t do anything against Shaw.” You explained, “darn it!” you shouted and punched the side of the plane.

“He’s gone.” Charles tried to refocus onto Erik.

“What?” Moira looked at him in concern.

“He’s gone into the void! I can’t communicate with him there.” Charles explained. You and Charles met blue eyes with (e/c) eyes. You were doomed.

“Darn it!” you shouted again and kicked the metal wreckage, “I could’ve done something about it, but I was too wrapped up in trying to get Shaw.” You spun around angrily and looked at Charles in shame, “I’m sorry.”

“Wait, yeah! Yes!” Charles cheered and you looked over to him, “he’s back!” he elaborated, and you quickly took a seat next to him, “Erik, whatever you’re doing, keep doing it. It’s starting to work.”

“Can you see him?” you demanded.

“It’s working! I’m starting to see him. But I can’t yet touch his mind.” Charles continued.

“Charles! I need you to send the image of him into my mind.” You took hold of his shoulders, “I can’t do anything without it.”

Charles looked torn between keeping tabs on Erik, and helping you which would in turn help him. Charles nodded and quickly established a mental connection with you. You closed your eyes and the image of Shaw appeared. “Got it, thanks Charles.” You confirmed and the connection broke.

The two of you turned towards the sub and you searched for Shaw. Now that you knew what he looked like, you were able to create the emotional connection with him. You ferried calming emotions into Shaw, ‘you don’t want to do this. You don’t want to hurt anyone.’ You thought in your mind. Shaw froze and you knew Charles was able to get into Shaw’s mind.

“Erik! No!” Charles shouted and he screwed his eyes shut in concentration, “(y/n)! Help Erik!”

You turned your attention towards Erik and got into his emotions. Once again, you were ferrying calm emotions into Erik. ‘Don’t turn against us Erik!’

“Erik, please! Be the better man!” you heard Charles shout next to you. You shut your eyes and your hands clenched as you tried even harder to get Erik to stop. “Erik, there will be no turning back!” there was a pause, and your connection broke off. You and Charles shared scared glances, once again you had lost him, and you were certain this time that there was no return from this.

Charles turned back towards the ship and you could tell he was holding onto Shaw, “No! Please, Erik! No!”

You couldn’t just sit back and let it happen without knowing what was going on, so you sent your mind back to where Shaw and Erik were. What you saw made you want to throw up. Fear was coursing through Shaw and only gleeful pride was found in Erik. “Charles let him go!” you shouted when you noticed Shaw was still frozen.

“I can’t! I can’t!” Charles shouted in a panic.

You decided you didn’t want to witness what was going to happen and retreated while still hearing Charles pleading for Erik to stop. It went silent, and you looked to Charles who shook his head. “It’s over.” Him, you, and Moira picked your way out of the ship, encountering a bored Raven on the way out.

You gasped when Erik led Shaw’s dead body out of the sub using his powers. You saw the trickle of blood coming from the wound in his head and you turned away to gag. It was horrible, and the shocked and disgusted emotions from those around you didn’t make it any easier to bear.

“Today our fighting stops!” Erik called out triumphantly and dropped Shaw’s body to the ground. You felt like a little kid again and hid your face behind Charles’ body. “Take off your blinders, brothers and sisters. The real enemy is out there. I feel their guns moving in the water. Their metal, targeting us.” You gasped and turned towards the ships out in the water. You looked at Charles in a vain hope that it wasn’t true, but Charles shook his head. Erik wasn’t lying. “Americans, Soviets, humans. United in their fear of the unknown. The Neanderthal is running scared, my fellow mutants!” Erik turned to Charles, “go ahead Charles. Tell me I’m wrong.”

Upon seeing no denial from Charles Moira took it upon herself to frantically call those who were on the ships, “the beach is secure. Call off the attack!” there was no answer and Moira frantically cried out, “hello? Hello!”

“No!” you shouted and clapped your hands onto the sand. You focused and used all of your energy to send out a wave of emotion through the water and to the ships. “Stop it!” you shouted, “we’re no threat!” You were only able to send a few waves of the strongest power you’d ever felt towards the ships, until you collapsed onto the ground from exhaustion. A moment later missiles flew into the air. You could barely keep your eyelids open, but you were determined that you were going to spend your last moments awake.

You felt Alex grab your fallen body to bring you back to the others, “stay awake, okay (y/n)?”

“That’s the plan.” You let out a dry laugh that took more energy than you believed was warranted.

The missiles stopped in midair as Erik halted any progress through the air, you let out a sigh of relief, “thank goodness.” Then, the missiles did a one-eighty and turned back towards the ships, “oh no no no no no! I hoped I was wrong. Erik!” you shouted

“Erik, you said yourself, we’re the better men.” Charles cautiously dictated, “this is the time to prove it. There are thousands of men on those ships.” Charles angrily pointed towards said ships, “good, honest, innocent men!” he shouted, “they’re just following orders.”

“I’ve been at the mercy of men just following orders.” Erik replied with an upturned nose, “never again.” He let the missiles fly back towards the ships where they had come from.

“Erik, release them!” Charles screamed.

“No!” Erik shouted in response.

“Alex, put me down.” You urgently hushed into his ear, “you’re a lot more help when you’re not being weighed down by me.” Alex hesitated, then nodded as he gently placed you down into the sand.

In the meantime, Charles had launched himself at Erik in an effort to stop him. “Erik stop!” he continued to yell.

Moira grabbed a gun and had it pointed at Erik, ‘it won’t help!’ you tried to shout using your mind. You cursed at yourself for not being able to master telepathy.

“Stand back!” Erik shouted and Moira refused to listen as she shot off multiple rounds. Charles ran to restrain Erik again as he was thrown off of Erik but let out a pained scream as a bullet Erik had deflected shot into his back.

“Charles!” you shouted. Immediately Erik turned around to cradle Charles’ head in his lap.

“I’m so sorry.” Moira ran to help Charles.

“I said back off!” Erik roared, he then glared at Moira, “you. You did this.” He noticed the dog collar around her neck and used it to hold her up in the air, thus choking her. You cursed in your head, if only he didn’t have that helmet on.

“Erik, please.” You heard Charles wheeze. “She didn’t do this, Erik. You did.”

Erik seemed to bite down whatever he was going to say and let Moira take his place in holding Charles.

“Charles! I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” She rushed over while profusely apologizing.

“Us turning on each other. It’s what they want.” Erik talked mournfully to Charles, “I tried to warn you, Charles. I want you by my side. We’re brothers, you and I.” You wanted to scoff, he was a psychopath, Charles, was not. “All of us, together. Protecting each other. We want the same thing.”

“My friend, I’m sorry. But we do not.” Charles denied, and you still wanted to groan aloud. Charles was too soft.

Erik looked somewhat offended and then turned towards the rest of you, “the society won’t accept us. We form our own.” He continued with his speech, “the humans have played their hand. Now we get ready to play ours. Who’s with me?” he held out a hand and you wanted to burn holes in it with your eyes. You were human too, just, well, as Charles liked to put it, more evolved. “No more hiding.” Raven started to walk towards him and you felt a crushing feeling of despair. However, it quickly turned to hope when she kneeled down next to Charles’ fallen body.

“You...you should go with him.” Charles breathed, “it’s what you want.”

“What? No!” you shouted. You couldn’t believe that Charles was breaking your little family apart.

“You promised me you would never read my mind.” Raven smiled wryly and continued as if your little outburst never happened.

“I know. I promised you a great many things, I'm afraid. I'm sorry.” Charles croaked. You couldn’t believe your ears. Everything that you thought you knew was falling apart faster than you could comprehend.

Raven looked towards you sitting in the sand many feet away, “take care of him.”

“R-Raven?” your voice cracked on the verge of tears as she turned away from Charles and joined Erik.

“We all knew it, you always got along with Charles more than me.” She smiled, “sorry (y/n). And Beast?” Hank looked up when she called his name, “never forget, mutant and proud!”

“No! Raven!” you screeched and you were miraculously gifted with the energy to lunge towards her. One moment she was there, the next she was gone with a whiff of red smoke. “Raven!” you choked on your own saliva as you fell onto the ground where she was just moments ago. Sure, you had your differences, but she was practically your older sibling. Raised up from nothing, she kept the two of you alive, and now, she was gone. “Raven!” you wailed up towards the sky.

