#mania WOULD eat (just like how dust is the only one that would eat in the mtt too) but he just has no food to eat

[triglycercule]

more swapinverse posting i think its funny how even in swapinverse the mtt STILL dont eat food. someone could be like "hey what's your favorite food" and paranoia just turns away trying to hold back bile. savior would just say he has no need and then mania would just blink and say he hasnt eaten in years (but it's supposed to be ketchup or something right??? right!!!)

still cursed to live terrible lives even in another universe 💔💔💔

[pinchofhoney]

the last goodbye, part two

gif is not mine, credit to the owner

« part one | part two

pedro pascal x fem!reader

world count: 5.2k

warning: angst, age gap (the reader is in her mid 20s), mention of smoking, mention of drinking alcohol

summary: All men do is messing with your head.

a/n: i’m incredibly proud of myself that the first part evoked such emotions in you. i was totally not expecting this, as i wrote it at a time when i wasn’t in a good place mentally, feeling terrible after losing my pet. if you feel disappointed by the lack of gripping action, i apologize (not really). i don't want to rush things, i want their emotions to sink into your soul✨

pages that may interest you: masterlist ♡ taglist ♡ who i write for

taglist: @wolfmoonmusic @alexxavicry @babypeapodd @domaniquessidehoe @one-sweet-gubler @danelhi @pedroholicx @rosaliedepp @phoenixinthewater @blu3flame @hummusxx @onceandfuturereader @marysucks-blog @sloanexx @nxt-zen @secretdazeobservation​ 

As you slowly emerged from the depths of sleep, your tired eyes flickered open, gradually adjusting to the blinding brightness of the white ceiling looming above you. A deep sigh escaped your lips as you struggled to shake off the weariness that clung to your body like a heavy blanket. It was difficult to tell how many hours you had slept, but it certainly didn't feel like enough.

You shifted your weight and let out a groan as your muscles protested against the movement. The events of the past few days had been a whirlwind, leaving you drained and achy. It's funny how mental anguish can affect your body. With a sense of resignation, you rolled over onto your side, wincing at the pain that shot through your joints. Your hand fumbled around in the air until it found the offending alarm clock, blaring its obnoxious tune throughout the bedroom.

You muttered a curse under your breath as you pressed the button to silence the alarm. Despite your reluctance to start the day, you knew that you couldn't afford to linger in bed any longer. With a deep breath, you swung your legs over the edge of the mattress and forced yourself to stand up. Another day, another- You wished you could say slay, but not today. Another set of challenges to face? More likely.

As you sluggishly made your way towards the bathroom, thoughts of Pedro crept back into your mind. It had only been two weeks since he broke up with you, but it felt like an eternity. The pain was still raw and fresh, and you struggled to make sense of it all.

Every moment you had shared with him played out in your mind like a movie, and you analyzed each one, searching for some clue, some sign of what went wrong. But it was like trying to solve a puzzle with missing pieces – there was no explanation, no clear reason why he had ended things so abruptly.

You had loved him with all your heart and trusted him like no one before, but in the end, he had shattered your heart into a million pieces, leaving you to pick up the fragments and try to put them back together. The moment Pedro said those fateful words, the trust you had built up in him crumbled to dust in the blink of an eye. And now, you found yourself spiraling into an absurd mania, constantly questioning whether anyone in your life would leave you just like he did.

The fear of being abandoned consumed you, and you couldn't shake the feeling that everyone you cared about was destined to disappear. It was a toxic mindset, but it was deeply ingrained in you since childhood and one that you couldn't seem to escape.

On the one hand, you wanted to reach out to your friends, to let out all the pain and heartbreak that you've been holding in, but at the same time, you didn't want to burden them with your problems or risk pushing them away, so instead, you buried your emotions deep inside, hiding behind a mask of indifference and detachment. It was easier that way, at least you tried to tricked yourself in believing it was. But the truth was, the pain was eating away at you from the inside out, and you didn't know how much longer you could keep up that fake smile.

There was nothing you wanted more than to go back in time, to before everything fell apart, to the days when you were happy and carefree, but you knew that wasn't possible. All you could do was try to pick up the pieces and move forward, even though it felt like an impossible task.

Your days had become a blur of schoolwork and long shifts at the movie theater. It was a grind, but it kept you busy and distracted from the pain of your shattered heart. At least, that's what you thought, again.

Despite your best efforts to move on, your mind kept drifting back to Pedro. Every time you walked by the coffee shop where you used to have your morning cup of coffee with him, you couldn't help but look inside, hoping he would be there. You even went inside a few times, ordered a coffee, and sat down, pretending to read a book or browse your phone, all while stealing glances around the room. But he was never there, and you always left feeling disappointed and foolish.

Even going to the gym in the evenings, which used to be your solace, had become a source of anxiety. You couldn't shake the feeling that everyone there knew about your breakup with Pedro and was silently judging you. As you ran on the treadmill, you felt self-conscious and exposed, as if all your flaws and vulnerabilities were on display for everyone to see.

And yet, despite all of this, you still couldn't resist the urge to go to the places where you used to go with Pedro. You found yourself walking past his favorite pizza place, just to catch a whiff of the familiar scent of marinara sauce and melted cheese. You even drove by his street once, just to see if his car was parked outside his house. You knew it was ridiculous, but you couldn't help yourself. The pain of losing him was too great, and the thought of never seeing him again was almost unbearable.

Actually saying that you will never see him again was an overstatement. Despite the heartbreak he had caused you, he was the hottest topic in entire Hollywood and beyond. His star power had skyrocketed, and his charming looks and hoarse laughter made (not only) teenage girls swoon all over the world. His photos and videos seemed to be everywhere, constantly popping up on your Instagram and Twitter feeds, taunting you with reminders of what you had lost. He was a viral sensation, and it was impossible to escape the constant barrage of Pedro's updates – a stark reminder that he was out there living his life while you were struggling to move on.

You stood in front of the mirror, studying your reflection with a heavy heart. Your once bright eyes were now surrounded by a rim of redness, and dark circles that looked like bruises appeared to have taken permanent residence beneath them. Your hair was a mess, its strands sticking out in every direction, as if it was trying to mimic the chaos you felt inside. Your skin was pale and lifeless, a far cry from its former glowing self. Just fourteen days ago, you were a different person, filled with happiness, with Pedro by your side. And now, everything was in shambles.

You shook off the memories and forced yourself to focus on the present, on getting dressed and making it to your classes on time. It was a challenge, but you tried to keep thoughts of Pedro at bay, knowing that dwelling on the past would only make the pain worse. You grabbed your bag, took a deep breath, and stepped out into the streets of Los Angeles.

As you stepped out into the blinding glare of the sun, the sounds of the bustling city enveloped you. Cars honked, people chatted, and a cool breeze caressed your face, but everything seemed distant and unimportant. You repeated to yourself the mantra to take things one step at a time, hoping that each step would lead you closer to healing the wounds Pedro had done to you.

But little did you know, he was also battling his own demons, struggling to come to terms with his actions and the hurt he had caused you. It was a cruel irony that both of you were struggling in your own ways, and neither of you knew the full extent of the other's pain.

“Pedro?” the sound of his own name snapped him out of the recesses of his head and effectively brought him down to earth. He blinked several times, trying to adjust to the bright lights shining in his direction. Looking around, he realized he was on the set of the advertisement he was working on.

The confused director approached him, placing his hands on his hips in a pretentious position. “What's going on, man?” he asked, clearly annoyed. “It's just a minute clip, all you have to say right now is to catch grandma, you have to think like grandma,” he threw his hands in the air in exasperation, then placed the fingers of one hand on the bridge of his nose, taking a deep breath to calm himself.

Pedro tried to focus on the director's words, but his mind was still clouded with thoughts of you. He couldn't believe how he had treated you a day after your first anniversary, telling you that he suddenly stopped having feelings for you and breaking your heart. The day after the anniversary, which he didn't even show up for, because he didn't have the courage to do so. To look into your smiling eyes, having in the back of his mind what he had been planning for some time. The guilt was eating him alive, and he found himself replaying the scene of your breakup in his head over and over again.

He remembered very well how your face crumpled with sadness and confusion as he told you the news. How you asked him to reconsider, to give your relationship another chance. How you cried and asked him what you had done wrong. He didn't have the answers then, and he still didn't have them now.

Pedro's heart simply sank as he realized that he had made a mistake the very next day after the breakup. He had let go of someone who loved him unconditionally, someone who had been there for him through thick and thin. And for what? Because he suddenly stopped feeling the way he used to? He couldn't even be sure if that was true. Perhaps it was just a minor crisis that he could have resolved if he had spoken to you honestly.

The director ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. “You know what, Pedro? Take a break. Get some fresh air and clear your head. We can't afford to waste the whole day on this stupid phone game ad. Let's reconvene in 20 minutes,” he barked, his irritation palpable. Without bothering to wait for Pedro's response, he stormed off, leaving Pedro.

His eyes flitted around the room, taking in the frustrated expressions of the crew members. They had all been waiting for him to get his lines right, but he had been too distracted to focus on the task at hand. He was wasting the time and resources of his colleagues and he felt ashamed because of that.

As the director snapped out orders to the rest of the team, Pedro swiped his hand over his tired face, feeling the roughness of his stubble beneath his fingertips. He let out a deep sigh, feeling drained both physically and emotionally. His mind was consumed with thoughts of what could have been, of what he had lost because of his own recklessness. He needed some space to clear his head.

Without a word, he left the building and made his way out to the back of one of the buildings in Los Angeles. The cool breeze brushed against his face, providing a much-needed respite from the chaos of the set. He let out a long breath, trying to calm himself.

It wasn't easy to pretend that everything was fine in front of everyone, because it wasn't. Every day it became harder and harder for Pedro to put on a brave face and act like he was okay. He dug out a pack of cigarettes from his blazer pocket and blindly stared into it. He quickly found the lighter in the other pocket and with his slightly shaking hand, he lit the cigarette. The familiar smell and taste of nicotine filled his senses, providing a temporary escape from the overwhelming emotions that consumed him. He leaned against the rough dirt wall of the building, the sound of the bustling city muffled in the distance. The smoke filled his lungs, choking him slightly, but he welcomed the pain, as it was a distraction from the pain in his heart.

He closed his eyes, trying to calm his racing thoughts. He couldn't silence the voices in his head, telling him that he had made a huge mistake by ending things with you. The breakup had hit him harder than he ever imagined it could. He missed you so much, and the regret ate away at him with each passing day. He took another long drag of the cigarette, the tip glowing red.

Despite the comfort that the cigarette provided, Pedro knew it was a bad habit. He had managed to quit a while ago, but the stress of recent events had caused him to slip back into it. He felt guilty for indulging in it again, but at the same time, he didn't care. All he wanted was to forget his troubles, even if it was just for a little while.

Every single day during those two weeks, Pedro's thoughts were consumed by the image of him standing in front of you, while cup your face with his hands and apologizing for everything. He imagined the words he would say to you, begging for your forgiveness and hoping that you would take him back. But as much as he longed to make things right, he was too much of a coward to actually face you. He couldn't bring himself to look you in the eyes and see the disappointment he had caused, so he actively avoided all the places where he knew he could potentially run into you. The mere thought of seeing you filled him with a mix of intense longing and paralyzing fear.

He held onto the belief that you wouldn't be able to forgive him and the thought of being rejected by you was too much to him. The fear of embarrassment kept him from reaching out and trying to make amends, even though he knew deep down that he wanted nothing more than to be back in your warm embrace. The possibility of facing your disappointment and disapproval was a daunting prospect, and so he chose to continue avoiding you, hoping that time would eventually make him forget about you.

The sound of a notification coming from his phone snapped him back to reality and he opened his eyes. He fished the device out of his pants pocket and glanced at the screen, noticing a message from his friend, Oscar. He took a drag on the cigarette he had been smoking and read the message.

I was thinking about this birthday party. Do you want me to cancel the invitation for Y/N? – The Grumpy Eagle, sent at 3:14pm.

Pedro had completely forgotten about Oscar's upcoming birthday celebration, which he and his wife Elvira hosted every year. It was a small party, but it had become an annual tradition among their circle of friends. He knew that both of you had been invited long before the two of you broke up, and it was pretty obvious anyway, since he was Oscar's best friend and you had quickly become a favorite of Oscar's wife and kids.

He took another drag on his cigarette, thinking on response. Pedro wasn't sure if you would show up, but he knew that you disliked disappointing people, and skipping out on someone's birthday party would undoubtedly lead to disappointment. Even if you didn't enjoy celebrating your own birthday, you understood that it meant more to others and the happy memories associated with it.

No need to cancel the invitation, that’s fine. I’ll be fine. See you on Tuesday – Sent at 3:17pm.

He took one last puff of the cigarette before flicking it away and making his way back to the set, his mind still preoccupied with thoughts of you.

You were in your rented apartment, standing in front of your small closet and talking to your best friend over Facetime. With your back to the screen, you felt on the verge of tears as you realized you had nothing suitable to wear to Oscar's party. The phone was propped up on your bedside table, and you turned to face Xavier's amused expression on the screen.

“I'm about to go crazy,” you said, frustration creeping into your voice. “I can't find anything to wear.”

Xavier chuckled and lay back on his own bed, still visible on the screen. “Relax, Y/N. We'll find something. Let me see what you've got.”

You knelt down at the table and held up a few dresses for him to see. Xavier made a face at each one, shaking his head disapprovingly. Finally, he suggested a simple black dress that you had forgotten you owned.

“That's perfect,” he said, grinning at you. “You'll look amazing. Just throw on some heels and you're good to go.”

“And what are you going to wear?” you asked, taking the phone in both hands and moving it closer to your face.

Since you didn't want to go to the party alone, you decided to bring Xavier with you, even though he didn't know anyone in Pedro's inner circle, including Oscar and Elvira. The only connection Xavier had to Pedro was through you, as they had met a few times before.

He was shocked when he heard about your breakup with Pedro two weeks ago. He had always thought that you and Pedro were perfect for each other, and it came as a surprise when you told him that things had ended between you two. He remembered how happy you had seemed with Pedro, always talking about the little things he did that made you fall even more in love with him. It was hard to believe that it was all over now.

Xavier had been there for you through all the tears and heartbreak that came with the breakup. He was the only person you really talked to about what happened. He had listened to you vent about Pedro, and had even gone as far as to offer to confront him about the way he had hurt you, but you had refused, saying that it wouldn't change anything, and that you just needed time to heal.

Now, as he watched you on Facetime, he could see the sadness in your eyes. He knew that finding something to wear to this birthday party was the least of your worries.

“Oh, you know, my finest t-shirt and jeans,” he answered with a playfully tone. “Maybe I'll even splurge and wear my dress shoes instead of my sneakers.” He paused for a moment before adding, “Don't worry, I'll make sure to tuck my shirt in for the occasion.”

You laughed at Xavier's words, feeling relieved that he could make light of the situation. “Well, make sure you don't outshine me too much,” you teased. “I don't want to be upstaged by your dress shoes and tucked-in shirt.”

Xavier chuckled. “No worries, you'll be the star of the show,” he said reassuringly. “But seriously, don't stress about it. We'll have a good time no matter what.”

His words were comforting and a feeling of appreciation and thankfulness filled your heart. “Thanks, Xavier,” you said, smiling. “I really appreciate you coming with me.”

Xavier grinned. “Of course, what are friends for?” he replied. “Besides, I would do anything to see Pedro's face when he sees you in that dress. He's going to regret ever letting you go.”

You laughed, feeling a twinge of satisfaction at the thought of Pedro's reaction. “I doubt he'll care,” you said, shrugging it off. “But it'll be nice to look good for myself, at least.”

Xavier shook his head. “Trust me, he'll care,” he said with a wink and then stood up from his bed, straightening his shirt. “Alright, I better get ready too. I need to iron my jeans and find my fanciest t-shirt,” he joked. “I'll pick you up at 7. See ya!” he said before ending the call, at which you smiled to yourself, feeling grateful for your friend's support.

As you and Xavier made your way to the door of Oscar's house, you couldn't help but feel a sense of dread creeping up on you. You clutched the gift tightly in your hand, hoping it will help you calm down. You turned to Xavier, about to voice your concerns about this evening, but he beat you to it.

“Hey, it's going to be fine,” Xavier said, sensing your unease. “We'll have a good time. And don't worry about Pedro, I'll not leave you alone even for a moment. When I go to the toilet, I'll drag you along with me,” he joked trying to boost your mood.

You let out a deep sigh. “I'm scared.”

Xavier smiled reassuringly. “I know, but we'll stick together and make the most of it,” he said, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder. “And besides, you look amazing. Pedro's going to regret all of his life choices.”

You couldn't help but feel a little flustered at the compliment. “Thanks,” you said, feeling a little less anxious. “Okay, let's do this.”

As you approached the door, your heart rate started to increase again. You could hear the sound of laughter and chatter from inside grew louder, intensifying your apprehension. But before you could even think about turning back to Xavier's car, Elvira opened the door and greeted you warmly. “Y/N!” she called out joyfully, pulling you into a tight embrace. The familiar scent of Elvira's perfume and the comforting warmth of her hug helped ease your nerves a little bit.

“It's so good to see you,” Elvira continued. “Oscar will be so happy you came. You know damn well how much he liked you.”

You smiled gratefully at her words, while Elvira already shifted her gaze to the man standing next to you.

“And who's this handsome gentleman with you?” Elvira asked, pulling away from you and turning to Xavier.

Xavier extended his hand. “I'm Xavier. Y/N's best friend,” he introduced himself with a smile.

Elvira shook his hand. “I'm Elvira, Oscar's wife. Nice to meet you,” she said warmly.

You suddenly felt an odd need to explain why you brought a stranger to their house, even though you knew that Elvira was aware of the recent events.

“I didn't want to come alone, the last days were-” you started to explain, but Elvira quickly cut you off, sensing your discomfort.

“That's fine, Y/N. You don't need to explain yourself, we both know what happened,” Elvira said, giving your hand a gentle squeeze to encourage you. “Come on in,” she added, motioning towards the open door and stepping aside to let you both enter the house.

As you walked past her, Elvira turned her gaze to Xavier and sent him a warm smile. You couldn't help but feel grateful for her kindness and understanding, and you knew that you were in good hands for the evening.

The birthday party was in full swing, with colorful decorations hanging from the ceiling and walls, and a large cake with lit candles in the center of the room. The scent of savory and sweet treats wafted through the air, making your mouth water.

Oscar was the center of attention, greeting his guests with a big smile and warm hugs. He was surrounded by his closest friends, chatting and laughing away, and occasionally stopping to pose for a picture with them.

You, on the other hand, felt out of place in the midst of the older crowd, except for Oscar's children, who were running around and playing games. You had hoped to have a conversation with Pedro, but he avoided your gaze the entire time, which made you feel uncomfortable and self-conscious.

However, Xavier was by your side throughout the evening, keeping you company and making you laugh with his witty remarks and stories. You introduced him to some of the people at the party, and of course to Oscar, and he encouraged you to dance, which helped you loosen up and enjoy the party a little more.

As the night wore on, the guests started to leave one by one, and the house grew quieter. The children were already fast asleep, and the adults seemed to be in a mellower mood, with lighter snacks and drinks replacing the heavier ones from earlier in the evening.

You found yourself in the kitchen with Xavier, enjoying a lively conversation with Elvira and Oscar about the latest news in the city. Elvira was recounting her recent trip to Europe when Oscar suddenly interrupted her by reaching for a bottle of wine and pouring it into a set of glasses.

“Let's raise a toast to life, to good friends, and to family,” Oscar exclaimed, lifting his glass. You all joined in, clinking your glasses together, laughing and toasting to the good times. The mood had shifted from one of excitement to one of warmth and sentimentality.

As you took a sip of the wine, you noticed Pedro standing at the edge of the room, watching you with an intense gaze. His eyes bore into yours, and you felt a strange mix of discomfort and confusion. You had wanted to talk to him earlier in the evening, but he had been avoiding you, so his sudden interest now was puzzling. Feeling the need for comfort and safety, you moved closer to Xavier, feeling his arm wrap around your shoulders. You didn't know if Pedro was still watching you, but you felt better in your friend’s presence.

To your surprise, Pedro suddenly approached the four of you, inserting himself into the conversation. He started to talk about a recent article he had read in the newspaper, bringing up a topic that interested everyone. Xavier and Elvira seemed to welcome his presence, and Oscar was glad to have his longtime friend join in. However, you couldn't shake the feeling that his gaze was still fixed on you, even as he talked with the others.

