#mercy wanted to be with her so bad the entire time. this is sick and tiwsted | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

romana-after-dark · 1 year ago

Text

Cry Harder

Dark!Joel Miller x fem!reader

Masterlist : Taglist (NEW TAG LIST)

A follow up to Keep Cry'n, but you don't need to read it to read this. But you do need to read the warnings lol.

For my event, Dead Dove December which is still open until January 1st, and there's no sign up! Plenty of time to join <3

Summery: While keeping you captive, Joel's sex drive is insatiable, and the sex seemed to be never ending. You tried to warm him you needed to use the bathroom... he didn't listen.

Warnings: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT. Non con. Piss kink. Dacryphilia. PIV sex, oral f!recieving. Smoothing via pillow. Threat of murder, threat of necrophilia (Joel's just trying to scare her.) little smacking. Degredation, daddy kink.

Immersabilty: Reader is fem.

1k works

A/N: I'M BACK!!! I'll chat a lil more in the notes at the bottom and be sure to read the housekeeping but thanks for sticking around <3

You don't have to like piss kink but don't make fun of me okay lol

Support writers! Reblog and comment

******************************

“That’s it baby, cry harder”

As if you had much of a choice. Joel had you here for 2 days by this point, and the man was fucking insatiable. He had explained to you, not that you asked, that he goes in and out of “shifts”, essentially. For a few weeks, he raids and stocks up on all he needs. Then, if he’s got somewhere decent to stay, he’ll take a pretty girl for a week or so and just go insane on sex, food, and any drugs or booze he could get. You were well fed at least, and sometimes Joel let you take a few hits of weed or sips of alcohol to numb you, but other than that he wasn’t giving many mercies.

It had been hours at this point, no refractory period except sometimes to go have a smoke, but 5 minutes later he came back hard and thrusting into your swollen lips.

You were exhausted, spread out naked on your back as Joel knelt before you, thrusting. You just wanted it to be over, sobbing into the pillow you pulled over your face.

“Awwww, little babies embarrassed? Wassamatter, little baby, don’t want me to hear you moaning again?” Joel taunted you with a laugh. He liked laughing at you. He did make you moan, that was the embarrassing part. Joel wasn’t necessarily trying to make you cum, but he did get giddy and gleeful when the stretch of his cock was enough to make you orgasm.

You weren’t entirely sure that’s what was happening right now, but something was off. “Joel…” You whine into your pillow. “My stomach hurts…”

“Why -thrust- the fuck -thrust- do I care?”

“It feels funny…” You hoped maybe he’d stop if you were sick. Not that he cared about your well being, but rather he wouldn’t want you getting sick all over him. Or maybe he was into that.

“Just shut the fuck up and -mmmph- just fuck’n take it. Always fuck’n whining like you got a hard job.” Joel smacked a tit, making you whimper and clench down.

Then you realized what the feeling was. “Joel, I gotta- MPH!”

Joel shoved the pillow into your face. “Tired of your fucking voice. ‘Joel I need this, Joel I need that!’” He mocked you in a high pitched voice. “Just shut the fuck up before I smoother you and use your cold pussy instead. Bet the rigor would tight’n you up a bit.”

Fresh tears wet your pillow as you wriggle, trying to keep quiet. You needed to pee. Or maybe you were going to cum. Joel had gotten you pretty drunk this time and his dick jamming into your cervix made everything a little hazy, but you needed to pee, and you needed to pee BAD. Still, the struggle to breath was the first concern. It wasn't cutting off all your hair, but it was getting difficult.

You tried to warn him, but Joel simply kept the pillow over your mouth and he filled you up again and again, thick cock stretching you so far you weren’t sure how you were supposed to be any tighter, but men were never satisfied. The pressure continued to build and suddenly you were very confused; was this an orgasm, pee, or both?

Joel was growing erratic above you, and you wondered if he got off, if this would be it for today. You tried to hold it back, never wanting Joel to have the satisfaction, but the combination of the feeling and Joel in your stomach were too much. Unconsciously, you let go.

Joel stops, not pulling back enough to pull out but enough to see you and you release the warm liquid onto him as you cum. “Oh shit” He chuckles. “Did you squirt?” You remove the pillow the your face to catch him looking at your sore cunt as the liquid isn’t stopping and he realizes what was happening. “Ohhhh fuck!” He says gleefully, thrusting into you with renewed vigor.

“That’s it baby, piss on my cock, ooooooh yes, fuck yes, pee on daddy’s fuck’n cock, mmmmm god, gonna- fuuuuck, gonna cum, gonna cum in daddy’s little piss baby.”

You cover your face with your arms as you cry, sensitive as all hell from cumming hard as you relieve yourself, humiliated but knowing he’s close. Just gotta power through.

Huffing, Joel pressed his hand down on your lower stomach, pushing out more pee as you yelped.

“Goooood DAYUM!” Joel shouts loud in your ear as he cums inside you, filling your tired pussy with his cum.

Joel falls on top of you, laughing, his heavy weight nearly as suffocating as the pillow was. A light chuckle turned louder as he laughed harder and pulled away. As Joel pulled his cock out of your soaked folds, he was all but cackling, derangement in his eyes as he looked at the disaster that was the shitty bed you slept on.

“Such a messy girl…” He eyed your cunt, and you whimper. Joel didn’t go down on you. This was for him to get his dick wet, nothing else…

But soon, his mouth was between your legs, lapping at the mix of cum and piss and sweat between you two, his beard a rubbing irritant against your puffy skin. “Such a pathetic little girl” He muttered between breaths, rutting himself against the bed, and you knew he was hard again. “Fuck’n weird, can’t even keep from making a mess of yourself” He growls, licking you clean. “Fuck’n- ohmygod- fucking disgusting little piss Wh-who-oooooremmmm.” Joel came against the bed, just as you were about to come again, and pulled away.

You can’t help the way your body wriggles as the “Nooo” You whine, ever so quiet. You hated how much he made you want him sometimes.

Joel giggles, awfully pleased with himself. “Nah, baby, I’m done with you for now. Maybe next time you’ll learn to appreciate when I give you this cock.”

Butt naked, Joel exited the room, telling you to clean yourself up. “You smell.”

*************************

TW depression, skip to the bold for romana housekeeping

I havn't posted much outside an occasional Blessed Be the Fruit and if you follow my main, you kno why. This semester has been incredibly hard on me, a genuine deep depression i han't experienced in a long, long time. It was awful. I nearly hospitalized myself a few times and I should have but I am american and not insured. I was not safe, and was a danger to myself.

Yet, somehow, I managed to get my course work done and I finished the semmester on friday ;-; now i have 2 weeks approximately off from work which isnt ideal but hey, traveling and shit. Then for about a month I'll be working back at day care again before coming back for second semmester soooooo im hoping this free time will allow me to catch up on writing and reading

Housekeeping

As linked above, this is for my event dead dove December! It's for the Oscar Isaac/ Pedro Pascal fandom, and we got so many fun entries including lots of Joel, some triple frontier (santi AND frankie) William tell, and soon some Jack from mojave, rydall keener and more!! Would love for you to join me! if you dont wanna write but like dead dove, search #deaddovedecember2023 I didn't realize at the time there was a similar event for the bucky barnes fandom but they have the same hastag, so if you like bucky, check them out too!

Also, i'm gonna be working on a new series once Blessed be the Fruit and a few on my main end, a dark!triple frontier. Check out the coming soon info, and comment if you'd like a tag!

Be sure to join the new tag list, as i changed my tag options just a little!

@m0nster-fvcker @miraclesabound @fandxmslxt69

794 notes · View notes

pigeonwhumps · 11 months ago

Text

Superhero's pet

WoW's birthday event: day 9: aftermath of rescue | sickness | "you're burning up"

Taglist: @painful-pooch @i-eat-worlds @a-funeral-romance @rainydaywhump

Caretaker's rescued Villain from Superhero from years in his 'care'. But that doesn't mean things are easy, especially when he's still her boss.

The blame for this goes entirely to @echo-goes-mmm.

1.9k

CWs: Villain whump, pet whump, severe self-dehumanisation, past dehumanisation, past animalisation, asking for punishment, past torture

Caretaker prepares for work quickly and silently nowadays. She needs the extra time, because she has someone else to look after now.

Villain. Superhero's former plaything. The test case in the new villain rehabilitation programme.

Or, as they call themself – pet.

They wanted to be called dog. They were called dog. But pet somehow seems like a slight improvement. They use that now, for themself.

They have the same routine every day Caretaker works, and it seems to help. She wakes them up once she's completely ready to leave. She'd gladly leave them asleep, but the one time she tried, they panicked and hurt themself. She hasn't tried since.

She shakes them gently awake. They're asleep on a human-sized pet bed in her room, snuggled under a large blanket until only the tip of their satin bonnet is visible.

They wouldn't take the bed in the spare room, insisting that "pets don't deserve beds," and she wasn't letting them sleep on the carpet. This was the compromise, when she realised even a room to themself was too much.

They wake and push themself immediately to their hands and knees, reaching out to kiss Caretaker's trainers. She takes a step back.

"Hey, buddy. You don't need to do that, remember?"

Villain trembles, forehead dropping to meet the hard carpet. "Your pet is sorry, Mistress. Please punish it."

"Not happening. Come on, get dressed and then it's time for breakfast."