“Help me out, come on.” Hank immediately rushed to Moira’s side, “I’m gonna get you to a hospital.” Charles started to move and she gently put him down, “wait, Charles.”

“Charles, don’t move. Okay?” Hank asked.

“I won’t.” Charles grimaced. “Actually...I can’t feel my legs.” You spun your head around to look at your fallen brother.

“What?” Moira asked in surprise.

“I can’t feel my legs. I can’t feel my legs.” Charles repeated the mantra and you found yourself shaking your head. No, it couldn’t be.

Masterlist

[deathonyourtongue]

Winter Passing | Chapter 1

Summary: Injured and left for dead in the middle of a nowhere state, he traverses peaks and valleys for days without seeing any sign of civilization. Just as death’s icy fingers begin to coil around him, he finds a cabin in a clearing. Terrified from years of being told fairy tales and ghost stories, he nevertheless knocks on the door. When he wakes, he finds not a demon, but an angel, long removed from the insanity of the modern world. Pairing: Slightly AU!Henry Cavill x OC Word Count: 2.4K Warnings: Mentions of blood A/N: Like if you want to be added to the tag list. Message me if you want to be removed.

@radaofrivia​ @crushed-pink-petals​ @henrycavillfanpage​ @kirasmomsstuff​ @bluestarego​ @redhairedmoiraandtheliferuiners​ @safiras​ @honeychicana​

It had been one of the worst storms the area had seen in years. Snow, wind, ice, and hale had all done their best to batter down their part of the earth. Despite the severity, it had only succeeded in blanketing the clearing with a fresh coat of powder. Protected as it had always been by the mountain on one side and the ocean on the other, the clearing’s stream and small lake stood relatively untouched by the late winter assault; she wouldn’t have to break the ice for water today, but she would have to cut more wood.

Starting her day as she always had, Olivia woke as slowly as the sun did, brewing a tea of peppermint and the last of the season’s lemon balm to warm and waken herself from the inside out. She gave Gunnar his first meal of the day, smiling as her 4-year-old Husky grumbled his way to his bowl, clearly muttering to himself about how long she’d taken to get up. Her own breakfast would come after her morning duties, and before she set about the early afternoon’s activities of reading, cooking, and writing. It would be a simple day, topped off with a sumptuous dinner of braised rabbit stew and homemade bread and wine. Winter was a vacation from the various duties of the other seasons and Olivia looked forward to every second, fleeting though they were.

She’d forgone snow pants the moment she’d moved to the clearing, having studied the area well enough to know she’d never get snowed in, and never deal with the sharp, nipping temperatures the rest of the state felt throughout the winter months. Wearing long johns, jeans, woolen socks, and her tried-and-tested winter boots, she set about collecting the water, cutting the wood, and feeding her small crop of animals, talking to each one as she went. She doted on her creatures, all of them telling her a daily story of the previous day’s activities simply with their eyes, their sniffs, and their eagerness for food. Petting her lamb, she reminded herself to start on her next knitting project using her old girl’s spring sheering, Olivia excited by the prospect of a new, even cozier sweater.

The incense was lit once she’d come in with the water, and the hearth was stoked in preparations for the afternoon’s cooking. It wasn’t until she was in the middle of chopping wood that she felt the shift in the air. Stopping all movement, she scanned what she could of the clearing, assuaged in her fear only by the fact that her rifle sat on a stump at arm’s length. Bigger game was rare, only due to the difficulty in accessing the area, but she’d had one run-in too many with a bear to trust that it was impossible. She registered the silence of the birds with trepidation, but as they hadn’t flown, she knew whatever was coming wasn’t as dreadful a predator as it could be.

Finally, her eyes caught the part of the clearing that didn’t belong, the shape dark against the white of the snow and mountains. It wasn’t an animal, but from far off in the field, she couldn’t tell whether it was a man or a woman who approached her door. Moving silently, each step soft and calculated, she flanked the stranger and quickly made her way into her small cottage by way of the back door. Old habits die hard and even in the middle of nowhere, she kept her front door locked and latched, a practical protection to top off all the more mystical ones she’d placed on the location upon moving in. Shoe-less, she slid across the hardwood floor, using the column that divided the kitchen from the front room to her advantage in order to catch a glimpse of the person knocking desperately. To her shock, the first thing she saw was blood, a mask of it covering the face of a man who couldn’t be older than 35. His breath fogged the front windows, and before she could even call out, he’d fallen like a sack of potatoes at her doorstep. Whatever had happened to him, had been bad enough that he’d decided to brave the wilds rather than stay by the road waiting for help. Her only hope was that he wasn’t dead. The trek into town was laborious under the best weather conditions; in winter, it was nearly impossible.

—————————–

Henry’s day had gone from bad to worse. 

Packing up had been hard enough, with Tabitha’s cat trying to bat at or bite him at every given opportunity. His ex certainly didn’t help matters, her words as cutting as her cat’s claws. Though they’d been together nearly five years, Henry felt like he barely knew the woman she’d turned into over the last few months. It was the great tragedy of his life, but it was quickly becoming his worst nightmare; he had no choice but to move on. 

With the last load packed, he’d hit the highway one last time, looking forward only to ordering a pizza and calling it a day in his new, ramshackle, bachelor pad. He worried his Escalade would look out of place among the sea of Hondas and Kias that littered the parking lot of his new residence, but Henry knew he’d be trading in the car soon enough, and vowed to get into something a little less conspicuous. 

He was halfway to his destination when the ABS light came on, blinking rapidly. Nearly as soon as it had come on, the light switched off once more. Henry thought little of it, but made a mental note to mention it to his mechanic the next time he went in for service. Before he could even finish his thought however, the car in front of him began to slow down. Pressing the brake, Henry felt a cold chill go through him as his foot went directly to the floor. Trying again, and pumping the pedal this time, he got the same result. His immediate–albeit regrettable–thought was that Tabitha had drained his brake fluid and caused him to ride dry. Without the fluid, there’d be no way of applying pressure to the discs, leaving him without an option that didn’t involve a crash. 

With the car ahead quickly approaching his front bumper, Henry looked around, trying to figure out the best possible route. He couldn’t switch lanes due to a semi on his left, and careening across four lanes seemed deadly even if it did get him to the inside shoulder of the highway. Heart sinking, he closed his eyes and veered right at the last moment, knowing full well he was about to die. Aside from the small patch of forest, there was little to keep him from rolling right off the side of the mountain and to certain doom. Bracing, Henry did his best to keep the wheel straight once he began cutting through brush, hoping for the best. 

The violent scream of metal on rock accompanied his own cries as the SUV began to roll and skid at a steep descent. Henry dared not open his eyes as all the windows shattered, the dash caved in on itself and his steering wheel made contact with his head more than once. He blacked out as the car careened down the side of the mountain, waking only when it came to a bone-crunching stop at the base of a sturdy pine tree. 

His consciousness mercifully kept him in and out until the smell of burning rubber woke him for good. Feeling the heat building in the footwell, Henry moved only through the power of adrenaline, scrambling for his seatbelt cutter and taking a deep breath before slicing through the woven fabric, his body hitting what used to be the roof with a sickening thud. Crawling through the shattered glass of the passenger window, Henry moved as far away as he could, turning back only to see the car engulfed in flames. With the fire making it too dangerous to try and save any of the trunk’s contents, Henry patted his body down, looking for his phone, hoping he could at least make a call to get out. When he came up empty-handed, one look back to his vehicle confirmed what he’d feared; his cell was still in the center console, burning to a crisp with the rest of his things.

Though he wanted to sit and wallow in self-pity waiting for help to arrive, a sharp sting of wind reminded him he had to move.  Having considered himself something of a well-prepared man prior to the accident, Henry cursed himself for not having worn his winter coat while driving, the warm garment turning to ash along with his winter boots in the fire. He chuckled to himself, thinking of how thrilled his ex would be to learn of his demise, out in the woods at the bottom of the mountain, walking in circles until he’d succumbed to the elements. 

“You’ll finally get your wish, Tabs. Me out of your life for good!” He called out with a barking laugh, Henry tucking his hands into his pockets as he looked around for a suitable walking stick. The flaring pain in his knee was enough to warn him against trying to walk unassisted, and with fresh powder coming nearly to his thighs, he knew better than to try it even in perfect health. 