As the conversation continued, Oscar and Elvira decided to check in with the guests in the living room, leaving you, Xavier, and Pedro alone in the kitchen. The silence was palpable as you all stood there, unsure of what to say or do next. Pedro finally broke the silence, turning his attention to you.

“So, Y/N, I can see that you are having fun?” he asked, his eyes still lingering on you.

You tried to hide your discomfort, forcing a smile and answering politely, “Yeah. I try to, at least.”

It was hard not to notice that Pedro wasn't completely sober – although he wasn't fully drunk either. He kept shooting unpleasant glances at Xavier every now and then and his eyes were colder than always.

Your friend seemed oblivious to Pedro's behavior, but you knew better. You could feel the tension rising in the room, and you started to feel anxious. Pedro's jealousy was palpable, and you couldn't help but wonder if he still had feelings for you, even though you weren’t a thing anymore.

Trying to diffuse the situation, you asked Pedro how his job was going, hoping to steer the conversation away from any uncomfortable topics. He answered curtly, barely giving you any information, and then turned his attention back to Xavier, sizing him up with a cold stare.

You felt your heart rate increase, sensing that things were about to get out of hand. You knew that you needed to do something, but you weren’t sure what. As you opened your mouth to speak, Pedro cut you off.

“Two weeks were enough for you to find a replacement, huh?”

His question made you furrow your eyebrows in confusion. “Excuse me?”

Pedro's words didn't make sense to you, and you glanced over at Xavier, who looked equally confused. Pedro scoffed and clarified, “I saw you two earlier. I saw the way you look at him, Y/N. And now here you are, pretending to be just friends.”

You felt your face flush with embarrassment and anger. How dare he accuse you of something like that? The jealousy in Pedro's eyes was unmistakable, and it was clear that he didn't believe in your friendship with Xavier, even though he knew him.

Xavier stepped in, sensing the tension rising in the room, his voice calm but firm. “Pedro, let's take a deep breath and calm down for a moment. You’re tipsy, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

But Pedro wasn't backing down, his eyes fixed on Xavier, even though he was actually speaking to you. “I don't trust him. And I don't trust you, Y/N.”

His words hit you like a ton of bricks, and your heart sank in your chest. You couldn't believe what Pedro was saying. How could he accuse you of being untrustworthy when he was the one who had abandoned you without any explanation? Anger and sadness boiled inside you, making it hard to even form coherent thoughts, and the tears started to gather in your eyes.

“You don’t trust me? You were the one who stood me out on the day of our anniversary. It was you who came to break up with me the next day without giving me any explanation. It was you-you…” the floodgates opened, and tears streamed down your face, mixing with the anger and frustration that you felt. You sniffed and wiped your nose with the back of your hand, trying to regain some semblance of composure. “How dare you tell me that you don't trust me?” you said, your voice shaking with emotion.

Pedro's expression softened slightly, and for a moment, you thought that he might actually apologize for his absurd behavior, but then, his gaze hardened again, and he shook his head.

“I had my reasons,” he said, his voice low and menacing. “And I don't need to justify them to anyone.”

You stared at him in silence, trying to make sense of his sudden outburst. He's being unreasonable and irrational, you thought. You shook your head in disbelief and took a step back. “You know what?” you asked, staring into Pedro's eyes. “I will not talk to you. I'm not going to listen to you suddenly make me some kind of scolding because alcohol went to your head. You're a grown man, and you're acting like a kid,” you barked, your anger seeping through every syllable. You then turned your back on Pedro, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing you cry again.

You left him, standing motionless in the kitchen with his eyes fixated on the door through in which you had just disappeared with Xavier. His heart was heavy with regret as he realized that he fucked up again. He knew that he had messed up, that he had let his jealousy and insecurities take control of his words and actions. He desperately wanted to talk to you on this party, to apologize for his behavior and make things right, but now it was too late for that. He had taken a few drinks to calm his nerves, hoping that it would help him find the courage to talk to you, but now he realized that it had only fueled his anger and made things worse. The sight of you laughing and chatting with Xavier had been the final blow, and now he was left alone with his regrets once again.

[wellhellotragic]

These Wounds Won't Seem to Heal  3/4

Summary: It’s not her fault. She’s still new and doesn’t know. He’s not flawless. Not anymore. He’s got scars, ones she’s seen first hand. Ones she helped tend to. His body is covered in them. There’s a thin red line where he took a bottle to the face during his early beat cop days. There’s another angry red mark on his torso from where he was stabbed with a knife in his ribs. The one where he had his hand slammed in a locker as a teenager has long since faded, only the barest hint remaining, only visible in just the right lighting.

There’s two oval scars now too. One in his stomach and one on his chest. Those are from the worst day of her life.But none of those scars compare to the ones he carries on the inside. The self-inflicted cuts he makes to his soul never quite healing over. He blames himself.  It’s not his fault.

There’s a scar on her soul now too. One he left. A piece of her heart forever missing.

Rating: Mature (mostly for language)

A/N: Guy, I suck so hard core. I don't even know how I let so much time lapse between chapter 2 and now, and then to really top off my suck-o-meter, I realized that there's going to have to be a chapter 4 because I can't fix what I've done so easily. Not realistically at least. I promise, and happy ending is coming though, and it won't take me another 8 months to get it up. I hope to have it up and finished by the weekend.

The AO3 version

It’s been a hell of a night. She’s not sure where exactly it falls on her list of worst days ever, but it’s in her top five. It has to be. It’s not the worst, that honor is saved for the night she almost lost Killian, but it’s still up there. She’s spent hours now going through all of the details over and over again with Graham and Lance, her story never changing. Getting poked and prodded by EMTs, despite telling everyone that she’s fine.

She’s not, but they can’t stitch up her insides.

David, her partner, on the other hand has a bullet hole in his leg. Better than his head though.

She’s not even sure if she can fully reconcile everything that happened. She and David were investigating the death of a low profile importer, a nobody, interviewing some dock workers that had found the body. Some gruff looking men who easily blended in with the usual fishmongers and cargo sorters.

But they weren’t. She realized it just a second too late, right before a bag was pulled over her head. She fought like hell, but she was at a disadvantage. From what she heard, David had put up a fight as well, but in the end, it was useless, and she lost consciousness with a sharp blow to the head.

She woke up strapped down to a chair with David the same a few feet beside her. She shouldn’t have been surprised, Jefferson had always given her a bad feeling, but she never actually thought he’d go dirty. She certainly never expected to be facing the wrong side of his department issued sidearm.

Even now, everything is still a blur. Graham assured her it’s the shock, that it’ll fade once the adrenaline wears off; that everything will clear up after a good night's rest. She’s not sure about that though. It’s four in the morning now and the adrenaline seems to be hanging on for dear life still and she knows she's not going to rest any time soon. Humbert offered to drive her home but she declined, choosing to wait for August to finish wrapping up his report.

She’s not sure what time it is when they finally arrive at her apartment. The battery in her cell phone died ages ago. Neither of them even make a move for the fridge, choosing to bypass the beer she keeps stocked for the hard nights. Instead, the two of them move in silence to her room. She plugs in her cell before crawling in bed next to him, like when they were kids in Ingrid’s foster house. She’s not sure who’s comforting who at this point, but she knows that she just needs to be with family.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

She doesn’t, but she knows she needs to or it’ll eat her alive. She’s tried that once already and it ended up with her almost having a complete nervous breakdown and a three week leave of absence with daily Archie sessions.

“I don’t even know where to start.”

It’s true. So much has happened in the last twelve hours, there’s no one easy to pinpoint place to begin. So August goes first. He fills in the blanks that he can, so that she might be able to piece together the rest. He tells her about Killian sending him undercover, about Jefferson and missing drugs and money. How Jefferson was helping to conceal evidence that would link Walsh and the Nikko empire to a wide distribution of pixie dust.

Some of it is just speculation, that Jefferson must have figured out they were closing in on him and that’s why he went for Emma, and David was probably just collateral damage. How he most likely picked Emma because he knew how much she meant to him , and while he didn’t say Killian’s name specifically, the implication hung over her like a heavy cloud.

“Before you got there, he told Killian to choose. Between me and David I mean. To pick which one of us would live and which one would die. And then he just started laughing and screaming in this crazed voice that I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget.”

It was the single most terrifying thing she’d ever heard. The mania that accompanied it. She already knew that it was going to haunt her for months to come, if not longer.

It’s a real Gracie’s choice. Gracie’s choice Killian. GRACIE’s CHOICE!!!

She felt August shift next to her.

“Gracie was his daughter. She died while he was undercover with a Southie Gang. Killian was undercover with Cruella at the time. It was a freak accident, a gas leak and the house went up in flames, but he was convinced that she was killed by one of the De Vil boys. He told me once that he knew Killian had given him up as a snitch to prove his worth. The De Vil’s had nothing to do with the Southie boys, but he’d twisted it up in his mind. I never thought he’d do anything about it though. It was just crazy drunk venting one night.”

She knows August. Knows that he’s blaming himself for what happened tonight, but she ignores it. Nothing she says will stop him from tormenting himself, and she’s not done.

“I told him to choose David. He has this whole perfect life, you know. An adoring wife and a new baby, all of these people that would miss him if he were gone. I told Killian to save David, and I-” She hates how small she feels when she cries, but she can’t hold back the tears. “He gave me this look. He’s been cold, but this was something different. There was just so much anger in his eyes.”

And that’s when she breaks. Knowing that hated her was one thing, but watching him train his gun on her. Seeing the pure darkness in his eyes. She doesn’t know how to voice it to August, but she knows that if August hadn’t arrived when he did, she knows he would have done as she asked. That he wouldn’t have had to think twice about it. And it’s that knowledge that sliced open the last piece of her heart that had been hanging on by a thread, even after all that time.

August holds her through the tears, until she finally exhausts herself enough to sleep. And so she drifts off, completely unaware of the new voicemail alert waiting for her.

________________________________

The February air is cooler on the water and he kicks himself for not bringing a heavier jacket. It’s been ages since he’s been out on this boat, and time has helped him to forget everything except for the things he wishes he could. Liam always used to tease him, so much so that Killian would reject any offers of warmth from his brother just to prove a point. He wasn’t some silly kid that needed to be minded anymore. He was capable of doing everything on his own, except for bringing an extra coat. He forgot everytime, and today was no exception.

Luckily for Killian, the spare that Liam kept on the boat just for him is still in its place, folded neatly in a small storage locker below deck. It hits him in the gut a little, that Liam could be so right about some things and incredibly wrong about others.

It’s eating Killian alive, not talking to his brother. Not being able to express himself because despite everything Emma has done for him, Liam still doesn’t approve of her. Liam often still thinks of him as the teenage boy, awkward and desperate for approval from anyone that will give it to him, even if it means getting taken advantage of.

He’s not that kid anymore though. He isn’t letting his crush steal his essays and letting her claim this as her own. He isn’t using all of his hard earned money to buy her jewelry that she’s just going to pawn for cash later. He isn’t following after Emma like a lost puppy dog.

He’s in love with her, and he has a sneaking suspicion that she feels the same way. But at this rate, he’s never going to get Liam’s blessing, the only approval he needs anymore.

He shouldn’t be thinking about this now. He really shouldn’t. Not when he and Liam are sitting in a rented dilapidated loft across from an abandoned fabric warehouse waiting for the Canal Street Cutter to emerge. There had been a lot of chatter that morning about where he might be hiding and Liam assembled teams throughout South Boston hoping to catch a glimpse of him.

Emma and August were stationed about eight blocks over. Lance and Arthur were on the edge of South Boston and Waterfront. Other teams were scattered, but too far away to get to if they needed assistance.

Killian had tried to tell Liam that it was a bad idea to spread everyone so thin, but the elder Jones brother had been instant and headstrong as ever. It would have been a career making arrest, and Liam, ever aspiring to be more just wouldn’t let that chance pass him by.

“I just think that you have other obligations that require your attention right now.”

“If this is the bros before hoes speech you can just save it.”

“Killian,” The exasperation evident in his brother's tone, “you know I detest such vile language. It's crude and you are better than that little brother.”

“What obligations?” He has to quash his desire to correct his brother’s description of him.

“I just think that you are meant for so much more in this life and I worry that you gave up so much when you left the narcotics division to follow her into homicide. You were a rising star there and now you’re having to cut your teeth all over again.”

“It’s not as if I’m starting all over. For God’s sake Liam, I just made Lieutenant. But there’s more to life than a job.”

His brother takes his gaze away from the binoculars to turn to Killian.

“Look at father and all of his vices. It strayed him from the path. But you, Killian, you persevered and now everything you've wanted is in your grasp.”

“This isn't the same thing and you know it. Emma isn't some pathetic man’s addiction. Liam, I'm in love with her.”

“Killian,” Liam pauses, taking a deep breath. “She's a distraction. Think of all that you’ve accomplished in the year that you were undercover. You brought down an entire crime syndicate. You did that without her taking your attention away.”

“I didn't bring the De Vil family down because ‘we’ were apart. I did it because we were ‘apart’ and I knew the only way I'd be able to see her again without putting her in harm's way would be to find the evidence and make the arrest.”

“Fine, if you need another reason, have you thought about working directly with her, or even over her in a supervisory position? Have you considered how your personal relationship with a subordinate could affect your judgment?”

“It’s not-”

Liams sees movement in the distance, cutting off Killian’s rebuttal, but his view is obscured so he motions for Killian to follow him, to leave the safety of their little room. They stay silent as they walk downstairs and head out a propped-open door leading to an alleyway. They had to wind through hallways to get from the loft outside and now they’re further away from the warehouse with no cover.

Killian even tries pointing out how visible they are, but Liam shuts him down, determined to close the case. He’s halfway sure that Liam’s trying to prove a point about how Killian can’t be successful and be in a relationship with Emma. He’s seen it before, the way professional jealousy destroys couples. But Emma’s not like that. She wouldn’t see his success as her failure.

They try to skirt the perimeter and he knows he should keep his mouth shut, this just isn’t the time, but he’s just so frustrated that he can’t keep holding it in.

“Please don’t make me choose between you.” It’s an angry whisper, more to himself than anything, and even though he did his best to keep his volume low it’s still enough that Liam’s heard and turns back to him, missing sight of the empty beer bottle at his feet.

The glass battering against the gravel echoes through the night as they both stay silent, waiting to see if they’ve been heard. The air is still around them, and Killian thinks they just might have lucked out.

And then he hears the gunshots ring out.

Liam is on the ground before Killian has time to register what’s happened. He runs to Liam, but gets knocked to the ground before he can get to him. His body hurts and he can see blood covering his hand from where he just touched his abdomen. He’s always heard people say that the shock blocks out the pain, but they must all be liars, because the longer he lays there, the more the pain intensifies.

It takes everything he has to pull himself behind a dumpster, half crawling, half slithering like a snake.

The shock eventually did kick in though, because even to this day he has no memory of radioing in for help. Just the vague memories of Emma leaning over him. The look in her eyes as she tried her best to hold back tears.

The same tears he fought back the night he left Boston, like the coward he was. But Archie was right. He needed to get his head on straight, to distance and center himself. He had to leave, for her.

He’s still wrestling with the guilt. He talked about it with Archie, how she begged him to kill her and save David. And that he actually considered it for about two full seconds. Not because he wanted to, but because he didn’t want her feeling the way he did. The burden of knowing that someone else was dead, and knowing that no matter how good you are, how hard you try, that you’ll never live up to them. He didn’t want her hating herself the way he did. Didn’t want her to destroy herself like he had.

But then something snapped inside of him and rage bubbled up. The audacity of her to beg him to kill her. For her to try and force that decision on him, with no regard to him or his feelings.

It was at that moment that he finally realized what he’d been doing to her ever since Liam had passed away. He finally understood the choice she’d been forced to make that night. And he knew - he knew that despite it all - he could never live with himself if he’d chosen anyone but her. That he couldn’t let her go just like she didn’t with him.

The only thing that saved him was Boothe. In the moments that passed after August arrived, while the two of them tried to wrestle the gun away from Jefferson, he felt the weight of Liam’s death wash over him. And then he heard a shot ring out and there was nothing but panic. Panic and guilt.

It felt as though ages had passed as he searched for Emma in the smoke filled room. The SWAT team had moved in at some point, but he’d been too focused on fighting off Jefferson to notice. He pushed through the sting in his eyes and the tightness of his chest as he looked for her, but all he saw through the haze were armored cops everywhere.

It wasn’t until he was forcibly escorted outside the building that he saw her, saw that she was safe, and then his stomach turned. He ran around a corner away from all of the prying eyes, and for the first time in his career, he gave in and let the night overcome him.

It’s been nearly a year since that night and he’s been running ever since. Some days are better than others. The anger is mostly behind him, but some nights he still wakes up in a sweat clutching his bed sheets, ready to fight. But there’s never anyone around to take a swing at, because he’s all alone. He’s pushed away anyone that ever mattered and isolated himself on that damn boat.

He thinks of Emma, wonders if she’s moved on or not. He’s too cowardly to call her, partly because he has no idea what he will say if she answers, but mostly because he’s terrified that she won’t answer. So he broods. He takes to the local bars as he sails the coastline and drinks a little too much before stumbling back to Liam’s boat alone. It’s a wonder nobody’s robbed him yet for what a careless sot he’s been.

Tonight is one of those nights. He’s made his way down to Florida and back, only a few hours away from Boston, and his demons are screaming again. He’s hoping against all hope that the rum in the tumbler across from him will help quiet them. Just holding the small glass in his fingertips helps a bit. A placebo of sorts. He doesn’t want to be this man anymore though. This pathetic lonely human. He doesn’t want to feel this way anymore, but he doesn’t know how to fix it. Archie said that him realizing it was a good first step but he’s not sure if he agrees. He’s called Archie a lot over the last year. Somehow doing therapy over the phone as the boat sways back and forth under his feet has helped to ease his hesitancy. There’s something about knowing that he can hang up at any time if he wants, and that no one knows. No one will judge him.

They don’t talk about Emma, not in present tense at least. They’ve had conversations about the way he’s treated her in the past, about his complicated feelings for her, the way it’s all shaped him, but they never talk about her now. He’s not sure if it’s because Archie doesn’t know if he’s ready for that, or if Archie knows something that he’s absolutely not ready for.

Archie is here tonight though, the rum is.

He’s still twirling the amber in his hand as he hears the familiar scraping of a nearby barstool against a wooden floor. There’s a scent that follows, a floral perfume that doesn’t match with the musk of the dive bar. He doesn’t look at her directly, doesn’t need to when he can see her from the mirror behind the bar. Her top is low, flashing more skin that it’s covering. She’s closer than he thought.

“Is that for me?” She’s bold.

He’s reminded of those early days on the force, when he wouldn’t even have to talk to a woman. When he could just flash her a smile and she’d be on his arm heading out the door to her place. He’s not that guy though, he’s salty and cynical, and the look he flashes her is closer to a smirk.

“Excuse me?” “Well, you’ve been toying with it for almost twenty minutes. I just thought maybe you were waiting for me to walk into your life.”

Was he this bad at picking up women?

“Look, I’m not trying to be rude, but I’m not in the mood for woman.” “So you’re gay?”

It’s a good thing he hasn’t started drinking yet because he damn well might have chocked otherwise. He doesn’t get a chance to respond though. The bubbly blonde that served him his rum has returned with a spray bottle in hand. “Mary of Mothers. Didn’t I already have you escorted out of here tonight, Teresa?”

“Bite me, Tinkerbelle.”

The girl behind the bar might be all of five foot tall but there’s a beast inside her that towers over any man in that bar and before he knows what’s happening the bartender is drowning the girl in what smells like stainless steel cleaner and the words coming out of her mouth would make any Navy man blush.

The girl ends up running away and Killian isn’t sure what to make of any of it. He’s broken up bar fights before, but he’s never seen anything quite like that.

“Sorry about that. I know this little bar might not seem like much, but it’s all I’ve got and I’ll be damned if I let the likes of her selling her body in here.” “Oh, she wasn’t-” “Trust me, where you had agreed upfront or not, you would have been light whatever cash you have left in that wallet before the night was up. And I’ll bet you dollars to pennies you would have had a lovely little itch or two down there.” She nods her head towards his crotch before switching the subject like she hadn’t just implied the poor woman from before was an STD ridden whore. “So, I haven’t seen you here before. Where you from?”

He’s not sure how she’s disarmed him so quickly, but he finds himself telling her all about himself over the next hour. Business has slowed down and her other barmate seems to be more than capable of handling the few strays still walking in.

She makes him laugh too with her feisty spirit. It’s been far too long since he’s felt at ease like this. They talk and talk. Not about much in particular, just random conversation. She bought the bar about six years ago, and tells him about how it’s let her build the family she always wanted and never really got. She’s carved out her own little place in the world and he envies her that. The way she can just lay her whole life bare to a complete stranger while he can’t even talk to the people that know him best.