Caretaker turns her back as quickly as possible as Villain starts stripping without a care who's there. She's not sure she wants to know what Superhero did to make them like this.

They won't take off their collar, insisting that it'll make them a "bad dog", but there's no bell any longer and she's working on the tag.

"Your pet is dressed, Mistress."

"Good pet." She hates the term, but they practically glow when she calls them it so maybe it's worth it? "Follow me."

Villain crawls behind Caretaker, settling into a knelt position when they reach the kitchen. She stifles a sigh. They've come on since she brought them home, but there's still a long way to go. The number one priority of which is to get them to eat like a person.

"What would you like to eat this morning, Villain? Crumpets or toast with jam?" They were their two favourites before they vanished, she knows. And they're edible with fingers, which... Caretaker doesn't ever want to watch them eat like an animal again.

"Whatever Mistress desires."

"Well I would desire you to make a decision. It's okay, I won't punish you for it."

Villain pales, visibly trembling again. "May this pet... may it have crumpets, please, Mistress? It understand if it requires a reminder of its position instead, but please show mercy on your pet for following your instructions." Then they cringe away, repeating under their breath in a monotone, "Good dogs don't ask for mercy. Good dogs take what they're given. Good dogs need regular reminders."

"Shh, buddy. It's okay, I'm not going to hurt you."

Villain's breath hitches. "Please remind this pet of its place, Mistress. It needs regular reminders, This pet is a bad, bad dog and it needs to learn its place."

Caretaker winces. Why does 'dog' sound so much worse than 'pet'?

"You're not a bad pet. You're very good already. Is that where your scars are from?"

"Some, Mistress. This pet requires maintenance."

Caretaker nods, glad she's already eaten. She sets the dog bowl in front of them. "Eat your breakfast."

Villain obediently lifts a crumpet (and god, at least they're using their hands now) and hunches over it, eating like they'll never be fed again.

For all Caretaker knows, that could be a plausible possibility in their mind. Did Superhero threaten that? Villain is still underfed.

She watches as they polish off their meal. As she has before, she wonders if she's using the right pronouns anymore. Sure, it/its are conditioned into Villain, but that doesn't mean she shouldn't use them. Does it?

"I'm going to work today, Villain. While I'm gone, I'd like you to clean the dishes and look after your goldfish. You can go out on the balcony if you like, but no further outside. I'm sorry, we can't risk it yet. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Mistress."

"Good pet."

Caretaker bends down and scratches behind their ear, which they lean into eagerly. "Stay safe."

Then she leaves, unable to think of anything else to say.

Superhero has asked to see her.

Caretaker would be nervous normally, because now she's finished her training he only ever calls her in when she's failed, but now... what if he's found out about Villain? As a technopath it was simplicity itself hacking into the system to investigate the rehabilitation centre, but what if she left some trace of herself behind? Online, at the centre itself, in her behaviour over the past few weeks... she could've done anything.

As she walks through the building, she passes many people, some of whom smile or call out greetings. She wonders just how many know what Superhero's been doing.

She hadn't. Villain had been missing for two years and god, she was so naïve. Believing Superhero's reassurances (when she dared to ask) that they were being well taken care of, and he'd visited himself, the conditions were completely up to scratch. They should be no worry of Caretaker's now. His terrible lies that make her blood boil.

She knocks on his office door and waits for a response before entering.

"You wanted to see me, sir?"

His eyes are ice cold behind his smile. "Yes. I wanted to ask how you're doing."

"Sir?"

"After Villain's escape. I notice your success rate is down recently."

"Oh." She twists her fingers behind her back. Of course she has, she's not arresting anyone else to be hauled off and tortured into Villain's state or worse. "I'm sorry, sir, I've just been worried about Villain." Not a lie. "I'll do better."

"Mm." He steeples his hands together under his chin, watching her steadily with the gaze of the agency's golden boy, and it's in moments like these that she's reminded of how brutal his training was. How unforgiving. "Any idea where he could be?"

Her mind flashes back to a morning during Villain's first week with her, when they'd licked spilt jam off the kitchen floor because "bad dogs don't waste food".

"No, sir."

"Pity. As their nemesis, I expect you to do better."

"I expect you to do better, Caretaker. We'll try again in an hour."

Caretaker shivers. At least she no longer has to be trained by Superhero.

Why did she ever like and trust him?

"Sorry, sir."

"Let me know if you find anything. Dismissed." He flicks a hand towards the door and she exits obediently. You don't argue with Superhero, even if you're not trying to keep a low profile.

Às soon as she's far enough away, she leans against a wall and closes her eyes, breathing hard. She is so, so glad she doesn't regularly carry a knife around with her. Stabbing Superhero 47 times in the chest might be a slight giveaway that she no longer likes him.

Caretaker returns home to the smell of chemicals and Villain kneeling on the freshly-cleaned carpet, behind an array of implements. Lighter, matches, fire poker, broom, knife, bleach, rope, salt...

"Villain, what..."

"You have been stressed, Mistress, and this pet is overdue its maintenance. This pet thought that this might help, as it did Master." Then they say somewhat proudly, "This pet used its initiative, as you requested. Has it pleased you, Mistress?"

The pieces finally click and Caretaker stumbles back, hand flying to her mouth, horrified. Villain thought... Caretaker would want to torture them because she was stressed? More than that, they fetched all these torture implements and brought them together in an effort to please her, knowing how they would be used?

"I... put those away, Villain, please. We won't be needing those tonight. And once you're finished go and wait in the living room. I think we need to talk again."

"Yes, Mistress." They pick up the first implement (a hammer) and crawl awkwardly towards the cupboard where the DIY stuff is kept. Caretaker thinks about reminding them they can walk, but they're shaking so much already. It probably wouldn't do any good.

She changes into something more comfortable before turning the kettle on, her own hands shaking. God. It feels like every day she discovers some new, despicable thing Superhero has done. Forget the knives – she could kill him with her bare hands.

She used to just be able to relax after work. Those were the days. But– she can't very well just leave Villain. They're her responsibility, and she's their only option.

Sighing, she carefully carries two cups of chamomile tea into the living room and sets them down on the coffee table. Villain is knelt in what must be the most uncomfortable corner of the room – difficult to find, as the place is tidier than she's ever seen it.

"Will you come and join me on the sofa, please, Villain? Or at least beside the sofa, if it makes you feel more comfortable."

She's sure they'll do that, they always do, and she arranges soft cushions on the hard carpet to make it more comfortable, since the rug doesn't reach far enough. At least she's always had far too many cushions.

She lives in hope that one day they'll feel comfortable enough to start using furniture again.

"So, first things first. Thank you for cleaning the house so thoroughly. It's never been so sparkling. You didn't have to, but I'm very grateful you did. And I'm proud of you for using your initiative, please keep doing so. However, stop bringing me torture implements. That's an order. I'm not going to punish you, Villain, and nobody deserves being hurt by any of that. Understand?"

"Yes, Mistress. This pet apologises for not letting you choose the method of punishment completely. It will do better in future."

"No, that's not what I–" She cuts off, pinching her brow. She's not going to get them to understand, at least not yet. "Thank you, buddy. Now, why don't we both relax? I'll find us something we'll both like."

"Yes, Mistress."

They settle for an episode of Great British Bake Off in the end. Not that Villain ever comments either way, but they did when they still fought each other and if Villain lied to her about their preferences then that's their own fault.

Villain rests their head on her lap and watches the screen sideways, eyes half-closed. Caretaker rubs small circles into their shoulders.

She feels so incredibly guilty for arresting them in the first place. She's responsible for this, albeit indirectly. The Villain she knew would never have forgiven her.

Speaking of which...

"Why are you never angry with me, Villain? I'm the reason you were tortured for two years."

Villain glances up from under their lashes for just a second.

"Good dogs don't bark."

#whump #whump writing #wow birthday whump #wow birthday whump day 9 #aftermath of rescue #villain whump #hero and villain #hero whumper #hero caretaker #villain whumpee #pet whump

225 notes · View notes

bogor-o · 3 months ago

Text

mother rambles ahoyyy

i think ive said before, but a lot of crowns "influence" on Mother is almost entirely just dulling emotions and it usually does this by means of scrambling their head a little just to disrupt whatever is causing the disturbance and usually its just memories

very early on it's not as bad because they're actively trying not to think about their life before becoming a vessel and as time goes on and they're trying to live in a "virtuous" way that means giving mercy to people who don't deserve it, the crown just softens the wave of emotions that only gradually build up and its what keeps Mother balanced enough to handle a lot of the early years of cult management

the lingering survivors guilt will always chip away at them, ovidia wants to believe they would have done things differently but the reality is that every choice they made before their capture and death was deliberate, and they faced the consequences. being caught and inadvertently led to the deaths of her little sisters was a butterfly effect of ovidia never really letting go of the fear of death, and for a very long time in her denial convincing herself it was because if she didnt look out for herself how could she ensure that her sisters would be safe?

mentally he frames everything as "i did it for their sake" when the reality was "i wanted to live by any means necessary"

ovidias want for a future he envisioned for himself was always a priority in the back of his mind and fueled all his choices: the way he looked for food and how it was divided, always taking a little more than her sisters because "i need the energy to care for them" and it makes sense of course, but it meant they would never have enough

when the hunger made them malnourished and sick that one could no longer stand, the most risk she took was looking for anything to ease her dying.

the youngest was still young enough to lie to, young enough that if she said she would be okay that she would have no other choice but to believe ovidia, she was their caregiver what reason would she have not to.

and the only selfless thing they'd done was still carrying their sister as they ran, but was it just an act of love done too late? or was it because finally now when their moments of away from being caught and killed, did they want to have the appearance of a person who would have done anything for their family?

the thoughts and the guilt are what eat away at his psyche to most and its why the crown has had to intervene so often and numb them.

the way they treat their followers is an idealized version of who they wish they could have been, they wished they could have been virtuous and selfless, loving and caring, a Mother to someone. this also meant becoming ruthless to the opposition and taking out any anger boiling inside out on the bishops and heretics

Becoming Mother is the "best" version of themself and to one day "lose" him and becoming themself again is another challenge entirely that takes a toll on them mentally all over again.