Red coated his vision as he bent over to grab a snapped branch. Rubbing at his eyes, the breath caught in his throat as the back of his hand came away soaked with fresh blood. Logically he knew head wounds bled more, but at that moment, it scared him badly, Henry once again being reminded that death was nipping at his heels. Propelled forward, he limped in the only direction he could go; towards the lake.

—————————–

Gathering her courage, and sliding her sharpest knife into the back of her belt, Olivia crept to the door and opened it, gasping as the man’s head fell lifeless into her home, thankfully still attached to his very poorly-clothed body. Most residents of the state knew better than to go anywhere without a snow coat, good sturdy boots, and thick pants, yet the man had on little more than jeans, sneakers, and a sweater. It’d be a wonder if she could save him even with all her knowledge. Mildly annoyed that her perfectly-planned day had gone haywire so early, and more than a little grumpy from lack of food, Olivia nevertheless hooked her arms under his and dragged him inside, laying him down in front of the hearth before locking the doors, and setting about gathering what she would need in order to try and wake him, patch him up, and hopefully get him out at the earliest possibility.

For lack of ammonia, she used alcohol as a smelling salt, waving a cotton bud soaked in it under his nose as she watched the water begin to boil in the pot on the fire. A homemade salve, several lengths of cotton batting, and honey from her own hive all sat to the side, ready to be used in cleansing and dressing whatever wounds were causing him to bleed so profusely. As she waited for him to come around, Olivia took stock of the man, noting his fine features, soft hands, and well-manicured beard. A nomad he was not, though his clothes had broadcast as much the moment she saw them. No, wherever this man was from, he was definitely not prepared for nature, and if she had to venture a guess, he’d crashed on the road above the clearing and had been driving in a climate-controlled car before being ejected into mother nature’s frozen arms.

When he showed no sign of waking, Olivia set to work on cleaning what she could see. The two gashes on his head, both at the hairline were her first priority. Cleaning them thoroughly, she applied a liberal amount of honey to each before fashioning the bandages so that they pulled the wounds closed. While she was a fair hand at sewing, none of her threads were strong enough to hold skin together and she didn’t want to take the risk of adding to any potential infections. 

With the rest of his body still clothed, she pushed his large frame closer to the hearth, covering him in her thickest blanket and taking off his water-logged shoes and socks to check for frostbite. When all she saw was irritated red skin, Olivia dried his feet and applied cornstarch before letting the blanket fall back over his toes, knowing he needed to get warm, but without shocking his system and short of a warm bath, laying next to the hearth would be his best bet. 

Satisfied that she’d done as much as she could, Olivia cleaned up and went upstairs to change into something a little more comfortable than all the layers she’d been wearing. Donning a gauzy moss-green dress that dragged along the floor, she threw a long-sleeved shawl over it and, feeling the beginnings of a hunger headache starting, took down her hair from its messy bun, knotting only the top half before putting a hair stick through it, Olivia feeling immediately better.

—————————–

Henry wasn’t sure what heaven–or hell–was supposed to be like, but he was almost certain neither place was supposed to be wet. Groaning, he turned his head, only to feel like his entire brain had shifted sloppily from one side of his skull to the other. Unwilling to open his eyes, his hand found its way out from under the weight that was on it, managing to bat away whatever was causing his face to feel like it had been slimed. 

“Gunnar!” A voice hissed, and though it hurt to do so, Henry finally cracked open an eyelid, wishing he could move faster as he found himself in a veritable witch’s cottage. Dark wood served as the backdrop for more candles than he had ever seen in one home. As his vision cleared, Henry made out several animal bones, and what he could only imagine to be an altar of some sort, given the rather large deer skull surrounded by rune stones, a dish of herbs, more candles, and a beautifully polished stone of some sort. 

Waiting for the stereotypical hag to appear, Henry was startled when around the corner came the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on. If he were in heaven, he’d gladly deal with the pagan stylings of whatever angel called this place home. 

Watching as the dog who’d just been giving his face a bath moved away, Henry tried to find his voice, but what came out was a croaky jumble of words that only served to put an amused smile on the angel’s face. 

“Dead? You heaven?”

[vikingpoteto]

we don’t have to dance (to the beat of their songs)

Chapter 3 on AO3 ______________________

Relationships:  (Gen) Tim Drake & Jason Todd

Tags: Battle for the Cowl, Alternate Canon, Adopted Sibling Relationship, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical Violence, Mental Health Issues, Past Child Neglect, Domestic Fluff, Canon is not valid I am, and I want them to be friends goddamnit

Summary: In the middle of their battle, Jason asks Tim to leave the nest and be his Robin. Tim decides it's not a bad idea, after all. ________________________

When the cast comes off his leg, Jason sighs in relief. Casts are a bitch and he can’t believe he survived four weeks walking around like a zombie.

And, well, he technically is a zombie, but still.

The nurse barely has time to set aside the now useless pieces of cast before Jason eagerly stretches his arm. He tries not to take offense in the patronizing smile the man gives him. Jason supposes he isn’t the person acting like having their arm in a cast is hell  — because it is — but he can go without the little smirk, thank you very much. He would’ve removed the damn thing on his own, except it’s his dominant arm stuck in the cursed thing and he didn’t want to risk any new injuries. It’s the first time in over a month that he has no major wounds. And that’s considering that the pit gave him a faster healing rate than your average Joe.

“There’s a crack here,” the nurse comments.

“Hm. I had to fight a criminal. They were annoying, so I hit them with my cast,” Jason says.

The nurse gives him a forced chuckle as though he thinks Jason is joking. Or, well, that Todd Peters is joking. He doesn’t need to know Jason’s real name or that he’s completely serious. He must be new. They’re not in Gotham, but they’re close enough that having to beat a random crook with a cast shouldn’t be that outlandish.

The annoying noise of the saw fills the room again and Jason does his best to stay put. While telling Dick to fuck off after their fight had been satisfying  — a silver lining after having his ass handed back to him, if you must  — letting himself fall to what could’ve been his second death wasn’t Jason’s smartest move. And definitely not worth having to drag his own broken ass home, ruin his wounded body even more as he struggled to change into civies. Never mind having to face the humiliation of seeking a public hospital and pretending he had somehow walked away from getting hit by a bus. That had been fun, but he would not recommend it.

“There you go,” the nurse says. “You’re free as a bird, Mr. Peters.”

Jason flexes his fingers in relief. As a bird. What a joke.

When he walks out of the hospital with a medical bill that will most certainly never get paid  — although it’s tempting to send it to Wayne Enterprises just to let them know Jason is alive and now ready to kick their asses again  — he remembers the second time someone told him he could be Robin.

It had been Tim.

He hadn’t thought about that night in quite a while, mostly because he couldn’t believe it really happened. It was before they freaking sent him to Arkham, but after Jason got rid of (most of) the green mist in his mind that had him foaming at the mouth with unchecked anger. Robin swooped in right in the middle of one of Jason’s busts and somehow managed to knock out as many criminals as he protected from lethal shots. After they were done, he had approached Jason and deadass asked him if he would consider being Robin again.

Just like that. Jason thought he was joking.

Then Tim Drake, in all his 14 year-old glory, his voice still cracking a bit, deadpanned: “I only took over because someone had to. But now that you’re back, it only makes sense that you go back to your family.”

Jason was so stunned he doesn’t remember what he said next. Probably something about shooting the kid if he caught him in his territory again. He’s pretty sure the little shit rolled his eyes at him before jumping off the roof. Jason had the distinct feeling that Bruce never heard about that small mishap.

For quite a while, Jason tried his hardest not to think about what he left in Gotham. It was hard when he was too injured to move, but books helped him through it, as always. Now, however, he was free as a robin and he has a decision to make: what is he going to do next?

The trip to the shitty motel he’s staying at takes no time at all, his feet getting him there while his mind was elsewhere. He’s thinking so hard of Gotham that at first he thinks he’s losing his marbles when he sees a familiar face. Jason freezes on his tracks.

Tim Drake is casually leaning against Jason’s door. He tilts his head to the side and cocks an eyebrow in challenge, as though letting him know that he is very much real and not an hallucination.

“How the fuck —” Jason starts. Then he decides against it. “You know what? I don’t want to know. Forget you found me.”

Tim rolls his eyes. “I happen to have a really good memory, though.”

“It sure doesn’t look like it, considering it seems you forgot I tried to kill you last time we saw each other.”

“You mean when you could’ve killed me, but you didn’t?”