The night rolls on and it’s time to close up. He half expects that she’s going to invite him upstairs, to the little apartment she mentioned earlier, but she surprises him. She’s done that a few times tonight, but this one hits him in the gut. “So, what’s her name?”

This time he actually does chock on the water she’s poured for him.” “I’m sorry, what?”

“Killian, in the last few hours, you’ve told me your entire life story, everything from your shitty father to your arrogant brother, your job, your leave of absence, but you haven’t mentioned a girl one single time. You’re holding back, which means there’s something to hold back.”

“You don’t know that. I could be gay.” “Um, ya, I saw you check out Teresa’s rack earlier, definitely not gay. So what’s the deal.” He doesn’t want to talk about it, but he doesn’t want to be rude either. So he gives her as little as possible, but she sees through him. In fact, she actually asks him what the hell he’s waiting for as she pushes him out the door.

He doesn’t really know what he’s waiting for to be honest. He’s wanted to go back to Boston, but there’s just so many threads he left unravelled when he left.

[jiikyu]

Taste of Marigolds In Bloom

Herb of the Sun — Or Marigold was often used during the Middle Ages as a love charm. Carrying one of these brightly colored flowers was thought to bring love. Though be warned for they are also poisonous. Chapter V. It’s becoming painfully clear you find comfort in the wrong things. Like the smell of the ocean. A smile that’s far too blinding. In the way calloused hands always seem to find their way back to you. Despite everything — Can you really be blamed for falling? ∘◦ ✿ ◦∘ All characters are 18+ Yandere!Mirio x Fem!Reader(AΩβ) Y/N = Your Name F/N = Your Full Name E/C = Eye Color H/C = Hair Color Warnings: Yandere / Unhealthy Behavior / Delusions / Angst / Possessiveness / Manipulation / Breaking & Entering, tho we don’t really elaborate on it this chapter? First Chapter Here❦ Previous Chapter Here❦ Next Chapter In Progress... Taglist. @missyredbean @yandere-romanticism

∘◦ ✿ ◦∘ You’re fading or — At least that’s what you’re starting to suspect. Time seemingly has escaped you. Who knows how much time has passed with you holding of the bathrooms door handle. The metal resting loosely against your skin is now warm from the shared contact and it’s beyond disappointing because — It’s the farthest you’ve been able to will yourself. Motionless you find yourself stuck at standstill. You hate it. You hate the invisible thing stopping you from opening the door, like you would have if it were any other day. It’s not the dry clothes that stick uncomfortably to your skin or the wet droplets coldly clinging to you. Something familiar yet foreign. Settled in the pit of your being, it claws and begs you not to abandon the shelter these thin walls provide. You know what’s taken hold of you and god, does that make it so much worse. You just want it gone. But, how do you kill fear? There is no reason for your hands to be clammy or for the hairs on the back of your neck to stand raised. All you’re doing is making the situation worse, for yourself and — For Mirio. He’s probably worried. Plus, it’s not like you can stay locked away forever. Right? Only when you’re able finally gulp down the passing mania and turn the handle do you realize that you’re alone. Light pours from behind you, spilling into the empty hall. Your E/C eyes take a moment to adjust but it’s clear that Mirio is nowhere in sight. How long had it been? The stillness is broken by the familiar ding of your microwave from the kitchen. “Just in time Y/N!” And just like that the shame eating away at you disappears as quickly as it appeared, lulled into submission by the voice calling out to you. It should probably frighten you. How fast your troubles seem to melt away with the sound of his voice. Leaving the bathroom you forget the jacket still hanging from the tubs edge. Your footsteps are muffled by the carpet underneath, it’s then that you notice the sweet scent dusting the air. You follow the faintest hints of sugar and — milk? Rounding the corner you spot the familiar silhouette standing under fluorescent white light. And it’s hard to miss just how comfortable he appears to be in your kitchen. The jug of milk has been removed from the fridge, garnished with paper towels littering the back counter and a lone spoon sitting forgotten... Oh and one of the cupboard doors has been left hanging wide open. You’re really not sure what he’s done to cause such chaos. The last thing you notice are the two steaming cups, filled to the brim. It’s so faint but, you swear it smells like honey — “Sweetheart I don’t know how you do it!” And suddenly all the thoughts buzzing around your head just stop. A total short-circuit. He just called you Sweetheart. And the bastard doesn’t even bat an eyelash, he just lets it slip past his teeth without any repercussions. Though, if you’re being honest — You’re not even sure Mirio realizes he’s said it. It’s fine, really, it’s not that big of a deal. There are plenty of people around the world that use nicknames. Something as simple as a title of endearment shouldn’t have your heart doing backflips and cartwheels. But it does. You’re absolutely screwed. “There’s barely enough room in here for one person!” His words have you more than a little confused. To demonstrate what exactly he means he lifts his arms in the air. From one hand to the other he practically touches the walls that represent the beginning and end of the kitchen. “See, it’s no good!” Huh. You suppose Mirio’s right in some sense of the word. But it’s him that makes the space feel small. “Well...” You can’t help but chuckle between words at the man T posing in your kitchen. “I guess for you it might be a bit much.” “Nah I think I’m onto something. You’ll just have to move in with me!” It’s hard to tell sometimes when Mirios joking because he always wears a wide grin. But there’s no way it’s a serious offer. Maybe your missing the point, but you don’t see the problem at hand. Sure your dorm might not be as uh — spacious — as the ones meant for rising star heros. But you’re nothing if not appreciative, the space had came with all the basic necessities and for that you couldn’t be more grateful. You’re lucky enough to even have the opportunity of sleeping under the roof of your dream school. “Now you’re pushing it.” Your tone is lighthearted. “My place isn’t that bad.” Though your smile brings warmth to his little heart the moment is soured. He cannot help but stare at the puffiness just under your eyes, from where tears had fallen and stained. A reminder that has the blond to biting into the meat of his cheek. Mirio would be lying if he said felt comfortable with your living situation. It’s far too small — Let alone for the both of you. But most importantly, he couldn’t help but notice the lack of heavy bolts on the front door. He doesn’t like it one bit. Maybe it’s just the itch of anxiety from what happened but he’d much rather see you someplace safer. Somewhere you weren’t forced to be alone, preferably someplace he could stay by your side. Like his dorm. “What’d you make?” Freed from his thoughts it takes Mirio a second to process the question, his eyes follow your stare — The two cups cooling on the counter, the steam vanishing as it rises. He’d almost forgotten! “Oh! It’s honey milk.” Suddenly one of the cups is pushed across the smooth counter surface, till it sits within your reach. “My dad used to make it for me when I was a kid, usually when I was upset or had a bad day.” His smiles softens when he ends with. “I thought you might like it.” What he can’t tell you is that he made it in desperation. A distraction from what he’d done. “Thank you.” Blue eyes watch your fingers wrap around the heated smooth surface of the ceramic. “Really, it means a lot.” He can’t help but stare as your lips part to take the first sip. “Anything for you.” Those words are your wake up call. You’d got caught up in his antics... Are you really that weak around him? Because, now you understand there’s a deeper promise there. One you almost wish had remained in the dark. Almost. “If you want we can watch a movie, or —“ “I think.” You stare into the swirl of milk and honey before continuing. “Maybe we should sit and... Talk about what happened.” Your words always seem to have an effect on him because his pulse begins to race. It’s fear. “Yeah.” ∘◦ ✿ ◦∘ You’re in trouble. Even with the suppressants dulling your senses they’re not strong enough to block the scent of seashore and sandalwood now permeating the walls. Not strong enough to hide the fact that your dorm is already starting to smell like Mirio. If people knew you allowed an Alpha into your home, let alone an unmated one, you’re reputation would tarnished. You know this, it’s been drilled into your head since presenting as an Omega, but... It’s Mirio Togata that’s seated next to you in your kitchen. The one exception — Or at least that’s what you hope. The cheap material of the barstool digs into your back and there’s a constant drumming of fingers against the laminate countertop, a harmony of tension. The thing that held you captive in the bathroom is back and whispering in your ear. It doesn’t use words, no, instead you’re haunted by awful unintelligible garble. Of blood filled lungs struggling for air. This is a bad idea. You can already feel your mouth becoming dry, but there’s no going back — “What happened during the fight?” It’s the one question that could’ve caught Mirio off guard, and his smile falters, if only for a split second. “Oh you mean —“ A hand rubs the skin of his neck sheepishly, as if you caught him redhanded in the cookie jar. “I guess I did go a little overboard on that guy, didn’t I?” He says half jokingly, he wants so badly to be able to sweep the whole thing under the rug. A little overboard? “But don’t worry! From here on out I’ll make sure no one ever hurts you.” Even without his quirk, he’ll manage. “I promise.” Even if it means he has to get his hands dirty. He reaches an arm to wrap around your shoulder, so you know your hero will always be there for you and — You flinch at the touch. ... Mirio blinks a few times because he’s not sure what happened. You hadn’t meant to flinch. You really hadn’t meant it. But it’s too late. It’s clear as day, he sees it in your eyes. And you know it when his smile begins to fall, it’s plummeting. There’s fear in your eyes. Somewhere in your subconscious you must’ve been praying. Stupid, so incredibly stupid. Praying that you were strong enough to hide it from him. And it makes what comes next all the worse. “Wait you’re —“ Blond brows knit together, still grasping the change in atmosphere. “You’re not afraid of me... Are you?” There it is. The air is suddenly tens times heavier, like breathing through a straw. Your throats so dry you’re not even sure you have the ability to speak. When Mirios only answer is deafening silence does he become hyper aware of the situation. You literally see the moment it clicks. It’s in the way his mouth opens and closes in disbelief, in the way his blue eyes widen in realization. It’s like watching an incoming car crash in slow motion , you know it’s going to be horrible but there’s nothing to stop it. You have to tear your eyes away before the inevitable collision and when you do... Mirios panic truly sets in. He had been afraid of you to thinking less of him. But never in a million years did he think that you might see him as a potential threat. This is a nightmare. He’s sweating bullets. “Sunshine I know — I know I messed up.” Another nickname. “I never meant to scare you. I’m sorry — I don’t know what took over, you know I never would have let it go that far but the guy, he —“ Each word more unsteady than the last, more desperate, because you won’t even look at him. And it’s killing him. He can’t take it anymore. Mirios scarred hands find your shoulders, slowly — Like you might crumble away from the touch but this time you don’t recoil from the fingers pressing into the material of your shirt. “Will you please look at me Darling?” Having averted your eyes you don’t bare witness to the pain carving his face but god, do you hear it. It’s absolutely heart wrenching. And despite it all, despite having watched him beat a man within an inch of his life, the last thing you want is to hurt Mirio. So you give in. And you look up to see a man on the edge. It’s worse than you imagined. You see the wild storm of blue, one that could easily ravage everything within its reach. “This is all some sort of misunderstanding right? I was just protecting you that’s all, you know I would never hurt you.” One of his hands has left your shoulder to snake its way to cup your face, thumb stroking languidly over the cherub of your cheek. Desperate for contact, for anything he can get from you. “Please just — Say that you’ll forgive me.” Everything. 

From the way Mirios voices wobbles weakly to the way he looks at you with desperation. It’s enough to crush every last bit of reason within you.

You break. This is the man that little voice inside your head screamed and begged you to stay away from? The man who lost everything to save a little girl from some madman? The man who rescued you and is now pleading for forgiveness in your kitchen? That man? Life is cruel. You’re finally able to find your voice. “Mirio. What you did was horrible —“ His heart just about stops beating right there. It hurts. Having his name associated with something so terrible in your eyes, even if to him it was something he’d done out of devotion... It’s a stab to the gut. “And despite everything.” Is this how it ends? You’re going to break up with him. “I — I can’t find it in myself to be upset with you.” Those words leave your lips and Mirio can finally breath. The blond hadn’t even realized he’d been holding his breath till now, the lack of oxygen straining his lungs. But you’re not done yet — “I’ve never met a person quite like you. You are the sweetest, definitely a little dense.” By the end your lips have started to curl upwards, it just comes naturally. “What I’m trying to say is that — I still care about you, and this isn’t the end —“ It’s like the worlds gone silent, your words are going in one ear and out the other. All he knows is that. You’re here. You’re smiling. And you’re not leaving him. It’s all Mirio needs to understand. The swell of emotions is just too much for him. It just sort of bursts out. “Though, you’re —“ “I love you.” ... The last — What? Six hours of your life have been nothing but a rollercoaster, one you’d like to get off of now. You don’t need a mirror to know you’re wearing the most wide-eyed expression of your entire life. But you couldn’t care less, because you’re far too busy replaying those magic words over and over in your head. You’re not sure you heard right. Maybe your skull was smashed against the pavement at some point during the fight and this is all some weird fever dream. That’s right. You’re probably in some hospital with IVs hooked to you. “Mirio —“ Pinching your inner arm before continuing, it’s almost concerning when the tinge of pain feels real. Very real... And you’ll be damned if you can’t find the reason for the sudden lack of common sense in the room. “Did you hit your head?” “I — What no? Y/N I’m being completely serious here.” “Are you sure? M-maybe you should you lie down, just incase?” You’re starting to panic because — Dear god, what if he needs medical attention and he’s here because of your own problems? As if reading your mind he understands. His heart skips and stutters because it’s him you’re worried about. He hasn’t lost you yet. And as much as he would love to tease you about how cute you are — He’s having none of it, because he just admitted his true feelings and your too worried about a stupid concussion! Suddenly he’s no longer seated next to you but standing and... He’s taking a few steps back? Once far enough away he outstretches his arms forward so that his thumbs mirror each other. “Could someone with a concussion do this?” In one swift motion his hands are planted to the floor with both legs kicked to a point in the air. A handstand. “One, two, three —“ Of course, nothing can be easy when it comes to Mirio. Show off. “— Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen and twenty!” Twenty seconds. Your jaw would’ve hit the floor if it were physically possible. It’s impressive. More than that. “I can go longer if you want.” When he hops back to stand on his own two feet the floor trembles. “But, I’m not sure you want to watch me do a handstand all night.” He’s smiling and laughing. It makes you feel small and irrational, that you’ve been overthinking everything. That you’ve made something out of nothing. The panic starts to settle, like a layer of soot waiting for its next opportunity to suffocate. But you gotta ask one last time. For your own sanity. “So... You’re really okay?” If he’s fine then that would mean — “Never been better! Because — Here, let me say it again.“ He says stepping closer, like there’s a magnet between the two of you, he closes the gap. Before you know it large hands find yours, with the outmost care. You can only describe it as being bathed in sunlight, warm and glowing, your digits are dwarfed in Mirios own. It’s slower this time, softer. “I love you.” Has your heart ever flown this high before? “It doesn’t matter whether you believe me or not but, you’re the only person that’s made me feel this way — The only one for me.” You know there’s no way for you to come down unscathed. “I was being serious earlier you know? That... We could move in together.” His thumb maps the tiny hills of your knuckles. “So, won’t you please consider moving in with me?” Really now, it’s got to be one of the most ridiculous things you’ve be asked in a while. Hadn’t you only just admitted your feelings a few hours ago? Doesn’t he care what others will think? Why are you even entertaining the idea? Even as the list continues to grow, reasons on it’s unrealistic, why — Sitting perched atop the stool your feet dangle, support-less. You’re helpless because those blue irises are looking down upon you like your the only one in the world. It’s too much. “I —“ Why won’t the butterflies stop swarming you? “I need to sleep on this Mirio — This. It’s just a lot.” You’re certain now, now more than ever before. You’re in far deeper than you ever could have bargained for. Because you still haven’t said no yet. “Of course!” Voice soft and lighthearted, Mirios hands give yours a squeeze. Whether in reassurance or in fear of letting go he doesn’t know anymore. “Take all the time you need.” ∘◦ ✿ ◦∘ The night ends with you helping bandage-up Mirios knuckles. Rubbing alcohol, cotton balls and Hello Kitty bandaids. The ugly futon you found at a garage sale and a few spare blankets are included in the five star Hotel experience. The springs groan back to life when Mirio unfolds the furniture. You don’t know how long you stand in the doorframe of your bedroom, there’s just so much — Why’d he have to pile everything on you at once! You just need time, that’s all. Time to think. Once you get your head out of the clouds you’ll be able to let him down gently, because it’s a childish idea after all. One you’d never agree too. Right? And maybe if you hadn’t succumbed to a night of stress you wouldn’t have failed to notice the bottle of pills missing from your nightstand. ∘◦ ✿ ◦∘ At some point sleep overtook you in your exhaustion, because your phone now reads 10:12AM. After laying in bed for an extra twenty minutes you finally sit up and only when your feet touch floor are you startled fully awake. Something touched your left foot, and it rattled at you. Your eyes adjust enough for you to see the culprit, it’s your bottle of suppressants. They must have rolled off your nightstand while you were out. It’s quiet. If you didn’t know any better you would say it felt like any other regular morning, besides the lingering fatigue. That’s why when you open your bedroom door it takes you by surprise, the lumpy, vaguely looking human shape on the futon. Mirios sleeping form barely fits the ancient pullout. One of his arms hangs off the side with his fingers resting against the floor. Only with the glow of the television are you able to make out his sleeping face. Whatever miraculous hair gel he buys no longer keeps the mess of blond together, bangs of gold hang over his soft features. A normal persons heart probably wouldn’t flutter at something so simple. From under the blanket peeks the same t-shirt he’s been wearing for at least a day now. The same one you cried into. In a few days the scent of calming sea waves and citrus will fade. And you’ll be all that’s left behind. It’s a realization that leaves you feeling, empty. You find the more time spent mulling over the situation the blurrier everything becomes. It doesn’t matter how hard you try to convince yourself, no matter how many hours you spend staring at your ceiling in the dark of your bedroom — It won’t change the way your heart beats wildly whenever you’re around him. You can’t help but wonder. Is it really such a bad idea? 

And you know you’re a terrible person because the curve of your lips is real as you gently place your hand on his shoulder. There are roots that have already taken hold of you long ago. 

[rpmemesbyarat]

RP Meme from "Chapter Two: Nine Tribes" in the Bastet breedbook from "Werewolf: The Apocalypse" Part One of Two

You look awful. What happened?

Someone turned my home inside out.

You’re such a pretty kitten, too. I don’t see kittens like you every day. I wonder why.

You don’t see kittens like me every day. When I get done with you, you won’t see anything... anyday.

Maybe it went into the air and never came down. Maybe it went into the ground and never came back up. Maybe someday it’ll show up.

Maybe someday they’ll be back. Personally, I doubt it.

What can be said about a race of individuals?

Does it puzzle you that our natures should be twofold, threefold, yet one?

Do you wonder why the gods, who have decreed a place for each thing, have offered us so many places in one?

I tell you a truth. It is but one of many, but it will serve.

The people kept to themselves, and they respected the land.

Hunters crept into the forests to skin the cats for their beautiful coats, and cats raced through the villages, bearing off children to eat in the night.

Days and nights rang with screams.

When the monsoons came, they carried rivers of blood to the seas.

She was spirited and strong, yet disobedient.

Our lands are cursed!

The serpents’ name is judgment, and they answer the dark calling inside each mortal secret.

Each mortal carries snake seeds inside.

You can do nothing.

I cannot leave my family this way!

It is not your place to change them, or to cleanse their sins.

I do not care about my place!

What can I do? This cannot continue!

If you would make peace, lay with them.

Take wild cats as mates?

Have you decided?

I am wisdom

I am anger

I have the wisdom to call the gods, the anger to fight, and the love to give myself for my people.

The monsoon howled and rain poured down.

We seek out the serpent of corruption and crush its head between our jaws.

She’s slow to rage, but when she does, nothing but total destruction will satisfy her.

They are wiser than their fury suggests.

Listen to them in good spirits and watch the visions they bring.

They bargained their souls away long ago, and cannot be trusted.

It’s said their kind is dead, but I am not certain.

Anything is possible.

It weakens them.

I cannot trust anyone so landless.

They believe they walk alone upon the earth, but they are wrong.

Wise liars and grand tricksters.

Long ago, I’ve heard, they were noble. Not now.

I’ve never spoken to one long enough to learn much, but I’ve heard they keep the sacred places safe.

That is enough to earn my respect.

We are the daughters and sons of the moon.

To anger the jaguar is to turn the jungle against you.

Woe to such a man and his family, for they will slowly starve.

When the whites came, they brought their evil with them.

Vile spirits of disease and mania plagued the humans.

The world went dark.

Their anger was too great.

Many wanted revenge.

Blood must be paid with blood.

But it is just a reflection, nothing more.