They see themselves as a different person and even attribute all their bloodshed as a different entity all together because its easier than admitting it was always them.

post Mother, they only half accept that truth.

#botalks #cotl mother au #i wrote WAY more than i meant but i have so many thoughts abt them #i do not know if ANY of it makes sense #i make more sense when im talking not so much typing oihgertoh #warnings for mention of #cw child death

69 notes · View notes

linkspooky · 10 months ago

Text

Hot take of the morning: Should superheroes kill?

Every time I see a superhero kill a villain, I always see people respond with "Finally. A hero just kills a guy. No "If we kill them we're not better than them handwringing."

Which like okay, there settle down bro.

People always talk about this in moral absolutes though, like heroes shouldn't kill the bad guys because they always have to be better, or heroes should kill the bad guys because retaliating against violence against someone who's trying to kill you doesn't make you as bad as they are.

However, my answer to Should Superheroes kill is - it depends on the hero.

Batman's an entire character is written around how he wants to redeem Gotham and save the city, most of his villains aren't even sent to prison they're sent to Arkham a facility that's supposed to rehabilitee the mentally ill so they can rejoin society. Batman has decided it's his place to stop crime, not his place to decide whether or not people have the right to live or redeem themselves.

Batman is also at risk for being just like his villains, that's why he's foils with Harvey Dent, someone who tried to prosecute people under the law who then snapped and went full violent mobster vigilante. Batman actually is at risk for walking the same path as Harvey if he decides murder is an option.

What inspired this post was Rogue dropping Trask to his death from several stories up, which like you go girl. A lot of people on the internet cheered her on for not showing mercy.

However, in this case killing makes sense for Rogue's character. Rogue didn't start out as a hero, she was raised by Mystique and Destiny, she was a violent terrorist in support of mutant's rights as a member of the brotherhood of evil mutants. She eventually found redemption with the X-men and became a hero insstead.

It makes sense for Rogue's character to take a darker turn and start killing because she's been there before, and now her attempts to walk the high road only to watch people continue exterminating mutants has left her bitter and falling back to her old ways.

In one sense killing a man who made a machine that led to the massacre of mutants on Genosha isn't making you as bad as him, he's the violent instigator here. On the other hand, considering Rogue's past it's a sign of her mental regression though completely understandable because honestly who wouldn't get sick of trying to walk the high road when the result is remy's death and so many other mutants buried.

It's a part of a character arc.

If Peter Parker were to drop a man from several stories up intentionally, that would be a betrayal of his character. Peter never wants to kill his villains, he's interacted with the Punisher before and been disgusted with the guy, he thinks the Punisher is a bully that's barely any better than the people he hates. But it makes total sense for Rogue here.

#Spooky Speaks #xmen97

77 notes · View notes

musicfeedsmysoul12 · 9 months ago

Text

The fact I have to use multiple headcanons for some characters to make them palatable is bullshit.

Sorry this is a 3am rant as I am doing nights and am the half awake type.

But this specifically is about Cullen Rutherford and how in canon he’s a bitch ass. And Oghren to actually. Also a bitch ass.

But these characters have so much damn potential I wanna SCREAM.

Cullen is a character who is set up to be a creep in the first game. He has a crush on one of his prisoners and when the tower is taken by magic and he is tormented we see him break. In DA2, he’s a magic hating asshole who stands up in the final second against his boss. In DAI he’s the commander who gives lip service to changing but hasn’t.

This entire saga has me going; BUT WHAT IF?!

I think I ranted about this before but Cullen in DA2 could have been so much cooler if we saw him slowly have a come to Andraste sort of story. In the beginning he’s running on his trauma. Hates magic. Can’t see mages as people because it means then people hurt him and he can’t do it.

But then he begins looking around. Maybe Meredith says something or he sees how his men flinch when he’s around. He begins actually seeing things in the Circle that kind of go: wait. The Ferelden Circle tower wasn’t as bad as Kirkwall. Not good no, but Kirkwall is hell.

Cullen seeing the trauma of a young girl being made tranquil. Seeing a Templar abuse her. Stepping in and then… Meredith does nothing. Denotes the man but doesn’t care. Cullen, who was at mercy of demons for days, who was taunted with an image of a woman he fancied himself in love with… he watches and can’t understand it.

He hears of the Tranquil solution. Hears someone whisper of Alrik after and he… he can’t. He can’t do that. Talks to Meredith who dismisses it. Whose insanity sparks in her eyes. Who talks of mages are vermin.

Cullen wonders if he was like that.

I want an actual damn redemption arch for Cullen, and I would love to explore more of ‘the Chantry abuses the Templars to’ with their purposeful forced addiction and how awful it is to come off it. Having Cullen see how Samson is, seeing him so sick… it should be a moment where we see this man truly question things.

Then DAI. I want Cullen to have earned his position. I want him to talk about how he knows he has biases due to the tower and the demons. I want him to tell the Herald ‘I sometimes relapse. Just tell me’

I still want a voice to argue for the Templars but I want Cullen to argue about Tevinter and that dealing with slavers is never wise. I want us to see Cullen terrified of magic and him having to combat the feelings.

I want Cullen to have a slow horrific retaliation of the Chantry as he comes off lyrium but still can use his Templar powers. I want him to choke it out, shaking, that he has been lied to.

I want an actual redemption and him truly trying to redeem himself. I headcanon it all the time when playing because it is the only way I can put up with him. Even then I only have romances him with a non-mage human, because I can’t see him able to do anything else.

Then OGHREN. I don’t know if I talked about this but his entire relationship with Felssi never interested me because it feels like he’s repeating Branka. They insult each other and she talks to him like dirt. Exploring the idea he left not because he didn’t want to be a dad/is a bad dad but because he recognized he was in the same damn cycle would have been so cool. Plus having him actually change.

In origins, have him stop drinking as much. Have him talking not about sex or being gross but have him holding intelligent conversations with Sten on battle tactics. Have him argue with Shale about dwarves. Have him discuss withdrawal with Wynne.

Then Awakenings. Like I said, I think the discussion that his relationship with Felssi is toxic on both sides would be fun. Have him confess he realized he was right back where he’d started, have him drinking again… I’m not saying blame everything on the woman. I am saying that toxic relationships are hard to break and the idea of Oghren honestly being at a loss when he realizes where he is would be so much fun.

This is a headcanon I built to be able to stand the man.

And the fact I have to do so makes me want to beg on bended knee to BioWare: please don’t do this to me in DA:D.

#dragon age #Cullen Rutherford #Oghren #anti Cullen #anti Oghren #I suppose

39 notes · View notes

comikbook · 3 months ago

Note

I absolutely love Mercy's design!!! The entire outfit looks sick but I especially love the fringe on her hat and sleeves, it's a really unique detail!

All your OC art is so intruiguing and fun to look at in general and it makes me want to know more

What kind of adventures and hijinks does Mercy get up to in your campaign?

OOO THANK YOU i love the fringe i love fringe <3 the tassels on the hat were the best idea i ever had <333

I ALSO LOVE HIJINKS !!!

heres some silly/weird stuff that has happened in campaign !!

-mercy has almost killed 2 men by just throwing rocks ! one being a party member, the other an npc ! she throws rocks when shes bored

-she found her familiar in a garbage can outside a clothing shop owned by lesbian seamstress’s

-she currently is in possession of 9oz of cocaine

-she made “leech city” outside of an abandoned home which was her letting the leeches owned by another party member free and was the same as a kid making a “house” for bugs out of rocks and sticks

-as of rn mercy and the rest of the party are going to be/are captured by mermaids

-a party member last session was in a coma, she tried to wake him up by poking him with her boot. after he didnt wake up she went “aw he’s dead, guess we gotta leave him” despite him very obviously not being dead

-she is currently tasked with killing the sheriff in the next town we go to, which will make 2 sheriffs dead by her hand

-her go-to if someone annoys her is “hey we should kill this guy”

-she is famously bad at perception, so much so that ive made it so she looks in the entire opposite direction at something very obvious

-she is a total liar, she lies about things so ridiculous that it could happen right in front of another party member, and shell be like “idk what youre talking about”

-one time she fired an eldritch blast at a church

-she gave a little christian boy at said church a cigarette but didnt teach him how to smoke it and he threw up

-she promised to help an undead circus monkey named pearl revenge against the werewolves that killed her guardian, pearl is full of rage and mercy relates and respects it

-one time her and another party member minor illusioned a giant gorilla wearing clothes to scare a shopkeep that was rude and evil

-she trued to be nosey and peek at another party member’s journal, but remembered as she was doing so she never learned how to read, huffed and went back to smoking her cigarette

#i could say so many more #i love my girl #mercy #never learn #ask

11 notes · View notes

staticintone · 8 months ago

Text

Reminder that all my AUs on this blog are only one step away from each other.