It takes all of Jason’s flimsy self-control not to punch him. Tim stands there, his arms still crossed, his eyebrows vanishing under his too-long bangs, and it’s almost as if he’s daring Jason to hit him, to lose his cool. Doing so would be letting him win and Jason isn’t about to do that.

He has half a mind to appreciate the fact that Tim had been waiting for him in the hallway, though. Even Dick hadn’t been that considerate in the past, always favoring the good old breaking into people’s homes like Bats taught them. It annoys him to no end that the kid somehow always knows what little things will mulify Jason.

“I just wanna talk,” Tim says.

“I haven’t been active lately”

Tim doesn’t even flinch. “That’s a lie.”

“How did Dick find me?” Jason groans.

“He didn’t. I did,” still in that annoying flat voice.

“And you want me to believe he didn’t follow you?”

“I don’t think so, since I haven’t seen him in a month.”

That catches Jason’s attention. He considers the boy in front of him. Rumor has it that Tim Drake manages to be even more elusive than the rest of them, and Jason believes that.  He believes that a child that stalked Batman and Robin for so long is nothing short of impressive. He heard Tim was the only person able to lie to Batman.

Something makes him think Tim isn’t lying now.

With a sigh, he fishes the keys from his pocket and opens the door. Pretends not to see the kid’s annoyingly cocky smile.

Jason doesn’t know much about Tim other than his M.O. as Robin and parts of how he joined the Bat cult. He knows he was already a rich kid before becoming Robin, but if the kid has any reaction to Jason’s crappy hotel room, he doesn’t show.

Jason drops on the couch with a groan. Tim stands around with a blank expression and, if Jason didn’t know any better, he’d think the kid is nervous. He gestures at the empty mismatched armchair by his side, and only then does the kid take a seat. Silence stretches.

“So? You said you wanted to talk. Talk.”

It’s almost impossible to notice, but Tim takes a slow breath before starting: “When we fought… you asked me to be your Robin,” he says. “Did you mean it?”

Jason quirks an eyebrow up. “What kind of question is that?”

“Did you seriously consider taking me as a sidekick?” Tim insists. “It’s a yes or no question.”

Jason sits back and crosses his arms, keeping his expression schooled into something neutral. He hadn’t thought about that night  — at least not on purpose  — since then. However, in the fleeting moments his mind forced him to relive it, he couldn’t help but think about his spur of the moment offer. Because that’s what it had been. An impulsive thought.

However…

“I meant it,” he says, his voice neutral. “In our field, it’s a pain to work alone. I know you have skills, so having you work for me would’ve been useful.”

And that’s the truth, or at least most of it. Tim presses his lips into a tight line and nods slowly, as though he’s readying himself for something.

“And you still think that?”

“What kind of game are you playing, Replacement?” Jason snaps.

“I’m not playing anything. I’m here to offer you my services, sort of.” Tim gives him a crooked smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “We can go over my resume, if you want.”

Jason’s chin drops. He can’t help it. His stunned silence lasts long enough that Tim’s fake smirk slips from his face and, despite his best efforts to keep the cool facade, Jason can see he’s distraught somehow.

“You said that that would mean working for a psychopathic killer,” Jason reminds him.

“I remember distinctly saying sure, why not? to your offer, too. Also you called me worse things, you don’t get to be sensitive about name calling now.”

“Why?” Jason presses.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Tim deflects.

“I asked first.”

“I asked second.”

Jason sighs. “You suck at job interviews.”

“To be fair, I’m a trust fund baby. I’m not supposed to go through job interviews.”

Jason sighs. He doesn’t know what to think. On one hand, he is a detective. He was trained to recognize lying, to know when he’s being played with. On another, the boy in front of him isn’t your everyday crime alley crook, but an equal. Maybe superior, in some circumstances. He could have a plan inside a plan to completely fuck Jason over  — and he kind of should, considering Jason almost killed him a couple of times… and Damian… and Dick.

“What does Bat 2.0 think of you switching career paths?”

“Again, I haven’t seen him in a month.”

“Yeah, I’m not buying that. I haven’t kept close tabs on what’s happening in Gotham, but I know Batman and Robin are still active.”

Tim hesitates. Jason waits patiently. Finally, a little annoyance in his voice betraying his frustration, the younger boy admits:

“Dick fired me. There’s a new Robin.”

Jason snorts. “You’re fucking with me.”

Tim looks down, saying nothing.

Jason starts laughing out loud. “Oh my God, you’re shitting me right? So the Replacement has been replaced! And you decided to come to me of all people for a new job? You want us to be Evil Batman and Evil Robin to good ol’ Bitchard?”

It’s funny, if you think about it. The Robin that got killed and the Robin that got dumped, joining forces to represent failure as the holier than thou golden boy becomes the epitome of heroism. He can’t stop laughing.

Jason expects Tim to get angry. He expects Tim to lash out and tell him to fuck off, say that he knew coming here was a waste of time and storm off. The longer Jason’s mockery goes, however, the quieter the boy gets. His expression is carefully empty, although there is an unnameable storm behind his gaze. Sometimes, Tim is so similar to Bruce  — stoic, a mind like a maze, a smug little shit - Jason forgets about all the ways in which he’s Bruce’s complete opposite. Tim doesn’t do lashing out. Not usually, at least.

When Jason’s hollow laughter dies, the kid is sitting there as though nothing phases him. Not because he is a big bad bat with no emotions, but because he knows better than to show them.

The older boy breathes out slowly. “Alright, I’ll bite it. What exactly are you thinking, Pretender? Be brief and straight, I don’t have all day.”

There’s a beat. The kid is clearly trying to organize his ideas. That’s a first. Little Timmy usually has a plan from the get go.

“I want to be useful,” he says. And that’s the truest thing Tim said all day. There is something raw in his voice that grabs Jason’s attention. Something that Tim hides before Jason can name it. “You said it yourself. We can do better if we work  together. Not as Batman and Robin, of course not. Just as ourselves.”

Jason crosses his arms and starts tapping a finger to his arm. “I don’t believe you’re planning on killing anyone.”

“Good, because I’m not going to.”

“Then? You’re gonna watch while I do the dirty job? Or you think you can stop me?”

There’s a subtle quirk of Tim’s lips. Jason curses inwardly knowing the little satisfied smirk is there because Jason is negotiating. As though he already accepted this insane proposition.

“I don’t think I can stop you every time,” Tim concedes. “We can make a deal, though. With me by your side, you won’t have to resort to murder that often. You promise me you’ll only kill if there’s no other way and, in exchange, I promise you I’ll make sure your cases will be solved a lot faster.”

“You’re awfully confident for someone that just got fired,” Jason deadpans.

“I got fired a month ago.”

“You’re awfully confident for someone that’s been sitting on their ass for a month.”

“I was actually working with the League of Assassins.”

That gives Jason a pause. “I’m sorry, you were what ?”

“There was a case I couldn’t solve on my own. Dick wouldn’t help. Ra’s did.”

“And, what, after working with Ra’s freaking Al Ghul you just decided it was time for a change of scenery?”

“I mean, for starters I like you a lot more than Ra’s. Second, Ra’s kinda fired me too.”

“Again, you’re really bad at this job interview thing.”

Tim smirks. “To be fair, I took everything I needed then ruined a lot of League business before bailing on him, so…”

And then there is that. Jason can count on one hand the things he knows about Tim Drake. One, he found out the identities of Batman, Nightwing and Robin II at age nine. Two, he was a rich kid and neighbor to the Waynes and now he has no family left, just like Jason. Three, he is annoyingly perfect and it makes Jason feel like shit. Four, he is the most unpredictable little shit to ever exist.

And last but not least, he trusts Jason. Jason doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know if that makes him stupid or a genius in a way mere mortals can’t comprehend. Nonetheless, he has this unshakeable faith in Jason like no one had before. Not even Dick, who was supposed to be his brother. Jason doesn’t know what to make of it.

“So Ra’s is after your stupid ass and you want me to be your bodyguard?”

“When Ra’s comes for me, I’ll have a plan to deal with him. Whether you’re a part of it or not, that’s up to you. Don’t worry about it for now.”

He sounds like he has everything under control. Jason knows how to sound like that, too. All of the batlings do. Their entire lives they’re just playing it cool, looking dark, brooding and mysterious while inside they have no idea what’s going on nor how they’ll survive.