What they don’t like, they attack, and they don’t like much.

This peace ended as human settlements and firms began cutting through the rain forests.

Take your demon filth and get out of my home.

Stay, and die.

You take life far too lightly, my friends.

I watch you from far away, but my eyes are too filled with tears for me to dance.

They weren’t strong enough to survive. I’ll drink to their honor, but their dust is not my problem.

Honored brothers, if you need me, I will come.

Where were you when we needed you?

Wandering a trail? How nice.

You’re no longer welcome, brother.

We all do what we must to survive.

If they find happiness in solitude, it is a pleasure I can understand.

Make no mistake; We are older than the pyramids. Older than the Pharaohs.

We were the first. All others are usurpers.

There were gods in those days. If they are gone, I will not weep. We have more freedom without their strictures, anyway.

When need be, we hunted them like rats, but overcome by curiosity, we soon allowed ourselves to become their friends.

Then too proud for our liking. They would have to be punished. And they were.

Great plagues fell upon them.

I will never say we ruled. Why should we rule?

Merely say that we received our due; food, shelter and secrets. Many secrets.

I must say we were impressed.

We defended them in the night.

Slain, or worse yet, turned into blooddrinking ghouls.

This was not, I should add, the worst outcome of the war.

I tell you this secret now, so you will understand our path; We committed sacrilege against ourselves.

You and I suffer today a curse our ancestors earned millennia ago.

There are some shadows that hide secrets too evil for consumption.

Black as midnight, yes?

This is the cost of those endless nights of spying.

We learned secrets that should have been left alone. Worse, we still hunger for them, even now.

Our race is all but vanished, but still we prevail.

One day, we will return to power.

Aside from these gruesome relics, the breed has been extinct for 2000 years.

These ghoulish beasts, now swollen to the size of panthers, live blind in filthy pens.

Occasionally, one might even be allowed to mate with it.

This insult has not gone unrewarded.

A bitter if one-sided war has crept quietly along for nearly 2000 years.

The vampires may receive an unpleasant surprise in the coming decades.

Surprisingly, they have never fled their homeland despite their setbacks and ancient enemies.

Perhaps it’s pride that keeps them rooted to Egyptian soil, or maybe it’s something more.

Some outsiders claim there’s a mystical connection between the tribe and their motherland.

Weird magical rites, including experiments with vampire blood and enchanted human “hosts,” have bred feline offspring from human mothers.

Horrifying tales of women giving birth to cats in Cairo delivery rooms attest that such experiments are occasionally. . . successful.

Only time will tell.

Better death than the serpent’s kiss.

If there’s a viper in your soul, purge it.

The road we walk is treacherous enough alone.

Noble, I’ll confess, but hopelessly rural. They favor their wild sides too much to be as enlightened as they would believe.

Savage, bloodthirsty monsters. How I would love to have one or two around for errands!

It’s said that their kind is extinct, but being “extinct” myself, I find that difficult to believe.

I’ve heard a great deal about them, but they keep to their land and I to mine.

Too obtuse for my tastes.

If their chattering held wisdom, I would gladly listen.

Obnoxious louts who deserve to be shaved. Some day soon, they will be. I’d be pleased to do the honors. Perhaps I shall.

They make lovely pets if you convince them they’re free.

Kid, we don’t just collect secrets, we are secrets.

There’s a lot of folks who’d put us in chains — real ones and magic ones — if they knew we were still breathing, so listen close while I tell you a fairy tale.

It’s important, kid, so shut up till I finish.

A long time ago, the world was a dream. No, I’m not being cute — it was. All our kind were dreamed into existence.

Have you ever seen a dream walking? Well, take a look in a mirror, kid.

Those cold folks needed some company.

Well, those cold hearts turned on us soon enough.

We can be a nasty folk when we set our minds to it, and those who danced with us set themselves apart.

Our secrets got out.

I doubt they did it under their own power.

But we did survive.

There was a price. There always is.

We stay underground. Way underground.

You remember what I said about our ties to passion?

So keep your head down, kid, and never say what you are.

As usual, the legends lie

Messages are hidden in lyrics and chord structures.

Come in with laughter, leave in tears and always keep ‘em guessing

The locals still lock their doors on that night, and no one dares to go a-spying.

She may return to her old ways eventually, but cannot settle into any role for long.

Elusive as they are, they love digging up dirt about others.

Such clothes allow them to be their flamboyant selves and get away with it.

Art is the expression of a dream. And dreams, my friend, are what we are at heart.

Oh, yeah, a lot of help they were when we were stuck.

Shut up, hothead.

At least you’ve still got your own name.

Oh, yes it is fun to play in the dark, but you have to come up for air eventually.

Brutal and mean.

I respect their courage, but lighten up, guys!

Wise. Very wise. When one speaks, listen up.

Damn thing outran my car.

Must be nice.

[crackcrocs]

DEATH WILL ONLY BE THE BEGINNING #3

3. Transformation Central

the entities of my personalities would like to come together in one voice that speaks through me, we or I call this collection of words from the mustiest corners of my brain to this note page to voice something that might come close to what I feel underneath the skin I wear. In all my unorganised words- I might even go as far as to call this a poem, titled:

‘TRANSFORMATION CENTRAL’

sub characters in my head would appreciate if this could be visualised & understood through as deep a lens as humanly possible. even I confuse myself so if you can decode or relate to any of this, wonderful. If not, I’m locked in my own mind, swallowed the keys to my soul.

SIMILARITIES & INTERCONNECTEDNESS BETWEEN HUMAN & PLANT CONSCIOUSNESS EXIST! if you look closely at my nose freckles you’ll see the resemblance of the constellations above. if you look at the human veins & the layout of a tree, this is further proof.

{VISUALS THROUGH A SEPIA WINDOW STARING @ THE AUTUMN LEAFS; IMAGINING THE SEEDS UNDERNEATH, THROUGH NUMB ROOT VESSELS THAT PERMEATE THROUGH EVERY MEMBRANE OF MY EXTERNAL TO INTERNAL ENVIRONMENT}

~FEATURING THE VICIOUS CYCLE OF DEPRESSION & PERFECTIONISM.

here goes:

What is this part of my mind ?

If you want; delve inside-

I may look sweet like Alice,

but underneath it all

I deteste looking in the mirror

-cos I see the mad hatter.

my inner child needs a platter-

full of care not distortion & abuse pls.

less fibbin would’ve been a breeze.

now following the dead fish in the stream!

HOW on EARTH do I fit with the cod & the Haddock?

I’m the rainbow fish- beat & battered.

dim my own light cos I’m too afraid to shine.

alone.

thieves tried to steal my shiny scales.

I sat and watched them grow.

In the sea realm they were mean gargantuan selfish whales, with poisonous shark fangs & alligator tails. scorpion hands. (gremlins)

and still they make me feel like the alien-

I cant take it.

Make it make sense ?

I can’t.

controller in my hand-

Off balance stance.  

anxiously I move round like a wobbly jelly.

where’s the button to balance my chi & shut out the ego ?

the teLLIE telling lies to our vision!

change the channel aura terracotta orange- daily dosage of vitamin D & C.

catch me sun gazing by the sea

head buzzin like a bee.

speaking from a dusty box

stuck on top of a forbidden shelf

cos I dunno how else.

I’m tryna delve deep but forgot how to dive

How can i visualise? scenery foggy-

the establishment man with the glue gun got me xD

inner monk burning but at peace

Cos I refuse to believe

If the only way is the American dream

Interconnected; like the frog in science -let’s dissect it!

down to every floating atom spirit neighbouring your door

subcategories & divisions, it’s more!

than the rich and the poor -prism that’s been built

do we all feel like a performance monkey on stilts?

will my data be extracted & used to mould a robots personality some day?

well obviously not.

does the price of our lives all amount down to slave ways?

LABOUR YAY!

but morals & values it seems we’ve forgot.

sO If i don’t speak its cos I’m lost.

or maybe i’m enlightened-

Standing at the edge of the porch;

watching TRYING to understand how the flowers grow.

questioning eVERYTHING man made!

I’ve stepped out of the perfect picture frame

I can see the coal pollute the sky

I need to hop on the train-

but I’m comfortable

Sunset to sunrise statue standing still.

what’s the ingredients to life’s yucky pie?

I’ve exceeded mental lotteries.

Sanity n universal peace would be a trophy.

TIL then I’ll be crafting & shaping a solid pottery reality,

with a few pence, gum, and a bandana of belongings tied to stick.

thinking one day I’ll be laying the bricks

& building a kingdom of bliss.

guess for now I’ll use the intricate delicate materials in my tool box- that’s all I’ve got.

might have a long way- maybe worth a shot.

I observe, cruisin in the sky.

dunno why..

I jus look @ the hills.

Only time & history reveals.

no thanks mr men-

I don’t want your prescription pills.

there’s enough propaganda as it is.

I won’t jump on the merry go round-

til my core trusts & envisions we’ll actually feel safe!

I don’t want to take part in this faux fur, sweet nothings & a jack in a box punching blur, so called future.

oh and genuinely thanks quarantine-for once again, I can hear bird sounds!

guess this is me tryna speak out loud!!!...

it’s not thrilling

system  time killing everything-

mother nature’s oxygen

everything is nauseating

clock ticking, I better start creating.

they should write a book on how to be free when the system set us up to believe that we’re tied to the cut down trees that gives them a currency of greed that they breed.

If blindfolded, I don’t wanna eat what they feed.

Whilst they profit of us -tell us smile and the bandits don’t wanna see us happy.

they’re too busy robbing all our hoods.

In exchange for the silence, they’ve granted us with a 21’st century fashion garment of a slave muzzle! labelled conform.

More delusion to add to the already desensitised norm.

zootonic diseases, welcome covid 19 to your plastic kiddy tea party!- apologies for questioning your motive!

Been handed too many hot plates with a post it note saying HOLD THIS.

we’ll be okay just hush.

Same Shan message told to every generational seed.

If we don’t TRY overpower-

we’ll never succeed!

it’s getting even more scary.

Artificial intelligence.

Societal negligence..

my canvas isn’t clear-dunno am I schizo ?

finger painting, cos it makes more sense.

struggling to blend.

borderline conspiracist pretending to be fine;

moving the goal post, hovering above the race line.

who made the chalk? who set the lanes?

I wanna know it all, maybe¿ far past insane.

I can fit all I need in the palm of my hand,

Maybe even less! cut a finger off not sure it’ll even add stress.

hi from personality Peter, even sober- always away with the fairies.

Pass the pixie dust, I’m in a rush

Found shelter in the comfort of pan physicists timer, no not the one on your phone!

Ring ring, skeptical! is it my demon or my mommy on the phone?

I’m stuck in the airspace of an infinite glass filled with beach particles trying to form myself standing up still attempting not to slip through the hands of my very own discovery.

time is running out & ill go when I go.

I’m sitting inside the fly trap -

stardust, chakras can you feel the sensation colors like a starburst.

deep emotion is a curse.

still entrapped in the sand dune of nothingness-

flipping a domino monopoly of solidified thoughts as I sway with the wind.

I’m the trapped sandbox in the playground & the slipping sand in my own hands.

Inhale chronic but I wanna enter the quiet realm of white noise

-color of a wife beater vest, calmer than the ease in ignorance of a red neck.

sadomasochistic, messes.

but oblivion, seems like less stress.

Unfortunately I can see, with all eyes

empathetic paralysis, gets me vexed.

Punching truth into the core of your chest!

It’s not funny, neither is the one on the receiving end..

My limbs are numb

& im done playing octopus alchemy.

I want minimalism & life can be simple,

Evil entities have made it hard.

Maybe I’ve got stars above my head like an old cartoon character.

But I can’t make it make sense, are they out to get me. worse all of us? Or have I bottled myself tryna re mesh the broken shards,

I feel glued to the floor cos there’s a pretty price to pay if you want more.

I see life through a different lense, maybe born downside up, Benjamin button I came out the back door-

Outside looking in, digesting confusion.

Is to be a product of environment a sin?

rummage through my messy brain.

personalities sardine packed in this tin

I’m the wizard of my mania

Scaring & attracting the black crows-

they’re my friends.

Sometimes still a cowardly lion

Roaring pain & true riddles at the wrenching wicked witch posse of the west.

will my voice ever be loud enough to shed light wit my words and grate the sweet zest

In to the cake i’m baking?

Probably not.

Got more thoughts than the autumn leaves collected by the garden rake. alone.

gathering & storing the pains of yesterday.

sometimes I stay in line

Other times in my head Im on my hands juggling out of time.

but I really don’t mind if I lose or win.

we all have a pace

I jus don’t want the 1% to win the race.

It’s unfair!

Humanity does anyone care ??

Half lady

half fairy

Good  MOOrning-

from my anagrams.

no I’m not a cow.

twister fidget spinner brain in the flesh-

form of expression this time around lyrics.

feel I’m jus a silly rubix

& still mourning

I don’t like dairy

pass the oat milk.

Are you aware the industry are sabotaging our diets?

we want peace!

the powerful elite-

perceive & deceive

the scene they want us to be.

chuck the narcissistic psychopathic pie back in our face-

every time we almost found & addressed the Programme & Control man in the maze.

evil & extroverted- he said that the anarchists have to be the cause of riots.

working isn’t class. I said let’s switch roles- he said pass.

It’s piss! Who’s got the bomb & the guns?

Who got the land? off wit OUR heads 4 fun!

it’s pure scary.

Pharmaceutics handshake.

with the cooked up suppliers, also crooked wack liars.

I’d rather shot a gallon of bloody blubbery infused slaughter house milk

If it meant we didn’t use cocoons for silk.

why not add a drizzle of bleach to the concoction & maybe that’s a reach.

every time I guzzle fakeness, it taste peak.

I want real fruit, what next-

a seedless peach ???

what’s the difference between a weirdo & a freak?

layers & levels to the shit.

Magnifying tapping the window of society, I’ll be puffing green til I get to the land of Oz.

sponge soaked soaking up emotions

Suffocated by deduction of care in life

feel entrapped in this paradigm

what am I thinking ?

got the verbs & a cuppa tea

It’s mixed with torment & desire to be free.

I’d rather be awake than asleep

When I get too comfy I feel weak

Demons they reap

underneath

rip the seems as I bleed

Concrete

Solid

Emotions

Is all you’re getting

It’s all sad scenes in the imagery I’m setting

people need care we seem to be forgetting

why are we in debt wit

a posse of clowns

pay the price so we can get a frown

here’s some seratonin

quit ya moaning

life is all sound

aw yeh¿  if you’re not an over thinker!

product of environment- Sirius flickers

theyve done a ritual like it’s Wicca

now here’s your gold sticker..

for managing to co operate.

In this world fuelled off of evil n hate

waking ups a bloody disgrace

I am not amazed.

Man I love my fam n my friends

Just hate this part of my brain that feels the need to play pretend

sometimes I feel insane

but I’m calm

need to escape so I don’t do harm

Gold lioness in the sky by the sea

with puff the magic dragon

fire out my mouth, fuel helps me breathe

I will shine bright

Promise imma be alright

even tho I’m not sure why

I function like this

I wanna be myself

It’s just hard to find the comfortability

To feel happy and pretty

Lay me down on a bed of roses

Ring around sing about overdose emotions

Sorry dunno how to communicate

Heads in a constant debate

Should I go or should I stay

My head clashes

Burnin the next ciggy as my thoughts become ashes.

[rise-above-the-grave]

beware stained glass shards

for @dekusmynamecryingsmygame​. you said angst was fine, so uhhhh have some mf-ing erasermic angst I guess. please note that a) I am brand new to this fandom and am still figuring out headcanons and characterizations. hopefully I didn’t screw anything up too bad in that regard...but if I did, please at least be gentle in your critique :’)... b) I wrote this in...about 4 hours, all completely after midnight. it’s not gonna be my best work :/ but I did my best! and I wanted to get this up asap so you could see and read it sooner rather than later.

tw for: canon-typical injuries, hospitals (and everything that goes along with hospitals like doctors, nurses, surgeries, etc.), some implied (it’s only implied!! and it’s super duper uber vague) nsfw stuff, and an off-screen (debatable; maybe-it-was, maybe-it-wasn’t) suicide attempt. (was it a suicide attempt or a villain attack? I don’t even know myself! - at least not yet. read it however you wanna read it. I purposefully leave it open for interpretation.)

and if you don’t wanna read it because of that even potential suicide attempt, lemme know and I’ll write you something else, Peachy... alkdsjflkjdsf unfortunately I have a bad case of “I didn’t think this through” after midnight, and I didn’t even think of that possibility until I was basically done writing it. at that point I was like “It’s 5:30 and I need to sleep, I might as well post this on the off chance they do want to read it...” if you don’t wanna read it tho lemme know and again, I’ll write ya something else tomorrow <3

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

He falls.

There is lightning, there is thunder, there is rain—and for an instant (a second, a heartbeat, a breath), he is a swallow, a sparrow, a falcon. He flies with invisible wings, the air is caught beneath him and above him and before him, the world spreads out into infinity below the raindrops hanging suspended in the air. The lightning gilds his dark hair in quicksilver, the thunder that follows an instant later shakes his bones, and the rain that drives him to the earth soaks his clothes into a second skin.

He falls, the asphalt of the alley that runs beneath the comet of his body rising nearer and nearer in a rapid sequence that he thinks, distantly, should be alarming.

I should be afraid, he thinks.

This is going to hurt, he thinks.

Hizashi—

And then there is pain, and there is fear, and there is darkness gilt by lightning, silence shrouded by thunder, blood watered by rain.

---

Yamada Hizashi is 22, desperate, and dangerous.

He is older than he thought he would ever be. When he was young, he had imagined himself living to the infinite age of 50. He would look at himself in the mirror hanging in the bathroom, fingers combing through hair he imagined going silver, palms smearing smooth skin he imagined going wrinkled and weather worn. He would pluck at the band t-shirts he’d wear under too-hot, too-heavy jackets with fidgety hands, wondering what he’d wear then.

I’m gonna be a hero! he’d told his moms, and when they laughed and hugged him and told him, You’re going to be the best hero there is!, he believed himself immortal, invincible, inevitable.

And he was. He was immortal, invincible, inevitable. He could be hurt, he could be beaten, he could be knocked down. But no matter what—no matter the pain, the struggle, the difficulty—he healed, and he fought until he was victorious, and he stood back up. No one could keep him down. No one could diminish him. No one could threaten his impenetrable view of the future.

And then—and then Oboro. And it had all crashed down around him, like so many shards of shattered stained glass.

With Oboro goes his heart. His future. His eternity. He is taught, with the sharpness of stone, with the heaviness of rubble, with the choking taste of dust, that death lurks in the most innocent of shadows, that pain waits in the wings of the theater, that certainty is a lodestone chained around your neck.

Nothing is certain. Not everything can heal. No one is invincible.

He stops thinking he’ll live to 50.

He stops thinking he’ll live past 20.

“Fuck you,” he spat, and Shouta flinched as if he’d been struck, the Happy birthday that had been on his lips dying a silent, painful death. “Fuck everything.” Without warning—without even fully processing what he intended to do; he just hurt, and he needed something, someone, to hurt with him—Hizashi threw his tumbler against the wall behind the bar. The shelf the tumbler hit broke, and a cascade of bottles and liquor crashed to the floor in so many shard of glass and fragments of dreams and spreading rivers of blood.

There was a shout, and then Hizashi felt Tensei’s and Nemuri’s hands on his shoulders, heard Shouta’s voice sounding unusually placating and apologetic as he spoke to the bartender who had rushed over.

“Get him out of here,” Shouta snapped a few seconds later, turning and looking straight at him with death in his eyes. For an instant, Hizashi almost felt guilty. Then Tensei and Nemuri were dragging him away from the counter, away from the gathering crowd, away from the bar.

“Idiot,” Tensei muttered as Hizashi listed against him in the alley behind the bar, all at once too drunk and too sober to function.

“Idiot,” Nemuri sighed, guiding him into the cab, buckling the seatbelt across his chest and waist and then letting him collapse against her shoulder.

“Idiot,” Shouta hissed at him as he undressed him and shoved him unkindly into bed.

He stops thinking he’ll live—and so he stops caring. He drinks too much. Eats too little. Throws himself into his work with a single-minded mania.

His relationship with Shouta suffers. They grate, like two broken ends of a once-whole bone, the nerve that is Oboro’s death still laid bare between them. Shouta can’t sleep without Hizashi in his bed; Hizashi can’t sleep unless he’s alone. Hizashi drinks to drown his memories, his emotions, his pain; Shouta tries to starve his out. They argue about it, until Shouta erases Hizashi’s quirk and Hizashi throws a punch—about Shouta’s energy pouches, about Hizashi’s whiskey. About the lights Hizashi wants to leave on at night. About the socks on the floor inside the door. About the uncapped toothpaste left by the bathroom sink. About the half-eaten takeout sitting in the fridge. About the nights Shouta will disappear without warning, without a trace. About—

Hizashi wonders if it is his fault the day Shouta walks out, slamming the door behind him.