As horrified as main verse is by RAM verse, the only difference between the two of them is that Niffty was not insane when RAM Alastor found her.

That being said, here are some small and mostly subtle differences between my RAM and the actual AU.

Alastor was, at some point, romantically in love with Vox—

As a gray aro/ace, the lines between friendship and romance are heavily blurred for him. He doesn’t need or want anything more than what would be labeled as a QPR, and would be hesitant to change the status quo. This is Vox dependent, of course, how involved the two of them were and what the falling out exactly was before the transformation. But in any case, he was deeply hurt by Vox, however selfish that was.

Which leads into the question of the “don’t bring up your feelings” directive—

This would also be heavily Vox dependent, but my default answer is that is the one punishment he implemented. A petty way of saying how dare Vox claim to be in love when Alastor’s opinion of him never mattered and he was so easily discarded. It could also be a way of him controlling the narrative as well, which is what matters most to him.

In the beginning, he would have tried very hard to go back to their old friendship—

Taking Vox away from the Vees was never as a safety measure; he isn’t afraid of them. He didn’t expect them to be happy, but this had nothing to do with them. They were a replacement for him, after all. Once he had Vox “back”, he would have attempted to have similar conversations, outings, etc. It would have been immediately jarring once proven that wasn’t fully possible.

When that failed, he would have immediately gone into full caretaker mode—

He had to take care of his mother in life. Her memory issues when she was sick would have prepared him for this. It’s temporary, he told himself. Vox isn’t Niffty, he isn’t fundamentally broken at his core, he would properly recover. This would have eaten away at his patience, especially in times where Vox didn’t recognize him at all, however rare that is. He fully blames the Vees for “letting him get this bad”, and wishes he had been there instead.

His biggest issue is that he doesn’t actually want this level of control—

This happens when Alastor has full control over Vox in any circumstances. Even in verses where he’s simply contracted. He wants things to go his way, but he wants you to cave by your own volition. To see the error of your ways, come over to his side. The blind obedience is infuriating. He wants a willing submission.

He swings wildly between immense patience and volatility—

This isn’t just related to Vox, though he definitely does this to him. It’s about anyone who confronts him about his process. He will calmly explain just how revolutionary it is, and discuss the procedure and how it functions. If someone doesn’t understand, that’s their own failing for the most part. It’s a mercy, and a beautiful gift, as far as he’s concerned.

This is different from what he did to his father—

His father was physically deformed as a punishment. Left unable to function. The metamorphosis is not meant to destroy, it’s meant to heal.

He would attempt this procedure on his mother—

His mother, now in Heaven, went through abuse similar to Niffty. She still loves Alastor’s father despite it too. Despite her current memory issues, even in paradise, Alastor would want to take the memory of Joseph away from her entirely. If given the opportunity, he would attempt to save her too.

#|{ 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚍 ;; ooc }|#|{ 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚔𝚞𝚕𝚕 ;; headcanons }|#|{ 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚏𝚞𝚕 ;; ram verse }|

12 notes · View notes

galaxywarp · 5 months ago

Note

HELLO I HEARD HORROR?? ill have to scroll through ur blog and get more context but ohhhhhhh thats SO cool Hope youre doing well!!

You might not have much luck lmao I admit I’ve been really vague about the details so far because I’ve been kind of embarrassed. It’s been so many years since I did something like write a super self indulgent horror angst fanfic for a lesbian couple I love from a shitty video game and I guess I’m shy about sharing it with people!!! Even though I’m really excited about it!!!

But you know what. I’m feeling kind of brave.

Here you go anon: here’s some of my notes from today — it includes a summary of the story’s prologue and first chapter that works as a pretty decent preview of what it’s all about

Overwatch fanfic timeline/chapter notes

PART 1

Prologue (Mercy’s POV)

Part 1 introduces the multiverse concept and the versions of Angela, Mercy and Moira we will be following. Unless otherwise specified, “Mercy” will refer to Talon!Leader Mercy and “Angela” will refer to our “canon” Mercy.

Mercy has been visiting various timelines and tormenting different versions of herself. In extreme cases, even murdering them. She is one of very few versions of herself that has mastered the technology required for multiverse travel, and as such, most Angela’s are completely unsuspecting targets of her abuse. She does however quickly notice a pattern in how easy it is to mentally break down these counterparts of hers, and she finds herself delighting in their misery. Encounters begin to escalate; she grows sadistic. Angela is prone to not fighting back and submitting to the torture due to her own self hatred, and Mercy is finding a sick way to cope with her own by inflicting this agony on other versions of herself. What starts out as an occasional indulgence becomes her primary outlet for her frustrations: anything that upsets her in her own reality, she finds another version of herself to make miserable.

And the more encounters she has with the same Angela, the further she pushes things. She likes to see how far Angela will let her take things until she breaks. Some of these start ending with her killing that timeline’s Angela, or getting Angela to kill herself.

In some timelines, Moira has tried to save Angela from these situations. Whether that timeline had both of them in Overwatch or Talon, one or the other, no matter which way, Moira keeps finding a way to get involved and cause some annoyance. The longer Mercy torments an Angela for, the more likely her Moira seems to be to notice and start causing problems. She even had to abandon a few pursuits because the timeline’s Moira became more trouble than the Angela was worth. And Mercy doesn’t like to have to kill a Moira (I’m not entirely sure yet what I want the relationship to be between her and her original Moira, or even if her OG Moira is still alive)

Prologue from Mercy’s POV will cover this information to ensure reader is up to speed before dropping right into the story at the point in time when Mercy first introduces herself to our Angela.

Chapter 1 (Angela’s POV)

For simplicity I believe this story should take place when Moira is still working covertly for Overwatch (as in, before the Blackwatch scandal and departure for Oasis/Talon). Puts her and Angela in the same location most often but still a distance between them. They encounter each other regularly enough but their interactions are impersonal and short. From a multiverse standpoint, these two are not very close compared to most timelines. There’s usually at least more animosity between them, and more frequent arguments. But this timelines Angela really prefers keeping to herself and lacks a strong bond with Moira or anyone else. (This info isn’t explicitly stated but it’s important context that will influence and explain much of her behavior throughout the story)

Angela has been having bad dreams. She dreams of another version of herself standing over her bed at night, staring down at her like a predator waiting for the right moment to strike. Sometimes in the middle of the night it feels so real that she’s almost certain she can see herself in the shadows of her own room, watching her, but she tries to tell herself that she’s just sleep deprived and paranoid.

Which she is. But also, Mercy has targeted her.

The stress of this starts following her to work during the day. Tired and on edge, she has a confrontation with Moira in the lab.

Moira leaves, irritated, and the POV will switch to her for the close of the chapter as she is confronted by Mercy while outside trying to walk and blow off steam from her argument with Angela

13 notes · View notes

cinamun · 9 months ago

Note

While I def think Jackson could a came out about what happened,I can also see why he might not. like u said, he was impaired when Bertie approached him and he was in the corner of the counters, most likely trying to lean up. Maybe he knows he was taken advantage of, but at the time, the conversation of men being then advantage of would probably be reduced to him just wanting it secretly. Maybe he has self induced guilt or can't comprehend what happened. He seemed more mad for a personal reason at Bertie during the flashback with Mercy asking to go to bed early.

Now see!!! This is the page i'm on my dear anonymous friend. We could both be wrong, but I think Jackson trying to control the narrative is because Jackson felt incredibly guilty. He felt horrible about what happened. I think he wanted to push it away like it never even happened (kinda like Mercy did all these years, ahem....). Add to the fact that his drinking was probably because he knew he was sick before it got as bad as it did and let's just add on that men don't talk about their feelings so Bertie thought the drinking was because of Mercy and Mercy just wanted to preserve her family which was her entire world.

Oh yeah, he was pissed at Bertie! Not only did he feel like he was taken advantage of, but now she's trying to get his attention? In front of his wife? Bitch WHAT??? So he followed her outside to make it crystal clear that she is outta pocket and she better jump back in before he kicks her and her rudolph-the-white-nosed reindeer of a man the fuck up out the band. Then she drops the atomic bomb....

#now im mad #kdfjdlksjfklajdkslfjakl #story stuff

9 notes · View notes

salternateunreality2 · 1 year ago

Note

*dances up to You like the little cave dwelling critter I am*

So my mums been sick this week, and all week our cat has been sitting with her to make her feel better.

I have no idea if this is normal car behaviour. But I’m curious: how does Sephikittie react to his friends being sick? Does he sit with them? Or does he hiss when they sneeze?

Hope you’re well!❤️

Awww, that is so sweet! I hope she feels better soon with the magic of kitty cuddles. ❤️🐱❤️

Thank you! ❤️

*cave-salt noises as I drag Genesis under the bus, mwahaha*

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

Canon!

In canon we see him reacting to Genesis and Angeal degrading. At the first injury, he kinda just stands around because Gen said he was fine, so he's fine, right?