“Come on,” Tim says, rolling his eyes. “You worked with back up and you worked alone. You know which one is better.”

“I’m a literal crime lord,” Jason reminds him.

“That’s not the same. Having someone that knows who you are behind the mask makes all the difference in the world.”

Neither of them are addressing the elephant in the room, though. The biggest question looming over them. That’s also a bat thing. Both are aware, none speaks of it, and a taste of something unsolved is making their mouths bitter. The worst part is that they know the answer, even if it’s left unsaid, but do they really? Are they really arrogant to assume they know each other enough, that they’re smart enough to be aware of the truth?

Why did you offer to take me in?

Why do you want to join me now?

Two questions. One answer.  

“I’ll think about it,” Jason says.

Tim’s smile is blinding. He knows a backhanded yes when he hears one. “I’m looking forward to hearing from you, Hood.”

“Piss off before I shoot you.”

Tim snickers and stands to leave. Jason keeps listening after the door closes, after the footsteps vanish down the hallway. He can still hear the sounds of traffic down the street, maybe the indistinct chatter from the neighbors. It still feels too quiet and the egg sized apartment could as well be as big as a manor after Tim leaves.

The answer to both questions is I don’t want to be alone anymore .

[readerficsbyhyaku]

Court Caramel (Godot x Reader) Part 2

author’s note

I realized i wrote yet another massage scene in my fics. It's not even a kink, my back just hurts x')

The next morning, you were still working on your case when you heard the door to your office open. Slightly unnerved by the fact that somebody came in without knocking or asking, you rose from your chair to deal with the issue when you froze in your steps.

The warm smell of coffee was coming from the door that led to the entranceway, growing more overwhelming as seconds passed. You saw the doorknob turn, and the silhouette behind the frosted glass revealed itself.

Of course it was Godot.

You quickly backed up behind your couch, voice wavering as you asked

“What do you want ?”

The prosecutor didn’t answer right away, visor scanning the room, as if he hadn’t done his misdeeds right there the day before. He grinned when he saw the steaming cup of coffee near your laptop, the one you needed to finish your work in time…

“Is that your special blend ?”

Again with that ! you cursed mentally. But it was obvious that you preferred giving up a cup of coffee rather than have him… Do that again.

“Y-yeah ! Have a taste !” you forced out with a crooked smile, not inching anywhere closer to the man.

He took a few steps towards the desk, picked up the mug and brought it to his lips. As he took a long sip, you saw his adam’s apple bob and it sparked something inside of you, yet again. You never learned, did you ?

Godot seemed to savor the beverage for a few seconds, during which you held your breath, praying he would be satisfied with it. But as he put down the cup with a muted thud and turned back towards you, you knew it didn’t bid well. He walked up to you, the couch still in between your bodies, as you shrunk in fear.

“That’s not it, sweetheart” he growled in a low tone “But how can I smell caramel all around you right now ?”

Cold sweat broke on your back as you tried to babble an explanation, when there was none.

You didn’t expect him to reach for you above the couch, but he did. His large hand encased your jaw as his lips came, once again, crashing onto yours in the most indelicate manner. Bitterness only lightly subdued by your own coffee invaded your senses and you tried to push him back, but to no avail. His fingers, warmed by the cup, were hot and burning on the sensitive skin of your face. After what seemed like a long while, he broke the union as you gasped for air. Tears were threatening to fall from your eyes as you stared back up at him in newfound anger, only to see him look… puzzled.

He was almost daintily touching his goddamned lips with his fingers, when he said, dawning onto him.

“It was you.”

Taken aback and suddenly feeling threatened again, you narrowed your eyes and asked

“What was me ? What are you talking about ?”

He turned to face you with a small smile.

“The taste I was looking for. It was you all along”

You shivered at the implications of his words, but steeled yourself. You needed to hide any weakness until he was out.

“Great. Now that you found what you were after, can you go ? I’ve got a case to defend this afternoon, and I think you might want to look on your part too.” You said coldly while walking to the door and opening it wide.

Hopefully, the prosecutor was too stunned by his own epiphany to resist, and he walked out of your office with a tiny smile curling the ends of his lips in a very appealing way. At least some part of you thought so before being reminded that the guy had assaulted you two times now.

You attempted to resume your work but your train of thought had been wildly disturbed by a certain white haired completely crazy guy, and it ended up taking more time than expected to complete your defense.

On the plus side, you mused, you surely had gotten a day���s worth of caffeine from your brief encounter with Godot.

However, you did not let your guard down during the weeks following the incident. You made sure the door to your office was locked, and stopped accepting walk-ins. You stopped drinking coffee altogether because your nerves were keeping you tense as a wire. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t erase the two times you had met with Godot from your mind. At night, they came swirling back in your thoughts, as bitter as he tasted. You caught yourself wondering a few times if things could’ve gone differently, if there was a way for you to stop caring and worrying, but the past is past and there was nothing you could do about it.

One day, you got a mail signed from a certain Diego Armando that wanted your help for a case. You gladly answered him and soon enough, an appointment was made. He sounded pressed for time, so you decided to receive him after hours. Normally, you didn’t work that late, but you also couldn’t let down someone in need of your assistance. As a young attorney, any case was good for you as long as you could trust your client.

The day you had to meet with Diego Armando arrived quickly, and you worked all day on yet another investigation, assembling testimonies and autopsy reports in a discourse that should convince the judge of your client’s innocence. Your back was stiff from working on the computer all day, and all you wanted was a hot bath and laying in your bed. A massage would’ve been exquisite, but it was a luxury you couldn’t afford.

When the hour came, you heard a few knocks on the door.

“Come in, the door’s open !” you exclaimed loud enough so that the person would hear you. It was surely your client.

While you waited for him to come in, you skimmed through your text once more, eyes stinging, and saved it. You were closing all the tabs and documents you had opened when you felt two large hands on your shoulders.

Startled, you went to turn around but both pain and said hands prevented you from doing so, pinning your back flush to your chair.

“What-“ you started.

But then, the hands began moving. You felt them knead slowly at your tense shoulders and upper back, fingers pressing into the hard muscles and unwinding them bit by bit. The large palms were hot and contributed to making you feel relaxed as the mysterious person behind you was untying the knots in your flesh. As the pain receded from your shoulders, you felt the hands rise and gently massage the nape of your neck, the fingertips broad and rough on your sensitive skin. There again, the movements relieved you from the pain you had endured all day and you couldn’t stifle a sigh of contempt. The heat had crept into your muscles and you felt a satisfying buzz inside your head. The skilled fingers went up to your cranium and, englobing it, started massaging your scalp with small circles.

Surrendering to fatigue, you closed your eyes and enjoyed the massage, your inhibitions melting under the warm skin tending to you. A few moments later and you were a limp mess, completely relaxed into the bodyless hands as they drew circles at the base of your skull, your head nestled in between them. Every touch from the rough fingers had gone from warm and unwinding to hot and tantalizing. The relief had led the way to pleasure and your breathing was becoming erratic as the fingers just so slightly scraped your scalp, eliciting a myriad of shivers and tremors inside of you.

Responding to a particularly strong push of the fingers, your head jolted backwards and your eyes opened to lay upon who was so diligently taking care of you.

Your sight was still a bit blurry, but you made out white hair and red lines barring the face. It was then that you became conscious of the powerful, warm, englobing smell of coffee that had invaded the whole room.

Fuck, it was Godot.

However, no matter how hard you wanted to care, you couldn’t muster enough energy to get up from your chair. You were putty between his expert fingers, and even though you had recognized him, he continued drawing small circles at the base of your head.

You didn’t know what he was thinking, but you decided to enjoy what was given to you while you still could. There was no telling when he would have a change of mind.

After a few minutes and your headache finally dulling to a slight throb, you felt the skillful hands leave and opened your eyes again.

Godot spun your chair so that you were facing him and you stared at his face, trying to decrypt any expression or intention he might have. Slowly, he came closer to you until you could feel his breath on your skin. Your sight was still blurry, so you decided to close your eyes. You felt utterly abandoned after his ministrations, so you might as well let him do whatever he wanted.

You felt his lips gently brushing on yours, the aroma of coffee overpowering and obliterating your senses, as if you were trapped into a warm fog. You didn’t budge, didn’t even crack open an eye, your breath also coming back at you because of how close he was without actually touching you. Your lips started tingling from the fleeting contact and sparked more heat in your gut than ever before. You were about to do it yourself when you felt his lips mold onto yours, scorching hot and so tender, unlike everything he had been before. His hands rested under your jaw, propping you up for his higher form as he nipped and sucked at your lips gently.