Shouta doesn’t come back.

Hizashi drinks more. Eats less. Works harder. Does anything, anything to distract himself from the event horizon opening inside his chest.

I’ve lost my best friend, he thinks, curled up alone and unable to sleep in a bed that had once held two.

For the first time in years, he wishes someone was sleeping beside him.

It is dangerous. He knows this—knows the risks, knows that the rewards are negligible compared to the ruin it could bring him. His career is on the line. His future hangs by a thread.

Hizashi doesn’t care.

He isn’t going to live past 21 anyway.

Only a few of his partners know who he is. Those that do keep silent. It is never wise to paint a target on your back, and Hizashi makes it clear that he doesn’t want a relationship, isn’t looking for a connection—that there is no reason for them to think there is anything between them but drunken carnality.

He learns fast how to duck cameras—and how to attract them. He learns how to avoid reporters, except when he wants to talk. He learns how to sidetrack paparazzi with glamour shots. He finds he is good at this game of chess, of Russian Roulette, of cards built into fragile palaces. He is good with people, good with crowds, good with playing the symphony’s strings.

I’d make a damn good villain, he thinks one night before he drifts off to sleep, a cute blond whose name he can’t remember already asleep beside him.

And then he thinks of Shouta—of Eraserhead—and the guilt he’d swallowed eight months before, when Shouta had walked out and left nothing but empty shadows where he’d been, threatens to choke him. He barely makes it to the bathroom before he vomits, bile tasting of too-much alcohol and too-little food, of regret and shame.

What am I doing? he thinks, leaning his forehead against cool porcelain.

“Are you okay?” the cute blond asks. He stands in the door to the bathroom and looks down at Hizashi with concern in his pale eyes.

“Get out,” Hizashi says, not looking up.

“But—”

“Just—just go.” And then, softly, voice breaking halfway through the only syllable that matters, “Please.”

The cute blond leaves, and Hizashi is left totally, utterly alone.

---

“You’re listed as his emergency contact.”

Hizashi stares at the window overlooking the city and sees nothing but smears of too-bright light against a stormy night. Sees nothing but the unknown caller ID flashing up on his phone screen after its ringing had woken him. Sees nothing but the memory of Shouta’s face just before he’d turned away and stalked out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him.

What had they even been fighting about? Hizashi can’t remember.

“I’ll be right there,” Hizashi says, unsticking his throat just long enough to remember what he’s supposed to say.

The line clicks dead, and Hizashi stumbles blindly out of bed and into a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. He throws on a jacket, a pair of boots, a set of headphones. Ties his hair up in a bun to keep it out of his face and, hopefully, dry once he pulls the hood of his jacket over his head.

The trip to the hospital is spent in a haze of emotion, fear, and dread. He can’t parse any of it, though. Can’t understand it, give voice to it, give structure to it. All he knows is that he is feeling, and that he is afraid, and that he is certain that the scythe has finally fallen once again—only once again it hasn’t come to reap his life.

The hospital is bright against the rain-swept night, clean and sharp and stinging. Hizashi feels bad about the mud he tracks in, feels bad about the water he drips on the floor, feels bad about the lingering scent of gel and hairspray that seems to hang around him no matter what shampoo he uses.

He tells them who he is, who he is here to see. The nurse helping him looks at Hizashi with a curious expression that he is too strung out to try to interpret, and then leads him down a maze of white corridors that he knows he will never remember. They stop outside a door in the ICU, and the woman rests a hand on his forearm and says something Hizashi does not hear. Then she opens the door, and Hizashi steps into the room.

Shouta is unconscious on a bed, surrounded by machines. His chest rises and falls with intubated breath, and two IVs are hooked into the backs of his hands. His eyes are closed beneath the purple and black bruising shadowing his face, and Hizashi can just see more bruising peering out above the bandages swathing his chest.

“How—” He chokes, unable to form the words that he needs to say.

“We don’t know,” the nurse says. “He was found in an alley by a couple of drunk college students. We think he fell.”

“Fell?” Hizashi repeats dumbly. “But he never falls.”

The nurse is silent. Whatever she is thinking, she does not share with Hizashi.

For that, Hizashi is grateful.

“Is he going to make it?”

“We don’t know,” the nurse admits. “He has to stabilize before we can use any healing on him. If he survives the night, his prognosis will be good—but it’s a big “if”.” She hesitates, then says, “It’s a good thing you came.”

Hizashi moves to sit in the chair pulled up to Shouta’s bedside and sinks into it. He does not see the nurse watch him with concern—does not hear her pager go off a few minutes later. He does not even notice when she disappears through the door, or when the door clicks shut behind her.

For a long time, Hizashi is silent. There is too much to say—too much he needs to say, too much he wants to say, too much he can’t say. The words sit heavy on his tongue, in his throat, behind his teeth. They are stones in his stomach, glass in his lungs, thorns in his heart.

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.

He laughs weakly.

“You always did have a way of leaving me speechless, Sho,” he says at last. His voice is a clap of thunder in the silence of the room.

Hizashi sighs and buries his face in his hands.

“Please wake up,” he whispers through his fingers. “There’s so much I have to tell you. So much you have to know. Like, you have to know that I—I’m sorry. For…for everything.”

He swallows. His throat constricts, and his breath comes in shaky gasps.

“I can’t lose you too,” he says to his palms, because looking at Shouta is too much. His voice is hoarse and barely audible and pleading. “Please, Sho…”

The machines beep. The vents rattle. Shouta’s false breath hisses.

And Shouta doesn’t wake, even when Hizashi begins to cry.

---

Hizashi is asleep when the doctor comes in, just after dawn. He startles awake at the sound of the door closing, blinking blearily and turning his head to stare at the tall, dark man. The doctor smiles at him, and goes to check on Shouta.

He had survived the night. That much, at least, is a relief.

“We still don’t know,” the doctor warns Hizashi. “But we can start to be hopeful.”

They take him away for another surgery. This time, they promise Hizashi, a healer will be involved.

Hizashi stands, stretches, and goes in search of food. He finds the cafeteria, and buys a meager breakfast that smells bad and tastes worse. When he looks at his phone, he sees that he has missed calls from both Tensei and Nemuri. He shuts it off and shoves his phone back into his pocket to deal with later.

He’s going to have to call his agency soon, too, but he has a few minutes until that call is critical.

He spends a quarter of an hour sitting at the hard, plastic table in the cafeteria, staring out of the window at the overcast morning and thinking. He thinks about what he is going to say if—when—Shouta wakes up. He thinks about what he is going to say to Nemuri and Tensei. He thinks about his choices, and about the certainty of death, and about the possibility of life.

He thinks about Oboro, and about Shouta, and about how he lost one and how he might lose the other.

Hizashi stands, shoving his chair back so hard it topples onto the floor with a bang. What few others are in the cafeteria stare at him with varying degrees of irritation and wariness, until he rights the chair and walks away with a casual wave of apology.

He calls Tensei.

Tenya is running around in the background, laughing maniacally, and Tensei is distracted during the call in spite of his concern. He promises to come by the hospital when he can, though, and tells Hizashi to call Nemuri. Hizashi promises he will, and hangs up.

Nemuri is unusually quiet as Hizashi tells her what he knows of what happened, and while he tells her that Shouta is back in surgery. When at last she speaks, she only says, “You were still his emergency contact.” It is not a question. It is barely an observation. More than anything, it is a revelation.

“I guess so,” Hizashi says, cradling the phone between his ear and his shoulder as he feeds a bill into one of the vending machines. His breakfast had been bland, and he wants sugar.

They talk for another few minutes about nothing in particular, and as Hizashi unwraps his candy bar and begins to eat, he is struck with the notion that Nemuri is just trying to distract him. He appreciates it. Before long, though, she hangs up with a quick goodbye, and a promise to come to the hospital after her last patrol.

Hizashi crumples the empty wrapper and tosses it into a trash bin, and wanders his way back toward Shouta’s room.

He calls his agency once he is seated by Shouta’s still-empty bed. He tells them there was a family emergency, and that he will not be able to patrol today. They are surprisingly accepting of his feeble excuses, and Hizashi wonders if someone else had already contacted them. Probably Tensei, he decides. That was always the kind of thing Tensei thought of.

His phone calls made, Hizashi settles uncomfortably into the hard, plastic chair to wait for Shouta to be brought back. He tries not to think. He mostly fails.

He thinks of Shouta. He thinks of Oboro. He thinks of invincibility, and of shattered stained glass, and of birthdays. He thinks of a broken shelf of liquor bottles. He thinks of screaming at Shouta in their apartment, so angry he’s lost control, and of Shouta silencing him with a red-eyed stare. He thinks of broken promises, and broken hopes, and broken dreams.

They bring Shouta back in sometime around noon. He is still unconscious, but he looks a little better than he had the night before. The bruising is lighter—more red and purple than black and purple—and he is breathing on his own. Some of his color has returned as well, though he was never anything but pale.

The nurses leave again, after telling Hizashi things he does not hear, his attention fixed on Shouta to the exclusion of all else. He wonders, vaguely, as he feels them leave the room, if they had figured that out, or if they had just finished telling him what they had to say.

The seconds drag into minutes as Hizashi waits, the minutes into hours. Hizashi sits, stiff and sore, in the chair by Shouta’s bedside, watching his chest move beneath the bandaging, watching his eyes flicker beneath his eyelids. He wonders what Shouta dreams of.

The doctor comes in again. Leaves again. Hizashi ignores him.

Nemuri comes, but does not stay long. She talks, and Hizashi listens with half an hear, saying nothing as she tells him about her day, about her night, about everything but her worry over Shouta. It’s there, though, lurking beneath every strained story, every forced laugh, every brittle word.

Nemuri is older than him and Shouta and Tensei—but, like Tensei, she had found them adrift in the wake of Oboro’s death, and like Tensei she had decided, “These are mine, now.” Hizashi is grateful for it most days.

It is only after Nemuri stands and presses a kiss to Hizashi’s cheek in farewell that he speaks.

“They think he fell,” Hizashi says, not looking anywhere but Shouta’s face. Nemuri freezes.

“But he never falls.”

“I know.”

“Do you think—”

“I don’t know what I think,” Hizashi says, short and sharp. “And neither do you.”

Nemuri hesitates. Then says simply, “Okay.” She leaves without another word.

---

Tensei visits for an hour, and when he leaves he promises to return later in the evening so that Hizashi can run home to shower and change clothes. Hizashi agrees without really knowing what he’s agreeing to.

Night has just well and truly fallen when Shouta’s eyes flicker, then open. He looks around, taking in the lights and the ceiling and walls—and then his eyes fall on Hizashi, and he freezes.

“Hey,” Hizashi says.

Shouta turns his eyes away and stares up at the ceiling.

“Uh,” Hizashi says, feeling suddenly awkward and tongue-tied. “Thanks for leaving me as your emergency contact.”

Shouta grunts. Hizashi wonders if he can even talk right now, or if it’s too painful.

“Look, Sho…” Hizashi grimaces. “Shouta,” he corrects.

Shouta looks at him again, eyes flicking over to his face. Hizashi rubs the back of his neck, and tries to figure out how to say what he wants to say.

“I know this is a bad time,” he says finally. “But I have to say this before the doctors come rushing in, and before you get up the strength to kick me out.” Shouta’s eyes narrow at him, but Hizashi isn’t looking at him anymore—is staring, instead, at the edge of the bed.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out. “For…” He takes a deep breath. “For everything.”

Shouta looks back at the ceiling, and does not speak.

Hizashi calls the nurses. They come quickly, and Hizashi excuses himself from the room so that they can fuss over Shouta in peace. By the time they are done, Tensei is back, and Hizashi finds himself kicked out of the hospital until he has showered, changed, and eaten a full meal. He agrees to the terms grudgingly, but only because the memory of Shouta not even being willing to look at him is still fresh in his mind.

It haunts him as he showers, as he changes, as he walks to a small take-out restaurant a few blocks from his apartment and places his order. He wonders if he should even go back to the hospital, or if Shouta would prefer it to just be Tensei there.

He almost decides he would.

Tensei calls him just as he’s finishing his dinner, though.

“You on your way back?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Hizashi says, because he can’t quite bring himself to be selfless enough to say no.

---

Shouta is still awake when Hizashi walks into the room again. He looks at Hizashi when he opens the door and steps inside, then looks away again before he can close it. Tensei notices the silent exchange with a pensive look, but says nothing.

“Well,” he says, standing, “I have to go. I’m babysitting Tenya again tomorrow morning, and that little monster drains more out of me than twenty villains.” The soft smile on his lips belies the cutting words, though, and Hizashi knows that Tensei would give the world to his little brother if given the chance.

“Thanks,” Hizashi says, and claims the chair Tensei had just vacated.

Silence fills the room in the wake of Tensei’s departure, heavy and awkward and uncomfortable. Hizashi looks everywhere but at Shouta. Shouta stares at the ceiling.

“I…” Hizashi begins at last, entirely uncertain where he means to go with his next sentence but knowing he can’t bear the silence any longer.

A sigh cuts him off. Then, abruptly, in a ragged voice, Shouta says, “I’m sorry.”

Hizashi finally looks at him, startled. “For what?”

“For…everything,” Shouta says. “For walking out. For not being there for you. For ignoring you when you needed me.”

“Shouta, I…” Hizashi swallows hard. “I dug my own grave. I don’t expect you to dig me out. I never have.”

“Maybe that’s your problem,” Shouta whispers. “Our problem.”

Hizashi frowns. “What happened, Sho?” he asks suddenly. “How did you fall?”

“Someone pushed me,” Shouta says without hesitation. “I didn’t see them until it was too late.”

For the first time in seven years, Hizashi isn’t sure if Shouta is lying.

“Okay.” The word tastes like ash on Hizashi’s tongue, but there is nothing else he can say. Not now, anyway. Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

Shouta is silent again, but it is a different kind of silence. Hizashi waits, knowing he is preparing to say something. At last, after a few heavy moments of pregnant waiting, Shouta says, “Can we start over?”

Hizashi looks at him, surprised. “I’m not sure that’s going to be possible,” he tells Shouta.

“Maybe,” Shouta agrees. “But…try again, then.”

For the first time in over a day, Hizashi smiles. “Yeah,” he says. Then, again, “Yeah. I’d…like that. I’d like that a lot.”

Shouta nods, just a little, against the pillow behind his head. He closes his eyes.

“Will you be here?” he asks, voice already thick with sleep.

“Yeah,” Hizashi says, knowing what he’s asking. ���I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Shouta nods again, eyes still closed, and in seconds his breathing evens out into a soft, sleepy cadence.

Hizashi settles back into his uncomfortable chair, preparing for another long night of half-conscious sleep. It’ll be worth it, though, he thinks. Anything is worth having my best friend back.

And for the first time since the stained glass of his invincibility shattered, Hizashi thinks that maybe, just maybe—if Shouta is at his side—he’ll see his 25th birthday. Maybe even his 30th.

Maybe even his 50th.

[thorne93]

Unforeseen Chasm (Part 58)

Prompt: Two sisters fall for men that are absolute enemies. The love they have could tear all of them apart, or it could bring them together.

Word Count:1768

Warnings: Language, pain, grief, no sleeping or eating reader Song for this part: I’ll never love again- Lady Gaga Note: This is by far the longest thing I’ve ever written (including my novels). It’s a collaboration with the amazing @mrs-dragneel-stark-solo​​. It started as a funny “What if…?” and it evolved and got huge. This took two years to write. We are both proud and happy and we hope you enjoy it. It follows from Thor 1 to Endgame in the MCU. Some of the timelines may be off in order to fit certain people, and some characters may show up earlier or in different ways than they have in the movie. But for the most part, it follows the MCU. It also has a bit of crossover with some other Marvel characters throughout the story.

Masterlist for Unforeseen Chasm

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When all was said and done, you were back at the Avengers compound. 

Everyone remaining of the team had been gathered up. It appeared that Nat, Steve, Rhodey, Bruce, and Shannon were all still okay. Shannon was a relief, they all were really -- your friends, but Loki… Loki vanishing before you… that nearly killed you. 

It’d been two days now.

Nat had tried to reach out to Clint multiple times with nothing. Shannon had tried sending a signal to Tony’s transponder endlessly since she boarded the jet back home and there was no response. 

As for you, you were consumed with both grief and obsession. Thanos was alive, he was still out there somewhere, with the stones. You were in Shannon’s lab, searching. You began to try and trace the remnants of the stones. You started with the location of the snap and then went from there, trying to trace each stone. Part of the mind stone flowed in your veins, so you let the system take a bit of your blood, so that it could maybe find it somewhere on the planet, in the galaxy, in the universe. Thanos had to be somewhere. 

You worked day and night. Shannon tried to get you to eat, as did Steve, but each time they came in, you simply muttered a vague response of not being hungry. Towards the end of the second day, Shannon was way past worried. Between wringing her hands on if Tony was alive, dead, or vanished and watching you spiral into madness, she was at her wits end. 

“Y/N!” she barked when you refused a sandwich late at night. “This is quite enough! You need rest. You need sleep. Do you think Loki would want you killing yourself to find him?” she implored as she walked forward and tried to touch your shoulder.

Your eyes never left the map though as you continued working through physics equations, mathematical probabilities of where Thanos might’ve gone. 

“Yes,” you muttered mindlessly, not really paying attention to her. 

“No he wouldn’t! I didn’t know him as well as you, and we may have had our differences, but both of us love you and want you to be happy and healthy. Y/N… Y/N… Y/N!” She shouted, grabbing your shoulders and forcing you to look at her. Finally, the trance was broken. You were looking at her, paying attention to her, listening. “Do you see yourself? You’re a zombie. You’re entirely consumed with… with this! You’re not going to find him, and even if you do, what are you going to do? We lost… and that was with all of us. What do you think will happen?” she begged. 

“I don’t care,” you defiantly said, pulling yourself from her grasp, going back to your work. “I will fight him alone if I have to. I have to get those stones back,” you muttered, falling back into the frenzy of madness, refusing to be rational. 

“Y/N, come on, this isn’t healthy. You’re going out of your mind. You can’t face him alone. Loki wouldn’t want this.” 

“Loki isn’t here!” you suddenly roared, dropping your pencil down. “He isn’t here! None of them are! Because of Thanos! Don’t you see? I have to find him! I have to! He’s taken everything from me. First, he took you, then he took all of my friends, now… Now he has literally taken the love of my life and most of my friends. Don’t you see I have to do this? I have to find him.” The mania had broken. Your eyes were alive with chaos and heartbreak. How did Shannon not see that Thanos needed to be stopped? 

All she did was eye you with sorrowful pity before pulling you into a tight embrace. 

“Killing yourself to find him won’t do it… We’ll take turns, yeah?” she offered with a smile as she pulled away. “I’ll stay up, run some numbers, watch the simulation… We can find him, but I want you to go get some sleep… Please? You can’t think correctly or find anyone on no sleep.” 

Hesitantly, you agreed. She was right. You explained which probabilities you were running quickly before Steve offered to show you to a room. You thanked him as he put his hand on your shoulder and guided you.

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

You were lying in a room they’d made up for you, you think it was the one next to Wanda’s but at that moment in time, nothing mattered - not eating, drinking, or showering. You were tired. The grief made you tired, more tired than you think you’d ever felt in your life, but your obsession kept you going. Now that you’d actually laid down though, you were exhausted.

Grief hit you harder than any physical pain you’d ever endured. Which meant all of the things you needed to do to keep you alive and healthy vanished when Loki did. Your will to live had absolutely been obliterated. 

Things had been rough all around. Everyone was still trying to find people they knew. Shannon had kept a front when the team was together but they all knew this was hitting her hard not knowing if Tony and the kid had been dusted or not. 

Shannon walked into your room like she did every day to give you updates but this time around was different. After she went in she sat at the edge of her bed. Shannon had been busy looking for the people you all loved and cared for. You were tracking down the enemy. No one had found anything.

You moved the covers of your bed and patted the spot next to you. She got in and you both leaned close to each other. “How’s it going?” she asked, barely audible.

“You know exactly how it’s going,” you deadpanned, the tiniest hint of anger in your voice. You weren’t angry at her, per se, but angry at the situation and mad that she could think you were any better off than a few days ago. “How about you? Any word on Tony? Strange? Peter? Any of them?” you wondered, grasping for any kind of spark of hope or happiness.