He turns away at first with his sword as Gen walks by, which I think is entirely so we can get an over-the-shoulder camera angle, but could also be interpreted as an animal avoiding eye contact as a sign of respect and wanting to de-escalate.

I'm not as familiar with cat body language, but dogs will do stuff like sneeze and turn their shoulders/flanks to you to show they're not a threat. Cutieroth.

Then Genesis gets sick, and he trots silently up to Hollander, seconding Angeal's concern and offering his blood. He looks so sad when he's rejected.

Then he spends the rest of CC following Genesis and Angeal, then standing around awkwardly once he gets close.

90% of SephGen interactions post-training-room-fight:

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

Fanon conclusions!

He's the kind of friend that shows up and doesn't know what to do.

Genesis is languishing in bed from a minor man-flu, bemoaning his fate, and Sephiroth's there like, "Um, do you want some juice?"

Genesis, coughing pitifully: "No, only the goddess can help me now; I have consumed her nectar repeatedly and found no relief; it is for naught until she looks on me with mercy and grants eternal rest."

Angeal, from the kitchen: "He means he had juice a half hour ago, he's fine."

Sephiroth: "oh...ok...." *Stands around*

He can't lurk constantly, because he has duties, but I think he would if he could. Nothing really phases him germ-wise due to his crazy levels of mako and Jenova, so he's not too concerned with contamination.

I think with enough time and experience (and tips from Angeal), he'd catch on to Genesis' dramatic ways, and instead of just standing around, bring some paperwork to do in the living room while Gen whines in his bedroom.

When Angeal gets sick, or Genesis gets really sick, I HC that they'd come into work and pretend everything is fine, but Seph would smell that something's off and perform his hovering routine until they collapse, at which point he'd catch them and waffle about what to do until Lazard pops his head in and goes, "wtf, take him to medical!" (grumbling) "Fucking SOLDIERS, always trying to play the hero, they're going to get the whole floor sick." (He's right)

Seph's not dumb, he just doesn't like medical because it's like the labs, and he's thinking maybe they'd be more comfortable at home, but he doesn't know what that's like or how bad the illness is and it's kind of nice to be able to hug his friends for once but they passed out and...

#ff7 #sephiroth #genesis rhapsodos #angeal hewley #lazard deusericus #die hojo die #ff7 crisis core

15 notes · View notes

bloodtwin · 4 months ago

Text

𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐠 。。。

latest grave robbed: unprompted interactions 。

@silvertiefling ⸻ ❝ He had disappeared for a few days while she hung around the bhaal temple - and she had been pouty about it the whole time. He hadn't even told her where he was going or what he was doing and she was irritated to discover him gone. But when he finally returned, a different sensation ran through her. One of relief, of care, of love and excitement - it scared the shit out of her but didn't stop her from running up to him and jumping into his arms, wrapping her own around his neck as she smothered his face in as many kisses as she could. "Puck! Gods, there ya are you little shit - ya didn't even kiss me goodbye, you owe me a million kisses for every day you were gone!" yet she's still the one pressing her lips all over his face, not giving him a second to breathe. ❞

That wasn't what he expected 。What was it he expected, exactly ？ He wasn't really sure now that he thought about it, but whatever it was- it was not excitement 。Maybe he hoped thought that, if he didn't say goodbye, she would leave & never return. She'd realize whatever pleasure she derived from him wasn't worth the trouble it cost.

It wasn't that he wanted her to leave, but if there was one thing he knew for certain, it was that everything he touched inevitably died 。It was only a matter of time before it was her turn, too. Surely, she knew that ？

She knew it better than anyone, actually. She'd seen the worst of him. Worse than even Iago had ever seen. Katya was not a saint by any definition of the word, but there was a difference between being a bad person & being an irredeemable monster 。Logically, she should have run away ages ago.

Yet she lingered still, laying herself down in her own grave; deeper & deeper with every day she came back to him. It was that ease with which she seemed to trust him that terrified him. Not only did she let him go too far, but she encouraged it. Wanted it. It was stupid of her; it was reckless 。He had no idea when that reckless faith first began, but he wished he'd recognized it for what it was. Wished he'd nipped it in the bud, pushed her away, saved her from him. He didn't understand what she saw in him.

Puck did not doubt Katya's strength nor her ability to defend herself against him. He believed her to be the most likely person to succeed in killing him, if such a thing was even possible. But most likely was not good enough. One day, he would lose control. He would catch her off guard at just the wrong time, overpower her, and she would die.

She'd probably find it romantic 。She'd choke to death, not because Puck had his hands around her throat, but because she would waste her breath to taunt & tease him until the light faded in her eyes. Such a thing would usually entice him, spur him on. With her, it made him feel sick.

Why ？She'll die, anyway 。Or did you forget already ？You know how this story ends ; you're the one writing it, after all. Everyone dies, then you take your own life at the same time you take your bloodtwin's. This mutt is nothing 。Fodder. A toy you should have discarded long ago 。It'd be a mercy to kill her now.

❝ You are being dramatic, I think, ❞ a tease he often threw her way, but today it lacked its usual warmth. It sounded numb, distant. Instinctively, Puck had caught her in his arms, but his embrace felt stiff, heavy yet barely there. Almost as if he were a ghost.

Puck willed a cocky smirk on his face as she kissed him though each brush of her lips made his stomach drop.

❝ I did not realize my absence would be 。。。 ❞ A bad thing. The idea that there was someone who truly missed him was entirely alien to him. He didn't know what to do with it. Didn't know what to say. He settled on leaning on old, sarcastic habits. ❝ ⸻ Ah, so harrowing for you, dear. I apologize. ❞

#silvertiefling #quietly Oh ok ..#me when my boyfriend left for a few days bc he was probably plotting world domination or whatever #and now he is (even more) dead inside than before :thumbsup:#cw sui mention #cw flashing gif #&&. RABID DIRTY DOG！☠ 𝐈𝐂。#𝐕. 𝐁𝐓. ➷ THE BOY WHO DESTROYED THE WORLD！#&&. ALL GOOD CITIZENS OF WYRMLANDS！HARKEN UNTO THESE WORDS！☠ 𝐈𝐍𝐁𝐎𝐗。

2 notes · View notes

hoffstrap-yuri · 1 year ago

Text

A list of my fics for the Saw fandom. Split by characters

Lawrence (Laura) Gordon:

An Act of Mercy: ao3- Laura Gordon x Fem Reader- 18+

She woke up without a memory of where she'd been. She had no reason to trust the doctor before her, but she was familiar somehow.

Needle and Chain (Lawrence Gordon/Amanda Young):

Not What I Needed: ao3- Laura Gordon x Amanda Young- T for Teen

Laura has devoted her work to save life whenever possible. When she reaches out to Amanda, she might save something even more precious to her.

Not What I Could Have: ao3- Laura Gordon x Amanda Young- T for Teen

Her first instinct as a doctor was to feel for a pulse even though she knew it was in vain. She ripped off a piece of her shirt and shoved it into the wound. It would do nothing for Amanda but she didn't want to see her love covered in so much blood.

Chainshipping (Lawrence Gordon/Adam Faulkner Stanheight)

A Glimmer of Hope: ao3- Laura Gordon x Eve Faulkner-Stanheight- M for Mature Content

Laura had thought about all the filthy things she could do to Eve after they were free, and now they were. It's time for her imagination to do a little more than just imagine.

A Brownie a Day, Keeps the Doctor Glued: ao3- Laura Gordon x Eve Faulkner-Stanheight- 18+

Eve had a penchant for eating when she was bored. Most of the times she didn't have her vice of choice at the ready, but that was different now that she was with Laura Gordon. The doctor didn't seem to mind the side effects of Eve's eating habits catching up to her waistline.

Coffinshipping (Peter Strahm/Mark Hoffman)

For Sickness and in Health (Insurance): ao3- Peter Strahm x Mark Hoffman- 18+

Agent Strahm was by the book when it came to solving cases. Being honest about his marital status was a different story entirely.

To Have and To Hold: ao3- Peter Strahm x Mark Hoffman [Sequel to For Sickness and in Health] -18+

Like a game of cat and mouse, Hoffman and Strahm continue their little ruse from DC. Just in New York this time.

Primadonna Girl: ao3- Peter Strahm x Mark Hoffman- 18+ for explicit mature content

“I haven’t said ‘I love you’ in almost twelve hours.” “What makes you say that now?” “Just… thinking about how I want to say I love you.” “I love you too.” Mark leaned in and kissed Strahm’s cheek. Strahm took his foot off the brake and looked into Hoffman’s eyes. “Pete?” “Let’s get married.” “Peter, are you crazy?” Hoffman laughed.

Bad Idea, Right?: ao3- Peter Strahm x Mark Hoffman- 18+ for explicit mature content

Peter Strahm goes over to Det. Hoffman's house to get more information about the Jigsaw case. Should be simple enough, right?

In My Head, In My Heart: ao3- Petra Strahm x Maureen Hoffman- 18+ for explicit mature content

Petra Strahm had come to terms with the fact that she was a lesbian after Husband #2, but never did she think she'd swing so hard for a pregnant woman.