He licked your bottom lip slowly, stoking the fire in your belly and you opened your mouth slightly, granting him entry. As his tongue wound around yours, the bitterness came with it and you almost regretted it. But the way he was kissing you this time around was so soft you couldn’t fight back, you were melting into his blistering embrace like a cube of sugar in a cup of coffee.

And as he continued languidly making out with you, you began to taste a hint of sweetness in him. It was timid, hidden under layers of bitterness, but like the darkest of chocolate it gave it volume and body. What you thought would be an inevitable hassle of your encounters with Godot became slightly, the tiniest bit enjoyable. His kiss felt no longer forced on you as you began to move your lips with his and press a bit harder to deepen the embrace.

However, you were growing out of breath and the prosecutor pulled away before you grew too dizzy. The both of you were panting, trying to regain a bit of composure after the kiss you had shared.

Getting a bit of oxygen to your brain seemed to help you assess the situation, as you realized it was still Godot in front of you and you grew slightly wary of him again. You stared at him as his breathing evened out, and a small smile curled his lips. He then stood back up and walked away, you could hear the door close with a small thump in the distance.

It was the first time he hadn’t said a word. It was also the first time you didn’t feel overly violated by his touch. He had tricked you, sure, but in the end what you shared had felt… agreeable.

Baffled by what had occurred, you didn’t know what to think about him anymore. Maybe coffee wasn’t so bad after all.

[lokiarsene]

I really love your blog and reading your analysis and thoughts are always very intriguing and eye opening at times too. I'm not very good with words so excuse the mess that is this message... I just saw the anon who didn't listen to your reply at all and accused you of 'armchair diagnosing' and how it is 'bothersome' to have their illness applied to a character, I just wanted to say that's not true at all and as someone with depression it really does help me to know that I'm not really alone.

continuing… And I just wanted to say thank you for everything, I really love what you do and checking your blog really is a highlight of my day.

Art isn’t created in a vacuum. Many ill artists have throughout the course of human history used art as a medium to channel their illnesses, either as a coping mechanism, and expression of it for catharsis, or as a deliberate way to show what they’ve endured. Even those who did not know what they suffered still found a way to express it, and it’s only after the fact have psychologists, biographers, literary researchers, and even just regular people been able to draw parallels or recognize patterns because of their own experiences. This is even easier–and perhaps wiser–to do when the person you are comparing yourself to is a fictional character.

Neon Genesis Evangelion is the most famous example of depicting mental illnesses in modern Japanese media. Hideaki Anno was severely, suicidally depressed as he developed Evangelion, and channeled that pain into the story, the characters, and themes. Every single character in that cast has traits of clinical depression (at the very least) because the creator had depression, and was exorcising those particular ‘demons’ through fiction. He did this knowingly, consciously, and willingly.

That’s why Evangelion has struck a chord with people of different ages, across different cultures, and indeed with different mental illnesses. I do not have clinical depression, yet depression and suicidal ideation are traits of my illnesses. Ergo, I can understand how it feels. It’s the same pain with a different cause. That’s why Evangelion is an incredibly grueling yet emotionally satisfying piece of media, and it’s why I heartily recommend everyone watch it (although don’t watch it alone). It’s also very obviously one of the major inspirations for Persona 5 Royal and Akeshu, which I will not elaborate on because of spoilers.

But why did I bring that up? Well, you mentioned how my post about Akechi and BPD helps you, as someone with depression, realize you aren’t alone. It takes courage to admit that to someone; you are voluntarily revealing personal information about your health to a stranger, and to all the strangers who read this post. That’s incredibly brave. What’s more, by stepping up and saying that, by reaching out, you are removing yourself from loneliness and isolation.

Does that make sense?

One of the major themes of Evangelion and the crux of all the characters’ individual arcs, is a thing called “Hedgehog’s dilemma.” As the show describes it, this dilemma is the pain caused by people when they get close to each other: the closer you are to someone–the more you care about someone–the more susceptible you are to hurting them or being hurt by them, because your feelings for them are so strong. Some people are so afraid of this possibility of pain that they refuse to get close to anyone–but that only causes pain, too.

You know how it’s somewhat of a meme these days to joke about submitting to “the mortifying ordeal of being known”? That’s Hedgehog’s dilemma.

Evangelion also respresents the idea of the fear of being alone–and the “mortifying ordeal of being known”–and the fear of getting too close with another concept called an AT Field: an Absolute Terror Field. An AT Field is an invisible barrier that protects Eva units from being physically harmed, yet it’s a shield that can be broken through if enough damage is done, and thus make the Eva and the pilot vulnerable. The show also goes on to say that all humans have an AT Field around their hearts. AT Fields are an invisible, intangible form of defense that breaks down when we bond with others. Again, to let someone into your life is to invite the equal potential for happiness and pain.

So why do it? So why risk pain simply for a chance at happiness? Why bother letting anyone in at all? Because loneliness and isolation is making the possibility of pain into an absolute certainty. Loving others, reaching out to them, getting to know them, trying to understand them, is removing pain as a certainty, and balancing it with the equal potential for comfort and happiness. There is a very obvious parallel here with something in Persona 5 Royal, but I do not want to get into it because of spoilers. I would be happy to answer it in another ask, though.

Humans are social creatures. We socialize every day, in varying ways, to varying degrees, with varying levels of intimacy. We are never alone–which isn’t something I say to make you paranoid, or to dismiss the loneliness you felt, feel, and may feel in the future. I say that because I myself am an incredibly lonely person. I feel it to debilitating degrees, even now. And the only remedy to this loneliness is to make an effort daily, no matter how small, to reach out to someone else. To do something for them. To take the time to leave a comment, or check in on them, to send them a meme or a joke or a piece of art I think will make them happy.

This isn’t advice I dispense without personal experience or without medical evidence to back me up. One of the tasks given to me by my psychologist in therapy is to once a day, every day, write down something I did for someone else or something they did for me. By doing this, I am making the conscious choice to bring my attention things I do every day that prove I am not alone. This is one of the many ways to treat cognitive distortions (yes, yes, I know, but my therapist licherally said that we are going to help heal and dismantle my cognitive distortions, because that’s what Dialectic Behavioral Therapy and Cognitive BT does, and I couldn’t help but laugh and think of Persona 5).

Now, what does all that have to do with Persona 5/Akeshu, depicting mental illnesses in art, and this ask? Well, Persona as a series is all about creating relationships with others. It’s so blatantly obvious and so inextricably woven into the core themes of the game that I almost don’t think I have to point it out. I think people (even fans–even myself!) can lose sight of that crucial tenet of the series.

Persona is also a series about exploring the internal self and the external expression of the self. One of those forms of expression is socializing. Another is art. Sometimes, the act of exploring your internal self comes with the realization that you are ill. That means your external expression of that self will reflect, at times, some traits of that illness. You are not your illness–there is more of “you” than that–but your illness is a part of you, and can make itself known in how you express yourself.

So. What does that have to do with your ask? Because you, by sending this message–by following this blog, by keeping tabs on any of the rambles me and Mod Sirea make when the fancy strikes us–are making a deliberate, willful choice to keep your loneliness at bay. You are creating a barrier between the pain of loneliness and your Self–capital “S” self, or your “heart” if you prefer. You do that without even knowing it, and I bet you do something like that every day. Every person you talk to, every Tweet you read, every text you send; every person you sit next to on the bus or in class; every cashier, barista, wait staff, etc. that you speak to is you making connections with others, however small, however fleeting, however brief. Even if these people do not know “you,” do not engage with you in a personal way, you are still experiencing life with them.

You realize you are not alone, and you assert that you do not want to be alone, and so you make yourself “not alone.” You look at your loneliness and say, “no, not today.” You stand up to your illness, to your fear, to your pain, and you do not let it win. That’s brave. That’s powerful. That’s strength. Even if you don’t feel brave, or powerful, or strong. Maybe you might not like being called that, either. I know sometimes I don’t. But I also know that sometimes the only way we can be strong is by being tested. We endure, and endurance is resilience is resistance is strength.

And Akechi and Akiren would be very, very proud of you. I know I am.