“I know, I’m sorry.” She looked down at her hands wishing she could do more. “No. Still no word about either of them, the transponder is still not sending a signal.” She seemed to shrink down into the bed. “I wish there was some clue you know? I don’t even know if Parker is...if he’s—” She shut down a bit not wanting to think about the very real possibilities.

You reached over and grabbed her hand. “We will find them. Somehow.” 

“There’s only so much hope we can have and I'm trying my hardest to keep strong for everyone, you know?” She squeezed your hand looking up at you. “They keep looking to me as if though I’m Tony and there’s that pager beeping with still no clue as to who it's meant for...”

“Because you’re just like him,” you said with the smallest of smiles. “That’s why he married you. You two are two peas in a pod. You're the idea people. You two share a brain, I swear. He moves, you move. He thinks of something and you finish the thought. If you have an idea, he helps make it a reality. You two are perfect for each other. But above all of that, you’re what usually holds this team together, Shan. They need you for guidance and ideas. Steve lost Sam and Bucky, and now with Tony… He has you and Nat, that’s it. The rest of them, they need you.” 

Shannon looked up to you from her wedding ring. “I’m not sure I know what to do though...like you said part of my brain is missing and I’m scrawling to figure this out. I need your help Y/N/N, how do I do this? Where do I start, who can I question when there’s no clues?” She leaned her head on your leg, at some point moved so far down that she was practically covered by the duvet. “I just wish this was some sick joke or nightmare and that we’ll wake up to the guys walking in with breakfast for us after a long night of being at the lab.” Her voice cracked. 

“Believe me, if wishes alone could’ve brought them back… they’d all be here by now by me alone.” You started to cry, your never ending habit lately. You swore you cried more than you breathed lately. “I miss him so much, you know? I wish I knew how to help you, Shan, I really do, but all I can think of is how to get to Thanos, how to maybe get everyone back and I… I’m not getting anywhere.” You sighed heavily. “I’m sorry I’m such a let down. I wished I could do one thing. I could’ve fought Thanos. I should’ve been fighting him. Not Steve and Bucky and you and Wanda. It should’ve been me. You told me to protect everyone… I didn’t do that. I failed you, I failed everyone.  Hell, I failed the whole universe.” 

“No, Y/N/N, don’t think that! I wish we could both hide in here but I know Steve wouldn't let me.” She peaked from under the covers. “Feels like you can’t breathe? Like there’s a literal part that's not functioning right? There’s so many things I wish I had done differently, you know?” She pulled you closer to her. “I know we’ll find a way to bring them back. Just too much to handle right now.”

“I’m not so sure about that. I also think Steve knows better than to come bother me right now, he may lose his life over it. Not to mention, I’m not essential. I don’t think anyone would miss me if I were gone, besides you.” You sighed. “You wish you had done things differently?” You scoffed. “I let Thanos get away. I should’ve just left Proxima alone. I should’ve been guarding Vision, not Wanda. There are a million things I could’ve done differently to give us a different turn out. But most of the time, yeah… I can’t breathe.” 

“I know,” she concurred, her voice thick. 

You tried to swallow your sobs for just a moment before you turned to her and said, “But there is still hope for you. Don’t let go of that.” 

“I’m trying not to, but it’s hard. And I have to lead this team, but I’m losing hope every minute Tony isn’t here.” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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@ultrarebelheart​​ @lenawiinchester​​ @esoltis280​​ @tngrayson​​ @wangdeasang​​ @harrymewmew @jayfantasyatyourservice​​

UC: @lokis-high-priestess​

[frangipanidownunder]

Fox Mulder’s Guide to Building a Pool: part 1

A/N This is in answer to an anon prompt: Mulder builds a pool in the yard. It ran away from me so I’ll post it in two parts. 

This is set post IWTB and assumes Season 10 didn’t happen. Because it shouldn’t have, am I right? Angsty to start with.

Summer He started one night, when the moon hung low and the stars were pegged out haphazardly in the midnight sky. His mind and his heart hadn’t stopped racing for hours, as though he were filled with cosmic energy. Outside, in flannel and old jeans, scuffed and muddied boots, he picked up the old shovel propped against the side of the rickety shed and dug until his fingers froze around the splintered handle, until the blisters on his palms burst, until the disquiet in his gut diffused. 

It was supposed to be a vegetable patch but by the time the dawn broke through, he realised it was in the wrong spot – shaded by the house and in the area of the land where the ground was rubbly and dry. The fertile patch was on the other side of the property, where the trees shed their leaves and mulched the earth naturally.

If there was anything Mulder was known for, it was his tenacity. Scully once told him he’d use a backhoe to dig for the truth. Well now he’d dug a ditch with a shovel and he was going to make something of it. As he massaged the pain from each knuckle he surveyed his night’s work. The sun’s rays hit the turned earth like laser beams, and he had an epiphany. A swimming pool. He was building a swimming pool. A white whale, the truth or a swimming pool. What did it matter as long as it was something he believed in? And just for a moment, in that warm spotlight, the dried out flower of hope bloomed in his chest.

The summer was long, dry and hot. So hot the tarmac melted on the roads, his tomato plants frizzled to brown and he lost his appetite for everything bar an ice-cold beer on the verandah after a day of digging. His routine was solid, despite the meteorological obstructions. He rose early, napped during the day, and worked through mosquito-filled twilights. In his downtime, he googled construction methods, materials, liners, water collection, filtration. On most days, he imagined himself ploughing through the water on warm evenings and chilly mornings, muscles burning, lungs protesting, body thrumming. On good days, he imagined Scully sitting under a shade umbrella sipping lemonade and reluctantly agreeing to take a dip with him, her lithe body pressed against his as they waltzed through the water together. On really good days, he imagined William paddling about in water wings, and squealing as daddy jumped in too close and made a big splish-splosh.

Scully arrived one afternoon, late. She hadn’t visited in a while, he hadn’t made his customary Sunday night call for…he couldn’t actually remember and when he saw the thunderous look on her face, he realised he hadn’t charged his phone for days.

“Didn’t you check your messages, Mulder? I lost count of how many I left. Your machine probably reached its limit.”

Rubbing the back of his neck with a towel, he looked over at the flashing red light and a pang of guilt twinged under his ribs. “I’ve been busy, Scully.” He thought she’d be pleased. That’s what she wanted, wasn’t it? To get him out of his office and back into the real world. Whatever that meant. They’d both seen the real world with its edges peeled back and its slimy, slithering insides exposed. He wasn’t sure he wanted to prod that beast anymore. She’d already turned away from that darkness and found her shining light under the fluorescent gaze of God in Our Lady of Sorrows. 

She looked him up and down with doctor’s eyes. The cold blue gaze causing a shiver to creep down his spine and he had to look away. Her ability to see right through him, past his calloused skin and into the sinewy mass of his body always unsteadied him. She was appraising his physical health and his mental wellbeing. He straightened his shoulders, brushed a clump of mud from his sleeve and offered her a drink.

“Chilled water will be fine,” she said. “I’m driving.”

Well, he knew that. How else would she get here? But more importantly, where else did she have to be. She was dressed sharply, not for the hospital. Something about the lower neckline and the softer palette made his brain wander places he didn’t want to go.

“I’m sorry if I’ve put you out,” he said, emptying ice into the glass and wondering where he put that lemon.

“It’s no bother, Mulder, to come here. You should know that. It’s just that I get…”

“You don’t need to worry about me,” he said, and not so long ago he would have laid a hand over her shoulder or collected her hand in his. Instead, he looked at her and smiled, trying to soften that cool scrutiny. “I’m doing okay.” He didn’t add despite you leaving.

She looked down at her shoes – shiny beige courts with a high heel. He could see her reflection in them. The mouth closing in relief, or maybe irritation. She chuffed. “If you’re going to tell me you’re a big boy, Mulder…”

Palms up in surrender, he shook his head, cracked open a soda. 

“Mulder, you shouldn’t drink…”

“I know about the dangers of too much sugar, Scully, I’m a big boy.”

He showed her his work. She trod carefully over the dry earth, held her cross as she surveyed. He had a sudden longing to see her in a white vest dampened with sweat, cuffed denim shorts, heavy work boots, digging alongside him. 

“And this is going to be a pool?”

“Can’t you see it? Long lazy evenings dipping our toes, sipping gin cocktails as we swat away bugs, brisk morning swims to shuck off those pains au chocolat?” He saw her then, zinc strips over her cheeks and shoulders, straw hat pulled over a lazy ponytail, sunglasses perched on her nose, lowering herself in.

“Mulder, I don’t…”

His chest burnt, like his lungs had crumpled in the storm of a wildfire. He took the handle of the shovel and chopped at the edge of the hole.

“It’s a nice spot,” she said, after a moment gazing out to the horizon. “It’ll be quite something.”

“When I finish,” he added.

Fall

Amber leaves danced on a shimmying breeze, some floating to the ground in theatrical zig-zags. On the other side of the house, the digging was complete. He’d hired an excavator in the end, his knees and back creaking for weeks to remind him of his advancing years and his inability to do everything alone. He’d hired a contractor to remove the dirt and ordered the steel bars for the frame. Scully came by more of

en, intrigued, as she put it, to see how the pool project was coming along. She called to say she was coming Sunday afternoon and would he mind if she stayed a bit longer? He spent all Friday in a mania of dusting and filing and wiping down surfaces. Nesting, they called it. He patted his belly and shook his head. He was becoming quite ridiculous; DIYing and getting giddy when his ex promised to drop by. 

In the cupboard next to the stove, he found a stack of old cookbooks, dogeared pages and horrific  images of antiquated dishes like jellied salads and ham and banana hollandaise that viewed more like one of Scully’s X-Files autopsies. Amongst them was a treasured find. Betty Crocker’s New Picture Cookbook – a book his mother had used religiously. Grease marks and flour crusted over the pages of cakes. He zipped out to the supermarket and picked up the ingredients he would need and set about baking. 

His cake was a simple vanilla sponge but he enjoyed the science of the task, the weights and measures, the timing, the temperature control – the very precision of it all. As he watched it rise, he recalled childhood birthdays, where his mother toiled away for hours icing, sculpting edges, piping, creating dreams. There were castles and race-cars and trains and poodles. Parties were ended with the ceremonial cutting and handing out of slices to guests. He had always felt special those days. But after Samantha’s abduction, she stopped the tradition. She bought shop-baked cakes, refused him parties, spent his birthday barely tolerating the day and Samantha’s sipping brandy. 

By the time Scully arrived, tea was steeping, the table was set with tea-cups and saucers, side plates, and the iced cake stood on an elegant glass platter that held it above the timber surface.

“What’s all this?” she asked, hanging her bag off the back of the chair. “Is the Queen coming over?”

He poured her tea. The colour of it in the white porcelain cup reminded him of her hair against the pillow slip of their bed. “I hope not. She only likes Black Forest Gateau and you didn’t leave any jars of maraschinos.” She laughed softly, just like she would laugh with him during cosy evenings on the couch, rolling her fingers over his bicep, planting sweet kisses along his jawline. Back when it was just them against the world. Not them against the world and then each other.

“The colour is like those Caribbean island beaches,” she said, dotting her finger into the icing on her slice. “Azure.”

Her tongue licked at the sweet blue paste and he wanted to say he chose it because it was like her eyes, that that was what he missed so hard, so deeply, he wanted to say that he was sorry. He couldn’t tear his gaze from her, this simple act of eating that had him enthralled. God, he loved having her over from him, setting her plate just right, pouring the exact amount of granola, spooning whatever yoghurt she was into over the cereal, slicing banana while reading the newspaper. He couldn’t say anything though. All the best words lumped in his throat, as though they were overbeaten and curdled.

Instead, he said, “When Samantha was six, mom made her this cake with blue jello on the top that was supposed to be a swimming pool. I don’t know, I just had this mad rush of nostalgia, finding all those cookbooks and remembering how good it used to be.” He looked up and she was staring at him. “Back then, back home.” 

“How’s it going?” she replied, changing the mood in three words. “The pool?”

It was windy again and leaves tumbled across the yard, collected in the gutter, in the drains, against the fences. 

“It’s protected from the wind on that side, so I won’t have to keep cleaning out the foliage. The pump should be in soon. Then I’ll organise for the concrete pour, before the weather really turns.”

Her hands were stuffed in her jacket pockets, and she’d hunched her shoulders against the chill. He should phone the concreters tomorrow. Get it done. The tip of her nose turned pink. 

“Let’s go back inside,” he said. 

“Why concrete, Mulder? Why not fibre glass or a vinyl liner?”

He shrugged as she walked past him and his eyes settled on her hair, falling down her back, unkempt from the wind. She smoothed it down, rubbed her hands together, sat back at her seat and took another slice of cake. 

“With a more solid foundation,” he said, “it should last longer.”

[mrs-dragneel-stark-solo]

Unforseen Chasm(Part 58)

Part 58 of Unforseen Chasm

Prompt: Two sisters fall for men that are absolute enemies. The love they have could tear all of them apart, or it could bring them together. Word Count: 1768 Warnings: Language, Song for this part: I’ll never love again- Lady Gaga Note: This is by far the longest thing I’ve ever written (including my other fic series). first major Collab with my best friend @thorne93​​ what was first a simple “what if” moment turned into a two year writing session and I’ve never been more prouder of myself than when i started my first series. goes through most of the MCU plots there are some changes to accommodate for what we wanted and there is a bit of a crossover between the MCU and other characters. I hope you guys enjoy reading this just as much as I enjoyed writing it.

When all was said and done, you were back at the Avengers compound. 

Everyone remaining of the team had been gathered up. It appeared that Nat, Steve, Rhodey, Bruce, and Shannon were all still okay. Shannon was a relief, they all were really -- your friends, but Loki… Loki vanishing before you… that nearly killed you. 

It’d been two days now.

Nat had tried to reach out to Clint multiple times with nothing. Shannon had tried sending a signal to Tony’s transponder endlessly since she boarded the jet back home and there was no response. 

As for you, you were consumed with both grief and obsession. Thanos was alive, he was still out there somewhere, with the stones. You were in Shannon’s lab, searching. You began to try and trace the remnants of the stones. You started with the location of the snap and then went from there, trying to trace each stone. Part of the mind stone flowed in your veins, so you let the system take a bit of your blood, so that it could maybe find it somewhere on the planet, in the galaxy, in the universe. Thanos had to be somewhere. 

You worked day and night. Shannon tried to get you to eat, as did Steve, but each time they came in, you simply muttered a vague response of not being hungry. Towards the end of the second day, Shannon was way past worried. Between wringing her hands on if Tony was alive, dead, or vanished and watching you spiral into madness, she was at her wits end. 

“Y/N!” she barked when you refused a sandwich late at night. “This is quite enough! You need rest. You need sleep. Do you think Loki would want you killing yourself to find him?” she implored as she walked forward and tried to touch your shoulder.

Your eyes never left the map though as you continued working through physics equations, mathematical probabilities of where Thanos might’ve gone. 

“Yes,” you muttered mindlessly, not really paying attention to her. 

“No he wouldn’t! I didn’t know him as well as you, and we may have had our differences, but both of us love you and want you to be happy and healthy. Y/N… Y/N… Y/N!” She shouted, grabbing your shoulders and forcing you to look at her. Finally, the trance was broken. You were looking at her, paying attention to her, listening. “Do you see yourself? You’re a zombie. You’re entirely consumed with… with this! You’re not going to find him, and even if you do, what are you going to do? We lost… and that was with all of us. What do you think will happen?” she begged. 

“I don’t care,” you defiantly said, pulling yourself from her grasp, going back to your work. “I will fight him alone if I have to. I have to get those stones back,” you muttered, falling back into the frenzy of madness, refusing to be rational. 

“Y/N, come on, this isn’t healthy. You’re going out of your mind. You can’t face him alone. Loki wouldn’t want this.” 

“Loki isn’t here!” you suddenly roared, dropping your pencil down. “He isn’t here! None of them are! Because of Thanos! Don’t you see? I have to find him! I have to! He’s taken everything from me. First, he took you, then he took all of my friends, now… Now he has literally taken the love of my life and most of my friends. Don’t you see I have to do this? I have to find him.” The mania had broken. Your eyes were alive with chaos and heartbreak. How did Shannon not see that Thanos needed to be stopped? 

All she did was eye you with sorrowful pity before pulling you into a tight embrace. 

“Killing yourself to find him won’t do it… We’ll take turns, yeah?” she offered with a smile as she pulled away. “I’ll stay up, run some numbers, watch the simulation… We can find him, but I want you to go get some sleep… Please? You can’t think correctly or find anyone on no sleep.” 

Hesitantly, you agreed. She was right. You explained which probabilities you were running quickly before Steve offered to show you to a room. You thanked him as he put his hand on your shoulder and guided you.

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

You were lying in a room they’d made up for you, you think it was the one next to Wanda’s but at that moment in time, nothing mattered - not eating, drinking, or showering. You were tired. The grief made you tired, more tired than you think you’d ever felt in your life, but your obsession kept you going. Now that you’d actually laid down though, you were exhausted.

Grief hit you harder than any physical pain you’d ever endured. Which meant all of the things you needed to do to keep you alive and healthy vanished when Loki did. Your will to live had absolutely been obliterated. 

Things had been rough all around. Everyone was still trying to find people they knew. Shannon had kept a front when the team was together but they all knew this was hitting her hard not knowing if Tony and the kid had been dusted or not. 

Shannon walked into your room like she did every day to give you updates but this time around was different. After she went in she sat at the edge of her bed. Shannon had been busy looking for the people you all loved and cared for. You were tracking down the enemy. No one had found anything.

You moved the covers of your bed and patted the spot next to you. She got in and you both leaned close to each other. “How’s it going?” she asked, barely audible.

“You know exactly how it’s going,” you deadpanned, the tiniest hint of anger in your voice. You weren’t angry at her, per se, but angry at the situation and mad that she could think you were any better off than a few days ago. “How about you? Any word on Tony? Strange? Peter? Any of them?” you wondered, grasping for any kind of spark of hope or happiness.

“I know, I’m sorry.” She looked down at her hands wishing she could do more. “No. Still no word about either of them, the transponder is still not sending a signal.” She seemed to shrink down into the bed. “I wish there was some clue you know? I don’t even know if Parker is...if he’s—” She shut down a bit not wanting to think about the very real possibilities.

You reached over and grabbed her hand. “We will find them. Somehow.” 

“There’s only so much hope we can have and I'm trying my hardest to keep strong for everyone, you know?” She squeezed your hand looking up at you. “They keep looking to me as if though I’m Tony and there’s that pager beeping with still no clue as to who it's meant for...”

“Because you’re just like him,” you said with the smallest of smiles. “That’s why he married you. You two are two peas in a pod. You're the idea people. You two share a brain, I swear. He moves, you move. He thinks of something and you finish the thought. If you have an idea, he helps make it a reality. You two are perfect for each other. But above all of that, you’re what usually holds this team together, Shan. They need you for guidance and ideas. Steve lost Sam and Bucky, and now with Tony… He has you and Nat, that’s it. The rest of them, they need you.” 

Shannon looked up to you from her wedding ring. “I’m not sure I know what to do though...like you said part of my brain is missing and I’m scrawling to figure this out. I need your help Y/N/N, how do I do this? Where do I start, who can I question when there’s no clues?” She leaned her head on your leg, at some point moved so far down that she was practically covered by the duvet. “I just wish this was some sick joke or nightmare and that we’ll wake up to the guys walking in with breakfast for us after a long night of being at the lab.” Her voice cracked. 

“Believe me, if wishes alone could’ve brought them back… they’d all be here by now by me alone.” You started to cry, your never ending habit lately. You swore you cried more than you breathed lately. “I miss him so much, you know? I wish I knew how to help you, Shan, I really do, but all I can think of is how to get to Thanos, how to maybe get everyone back and I… I’m not getting anywhere.” You sighed heavily. “I’m sorry I’m such a let down. I wished I could do one thing. I could’ve fought Thanos. I should’ve been fighting him. Not Steve and Bucky and you and Wanda. It should’ve been me. You told me to protect everyone… I didn’t do that. I failed you, I failed everyone.  Hell, I failed the whole universe.” 

“No, Y/N/N, don’t think that! I wish we could both hide in here but I know Steve wouldn't let me.” She peaked from under the covers. “Feels like you can’t breathe? Like there’s a literal part that's not functioning right? There’s so many things I wish I had done differently, you know?” She pulled you closer to her. “I know we’ll find a way to bring them back. Just too much to handle right now.”