Motherhood: ao3- Petra Strahm x Maureen Hoffman- +18 for explicit mature content

Maureen and Petra were adjusting to life as new mothers, but Petra can't help feel like she's not a piece of the puzzle

A Sweet Surprise: ao3- Petra Strahm x Maureen Hoffman- E for Everyone

Lindsey excitedly told her partner, Petra, about a new bakery. They go to investigate. Simple as that.

Shall We Dance?: ao3- Peter Strahm x Mark Hoffman- 18+ for Explicit Mature Content

Strahm needed a breather. Perez was so kind as to pay for her co-worker's dance class. Never in a million years would he imagine that Hoffman would be there too.

Passing Through: ao3- Peter Strahm x Mark Hoffman- M for Mature Audiences

“Sir… I’m afraid we’re going to have to ask you to turn around, and drop your pants.” Hoffman didn't think this situation could get any worse. (Saw AU for the Mule 2014)

Cat for Tat: ao3- Peter Strahm x Mark Hoffman- +18 for explicit mature content

Peter was not sure how he could prove to his roommate that a cat could understand the innate human instinct to bother, him, Peter Strahm.

Lost in Time, Like Tears in Rain: ao3- Petra Strahm x Maureen Hoffman- 18+ for Explicit Mature Content

Indistinguishable. Her dirt brown hair looked like every other head in this sector. She turned a corner when it felt like an eye was on her back, seeing if the feeling follow. She only let her chest decompress when the nagging feeling of someone watching had gone. --- “You are flipping through a magazine. You suddenly come across a full page nude photo of a girl…” “Miss Strahm, is this question to test whether I am a Replicant, or a lesbian?” She almost laughed (Blade Runner AU)

A Hedonistic Streak: ao3- Mark Hoffman x Peter Strahm- 18+ for Explicit Mature Content

Hoffman didn't mind shutting his brain off. He felt like it was a treat after a day at work as a detective. Apparently, someone else on the internet didn't seem to mind much either.

Gasshipping (Laura Hunter/Amanda Young)

A Small Observation: ao3- Laura Hunter x Amanda Young- E for Everyone

A warm cup of coffee, a quiet rain, a person's life in her hands. Amanda was John's apprentice after all.

12 notes · View notes

cdyssey · 2 years ago

Text

Wreck

Summary: When Melissa's nana dies, Barbara is there for her.

CW: Death Discussion; Heavy Grief

AO3 Link

Melissa smooths her to-do list across her kitchen island with trembling fingers. Having been folded and unfolded several times over, marked upon profusely, tossed into her purse, crammed into her back pocket, unceremoniously stuffed into her bra at least twice, and probably stained with some cheap Chardonnay that her kid cousin picked up from Dollar General, the tear-out from a yellow legal pad has certainly seen better days.

But, hey, that’s nothin’ special.

She guesses she looks like a shit piece of paper too, all crinkled and creased, smudged and barely fit for perusal anymore.

Someone load her ass in a garbage truck and cart her off to the dump because she’s a wreck: fucked up, overwhelmed, annihilated, undone.

She doesn’t even feel like a human anymore.

Her nana died just around two days ago now, passing from the world about as peacefully as one could dare to imagine for a woman who’d been sick for the last ten months of her life. It was quiet in the end, as simple and as easy as falling asleep after a long, hard day. And the doctor-on-call promised that the sedative he was giving her would ensure that it was painless, which was a relief perhaps only because everything else leading up to that day had been so goddamn painful: the sickness, the waiting, the wrenching, bone-heavy grief.

(It was entirely possible to grieve someone who was still alive—to look at their utterly wasted body and understand that what was left was just a tangible echo, a breathing ghost.)

Melissa held her bony hand during that last hour and told her that it was okay to go—she’d be fine—and it was the first and only lie she’d ever told that saint of a woman in the entirety of her life.

She didn’t exactly ask forgiveness for doing so either.

She thought that if God knew anything about mercy, He’d understand and grant her this one sin: comforting that comfortless woman.

Nana had been ready to go, of course—sure, yeah, absolutely—she had known that it was her time for far longer than any of her headstrong relatives had been willing to admit. But she was so scared too: scared of leaving all her loved ones without their resilient matriarch, scared of their eventual (and perhaps inevitable) in-fighting, scared of a fractious future that she wouldn’t be around to mend with a homemade ziti dish and warm, jam-filled pie. She made Melissa promise—over and over again, ad infinitum—that she’d keep the Schemmenti clan together long after she was gone.

“Family’s all that we’ve got, Melly,” she once said. In the same way that Joe was the only person to call her Lissa, Nana was the only one to ever know her as Melly. It was a bit childish, maybe, but Melissa didn't mind. She always felt like she was twelve again when she was in her grandmother's presence: gap-toothed, impertinent, a hellion in patched overalls. “You gotta swear to me, on your Papa’s grave, that you’ll always remember that—no matter how balorde some of your aunts and uncles can be.”

“Nana!”She’d belly laughed at the time, bracing her hands on the edge of Nana’s steel-basin sink. They’d been in the kitchen together, as they so often were, peeling russet potatoes for her famous gnocchi recipe. This was at the very beginning of those long ten months when they both thought she just was just having bad arthritis flare-ups, perhaps. Her doctor was supposed to call sometime in the next few days with the results from her most recent labs...

“Those are your kids. You can’t just call ‘em stupid.”

(Even if it was expressly true.)

“Yeah, I can! I pushed them outta me, every one of ‘em eight or nine pounds a pop! Apple doesn’t fall far from the bush is what I say!”

It was the kind of statement that only her grandmother could pull off, something that made her want to snort and cry at the exact same time. She was outrageously funny, that stout, little woman, but she never seemed to think much of herself, especially when it came to education. She had to drop out of high school to work and help her parents raise their endless passel of kids, and then, before she knew it, she was poppin’ out little redheaded Sicilian Catholics of her own—Melissa’s own ma included.

Nana was so proud of her for making it through college and becoming a teacher, telling her as much every opportunity that she got, and constantly bragging about her accomplishments to her canasta group. She’d known how hard it was for Melissa at times.

Reading had always been a little challenging for her.

Taking exams could be a goddamn nightmare.

“Would you quit flippin’ saying that?” Melissa had rebutted, both exasperated and fond all at once, attempting to discipline her smirk into a reproving frown. “You’re not dumb either, Nana. Alright? Capito?"

She was the smartest person Melissa knew, high school diploma or not, for education was far from the same as intelligence in her book. There were plenty of eggheads out there with degrees coming out of their asses who didn't know how to haggle for the best cuts of beef or stay clear of certain Philly streets at night or change a flat with a crying kid on one hip and three more bouncin' around in the car. Before she had ever decided to become an elementary school teacher, those sorts of things were her only measures of how clever a person really was, and her grandmother had been the golden standard of them all—competent in a world that could be so arbitrary, needlessly complicated, and cruel.

At this, her sweet nana suddenly smiled, her dark eyes warmed by the golden light leaning in from the window above the sink. It was a sad smile and a profound one—the kind that little, old ladies always gave in the movies before they up and died, kickstarting the next act. It was accompanied by a slow shake of the head. She had her green rollers in; they shivered in time with the movement.

“Good God, I love you, Melissa,” she had murmured softly, each syllable laden with a certain gravity, as though she already suspected something about her health that Melissa didn’t, as though she had an inkling of what awaited her in the coming days, weeks, and months upon godawful, medicine and machine-filled months. Maybe Melissa should have known then herself—by that rare usage of her Christian name, by the way her stubborn-as-hell grandmother didn’t argue back—that something was horribly wrong.

But she hadn't.

Just ten months and some spare change ago, it was impossible for her to fathom a world where her nana wasn't in it.

She just accepted that love, basked in it, took it for granted even, and now, a little less than a year later, as she pores over a checklist of all the shit she’s gotta do to bury that precious lady—(so much, too flipping much)—she racks her exhausted brain and wonders if she’d said it back that time.

I love you too, Nana.

Of course, she’s said it about a gazillion times since then. Never left a conversation with the woman without doing so in case it was their last. But all the times she didn’t reciprocate those three words and every other missed or botched opportunity besides tangibly aches her chest, pounds upon it, like fists against an awful drum. Missed calls. Canceled lunch dates. Squandered chances to ask her about her storied life. The endless thank you she didn’t give that woman for practically raising her.

It’s irrational, of course, so goddamn stupid; she loved that woman endlessly and proved it in a thousand different ways.

But even still, what she wouldn’t give for one last tomorrow with her to tell her again and again.

Unbidden, unwanted, totally out-of-line and out-of-the-blue, tears threaten to spill over Melissa’s lashes and onto that yellow paper that’s already been to hell and back. She furiously swipes them away with the heel of her hand, doesn’t have the time to cry.

She’s still gotta call the Social Security Office and get Nana’s checks to stop comin’ through the mail. And after that, she has to take Joe’s suit to the dry cleaner ‘cuz her useless lump of a husband keeps forgetting. And when she gets back home—at who knows what time because she’s really gotta stop at the store and grab a few necessities—she desperately needs to go through Nana’s files again to see if she’s got that damn burial policy in there somewhere. Otherwise, they’re gonna have to pay for the service and the cremation out of pocket, even if she knows a guy who knows a guy who knows the funeral director, who can only get them an okay deal, which is fine.

It'll help, or at the very least, it won't hurt, but the crux of the sordid matter—the bottom line at the end of the shitty day—is that dying is so freakin' expensive.