[johnny-and-dora]

darling, you’re my everything

for @amyscascadingtabs - happy birthday my love! <3

“Hey, Ames?” He begins, and everything is perfectly fine until she looks up at him and he literally feels any capacity for rational thought leave his body and he’s almost asking something stupid, like ‘wanna get married?’

or, april 29th, 2017.

read on ao3 -

The morning of April 29th is – unsurprisingly, given the shear dopeness of the romantic epiphany the night before it – mildly chaotic.

Later, when he’s drifting off on the couch while Amy makes flashcards for the sergeant’s exam, he’ll begrudgingly admit that he probably should have been paying more attention to his futile attempts at a romantic breakfast; for now, as Jake stands in their kitchen wearing his girlfriend’s pink fluffy dressing gown and daydreaming of Amy walking down the aisle, the burnt pancakes are very clearly her fault.

Because it’s all he can think about, now, like someone opened the floodgates to a whole new subcategory of Amy fantasies he’s been deep diving into all night, unable to sleep – Amy showing off a sparkling engagement ring, Amy as a glowing vision in white, Amy laughing at him as he fumbles with the rings or his vows or otherwise somehow manages to make himself look like an idiot in front of everyone they know.

(And yes, when he pictures it currently their wedding looks suspiciously like something out of Tangled, but he can work on that. Or maybe not, except he’s not exactly sure where you buy that many lanterns from and if they need a permit for that and he has zero idea what they’re going to do with a horse and a chameleon afterwards so overall it’s probably best that he leaves the planning to Amy, if she…)

(Well, he’s pretty sure she’s gonna say yes. God, he hopes so.)

The point he’s agonisingly slowly lumbering towards is that he has not had a lot of sleep, wrapped up in fleeting dreams of proposing and weddings and maybe being actually, properly married, officially Not Dying Alone and all the euphoria that comes from realising that he’s ready for that, that he might have been lucky enough to have found someone to tease and to surprise and to love for the rest of his life. It’s a lot to process.

Therefore, his burning of what was going to be a super romantic breakfast is by his logic, completely and utterly Amy’s fault. That being said, he’s not a complete monster - it’s not like he has the heart to tell her that she’s entirely to blame when she traipses into the kitchen in her old lady glasses and his hoodie, looking hopeful at the promise of breakfast.

“Pancakes?” She asks – the hope quickly eases into familiar endeared exasperation the second she clocks the blackened breakfast crime scene he’s been caught red handed in. Jake rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, hoping that he’s not visibly radiating the I wanna marry you vibe that he can feel strongly emitting from his chest.

“Uh, they were formerly pancakes at some stage before they mutinied against me to become gross charred bricks.”

“Mmm.” She hums sarcastically as if they appear even slightly edible, then quickly kisses the pout off his lips.

“Sorry. I got…distracted.”

“It’s okay, babe, we’re out of milk and orange soda anyway – let me go.” She firmly dismisses his protests before he can even say anything, a sign of the truly spooky psychic link their partnership has naturally formed over the years; he sighs one last lament over his culinary failure as she disappears into the bathroom and quickly returns with contacts in, her hair in a messy bun and a soft smile on her face.

Just like that, the pancakes don’t even seem to matter anymore - then he has the disgustingly cliché thought of we’ve got forever for pancakes anyway, like forever with someone isn’t merely a faraway abstract Disney concept and more of a real, tangible thing. Jake feels the very strong urge to lie down and preferably take a day or two to process that feeling on top of all the other ones that seem to be clouding his ability to be a rational human being.

He hopes he’s not going to be this weird all the time now, but judging by the direction and speed of his current train of thought there seems to be very little hope.

She’s leaning over the kitchen counter scribbling down a shopping list when he comes to his senses, because of course she is -  he resists the urge to tease her now that he really, truly knows her and he knows her lists are an anchor that keep her organised, keep her steady, keep her sane.

Instead, he watches as she taps the pen against her lips, brows furrowed in deep thought as she mentally categorises the contents of their fridge, and imagines the glint of silver on her ring finger.

He’ll blame on overtiredness and being a general lovesick idiot, later; in the moment of mild chaos, it is absolutely her fault.

“Hey, Ames?” He begins, and everything is perfectly fine until she looks up at him and he literally feels any capacity for rational thought leave his body and he’s almost asking something stupid, like ‘wanna get married?’

Everything is perfectly great until before he knows it he’s almost asking ‘wanna get married?’ - like he’s asking what she wants for dinner or what the weather is going to be like today. Like he’s not asking the most important question of his whole life before 9am on a rainy Saturday while trying to waft away the smell of burning from permeating the kitchen, while half asleep and wearing her pink fluffy dressing gown.

Like he didn’t just have baby’s first romantic epiphany less than twelve hours ago and isn’t still very much almost giddily coming to grips with what that actually means. And all because she’s scribbling down a shopping list for three items that he knows she’ll remember, and how stupidly endearing and consistent and so very Amy that simple action is.

He almost says something very, very stupid – like ‘wanna get married?’ or ‘wanna secretly elope to Paris?’ or ‘we could just go down to the registry office, like today, because I’ve recently realised that you’re the one person I want to spend the rest of my life with, if that’s cool with you’ – and then he gets distracted practically praying that his poor, poor brain to mouth filter that has to deal with this shit on a daily basis hasn’t packed its bags and retired to Florida, because ‘wanna get married?’ is definitely absolutely not how you’re supposed to ask the love of your life to wed you in holy freakin’ matrimony, he knows that, and he doesn’t even have a ring yet and-

“…Jake?” Amy’s doing that face reserved just for him where she’s half amused and half genuinely concerned, and he expertly deduces that he’s been weirdly silent for far too long and therefore hasn’t just acted on one of the more questionable impulses of his life, brought to you straight from the guy who once owned six separate massage chairs. Small mercies.

“Yeah. Sorry, it’s nothing.” He waves a frantic hand in panicked dismissal, downplays it like his heart isn’t doing awe-inspiring acrobatics in his chest right now, bounces on the heels of his feet a little to try and dispel the nervous energy that’s coursing through his veins.  

In the moment he realises he hasn’t just accidentally proposed to her, Jake also makes the executive decision to get some kind of proposal plan together soon so he doesn’t risk accidentally dropping a proposal into casual conversation – because yeah, ‘wanna get married’ is perfectly okay, but if he’s gonna do this, he’s gonna do it properly.

No ‘Celebration’ blaring loudly in the background or confetti cannons or cheap plastic one dollar rings this time. He’s going to do it right.

If he’s going to propose to Amy Santiago, certified actual most incredible amazing human/genius on the entire planet, it is decidedly not going to be while he’s wearing a pink fluffy dressing down and shoving a failed breakfast into the trash. That’s a Peralta guarantee.

“Okay, weirdo.” She gives him a smile with a fleeting hint with suspicion before going back to digging through her purse, and his heart rate slowly but surely returns to normal.

Jake’s going to need a binder. Maybe even with the good types of tab this time, if he can figure out what criteria makes a good type of tab first.

He also needs to calm down so he’s not on the verge of a cardiac arrest every time he’s in close proximity to his girlfriend, because he’s pretty sure that even if she wasn’t the best detective he knows she’d figure him out before he can even scrape the finances together to buy a half decent ring. Maybe he just needs to lie down in general.

“I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. Try not to burn our apartment down in that time?”

“Coming from the woman who seemingly insists on testing our smoke alarm twice a week.”

She rolls her eyes and gently reaches up to cup his face and kiss him goodbye, which is mostly sweet and only slightly satisfying because he knows that means she doesn’t have a good comeback. As the door swings shut behind her he busies himself with cleaning up the kitchen, overwhelmed with another wave of excitement at the idea of marrying his best friend.

Because he’s ready, now – really, he’s probably been ready for a while, deep down. Maybe the second that she kissed him in the back of the ambulance in Florida or when he forfeited yet another bet just to see her smile or when the Nine-Nine was saved from getting shut down and she showed him just how hot she finds his moral compass.

The typo in that crossword puzzle shines out like a beacon in the night; but thoughts of Amy and loving Amy and marrying Amy have been brightening up the darker corners of his life for longer than he’d care to admit.

It’s all her fault – all that determination and kindness and brilliant enthusiasm. The way she’s so stubbornly cemented herself into his heart a, refusing to leave just as she refused to let him work their first case alone, demanding to be taken seriously with a fierceness that both irritated, impressed him and slightly turned him on. She is warmth, joy, that bubbling kind of laughter that just lights him up every time he gets to hear it – but she’s also tougher than she looks and stronger than she knows. There is absolutely no-one else like her.