“I’m not so sure about that. I also think Steve knows better than to come bother me right now, he may lose his life over it. Not to mention, I’m not essential. I don’t think anyone would miss me if I were gone, besides you.” You sighed. “You wish you had done things differently?” You scoffed. “I let Thanos get away. I should’ve just left Proxima alone. I should’ve been guarding Vision, not Wanda. There are a million things I could’ve done differently to give us a different turn out. But most of the time, yeah… I can’t breathe.” 

“I know,” she concurred, her voice thick. 

You tried to swallow your sobs for just a moment before you turned to her and said, “But there is still hope for you. Don’t let go of that.” 

“I’m trying not to, but it’s hard. And I have to lead this team, but I’m losing hope every minute Tony isn’t here.” 

Unforseen Chasm Tag list- @reigningqueenofwords​ @oldfreakything​ @adefectivedetective​ @dontbetooobvious​

Tag list- @cas-you-assbutt-dean-needs-you​ @winchester-writes​ @winchesterenthusiast​ @deansdirtylittlesecretsblog​   @sammysbuttcheek​ @misz-adrii​ @sandlee44​ @womanxofletters​ @natsuccs​ @childishhoebinoo​ @expecteddifferent​ @girl-next-door-writes​ @fanaticfanfiction​ @dakotapaigelove​ @sassy-spn-knight-of-hell​ @reigningqueenofwords​ @oldfreakything​

Marvel: @reigningqueenofwords​ @flowerbunbunny​ @zelda2248​ @misz-adrii​

[xiomarawinters]

bad guys [nate/xi hc]

Xiomara had never experienced rage like this before. It bubbled and burst in her, like a raging, out-of-control fire. Lying on the ground, without an outlet for the anger, it consumed her. Red hot and aching, Xiomara watched the boys bicker and talk and eventually- eventually Nate made one smart decision to obliviate Loxley and get them both the hell out of there.

He didn’t take his time to use the counter-spell on her, knowing what Xi’s reaction would be. He’d no soooner laid her body down on the couch than Xi felt herself able to move again. But instead of acknowledging Nate, Xi shot up, stalked out of the flat and into their small, cement-lined backyard. The whole place was warded like crazy. No one would see or hear anything they had going on. In fact, if a Muggle were to peer over the fence, it would look like Nate and Xi were starting to plant a wholesome vegetable garden.

Instead, Xiomara screamed. She bunched up her fists in her hair and tangled her fingers in it, tugging down harshly. She shook her body like a wild animal, then shot her wand at the nearest object she could, blowing it to pieces. The brick shattered, sending tiny pieces of rock everywhere. Xiomara pointed her wand at them, too, gathering them together with a swirl and sending them full force into the backyard fence. “FUCK!” Xiomara yelled, starting to pace back and forth. She went for hours like that, stalking back and forth, shooting random pieces of junk around their backyard until it looked like something of a warzone. She did it until her legs went numb.

Eventually, Xiomara came back inside, and put her wand on the kitchen bench. She looked like hell. Loxley’s tea still stained her skirt. She stood in the kitchen for a while, staring ahead with dull eyes. The anger was long gone, the rage and mania had settled, and now there was... Nothing. It was disconcerting, going from feeling everything all at once, to nothing at all once more.

And then Nate was there. She didn’t even realise he’d walked in. He stood at the doorway, and opened his mouth to speak. Then shut it again. And opened it. And Xi didn’t meet his gaze, just looked at him. She focused on his chin, mostly. “I’m taking a bath.” She said dully, before leaving the kitchen, heading up the creaky stairs of their flat.

Briefly, as she ran the bath, she considered drowning herself in it. Surely she could conjure up a heavy stone or something to keep her at the bottom. But then she remembered she’d left her wand downstairs, so Xi resolved to live long enough to go downstairs and get it. She got in when it was full enough, rather enjoying the scalding heat of it all, and curled up, resting her cheek on the edge of it and staring at the wall. 

She only realised she’d been there too long when there was a knock at the door. She didn’t answer. Xi didn’t even turn to look at it. She hadn’t locked the door, so Nate opened it a crack, sticking his face in like he stuck his nose in everything.

“On a scale of one to dead, how are you?” 

Xiomara blinked, then turned to eye him at the door. Her voice cracked when she answered, “I’m alive.” Unfortunately.

“Shit, did you lose your voice?” Nate took that as permission to enter the bathroom, carrying a pizza. “I got a pizza.” He said, as if she couldn’t see him holding it. He sat on the tiled floor cross legged, while Xiomara laid in her stone cold bath. She just laid there for a bit, while he opened up the pizza and took a slice.

He was well onto his second slice by the time Xi forced her creaking limbs out of the tub, wrapping herself in a towel and then going to sit next to him. She wasn’t going to eat, but Nate took a slice and put it in her hand. To avoid the drama, she took a bite.

Xiomara could practically feel Nate’s hesitation before he spoke, “So... Are we going to talk about it, or...?”

“No.” She answered, having another bite so she wouldn’t have to. Xiomara chewed and swallowed. She could have quizzed him about the memory charm he’d used. She could have talked about needing to go back to the Starbucks to ensure everything was cleaned up. She could have reiterated the importance of not telling anyone this has happened.

But she didn’t. She sat next to Nate in silence, and ate her pizza. She finished her slice, dusting her hands off on the towel. Xiomara was just closing her eyes to rest when Nate spoke again. “So Loxley told me about Harriet. She was just-”

“I said we’re not talking about it.” Xi said irritably, forcing herself to stand and leaving the bathroom without another word. She dropped the towel as she got to her bedroom, shutting the door behind her and getting straight into bed. At this point, even just her mattress on the floor felt good. And her duvet, which didn’t even have a cover on it, felt nice and heavy over her skin. The weight kept her calm- and not thinking about her wand sitting downstairs on that kitchen bench. She could live a bit longer. Long enough to go to sleep, perhaps. She’d deal with it in the morning. 

Xi was out like a light almost immediately, so much that she didn’t notice Nate checking in on her every other hour through the night. She slept so long that when she woke up she was still tired- though very much alive. Fuck.

[bearingwater]

April Forecast for Aquarius

Synergies abound! Until April 20, the Sun is in Aries and your third house of kindred spirits and communication. You’ve got ideas to share and things to express—and you’ll utilize every platform at your disposal. After a month of Mercury retrograde (from March 5 to 28) imposing a gag order on your genius, you’re ready to let those creative concepts out of the bottle. Writing, teaching and media outlets could be your playgrounds.

The April 5 Aries new moon sets the stage for a brand-new project or collaboration. With the moon in your third house of local affairs, you might find the perfect “test kitchen” right in your neighborhood. Look for resources in your own backyard or pilot a community project, from a pop-up shop to a trunk show to a small event where you can teach your new methodology. A conversation or a seed of an idea could blossom into something truly meaningful between today and the October 13 Aries full moon.

If you feel intellectual or creative chemistry with someone this month, explore! A person you meet near the new moon could turn out to be a synergistic supporter or partner in crime. Don’t rush to anoint anyone your brand-new BFF though, Aquarius. From April 10 to August 11, expansive Jupiter will be retrograde (backward) in Sagittarius your eleventh house of groups and friendships. Let the relationship unfold in due time. Only when you see who a person is through various situations will you know how trustworthy and solid they are.

Bountiful Jupiter is making its once-every-12-years visit to Sagittarius from November 8, 2018, until December 2, 2019. Your connections are going through an important evolution and possibly a few growing pains. Perhaps you’ve synced up with an avant-garde new crew or joined a group endeavor. Since the eleventh house rules technology, your social media presence could have blossomed this year. Maybe you got involved in an exciting digital venture.

Global Jupiter is bringing interesting friends and like-minded people your way in droves, perhaps from far-flung places. But have you rushed into a collaboration too quickly? You might feel a bit stifled by a group project now, which could stir a rebellious streak if you don’t get some breathing room. As much as you like a shared victory, you can’t do it at the expense of your individuality. Rather than capsize a team effort, find a way to put your unique stamp on a project or carve out something that’s yours and yours alone. Pull back and do that over the spring and summer, then you can rejoin the crowd in the fall. If you’ve sidelined a few loyal, longtime friends to be part of a new circle, use the retrograde to reconnect since these rear-facing transits connect us to our past.

Jupiter is the first of three slow-moving outer planets to start a retrograde this month, to be followed in late April by Saturn and Pluto. These luminaries make their U-turns around the same time most years, so it’s nothing to panic about at all. In fact, these celestial slowdowns can be a blessing, giving you the spring and summer to soul-search, recalibrate and correct course.

So, Aquarius, what DO you really want? A visionary moment arrives on April 19, when the Libra full moon illuminates your ninth house of big-picture goals. Under the light of this full moon, you’ll see sweeping new possibilities (ah!). You could be inspired to take a leap of faith, especially since this is the rare second Libra full moon of 2019. The first, a supermoon, fell on March 20—smack in the middle of Mercury retrograde. The conditions weren’t totally ripe for risks then, but after a month of letting the energy settle, you could be ready to make your big move. From travel to launching a startup to spreading your message far and wide, this no-limits lunation could bring a huge epiphany around your life purpose—AND the ideal platform for expressing it.

Your energy gets a bit more earthbound the next day, when the Sun begins its annual visit to Taurus and your anchoring fourth house of home and family. Slow down a little and make sure your roots are firmly planted before you blast into the Next Big Thing. Connect with loved ones, rejuvenate with self-care and feather your nest.

That said, you may experience a shakeup in your foundation on April 22, when the Sun makes its annual conjunction (meetup) with your co-ruler, disruptor Uranus. There could be a sudden change of residents under your roof, an unexpected urge to move or a need to pull up the stakes and relocate. You might decide to renovate, redecorate or make some other radical shift to your lifestyle. While that’s all well and good, this IS a one-day transit, and the dust will settle not long after. So unless you absolutely MUST make a swift change, you might be better off capturing your ideas then following up with due diligence. Start with a Pinterest board instead of impulsively painting a wall or ordering all new furniture.

The Sun-Uranus conjunction in this family zone could also bring a tense moment with a relative. The fourth house is linked to mothers and women whereas the Sun is one of the astrological symbols for a father figure. Unresolved anger might erupt out of the blue, or you might need to deal with a change related to a parent.

Resolutions take time, especially when you get to the root of them, and you’ll have plenty of time for that over the spring and summer. Transformational Pluto will be retrograde in Capricorn and your twelfth house of endings from April 24 to October 3, followed by Saturn in this same sector from April 29 to September 18. You may need to excavate some old emotions for the purpose of examination and healing. Forgiveness or closure work could be on the agenda—and with these two heavyweights in your twelfth house, the only way around it is through it.

These five-month retrogrades can be rich times for developing an artistic project or honing your spiritual practices and abilities. You may need to go a little “off the grid” to meet the muse—and she may only show up in the quiet spaces. Some media- and phone-free time would benefit you greatly now. Where have things gotten excessive in your life? Scale back, surrender and reduce the ruckus. Powerful messages and guidance will come to you if you can find that space of inner calm.

Love & Romance

Play for keeps or just keep playing? You’ll need to answer that for yourself before you can expect someone else to fill a role, Aquarius. With love planet Venus in dreamy Pisces until April 20, you might still be holding out for something with a fairy-tale ending. Yet Venus is in your second house of pragmatism and security, so you realize everything requires SOME degree of compromise. If you’re not clear about what you want and need, you won’t be able to call in the person who can satisfy that. Even if you’re in a relationship, you could be sending out mixed messages about what’s important to you: Is it enchantment you want or a rock-solid guarantee?

Confusing matters more, over in your passionate fifth house, lusty Mars is revving his engines in easily distracted Gemini all month (from March 31 to May 15), which can tempt you to do the very things that will UNDO stability. You could be attracted to excitement with an edge, which could make you shortsighted in your choices. It’s not easy to reconcile—and that’s is where self-awareness comes in. Apply yours liberally when you feel whipped about by dueling desires and temptations.

Self-discipline might be totally MIA on April 15, when Venus squares off with indie-spirited Jupiter in its own liberated sign of Sagittarius. You want to have your gluten-free cupcake and eat it too—and maybe take a few bites of someone else’s as well. Don’t paint yourself into a corner that you can’t get out of, Aquarius. Be honest with your love interest (and yourself!) and admit you’re not sure what’s best for you at the moment.

Venus scurries into straight-shooting Aries and your communication center on April 20, which might begin to give you the clarity you so desperately seek. Hopefully you didn’t burn any bridges earlier in the month. By staying open and amenable to working things out, you can get things back on track—and if you’re finally ready, the fast track.

Key Dates

April 10: Venus-Neptune Meetup Pampering: incoming! Today marks the annual alignment of romantic Venus and dreamy Neptune in your second house of sensual luxury. You don’t have to reallocate a rent payment to enjoy some world-class indulgences, like a hot-stone massage or a deliciously decadent meal. And if you can enjoy this with your favorite plus-one, all the better!

Money & Career

You’ve got ideas for days, Aquarius! And finally, you also have the green light to express them. Last month, communication planet Mercury was retrograde from March 5 to 28, making it hard to get a straight answer or clear direction. Now that the mixed-message mania is over, you can forge ahead. The Sun is in Aries and your communicative third house until April 20, perfect for writing, teaching and learning…or just to put your thoughts together into something original.

The April 5 Aries new moon could deliver an aha moment or spark a conversation that leads to more. Explore collaboration with a like-minded person and consider testing your synergy on a trial project. Over the next six months, this could potentially develop into more. But tread slowly, because risk taker Jupiter will turn retrograde (backward) in your collaborative eleventh house from April 10 to August 11.

Focus on ramping up your own star power before you share the stage with too many people. With energizer Mars in Gemini heating up your creativity zone all month, your inner performer/artist needs an outlet—and a spotlight! The April 19 Libra full moon in your visionary ninth house could bring a major epiphany about your purpose. An opportunity to travel, study or showcase your ideas through media could be part of this magical moment. The next day, the Sun enters Taurus and your domestic fourth house for a month, conjoining inventive Uranus on April 22. Carve out an “innovation station” at home because some of your best ideas could come to you while you’re relaxing at Chateau Water Bearer. Meditation, journaling and creative visualization could turn up serious epiphanies with metaphysical Pluto retrograde in your subconscious twelfth house from April 24 to October 3, joined by structured Saturn retrograde here from April 29 to September 18. If you have healing or artistic gifts, consider working with a coach or getting certified by a master trainer.

Key Dates

April 12: Mercury-Jupiter Square Watch that you don’t exaggerate or make promises you can’t keep. It’s not that you’re trying to deceive anyone…it’s just that exuberant Jupiter can inflate reality, especially when it’s squaring the communication planet! If anything, undersell yourself or what you can do. People will respect your humility—and then be impressed when you “overdeliver”!

Love Days: 9, 14 Money Days: 20, 29 Luck Days: 18, 27 Off Days: 11, 16, 24

[storytimefromthecreed]

Mary Had A Little...

(Part 2)

People usually say that morning comes fast. They talk of how they wished they had more time in bed. That was not her case. 

From the time she stepped on the vessel, there was nothing more she desired than to be off it. Everything of the journey since she had found Edward seemed... wrong. As if stepping aboard by her left foot, this trip felt fated in the worst way, and this brought on a bought of nerves. 

Even sleeping in Edward’s bed without Edward seemed unnatural. Sleep came and went, but the majority of the night was spent staring at the ceiling and/or tossing and turning. In the past, she would’ve climbed up to the deck and stood at wheel with him, tucking herself under his arm, him holding her tightly, they would watch the stars and talk about how small they were. How little this all mattered, and yet how significant.

But that was not the case anymore. Morning came and she rolled out of bed sore. Sleeply, she stumbled over to the basin located on the other side of the cabin and began washing her face. The strength of the lunging ship sent her into the wall. Her head banged against the thick plywood, but she shook off her pain and stumbled to the door. The stumbling occured not because of her weakened state, but because her sealegs were not as they used to. After months, she’d forgotten how hard it was to live aboard a moving ship. Thankfully, this would be a short trip.

Throwing open up the door, she was greeted with skies of bright blue. Men called to one another from high upon their ropes and beams. Stepping out, she covered her eyes against the sun, and listened to the bustle of those around her. A sense of belonging settled back into her stomach, and she watched with a smile the men working the shift. A man chewed on a rope securing the cannons, and she undid her hidden blade, cut the rope for him, and he grinned up at her with cracked teeth. They secured the rest of the cannons then headed to the barrels. Now, she could see why. Off into the distance were dark grey skies. If they didn’t drown from the water it dropped, then surely the sea would take them.

At the head of the ship barking orders was Edward. Sunlight lit his hair golden. On his right stood a man not recognized to her, curious considered she remembered almost everyone on board . While she puzzled the disappearance of Adewale, a crewman approached. “Captain’s orders are you to stay in his quarters, my lady,” he gave her a weak bow, almost unsure how to speak to her. This made her smile. She remembered this young man as a young boy last time from her last time on the Jackdaw. “Storm’s coming.”

“Thanks, Remi.” He beamed, embarassed she knew his name. Knowing better than to disagree with a direct order of the Captain, she just looked at Edward once more, and allowed Remi to walk her back into her room. No doubt the crew already felt uneasy with her presence on board. Laying low was the plan, it seemed.

The only positive she could deem by being dismissed to Edward’s room was the protection from the sun. The heat that steeped in through the open windows only intensified by the humidity of the oncoming storm, but the mist of the sea and lack of direct contact from the rays aided in her comfort.

When the door closed, silence surrounded her. The crew could be heard singing and laughing just on the other side of the wood, and a pang of isolation hit her. Hundreds of miles out to sea, and the only people around her couldn’t be around her. Superstitious lot. 

Left with nothing left to lose, she decided to explore the little area she had. Edward hadn’t moved anything around. Figures, she thought, he was very set in his ways. Her fingers ran over the trophies of his travels. A shark tooth, a scale from a sea serpent, and various odd trickets. The shelf still had held books, but judging from the dust around them, they hadn’t been picked them up for a long time. The journals were neglected too. She cracked one open, enjoying his poems. Edward might have a hard shell, but he was a deeply empathic man with a way with words. A small smile on her face as she read, the door behind her opened and the man himself entered.

She quickly shut the book and hid it behind her, but he didn’t notice. Muttering something under his breath, Edward closed the door, crossed into the room, and placed a plate holding bread, jam, and a piece of meat on the table.

“Good morning to you too.” Placing the book on the shelf, she joined him at the table. Edward gave her a hard stare, but his voice was gentle. Restrained, but polite. Even cracked a smile, but didn’t meet his eyes.

“Sorry for the late wake up call, looked like you could use the rest.” He slid the food to her, and she inspected the brown flakes of grain on the bread before dipped it in jam and taking a bite. “I trust you slept well?”

“Thank you, and yourself?” It felt forced being this formal. The bags under his eyes were dark and puffy. “Did you sleep at all?”

Edward shrugged, “We’re a day’s away from the port so I suggest you rest. With luck on our side, we’ll get there before the storm hits. After such a time at sea, the Jackdaw could use some work before braving anything more than a mere battle. Devil among ye,” He fussed at his hair, glaring at the bangs that overgrew at the edges and flopped into his eyes. She beckoned him her way, and undid her hidden blade. Edward gave her an uneasy look, to which she crossed her arms and shrugged.

“Just wanted to help. Not trying to make a move.”

Edward watched her a moment, then sighed, pulled out a chair, and plopped in front of her. He pulled the leather band out of his hair, and shook it loose.

This made her chuckle. It was uneven and long. “When was the last time you’ve gotten it cut?”

Edward rolled a jeweled eye up at her. “You did it last.” Examining the work, she gave him a knowing look and he sighed. “Perhaps I did try my best with it in your absence. It’s tied up anyway! What harm did it do?”

“The harm,” She explained, “is none.” He smiled at her approval. Brushing out his hair as best she could, she wet the comb, made the hair damp, and began to cut. Efficacy over style, she kept it at the length he liked, and pulled it up into a ponytail. “You did well on your own.”

“Do better with your help, I’d wager.” Edward placed the chair back in it’s original place and stared at her. “Sorry, I didn’t mean-”

She put her hand up. “Don’t worry, I didn’t take it-”

“Good.” Edward visibly tensed, and eyed the door. He nodded once to the plate of food. “Please.” His tone became gentle. “Eat and rest. Journey’s gonna be short. Enjoy it.” He tried heading for the door, but she stepped in front of him. 

“Are you sure you don’t need help? I’m rested, and I think-”

Edward smiled, a true smile. “Captain’s orders.” The pout she gave him made him laugh. Then he bolted. God, she hated when he pulled that card. Returning to his books, she made herself comfortable. 