“Fuck,” she groans, sliding her hand down until she’s palming her mouth. “Shit.”

No one ever talks about how the aftermath of death is just one cold bureaucracy after another: files, papers, tasks, and duties.

It’s unbearable.

Melissa alone has to bear it.

Her ma’s gone. Her remaining aunts and uncles are fragile. Her cousins aren’t any good with this kind of organizational crap. Her own goddamn sister’s been AWOL ever since the diagnosis, and the rest of her younger siblings haven’t done jack squat either.

It’s up to Melissa.

It always is.

That doesn't change just because someone she loved died.

The responsibilities simply take up the same air as the grief.

Just as she’s about to get started, though, reaching for her phone to start looking up numbers, her one saving grace walks in through the arched entranceway of the kitchen. Elegant as ever in a floral print blouse and black slacks, a plastic bag hanging off one arm, her comically huge purse on the other, is none other than—

“Barb,” she croaks, overwhelmed and overcome, weak-kneed with a relief that she just as immediately tries to hide. Vulnerability utterly terrifies her; it is one of the few house guests that she doesn’t know how to capably entertain.

“You don’t… y’know, you don’t have to come every day.”

But her best friend unfailingly has, bringing over various dishes and groceries, helping Melissa keep track of all the shit she needs to do, and oftentimes, just sitting next to her on her plastic-covered couch and holding her hand, palm-to-palm, their ten fingers intertwined. If Melissa has known any modicum of peace in this hellish last week, it’s only because Barbara Howard has deigned to carve out some for her, offering it to her like an alm.

God bless her—she even showed up before her nana passed away, when family and friends were just congregating in Melissa’s house, filtering in and out of the guest bedroom where Nana’s hospital bed was to say their goodbyes. And when death finally lifted Nana away—arriving as gently as a mother carrying her child to bed—Barbara’s warm arms were the first around Melissa, holding her so tightly, her lone defenses against collapsing into a million goddamn pieces on the floor.

Barbara would never let that happen, though.

She had her.

She would cradle all her shrapnel; she would salvage her from abyssal ruins.

“And you,sweetheart, know better than to think that’ll stop me,” Barbara laughs kindly, setting her purse and plastic bag on the kitchen island. There’s a twinkle in her dark eyes, a lovely playfulness curving her plum-colored lips. “I do as I please.”

“Stubborn fool,” Melissa chuckles hoarsely, a sudden thickness in the column of her throat. She’s always on the verge of crying over nothing nowadays: spilled wine on the counter, a sad headline on the news, smelling something in the kitchen that reminds her of her grandmother, being joked with, having companionship, being loved.

She knows that she’s been caught, too, by the way her friend gingerly skims her fingertips against her forearm.

It’s the lightest touch imaginable.

It nearly shatters her where she stands.

“Yes,” Barbara hums in gentle agreement, “that’s why we get along like two peas in an unshelled pod.”

“Hah,” she tries to smile. Her entire mouth feels like concrete. “Some pod.”

“Extraordinary peas, though, if I do say so myself,” the older woman declares with an air of finality as she starts to busy herself, pulling out a white takeout container and some utensils from the plastic bag. Even before she sees the familiar logo of a happy chef wedged in-between some blocky lettering, Melissa knows the rich, homely smell of fried chicken.

And not just any fried chicken, but—

“Danny's Wok?” Her eyebrows lift at least three inches from their exhausted lids. “Jesus, Barb, that’s all the way across town. You didn’t have to—“

But Barbara cuts her off with a raised hand, a familiar teacher pose. “But I wanted to and so I did. Now park your fine derrière on a stool and tell me what you would like to drink, girlfriend.”

“I’ve got things to do,” she protests weakly, gesturing at the to-do list still laying pathetically on the counter. She doesn't know why she's being so obstinate. Maybe it's just instinct; her immediate reaction to people offering help has always been a deep, gut-felt shame: shame that she can't do something by herself; shame that she's so weak, and someone else is stronger; shame that she isn't enough. (One of her deepest fears is that she's never been enough) Or maybe it's because she just doesn't want to think about the way that Barbara saying she had a nice ass made the contents of her stomach do a loop de loop.

“I can eat later.”

It’s not a sentence she’s said very often in her lifetime, and Barbara peers at her skeptically, damn well knowing this.

“But when’s the last time you did have a bite, Melissa? You look pale.”

“I had a piece of toast this morning,” she grunts uncomfortably, more than aware that it’s not sufficient by either of their standards. That was hours ago. According to the digital clock on her oven, it’s nearly five o’clock now.

But all truth being told, she hasn’t been particularly hungry in a while, not since the hospice worker sat her down a few days before Nana died and said that it’d be soon.Food has lost a lot of its flavor. Nausea is constantly doing laps around her digestive tract. She doesn’t know how to care about eating when this grief is taking up so much real estate in her body and never paying any of the rent.

“Hardly enough,” Barbara scolds predictably, first pushing the styrofoam tray in her direction, now shuffling towards the stainless steel fridge, no nonsense and all productivity. It's how she shows her love. “You need to put something substantial in your stomach, sweetheart. You'll be of no use to your list if you keel over on top of it."

“Okay, Ma,” she huffs, but it doesn’t have any real bite to it because she obediently unlatches the box anyway. She knows that Barbara is right, as she usually—(sometimes annoyingly)—is.

“Ma is correct,” the older woman hums, undeterred. “Someone needs to be responsible for you.”

It's hard not to feel chastised by such a statement, as though she's being patronized—a little kid in her own damn home; she attempts a weak smile anyway. It wobbles like a tricycle across the chapped line of her mouth.

“‘Cause I’m doing a shit job at it, yeah?”

Of course she is; she's a disaster with good hair.

“Absolutely not,” comes an exceedingly gentle reply, thrown over the other teacher's shoulder, landing as gently as a kiss. “It’s just that you seem to think it’s your God-given duty to be responsible for everyone else in this world except for yourself. Let me—no, wait, I insist upon—doing the same for you, Melissa."

A new lump surfaces to Melissa’s throat as she digests this unadulterated tenderness; it’s unfamiliar to her, even after so many years of receiving it from the angelic woman standing in her kitchen. She doesn’t know what to do with it. She holds it in her like a rain cloud, just waiting for it to pour.

“It’s scary that you have my number like this,” she finally says, and it’s the type of thing that she’s not supposed to mention aloud—she knows. She’s well aware. She’s spent an entire lifetime avoiding emotional honesty like it’s a summons for jury duty. But sometimes—if only sometimes, and usually only when a hell of a lot of booze is involved—she and Barbara can transcend their mutual understanding to never talk about the way they secretly look at each other when they think no one is watching and arrive at the undoctored truth of their shared experiences.

They know each other.

They love each other.

Far more intimately than should be allowed.

Barbara freezes where she stands, shoulders squared, hand gripping one of the fridge handles; she doesn’t turn around, possibly can't.

“Well... that’s what friends are for,” she returns in a stilted voice, picking her way around each individual phoneme like it's a landmine. It’s a warning tone even, begging Melissa not to press, and so Melissa doesn’t, swallowing painfully—just as submissive as a dog and far more devoted.

The sticky moment passes—it always does. Barbara retrieves a half-empty jug of sweet tea from the fridge, and Melissa slowly legs herself onto a stool next to the island. Her feet ache—her head, her chest, her entire goddamn body—but when Barbara joins her a few moments later, having poured them glasses of tea and grabbed napkins and condiments, both of them proceed as though nothing happened at all. Melissa picks at the chicken in an exercise of politeness, tearing off a little piece here or there and trying to chew it in slow, methodical bites.

It tastes like burnt rubber.

She attempts to wash it down with her drink, but the sickly sweetness of the tea just as quickly nauseates her.

Barbara can’t keep up the ruse of not paying attention to this sad ritual for very long.

“I can make you soup,” she offers pleadingly, already halfway off her own stool. "Potato? Broccoli-and-cheese? Vegetable?" Melissa places a hand on her leg to force her to sit down again.

“Nah, you’ve done enough,” she says firmly. “I... just don’t have it in me right now, Barb.”

And without flinching or glancing away, though every nerve in her body itches to bundle her present fragility away from view, she allows the other woman to search her face and confirm this unsavory truth. She bares every line and gaunt shadow; they surely adorn the curvature of her face like bruises.

“You can only do what you can do,” the older woman replies reluctantly, as though it’s the thing she knows she’s supposedto say and not necessarily what she actually believes. Melissa almost smiles at that assessment, smug in her assurance that it's the correct one. Barbara’s never been exceptionally good at hiding her feelings. People think that she is. Hell, even Barbara herself thinks she has others fooled.

But Melissa can see right through her, all those hundreds of things that she doesn’t say, that she entraps behind those tightly pursed lips for fear of being construed as ungodly. She thumbs through the Book of Barbara almost daily—with all the reverence that such a project deserves—and her diligence has rewarded her with all the beautiful fine print.

“Advice you gotta listen to yourself, hon,” she muses fondly, patting Barbara’s leg again before finally withdrawing her hand. “You’ve gone above and beyond for me these past few days. It’s not your fault I’ve got a sick stomach right now.”

“I know,” she admits in that same grudging tone, “but still, I’d do anything to make things better for you, Melissa, to relieve the burden on your shoulders even the tiniest bit.”