And the plan, absolutely, startlingly clear in his otherwise sleep deprived and cloudy mind, is to marry her.

(And, on an unsurprisingly extremely chaotic yet magical evening in mid-May, he does.)

[distractedbylife]

the last few months have been excruciating

Not really sure where I’m at mentally, I feel so distant from reality and my own emotions to the point where I don’t know where I am and the concept of goals and ambition is so foreign I may as well not know their meaning anymore

I keep trying to understand but nothing about myself feels like it makes sense, or ever has. Spending my waking hours in a daze my dreams feel more lucid than life because at least in there I know that everything is supposed to not make sense, that there is an end, and nothing but me is real.

But still, I maintain my semblance of calm and composure to most around me, even the ones I should be letting in. Hearing that you never seem to be mad, that you are someone’s rock, or that you are admired for how you deal with hardship is so deeply alienating. It feels like I’ve already died and I’m waiting for everyone around me to catch up knowing that one day the vision of a friend, brother or acquaintance will become ruins in the blink of an eye.

Even now there are sparse moments spurred by substances that remind me of what my life could be like, a tab on my tongue ironically bending my perception back on itself to resemble sobriety - fleeting hours unmarred by the pervasive dread that encompasses each thought otherwise.

Closing in on rock bottom but never hitting the ground. Pain has an end; suffering is asymptotic.

[thebeethathums]

Observers - 53

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Reader

Warnings: Mourge things.

Neither Sherlock nor John bothered asking you anything in the cab as the expression on your face told them you were deep in thought, similar to when you were sketching or observing something intently. You looked out the window flatly, your heart screaming that it was just a really unfortunate coincidence and your brain pointing out just how unlikely that was while you kept your body turned away from Sherlock, still upset at him. Sherlock sensed your inner conflict, having deduced exactly what this was about the moment you questioned Lestrade, and was now quietly fretting over you as he continued to pout over the fact that you were mad at him. John just looked between the two of you, wondering what had even happened for you to behave this way towards each other, and then huffed and looked out the window as he tried to figure out who you thought was in the morgue. All in all, it was probably the second worst cab ride ever, with the first being just after Sherlock had kissed you in front of John. Arriving at the morgue, you stole Sherlock’s role of leaving everyone in the dust as he stalked off in a huff, sweeping out of the cab and towards the morgue at a pace that John had to jog slightly to keep up with. You startled Molly when you burst through the door just as she was gearing up to slice open her John Doe’s chest and your heart fell, the world seeming to stand still for a second. You abruptly interrupted whatever conversation Molly had started with your two cohorts, “Timothy Ares.” 

“What?” Molly said as everyone fell silent and you stepped forward to look down at the body, “The name of your John Doe is Timothy Ares. From the blood we found… he died nearly a week ago which would mean someone kept him on ice until now. Either to keep him from being identified or to send some sort of message… I don’t know.” 

He looked very different from when you last saw him- he was thinner and his face was sunken. The chestnut flop of hair you remembered was dyed a smooth shade of black, showing hints of grey around his temples, and he had a short beard. He’d obviously been troubled. You shook your head and gave a fleeting glance to the numerous slash marks across his stomach. What a slow and tortuous way to die. John approached you cautiously, not wanting to set you off, “Are you sure, Squeak? It’s been a while since you-“ “I designed that tattoo for him, John,” you nodded to the colorful piece on his ribs, closing your eyes for a moment, “My initials are hidden in the vendor’s top hat. It’s him.” You turned away to look at Molly before opening them again, “Would you mind if I was the one to notify his parents? They live in Digne and speak only French.” Your friend shook her head and you whispered a thank you before just sort of drifting out of the room and into the hall. John moved to follow you but Sherlock stopped him, “Stay with Molly and observe the autopsy for anything unusual. I need to speak with (F/n).” Your brother shook his head, “No, Sherlock. She’s already angry with you and she’s had a shock, I don’t need you making it any worse.” Sherlock ignored him, slipping out into the hallway before John could stop him to find you with your arm against the wall, your forehead pressed against it as you took a few deep breaths to try and calm yourself and a sudden wave of nausea. He took a step closer to you, reaching out a hand only to let it fall, “(F/n)?” “What do you want, Sherlock?” you huffed softly, not moving from your position. There was a long period of silence as he sorted through his thoughts. It had taken him a while but he now understood why you were upset with him. He’d been so caught up in his smug satisfaction over having gotten you to paint again combined with a sort of daze as he relived bits of your night together that he hadn’t realized how cold his words must have sounded. He’d been slowly drawing out your emotions, getting you to trust him, and letting your interest in each other grow into something more because he wanted to explore his own feelings. Referring to it as an experiment was the only way he could wrap his head around it without scoffing but the feelings were real. You didn’t know that. How could you with the way he acted? Sherlock knew from the start you’d just thought he was curious and he’d left it that way since you didn’t seem to mind but he’d pushed you with what he’d said and you’d broken. Once he considered that, it was no surprise that you’d responded the way you had, especially with your past. Now, on top of all that, you’d been forced to face the fact that you’d lost a friend in the most sobering of ways and he calculated that it was only a matter of time before you fell prey to the grief. It had been too long a day for you not to. With all this in mind, he took another step towards you and rested a hand on your shoulder, “I’m sorry, (F/n).” You startled, looking up at him to search his face very carefully for any signs of deception or anything other than complete sincerity, and, finding none, closed the gap between the two of you to rest your head on his chest. You didn’t have the energy to be fully mad at him and, with the rarity of what he'd just done, you simply couldn’t do it anymore. He pulled a face at having to do the comforting thing but still wrapped his arms around you, resting his cheek on top of your head when he felt you start to cry. 

He quickly decided that he hated it when you cried, it wrenched his chest into a tight knot and made him long to hear your laugh or see your smile. Smartly, he kept his mouth shut this time and just held you. It wouldn’t do to upset you again with some of the deductions and thoughts running through his head, not only about this situation but about your friend back in the other room. He let go when you gently tugged away, wiping your tears with your palm hurriedly before letting out a sigh and looking up at him, “Why do you think they waited to leave the body to be found? Why even leave it at all? We already assumed he was dead from the start and it would have been beneficial for them to stash it away.” “I have six theories- none of them for certain. I need to think... Come. Let’s collect John.” Sherlock’s suspicions as to your current mental state were confirmed when you didn’t catch his lie or question him as you normally would but instead just nodded and let out a shaky breath. You were tired and emotionally overwhelmed with all that had happened- the hurt he’d caused with his words, the episode in the salsa club, being arrested, and now your renewed sense of grief. In reality, he only had two theories and he didn’t like either one of them. What he really needed to think about were solutions. You tried to stifle a sniffle and he frowned before hesitantly offering you his hand, causing you to blink up at him as if asking if he was sure. He rolled his eyes and huffed, “Do you want it or not?” You quickly nodded, taking it without questioning any further, and let his fingers weave comfortingly between yours as he thought again about how perfectly they fit together. He turned, giving you a little tug back in the direction of the morgue, and slipped through the door with you in tow, bluntly announcing, “John. We’re leaving.” Your brother looked up from where he was with Molly and was visibly surprised to see that you’d not only come back in with Sherlock but that your hands were connected before he noticed you’d been crying. He gave Molly a quick nod goodbye and came to pull you into a hug, which you returned with only one arm as you were unwilling to release Sherlock’s hand. Stepping back to cup your cheek and wipe away a stray tear, John pressed a quick kiss to your temple as he murmured, “Let’s go home. I’ll call Annie and tell her you're sick.” You just nodded and gave a small yawn before waving goodbye to Molly as Sherlock pulled you away and John followed, gently herding you out to the street and into a cab.

Tab <3:

@team-free-sherlock @multifandom-ramblings @madshelily @severusminerva @yes-but-theyre-my-dorks @smitemewiththysherlock @not-fandom-addicted @unknownwonder @deducingdevil @aviien @mrsfrankensteinsworld @lolamurphy @bakerstreethound @musical-doll-x @protectteamfreewill @delightful-pirate @lilcutekittykat @broke-and-overwhelmed @adri1ii @turtle-at-the-disco @fanfictionsilove @chasedbyhowlingwolves @thorkyrie-rights