The jarring sound of thunder shook her awake. Sleep clouded her judgement, and while she pondered over what made her eyes snap open, another roll shook the Jackdaw. Sitting up and throwing off the covers of the bed, her feet hit the floor. Or tried. The ship rolled, and her feet missed the floor.

Her knees didn’t.

Thrown out of the bed, she rolled until she hit the desk. The books fell from the shelves, and her robes and boots flew to the other side of the room. The black leather of her bracers flashed by, and her hands whipped out to secure them. Can’t lose those. Fastening them, she tied her hair back and dashed for the door before another roll could take her. The door flew open, almost smacking her when it opened inward. Clinging to the doorframe, she examined the scene. 

The sky was black with pumes of smoke. Men fought on the deck, one falling to her feet, convulsing before he went still. The sight of death didn’t bother her, what got her attention was the colors he wore. It appeared they had run into members of British seamen. The last thing she needed. With a roll of her shoulders, she readied herself and threw herself into the mania. Bodies hit the deck, slick with blood, and the roar of charging men was deafening. 

“Close the vessel, men!” Edward’s voice called, but she couldn’t see him among the madness. She ducked her head down and pushed through the wave of charging British. Slashing and cutting through bodies, she spied the planks they were using to board the Jackdaw. The surprised seamen didn’t know what to make of a woman cutting through the ranks, but quickly deeming her an enemy, she found herself surrounded by four of them. One pointed a pistol at her, and she grabbed it just as he shot it, and twisted his arm behind him. The man groaned, but wouldn’t releash the weapon. Grabbing his sword from his side, she used him as a shield and stabbed one of the other men. That man fell to the ground with a whimper, and she used this distraction to shoot the other men. Slashing the shield’s neck, she left him for dead and confiscated his weapons. 

“Show them what a pirate’s life really means, man! We’ll never let them take this ship!” Edward shouted words of encouragement, and the battle continued. The crewmen around her shouted and gave heed. They were fighting for their lives. As if to spite him, the sea rolled and the Jackdaw dipped. This gave the British an advantage, thought brief. What they really needed, was those boards gone. 

Small brawls covered her sides. Two crewmen against a Brit. Three Brits against two of the crew. She helped where she could. Grabbing one man by the arm, she rolled behind him, cut his neck, and threw his body at a his startled commrade. This man, Remi stabbed. 

“Thank you, mistress.” He said, cutting the man behind her as she shot the man behind him. The two stood back to back, circled by British. “How can I repay you for saving my life?”

The last time she’d been in a fight like this was some time ago, and she felt it. She huffed, “Work on your bow for me?” Trusting her strange request, Remi bowed, allowing her to roll backwards over him and spar the men in front of him. The men were trained and ready for battle, but she had her Assassin training, and was a bit of a cheater. Giving one stab to the right and leaving her left side open to attack, she waited for the Brit who did. He got a kick in the knee and a stab in the neck when he doubled over. Stealing his sword, she dueled the other men who quickly fell. Remi was done with his as well, wiping the blood from his mouth and spitting on the deck. 

“Your imagination is stunning, mistress. With you on our side, I’m sure we’ll will this battle yet.” 

“The battle still rages, friend.” She placed a hand on his shoulder and used it to steady herself as she shot at another Brit aiming for Edward, who had gone over to the other ship with some men. “We need to end this!” She yelled to whomever was around to listen. “Get rid of those boards! I’m getting our men!” The men nodded and cleared the way for her to get to the edge of the Jackdaw.  Aiming her blade at a rope tied around the mast, she cut it and was quickly flung her over the space between the ships. For a moment, everything was silent. The rush upwards took her breath away. The Jackdaw grew smaller, the sea was crystal blue, and then....

The weightlessness of being in the air was met by the hard slam of the deck. Men rushed her, but she fought her way through them and towards Edward and his men. Being attacked on all sides, the enemy began to falter. When Remi and the crewmen cleared the Jackdaw and threw the boards off her, the captain was his only way out to surrender. When she came upon the scene, Edward and his hidden blades were covered in blood. The men around him were on the ground, and his own crewmen were twitchy in anticipation for the next wave of attack. 

“God damn you, pirate.” The captain spat, but lower his weapon to clutch his side. She stood beside him, lest this be a ruse. Edward recalled his blades, and walked over to the captain, hands behind his back. 

“Be that as it may, I’m not the one on the wrong side of my blade.” 

The captain gulped, but kept the distain on his face. “Gah, damn you, we surrender.” Edward gave him a curious look, and ducked down to look him in the eye. The man whinced, and shut his eyes waiting for the blade that would not come. “We, we were only delivering goods. Our orders are to attack any pirate ship on sight. We- we were only following orders!” Edward nodded and turned to his men. 

“Looks like you’ve picked the wrong ship! Return where you come from! Anyone who causes trouble is an open target.” Edward allowed the surviving men back on their ship, then robbed them off their cargo. The Jackdaw got new cannons, gunpowder, sugar, meats, and maps because of this. For good measure, the flags were set ablaze with their oars, and the victors left. 

The crew roared their victory. Once pushed away from the ship, they moved fast to set aside their new cargo. Men thanked her for her part in the fight with hard pats on the back and a mug of ale. They sang and drank as they cleared away the Jackdaw’s deck, and she along with them. On the third mug, she felt a harsh pull on her bicep. Edward had begun dragging her back into the room, and she finished her mug just as they got to the door. Then, she pushed his grip off her and glared. 

“What are you doing?” Edward returned the nasty look and lowered his voice. “You were told to stay inside! God, couldn’t do that too, could you? Was it because I asked?” He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, and growled. “I can’t be expected to watch your back too.” 

“My back,” she shoved him aside and poked at his chest. The care of the men watching no longer concerned her. “Does not need you. I held my own in that fight, Captain.” She shoved him aside before he could respond, and slammed the door behind her.

Edward growled his reply and took off. That was the end of that conversation.

[goneeeeeee-eeeeeeee]

One for Damage?

Seoul Jageun’s family was relatively ok. Mom and dad were what one would expect,the typical parents,life typical.But when he was told he would be getting a baby sister,he having just turned thirteen,he was excited.A sibling?!Finally!!!

The ride to the orphanage didn’t take long,the three of them looking about,looking more at the infants than any child older,they settling on a child named Kiki.He thought she was cute……He told them he needed to use the bathroom,as the smell of the cleaner here was bothering him and making him a bit sick,he going to make sure he was alright,before leaving-

Wait,where’d his parents go?

He checked the last few rooms they were in,not finding them anywhere.He called for them,running about,not seeing them anywhere,before he heard the car door outside shut.He raced out of the house,making it to the street as they drove off,he calling for them,saying he was being left behind……but they didn’t stop.He watched their car drive away,he feeling sadness flood his mind,before tears welled up in his sockets,a gentle shade of purple,he falling to his knees in the road.

They…..they abandoned him…….

The woman who runs the orphanage gently comes to hug him,helping him to his feet,leading him inside and promising to make him some cookies,and give him some milk,before showing him a room he can stay in.They’ll be back!She told him,They just forgot you were in the bathroom!

And yet……years passed,and they never came.He stopped going out,and simply sat in his room,staring out the window towards the street.He grew taller,grew older,his birthday being celebrated the one thing that made him smile.At least they all cared about him.Cared that he existed.

He started cutting when he’d called them one night a day or two after he turned fifteen,having remembered their phone number,and listened.He simply listened,to the giggling child,his mother talking sweetly,saying Kiki’s name,his father having been laughing when he picked up the phone.He felt his soul crack,when asked who he was,he simply saying nobody,and hanging up.

He felt his face crack,as well as his soul,he refusing to leave his room.He’s nothing,he’s unwanted trash.Useless.

The only time he did,was when he finally decided it was time.Just after his seventeenth.

He left,in the middle of the night,not caring where his legs took him.He eventually found himself in the rain,not caring about getting soaked,finding what looked like an abandoned house,he sitting upon the stoop,waiting for the moment that his body would waste away,and his soul would crack and shatter,leaving him dust to be blown away in the wind.

He didn’t expect light,nor someone to ask what he’s doing out here,or to be ushered inside.He was draped with a blanket,another voice asking the light who he was,the two voices concerned.He heard names,Cyr,Indigo,and let them do whatever,fretting over him,even being forced to eat a bowl of soup,he quick to throw it up,since his body wasn’t used to eating that much.

He doesn’t know why,but he grew closer to them.All of them.They called him by the name he gave,Damage,and not his actual name,since they didn’t know it.

He had a run in with Mania,who he told to not run away,and was snapped at about being the one who won’t let anyone in.He had reasons why damnit!!He’s afraid to be abandoned again!!!Mania understood,after he yelled and cried,this oddly bringing them closer,Hades finding out everything not too long afterward as well.

Things were alright,but he could tell nobody knew how to get close to him,to help him.Maybe he should let them in more?Since they cared,and weren’t trying to leave him anywhere whenever they took him out places?

Then he met Jamie.

Jamie turned his life around,he felt like he could finally open up,finally be someone again.

He loves Jamie.

So,so much.

They plan on playing games at Jamie’s later,and cuddling while eating some pizza.Maybe they can play Smash Bros again.Or Mario Kart.

He smiles.

[magicrot-arch]

fun little character game! fill in the below categories with 3 — 5 things that your character can be identified by.

𝙴𝙼𝙾𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽𝚂 / 𝙵𝙴𝙴𝙻𝙸𝙽𝙶𝚂.

detachment  /  a puzzle piece left off to the side without a placement.

anger simmering like water starting to boil  /  misplaced, unknown cause.

mania springing from the shadows  /  unadulterated euphoria mixed with panic.

emptiness  /  physically.  mentally. something is missing, there’s hole in the picture of you.

narcissism /  feel like you’re the worst, so you have to act like you’re the best. 

𝙲𝙾𝙻𝙾𝚁𝚂.

#080808 almost black, but not quite  /  a symbol for growing absence. dark power.

#bd8835 a hue of gold  /  a show of greed and expensive taste.

#bcbcbc silver  /  physic, mystic energies. the rings on his fingers.

#1e2e46 navy blue  /  a splash of color, his favorite color. his mood is often blue.

𝚂𝙲𝙴𝙽𝚃𝚂.

a worn leather jacket growing with age  

the smell after a rain shower in a heavily wooded area.

a faint hint of cigarettes he’s chained smoked.

a hint of cologne  /  not suffocating, but a musk is present.

𝙲𝙻𝙾𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶.

classic rock. plain t-shirts ranging in blacks, whites and greys. dark jeans that’s a little too tight in all of the right places. boots, never forget the heavy boots. jewelry: multiple ear piercings, a tongue piercing, stacked rings on fingers. leather jacket worn to hell. a chain necklace tucked beneath a t-shirt. mussed up hair, did you just get out of bed?

monochromatic semi-formal. blazers left unbuttoned in dark hues. buttoned up shirts with simple patterns, rolled up at the sleeves. expensive fabric. looks expensive. feels expensive. hair slicked up and facial hair groomed well. sunglasses hiding tired eyes and dark circles. sweaters with dress shirts beneath them.

homebody. sweatpants that’re too loose. pullover hoodies with random logos on it, tattered at the sleeves from holding them over his hands. loose fitting shirts. messiest hair, didn’t even run fingers through it. doesn't look like he’s slept. so, so tired.

𝙾𝙱𝙹𝙴𝙲𝚃𝚂.

magnitude of rings objects of power that he always wears. the number always varies, but the silver bands are worn on every finger. when you shake his hand, there’s a strange energy emitted, the rings are warm.. it makes some people uncomfortable, others don’t notice.

a wedding band on a simple chain. worn beneath his shirt at all times, he never takes it off. it’s not his own, but his deceased brothers. before getting new bands with his wife, he gave tyler the ring as a show of love. that one day he’d find someone to, that he’d always be with him. something to keep close to him. it is never off and it is hardly ever talked about.

shelves full of grimoires. due to natural magic being cut off, he takes to learning magic by rituals and natural channeling. there is a whole wall taken up by a bookcase where his knowledge is stored. a few of the books are his own jostled findings. the majority of them are old and traded for services. almost all of them have post-it notes or scribbles of notes for later reference.

magic items. as part of his work, he is a collector of magical items. dating back from ancient times to modern items, the backroom in his shop is decorated with antiques. some are organic, living in jars, beating hearts others are charmed items with specific uses. only high paying customers or customers present from the supernatural black market have ever seen this room.

𝚅𝙸𝙲𝙴𝚂 / 𝙱𝙰𝙳 𝙷𝙰𝙱𝙸𝚃𝚂.

alcohol. the man is always drinking. it started off as a rebellious act, to do what he wanted, but it slowly turned into a habit. the older he got, the harder it was to pass up the bottle. it keeps anxiety at bay, it keeps him from shaking, from feeling disoriented. he feels drunk when he’s sober, sober when he’s drunk. it’s a habit he has yet to kick.

ghosting. you could mean the world to him, but he would still step away and disappear. ignore your calls, ignore your texts, pretend you don’t exist. it’s a damaging self defense mechanism, one that doesn’t work. he doesn’t think people should be around him, he is afraid of losing them. afraid of getting them hurt. so, instead he hurts them and himself

lying/manipulation. untruthworthy is synonymous with tyler wolfe. truths are omitted or straight out covered. nobody knows what is the truth with him, but it is so easy to trust him because the lies sound good. he’s a master of plucking away at the truth while making it believable. he’s a conductor of lies. nobody knows who the wolfe truly is, anyway. he paints a picture for you to see, vibrant and almost fantasy like. he just wants what he wants out of you.

𝙱𝙾𝙳𝚈 𝙻𝙰𝙽𝙶𝚄𝙰𝙶𝙴𝚂.

default. his expression is always blank, but knowing. brows are held together in a way that shows aggression, but they still appear relaxed. lips are pressed together, flat without an expression. no visible sign of interest. accused of resting bitch face.

crooked smiles. if he smiles, it is likely not genuine. looking someone straight in the eye, revealing teeth through a one-sided smile. he’s a wolf, just like his last name suggests. he’s looking for ways to eat you alive and he’s winning.

hand gestures. talks with his hands, often waving them in the air and pointing. the most alive apart of him.

𝙰𝙴𝚂𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚃𝙸𝙲𝚂.

the constant feeling that something is going to go wrong. the air is heavy, the lights are dim. there is an eerie heaviness in the air. logic says there is nothing set up to happen  /  logic screams there is nothing wrong. emotions overrun logic, however. there is no peace in a world full of monsters and magic. something is wrong, something is going to go wrong it’s a modern gothic tale.

darkness fighting against light. being unsure of who you are, what your purpose in life is. are you the devil or an angel with clipped wings? you’ve been told you were the bad seed, the shadow lurking in the corner waiting to consume the good, but nobody is every truly good are they? are you? you as though you’re not. you’re accepting the darkness, the stereotype of disgracefulness, but you can’t hide the sliver of light remaining from your childhood. you can’t snuff the good all the way, but you can try. you will try.

shady businesses. you walk into the store and it’s dimly lit, dusts collecting in high places. you swear there should be a spider somewhere. it’s a picture ripped straight from a horror movie ;  going to see the fabled wicked witch behind the counter. jars line the aisle, there’s a heavy smell of herbs and incense. the shopkeeper speaks with practiced abrasiveness, but it isn’t enough to drive you away. it interests you further. 

𝚂𝙾𝙽𝙶𝚂.

black honey by thrice:  i keep swinging my hand through a swarm of bees / i can't understand why they're stinging me / but i'll do what i want / i'll do what i please / i'll do it again till i've got what i need / i'll rip and smash through the hornet's nest / do you understand i deserve the best? / and i'll do what i want / i'll do what i please / i'll do it again till i've got what i've need

alcohol by sisyphus:  aggression / in question / confessin' i need of it / tylenol, tylenol, tylenol, tylenol / impression / concession / addiction / my lession is al-anon, al-anon, al-anon, al-anon / impression / in question / intention / my weapon is alcohol, alcohol, alcohol, alcohol / i am my father's son / i am my father's son / i am my father's son / i am my father's son

lurk by the neighbourhood: i think that i'm human, i think about god / i think of the chances, i think that i'm wrong / i think to be thoughtful, i know that i'm not / you think i'm a fake, i know you're a fraud / i fuck cause i need to, even though it's not / i'll fucking digest you one kiss at a time / you wish i was yours, and i hope that you're mine

my boy by billie eilish: my boy's being sus' and he don't know how to cuss / he just sounds like he's tryna be his father ( who are you? ) / my boy's an ugly crier but he's such a pretty liar / and by that i mean he said he'd "change" / my boy, my boy, my boy /  don't love me like he promised / my boy, my boy, my boy / he ain't a man and he sure as hell ain't honest.

dread in my heart by mother mother: oh i wonder what it's like to be the type who doesn't burn / ya the kind who fights the good fight / not the kind you'll find fisti-fuckin-cuffin' in the dirt / there's a god awful shitty feeling of dread in my heart / and i can't seem to change my attitude but i can change my shirt / but today, there's still a god awful shitty feeling of dread in my heart

𝚃𝙰𝙶𝙶𝙴𝙳 𝙱𝚈:   @fierceststorm aka my no. 1 fan ᴛᴀɢɢɪɴɢ:  @ghulardi, @cosmicwar, @heavyburden for jesse, @devilfind, @phlipshea, @missedlcve, @fionagoode  &  whoever else !!

[roseandpatchouli]

tw! // mania started today again, fellow polar bears you’d know what it’s like. i think i’ll make it a point to document the dates like some sort of log book, probably better written in a journal or my notes app: but as i said: one, my handwriting isn’t straight anymore. holding a pen is a bit of a struggle when your hands aren’t as steady as they used to be. two, the notes app just doesn’t sit right with me, it’s too narrow for the small words. during the course of my constant relapses and mania’s i’ve realized i’ve developed an obsessive penchant for cleaning: everything down to body and to objects and surfaces, i’ve rearranged and changed the contents of my bag at least five times, assessing and reassessing what needs to be in there, putting in, taking out, and putting things back in again, as if i have anywhere to go. i religiously and vigorously wiped my electronic devices with rubbing alcohol and wiping off the screen tissues, the slightest dust particle would throw me off, and then the cycle would start over and before i know it, the sun has risen and i’ve done nothing but clean. then, there’s the showering, a far cry from my relapse stages: i’d wash my hair five times in the hopes i’d come out not just cleaner but, as i said, also different person. perhaps i should contact sir dane again. but i’m afraid it’s one of those things that’s only going to confirm the answer i know something too. i’ve discussed the less minor issues with my condition with dra rondain several times in the last month. the problem with rondain is, she doesn’t like to use labels. when i was tested, my results came out as “generalized mood disorders”. not bipolar or borderline, just simply generalized mood disorders. so, i was kept in the dark, for the most latter part of my teenage life until 2019 pandemic hit and i went batshit crazy. by then i was 25. however, the issues now in her perspective; are nothing too worrisome. heck, i’ve told her once about not eating during depression mode and all she said was that it was going to help with the dietary issues for my pcos. (the fuck?) my behaviors rn are actually considered “productively normal” because she knows how lazy i can get. apparently, cleaning even though w/ repetitive patterns is normal. but at least, i have enough self awareness to admit now, that i’m worried. i’m becoming obsessed with details i shouldn’t be, my “mild schizophrenia” where i walk into a room and think things are about me is getting worse — heck i thought my cousin no longer wanted to stay over at our place was because of me — but: mind over matter is what they’d always say. is what everyone else would say. but cognitive therapy can only do so much when you feel like there’s an elephant in the room. yet, these things don’t concern them. because this was nothing compared to the manic streaks i used to have around 2020: The frequent shopping to fill the void, the constant existential crisis that never left when i turned 20, the fear of the unknown…‘ At least, you don’t throw tantrums anymore, at least you’re not suicidal anymore, at least you’re more productive than the last two years, at least you’re more self aware now.’ obviously, not per verbatim, but i’m sure this is what she’s been saying to me in a in summary, this is merely in my own understanding. because she doesn’t seem to be to concerned. dra rondain seems to only focus on life and death situations. because i’m not suicidal anymore she only cares about maintenance. — but here’s the thing doc, i’m tired. i’m tired of the constant of mood swings that change more abruptly than the seasons. i’m tired of not being able to live a normal life, that nobody seems to get the restrictions of. it’s like i want this? it’s not like i was given a map and compass or guidebook to navigate life with this mental illness. who the fuck wants to be in a constant state of push and pull of ups and downs? Im not sui anymore, but goddamn… i. am. tired. i just want to wake up one day and for this mental illness to be over. i didn’t even think i’d be here this long…

Mental Health Log 001: Mania, 08/03/22. Let me vent like a normal person lmao.