She gestures emphatically at the to-do list between them with one of her manicured friends.

“It’s far from fair that you’re in charge of all this when I know for a fact that you have other family members who are perfectly capable of helping to lighten the load. For instance”—she picks the paper up, scanning it briefly—”Joseph’s dry-cleaning! Why in God’s precious name isn’t your husband doing his own dry-cleaning?”

“He’s busy,” Melissa says in a clipped voice, less offended that Barbara is criticizing her husband than she is annoyed that her friend arrived at the same question that she did so easily. “At work. Fightin’ fires.”

Spending his paychecks on booze and scratchers and God only knows what else. Sometimes, he comes home smelling like strange perfume.

The kindergarten teacher emphatically shakes her head. “That doesn’t abscond him of his duty of being a responsible adult in a time of crisis.”

“Yeah, well—” She starts to defend him and then just as abruptly stops, suddenly cornered and violently choked.

Melissa doesn’t know what to fucking say to that, if there's anything to be said at all. If she argues, she’d just be lying to herself, to Barbara, and to almighty God—an unholy trinity of delusion and willing deceit. There’s just no excusing the inexcusable, no dressing it up in rouge and calling it pretty.

She’s alone.

Oh, God—her nana died and left her.

She's got a husband and he sleeps in the same bed as her, but somehow and nevertheless, she’s all alone.

Her eyes begin to water, her breathing quickly turning shallow, as everything inside of her falls apart and implodes.

Barbara quickly places the list down again and exchanges it for a tissue that she plucks from a nearby box, reaching up to wipe the tears away. Her cool palm skims the side of Melissa’s feverish face, and the contact is so tender that it’s almost too painful to bear. Melissa reaches up and curls her fingers around her friend’s wrist like it’s a lifeline, unable to form any words, her throat throttled with vile, her stomach sick with it. And the tears continue to well, no matter how many Barbara capably catches.

She heaves out one ugly sob and then another, covering her mouth with her free hand as though that would help with the inconvenience and the noise.

(She's spent most of her adulthood trying not to be inconvenient to make up for all her loudness and her noise.)

“Oh, Melissa—” Barbara exhales, her own dark eyes filling. She continues to stroke the side of her face, holding her cheek, cradling it, cradling her. “Oh, baby—it’s okay that you’re hurting. It’s okay to feel this pain.”

“I-it’s freakin’ not, though,” she moans, the sound muffled behind her hand, the unspeakable anguish leaking through anyway. Her nails curl into her lower lip. “I… I gotta keep it together, Barb! I can’t just—Jesus—I can’t just fall apart. I don’t, I can’t, fuck, I can’t—”

She can’t breathe. Surely, there’s a vice in her chest, squeezing her ribcage into mere molecules and skeletal dust. Surely, her lungs have burst, her veins, her bleeding heart, one massive supernova of flesh and gory tissue, and this moment's all she’s got left. Minutes. Seconds. Nanoseconds. She’s going to die right here and right now, while Nana is unburied, and her to-do list is still unfinished, and—

“You can, Melissa Schemmenti,” comes an authoritative voice from above, shaking but somehow utterly unshaken, ringing like a decree from the Lord God on High. And then Barbara’s warm arms are around her, filling the encroaching darkness with all the flowers on her shirt: sunflowers, poppies, lillies, and roses. Petals everywhere. A garden of beauty and impossible delight. “You cando this because I’m here, and I’m not going to let you go under. You hear me, sweetheart? That’s my promise to you, my solemn, unbreakable oath.”

It’s the loveliest combination of words Melissa has probably ever been told in her life; she cries all the harder, weeping her horror, half-vomiting it. Her mouth tastes like tea and salt.

“Breathe,”Barbara instructs her, pressing a gentle kiss against the crown of her head. One of her hands finds its way to the hollow of Melissa’s constricted throat; she splays her fingers against it, palm resting on her chest where the divot of her shirt exposes some of her skin. “You have to breathe, Melissa.”

But it's hard.

It's so fucking hard.

Every hitched breath still becomes a sob, and every sob reverberates through her beaten body like a shock wave. But Barbara is patient where she isn't, a sturdy monolith when all of her vertices have become undone. She begins to rub slow, methodical circles into Melissa's sternum, perhaps modeling a rhythm that she can pattern her breathing against. As the seconds limp past, every bit as injured as she is, she learns to inhale on one revolution and exhale on another, doing this until her heart rate begins to slow again, until the tightness in her chest recedes long enough for her to rationally confirm that she’s not, in fact, dying.

She's living.

(And after someone dies, that's one of the bravest damn things that anyone can ever do.)

Even after her pulse somewhat returns to normal, she and Barbara remain tangled together for what feels like hours, even though it’s surely only a handful of minutes.

Melissa finally lowers her hand from her mouth and twists it somewhere in the paradise of Barbara’s blouse.

Barbara kisses her head again, a little lower this time, near the peak of her red hairline.

Neither of them makes any move to extricate themselves from each other. Melissa doesn’t have the strength, every ligament in her body wrung with incalculable exhaustion. (She’s not exactly sure what Barbara’s excuse is. As secure as she is in her companion's embrace, she currently can't bring herself to care.)

“... I shouldn’t be this weak,” she eventually rasps, and it’s a confession. She’s glad she can’t see her priest’s scandalized face. “I had plenty of time to prepare for this. I’ve known forever she was gonna go.”

“As though that means a hill of beans when you loved her so much,” Barbara murmurs, now running slender fingers through her hair, the motion soothing and rhythmic, reminding Melissa of all the times that Nana had done the same when she was a small child. She briefly closes her eyes, simultaneously endeared by the memories and made sick by them. “You can’t prepare your way through grief. Believe me, girl—I’ve been there, tried that, and it went about as well as can be expected, which is to say not even remotely well at all.”

Melissa chuckles at the convoluted explanation; they both do; they laugh so hard that it almost sounds like they’re crying. She finally pulls back, wanting to look her friend in the eye, but Barbara still grips her by the arms, refusing to let her go.

And they simply drink each other in, mesmerized, tears standing in their eyes, an interwoven statue unto their own: locked limbs, glassy eyes, and a hushed silence that descends upon them like snow.

Maybe they would have stayed like that forever had one of their phones not chimed: her own, laying face-up on the counter. She sees that it's a reminder letting her know that she can take another Prozac in an hour if she needs one. If Barbara sees it—(and with the angle of the phone being the way that it is, she absolutely does)—she's kind; she doesn't say anything; there isn't really anything that needs to be said.

“Shit." She tries to wipe her face on the sleeve of her shirt. It's not a successful endeavor. “I’m a wreck.”

“Maybe so," Barbara agrees, grabbing more tissues for them both. She mops Melissa's face up before delicately attending to her own. "But you won't be forever, you know. it's a transition, not a permanent way of being."

"Doesn't feel that way," she hears herself grouse. It's petulant, a little childish even in her low voice, but it's what she feels; it's her personal nightmare of a lived-in reality.

"I know." The older woman reaches up to thumb away a new tear that has formed at the corner of Melissa's left eye. "But grief rarely ever does."

It's not an especially comforting thought, but Barbara clearly knows her well enough to understand that comforting isn't exactly what she needs right now.

She needs the truth, however ugly it happens to be, however unkind, and the ugly truth is that grief is far from fucking pretty too; it is certainly not kind.

"I love you, Melissa Schemmenti," Barbara adds quietly—in the same hushed cadence that all of their unutterable truths seem to be encased in.

It's dirty, this confession, this boundless and eternal love.

It can't ever be spoken in a normal way and tone.

"You know that, don't you?"

The pad of her thumb is still pressed against Melissa's skin, and there is such little space between them, mere inches and other inconsequential measurements besides; temptation has never been a shorter bridge to indecorously cross and just as deliciously burn. This isn't simply a tender moment between bosom friends, she innately knows, and yet, by the virtue of who they are and their relationships with other people, it can't be anything more than that either, she implicitly understands. She's married. Barbara's married. God is watching. Society is judging. Neither of them will make a move that that they can't just as quickly take back.

"I love ya too, Barb," she replies anyway, leaning very slightly into the intimate touch, as though she could pretend for a moment that they don't have to play that awful game.

Just this one evening.

Just this singular time.

They inevitably will, of course—no doubt about that.

One of them will certainly pull away, and the other will instinctively follow, and together, they will tango themselves out of this senseless mess that they have made; they will offer each other plausible deniability as their highest and most sacred form of love. But for now and until that unwelcome moment, in this fractional sliver of a shared existence and eternity, Melissa dares to rest her tired cheek against Barbara's hand as though she's allowed, and Barbara doesn't flinch like she's been burned.

Silently, they construct a mutual fantasy where they can hold each other without hurting.

Or maybe more accurately still, where they can hurt together and not have been each other's sole and ruinous cause.

"Don't ever leave me," Melissa demands a little unfairly.

It's an unkeepable stipulation.

People leave all the time—by necessity, by choice, by coffin, or in Nana's case, urn.

But nonetheless and all the same—

"Wouldn't dream of it," Barbara promises softly, and Melissa chooses to believe her.

#work wives #reginianwrites #I wrote this for myself because it's been a long damn week #and I'm so sorry for your loss if it ends up being for you too #s: abbott elementary

27 notes · View notes